Victory and Honor hb-6
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“That’s that sort of roly-poly lieutenant who brought me down here when I came aboard?”
“His name is Lieutenant John Crosby, Colonel. You are not permitted to leave ‘officer’s country’—do you know what that means, Colonel?”
“I’d hazard a wild guess that’s where your officers hang out.”
Prentiss nodded. “And you are not permitted to be on the bridge. You may, should you desire, go to the flying bridges on either side of the bridge itself.”
Frade waited for him to go on.
“I think I’ve covered everything. Any questions, Colonel Frade?”
“I guess I missed supper, huh, Captain?”
Captain Prentiss turned and left the cabin without speaking.
[TWO]
Executive Officers’ Quarters USS Bartram Greene DD-201 South Atlantic Ocean off Brazil 0805 15 June 1945
Captain Prentiss knocked at the door, was given permission to enter, and did so.
Frade, who had been sitting at the fold-down desk, stood.
“I had hoped to see you at breakfast, Colonel.”
“It’s a little chilly in there for me, Captain.”
“I had planned to read this aloud to the wardroom,” Prentiss said, and handed Frade a sheet of paper. “That was transmitted in the clear, Colonel.” FOR SLATS FROM LITTLE DICK
POPPA SAYS YOUR SUPERCARGO REALLY GOOD GUY
TREAT HIM ACCORDINGLY
Frade handed the paper back without comment.
“My roommate at Annapolis,” Captain Prentiss explained, “Colonel J. C. Wallace, was called ‘Little Dick.’ He called me ‘Slats.’”
“I understand why people could call you Slats, Captain. But it would not behoove me as a field-grade Marine officer to ask why you called your roommate Little Dick.”
Prentiss grinned. Then he said: “Actually, one of the reasons was because his father, Vice Admiral Wallace, is called Big Dick.”
“Oh.”
“Colonel, you now have freedom of the ship, including the bridge. And I would be pleased if you would join me now for breakfast. I assure you, it will be much warmer in the wardroom than it has been.”
“Thank you.”
“All of my officers, and me, have been wondering exactly what it was that caused you to give Colonel Flowers the finger as we let loose all lines.”
[THREE]
Navy Pier Pensacola, Florida 0915 25 June 1945
Captain Prentiss and Lieutenant Colonel Frade were standing on the flying bridge of the USS Bartram Greene DD-201 as she was being tied up to the pier. Frade was in a Marine summer uniform he’d never worn before.
“I would hazard the guess, Clete, that that’s your welcoming party,” Prentiss said, nodding toward an officer standing beside a Navy gray Plymouth sedan on the pier.
“I’m crushed, Slats. I was expecting a brass band and a cheering crowd.”
“I’ve been meaning to ask,” Prentiss said, tapping the Navy Cross on Frade’s chest, “where you got that.”
Frade glanced down at it, then replied: “In a hockshop on Bourbon Street in New Orleans. I bought a pair of those”—he tapped the binoculars hanging from Prentiss’s neck—“and the hockshop guy threw that in for free. I thought it looked nice, so I pinned it on.”
“Is that also where you got the Wings of Gold? In a New Orleans pawnshop?”
“No. A very long time ago, in another life, I got those here.”
“I’ll walk you to the gangway,” Prentiss said.
“Thanks for the ride, Slats.”
“In other circumstances, Clete, I would have been delighted to have you aboard.”
Prentiss and Frade reached the gangway just as it was lowered into place. The Navy officer—they were close enough for Frade to be able to see that he was a spectacles-wearing, mousy-looking lieutenant commander with the insignia of the Judge Advocate Corps where the star of a line officer would be, above the stripes on his sleeve—now stood waiting to come aboard.
Frade said: “I don’t see any reason I can’t get off, do you?”
Prentiss shook his head.
“Permission to leave the ship, sir?” Frade said.
“Granted.”
Frade saluted Prentiss, then the colors flying aft.
Prentiss offered his hand.
“Good luck, Clete.”
“Thank you, Captain.”
The JAG officer saluted as Frade stepped off the gangway.
Frade returned it.
“You are Lieutenant Colonel C. H. Frade, sir?”
“Guilty—for lack of a better word.”
The JAG officer ignored that. He said, “I’m Lieutenant Commander McGrory, Colonel. I have been appointed your counsel.”
He offered his hand. Frade was not surprised that McGrory’s grip was limp.
“We have a car, sir,” McGrory said.
A sailor opened the rear door of the Plymouth and Frade got in. As the car started down the pier, Frade saw that Prentiss was standing on the deck of the Greene watching them drive away.
When they were on Navy Boulevard, which would take them to Main Side, Naval Air Station, Pensacola, Frade said, “Exactly what are you going to counsel me about, Commander?”
“Certain allegations have been laid against you, Colonel . . .”
“What kind of allegations?”
“. . . and naval regulations provide that you are entitled to counsel while you are being interviewed with regard to these allegations.”
“In other words, you’re not going to tell me?”
“The specifics of the allegations will be made known to you in formal proceedings, Colonel.”
“And when are these formal proceedings going to take place?”
They were now at the gate to Main Side, Naval Air Station, Pensacola.
A perfectly turned-out Marine corporal took a look at the Plymouth, popped to attention, saluted, and bellowed, “Good morning, Colonel! Pass.”
Clete returned the salute, remembering the first time he’d come through this gate.
Life had been much simpler then.
All Second Lieutenant Frade, USMCR, had to do was learn how to fly the Marine Corps’ airplanes—and that wouldn’t be hard, as he had been flying since he was age twelve—then go to the Pacific and sweep the dirty Japs from the sky, whereupon all would be well with the world and he could go back to Big Foot Ranch, Midland, Texas, and get on with his life.
The Plymouth entered Main Side.
“What about the formal proceedings, Commander?” Frade asked.
“Inasmuch as no charges have been laid against you, Colonel, your status is that of a Marine officer returning from service abroad. Regulations prescribe certain things must take place for all returning officers. We will deal with that first.”
Two hours later, the medical staff of Naval Hospital, Pensacola, after a thorough examination of his body, determined that Lieutenant Colonel Frade not only was free of any infectious diseases—including sexual—that he might have encountered in his foreign service, but also that his general condition was such that he could engage in flight.
An hour after that, the Disbursing Office, NAS Pensacola, determined that inasmuch as he had not flown for more than three years the minimum four hours per month that was necessary to qualify for flight play, and inasmuch as on several occasions he had been paid flight pay in error, that flight pay would have to be taken from the amount of pay he was now due.
As would $102.85, the cost to the government of one Watch, Wrist, Hamilton, Naval Aviator’s Chronometer, which had been issued to First Lieutenant C. H. Frade, USMCR, VMF-221, on Guadalcanal and never been returned.
He left the Disbursing Office $1,255.75 richer, most of it in new twenty-dollar bills. It made quite a bulge in his tunic pocket.
The Housing Office, NAS Pensacola, took three of the twenties as a deposit against damage to Room Twenty-three, Senior Officers Quarters, and another twenty as a deposit for a telephone that they hoped
to connect within seventy-two hours.
The Housing Office also required him to sign a statement acknowledging he understood that the presence of female guests in his quarters at any time was proscribed, and that violation of the proscription could result in court-martial or such other disciplinary action as the base commander might elect to impose.
Thirty minutes after that, Lieutenant Commander McGrory, sitting at his desk in a spotless office, said, “We have a little problem, Colonel.”
“I’m breathless with anticipation, Commander.”
“Your home of record is Big Foot Ranch, RFD Number 2, Box 131, Midland, Texas. Is that correct?”
Well, some people think I live on Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo outside Buenos Aires, but what the hell!
“That’s correct.”
“Unfortunately, that’s outside the twenty-four-hour zone.”
“What the hell is the twenty-four-hour zone?”
“Officers in your status cannot be placed on leave to any address from which he cannot return, when so ordered, to NAS Pensacola within twenty-four hours. Hence ‘twenty-four-hour zone.’”
“Am I going on leave?”
“Officers returning from overseas service are automatically granted a thirty-day leave. Providing, of course, that their leave address is within the twenty-four-hour zone. Perhaps you might consider going to one of the fine hotels or motels on Pensacola Beach and having Mrs. Howell join you there. The beaches here are absolutely beautiful.”
“Mrs. Howell?”
“Mrs. Martha Howell, your adoptive mother, of the Midland address, is listed as your next of kin. Isn’t that correct?”
I have a wife and two children, but I don’t think this is the time to get into that.
“That’s correct. Tell me, Commander, how far is it, timewise, from here to New Orleans?”
“You have a family member in New Orleans, Colonel?”
“My grandfather.”
And who is the last person in the world I need to see right now.
If the Old Man hears what’s going on with me—and I would have to tell him—ten minutes after that two senators and his pal Colonel McCormack of the Chicago Tribune will be coming to my rescue.
“I’ll need his name and address, Colonel. And his telephone number.”
What the hell, I’ll call the house and see if the Old Man is there.
If he is, I’ll hang up. If he’s not . . .
“The address is 3470 Saint Charles Avenue, New Orleans. My grandfather’s name is Cletus Marcus Howell. I don’t know the phone, but I’m sure it’s in the book.”
“And your grandfather is sure to be there?”
“Absolutely. At his age, getting around is very difficult.”
Please God, let the Old Man be in Washington, Venezuela, Dallas, San Francisco—anywhere but on Saint Charles Avenue.
“You understand, Colonel, that I am taking your word as a Marine officer and gentleman about your grandfather and that address?”
“I understand, Commander.”
“Well, then, I happen to know there is a three-forty train to New Orleans. You’ll just have time to make it.”
[FOUR]
3470 Saint Charles Avenue New Orleans, Louisiana 1955 25 June 1945
“The Howell Residence,” Jean-Jacques Jouvier said when he picked up the telephone. He was an elderly, erect, very light-skinned black man with silver hair. He wore a gray linen jacket. He had been Cletus Marcus Howell’s butler for forty-two years.
“No, Mister Cletus, he’s in Venezuela.”
He took the telephone from his ear and held it in his hand and looked at it.
Then he looked at the pale-skinned blond woman standing at the door to the library.
“That was Mister Cletus, Miss Dorotea,” he said.
“Where is he? What happened? Why did you hang up?”
“I didn’t hang up, Miss Dorotea. Mister Cletus did. When I told him that Mister Howell was in Venezuela, he said, ‘Get out the Peychaux’s Bitters, the rye, and crack some ice. I’ll be right there.’ And then he hung up.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Jean-Jacques,” Dorotea said.
“Mister Cletus—and Mister Howell—really like a Sazerac or two before dinner, Miss Dorotea. It’s a cocktail. Rye whiskey . . .”
“And something bitter and cracked ice,” Dorotea said. “While you crack the ice, Jean-Jacques, I’ll change into something suitable to welcome our boy home.”
[FIVE]
Arnaud’s Restaurant 813 Bienville Street, New Orleans 2145 25 June 1945
“I can’t believe you ate two dozen of those things,” Doña Dorotea said to Don Cletus.
“They call them oysters, my love, and I ate two dozen of them because the oysters in Argentina are lousy. And as to the two dozen? You know what they say about oysters. . . .”
Dorotea confessed she didn’t know what was said about oysters, so he leaned over and whispered in her ear what magical qualities were said about oysters.
“I really hope that’s true,” Dorotea said. “Will they give you back your money if they don’t work?”
“Somehow I suspect all of these will work just fine.”
“And afterward?”
“I think I’ll sleep.”
“You know what I mean, Cletus.”
“I honest to God don’t know, sweetheart. You know what Mattingly told me. You told me that Team Turtle is out of reach of the Secret Service. Mattingly said there will be friends to help. I was treated like an admiral on the Greene—I told you—after there was a radio message from some friend of somebody.
“I don’t know what to think about that Navy lawyer in Pensacola, McGrory. He could be a friend who put me on leave to hide me, or he could just be a pencil-pusher who put me on leave because the book said that’s what to do. The only thing I know for sure is that I have to stay out of the clutches of the Secret Service for as long as I can to give Mattingly the time to get General Gehlen and his people set up.”
“Eventually, darling, they are going to have you in their clutches. Then what?”
“I will lie to them as convincingly as I can for as long as I can.”
“You realize you sound like Peter? You’re going to do your duty, no matter what?”
“There’s a slight difference between Peter and me. While I don’t think Secretary Morgenthau likes me very much, dear, I really can’t see him skinning me alive.”
“What are your chances of going to prison?”
“I really don’t think it will go that far.”
“You’ll forgive me if I don’t think that’s very encouraging.”
“It’s the best I can do, sweetheart.”
The waiter appeared.
“May I bring you another Sazerac, madam? Sir?”
“Not for me, thank you,” Dorotea said. “I’ve already had too many of them.”
“I’ll have another, thank you,” Cletus said and, looking at Dorotea, added, “Actually, those are my plans for the indefinite future. Drink lots of Sazeracs and eat lots of oysters.”
The waiter smiled. “Sounds like a good plan, sir.”
“It’s the only one I have,” Clete said, looking at Dorotea.
“That being the case,” Dorotea said, and turned to the waiter. “Bring me another, too, please. No oysters. But a broiled white fish of some kind.”
“May I suggest the trout Pontchartrain?”
“Just so long as it’s broiled and white,” Dorotea said.
[SIX]
3470 Saint Charles Avenue New Orleans 1715 18 July 1945
“I’ll get it, Jean-Jacques,” Dorotea called out in the house. “I’m at the door.”
She pulled it open. A tall and muscular Navy commander stood there, a thick silver cord hanging from his shoulder.
“Mrs. Howell?”
“No, I’m Mrs. Frade. Mrs. Howell is my mother-in-law. Please come in, Commander.” She then raised her voice. “I think you had better com
e out here, darling. I think the other shoe has just dropped.”
“Mrs. Frade, I’m looking for Lieutenant Colonel Cletus Frade. Your brother, perhaps?”
“No, he’s my husband, something he’s been keeping a dark secret from the U.S. government for reasons he hasn’t elected to tell me.”
Clete appeared at the library door, carrying one of his sons in his arms and holding the hand of the other one.
“Colonel Frade?”
“Guilty.”
“My name is Portman, Colonel. I’m Rear Admiral Sourer’s aide-de-camp. The admiral’s compliments, Colonel. The admiral desires that you attend him immediately. In uniform, please, Colonel, and bring with you sufficient uniforms for a week.”
“And those are the Colonel’s children,” Dorotea said. “Something else I suspect he hasn’t told the Marine Corps.”
“Have I walked into a family argument?” Commander Portman asked.
“Whatever gave you that idea?” Dorotea said.
“She’s been drinking Sazeracs,” Clete said. “They make some women romantic and some belligerent.”
“You have no complaints in the romantic department,” Dorotea said. “Even if you’re hiding me from the goddamn Marine Corps.”
“What happened, Commander, is that I told her when they checked my records at Pensacola, there was no record of our marriage—”
“Or of the boys,” Dorotea furnished.
“You really should look into it, Colonel,” Commander Portman said. “Your wife and children are entitled to dependent status. A monthly check comes with that.”
Frade looked askance at Portman, and thought, You sonofabitch, you’re enjoying this!