Dunwiddie shook his head.
“I thought you were just being a pr— giving him a hard time.”
“That thought never entered my mind,” Cronley said. “Because if he turned out to be who I thought he was, I wanted to be very nice to him, because first thing tomorrow morning he’s going to take me border-flying again. I want to see what he saw and photographed.”
“Sir, I couldn’t do that without authorization,” Winters said.
“Did Colonel Fishburn authorize the flights you already made?”
“No, sir. But—”
“A certain lieutenant colonel, whose name we shall not mention, told you it was all right, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did he tell you why we were interested in the fields and back roads of Thuringia?”
“Yes, sir. He said that somebody was going to land a light airplane . . .”
“I’m one of them,” Cronley said. “Now, we can go to Colonel Fishburn, which you will note Hot—the unnamed lieutenant colonel . . . did not do . . . and show him our credentials, following which I’m sure he will tell you to take me flying down the border. But if we do that, his sergeant major will hear about it, and so will his wife, and all the girls in what Captain Dunwiddie calls the Officers’ Ladies Intelligence Network . . . which would not be a good thing.”
Lieutenant Winters looked at Cronley, expressionlessly, for twenty seconds.
Then he said, “Sir, if you’ll tell me where you’re staying, I’ll pick you up at 0530, which will give us time for a cup of coffee and an egg sandwich before we take off at first light.”
XII
[ONE]
Hangar Two
U.S. Air Force Base, Fritzlar, Hesse
American Zone of Occupation, Germany
0840 19 January 1946
“What the hell is that?” Lieutenant Thomas Winters, Artillery, inquired of Captain James D. Cronley as they taxied up to the hangar in the L-5.
“I believe it is a C-47, which is the military version of the Douglas DC-3. I’m surprised you don’t know that.”
There was indeed a C-47 sitting in front of Hangar Two. It had the Constabulary insignia on the nose, which surprised Cronley.
“I mean that funny-looking black airplane they’re pushing into the hangar,” Winters said, in exasperation.
“I don’t see a funny-looking black airplane,” Cronley replied. “Possibly because I know that funny-looking black airplanes like that are used only in classified operations I’m not supposed to talk about.”
As Winters parked the L-5 and shut it down, a lieutenant wearing Constabulary insignia and aviator’s wings walked up to it and saluted.
Cronley got out of the Stinson and returned the salute.
“Colonel Wilson’s compliments, gentlemen,” the lieutenant announced. “The colonel would be pleased if you would join him aboard the general’s aircraft.”
“Lieutenant,” Cronley asked, straight-faced, “is that the colonel some people call ‘Hotshot Billy’?”
“Only full colonels or better can do that, sir,” the lieutenant replied. “Anyone of lesser rank who uses that description can expect to die a slow and painful death.”
“Lead on, Lieutenant,” Cronley said.
A nattily turned-out Constabulary corporal, who looked as if he was several months short of his eighteenth birthday, was standing guard at the steps leading to the rear door of the aircraft. He saluted, then went quickly up the steps and opened the door, which was, Cronley noted, a “civilian” passenger door, rather than the much wider cargo door of C-47 aircraft.
The sergeant came down the steps and Cronley, followed by Winters, went up them.
The interior of the aircraft was not the bare-bones, exposed-ribs interior of a standard Gooney Bird. Nor even the insula – tion-covered ribs and rows of seats in the interior of a DC-3 in the service of, say, Eastern Airlines. There were eight leather-upholstered armchairs and two tables in the fuselage, making it look not unlike a living room.
General White was not in his aircraft, but Lieutenant Colonel William W. Wilson, Major Harold Wallace, and former Oberst Ludwig Mannberg were, sitting in the armchairs.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” Cronley said.
“Where the hell have you been?” Wilson demanded.
Cronley saw on Lieutenant Winters’s face that he was now questioning the wisdom of their flight.
“Lieutenant Winters was kind enough to give me a tour of the Thuringian-Hessian border.” He turned to Winters. “I believe you know the colonel, Lieutenant,” he said. “And this officer is Major Harold Wallace of the Twenty-third CIC Detachment, and this gentleman is Herr Ludwig Mannberg of the Süd-Deutsche Industrielle Entwicklungsorganisation.”
Winters saluted and Wallace and Mannberg offered him their hands.
Wallace ordered Cronley and Winters, who were standing awkwardly on the slanted floor of the airplane, into armchairs with a pointed finger. Wilson waited impatiently until they were seated, and then asked, rather unpleasantly, “Cronley, you’re not suggesting that Winters suggested this aerial tour of the border?”
“No, sir, I’m not. But I took one look at him and I could see that Lieutenant Winters is a fine pilot, a credit to the United States Military Academy and Army Aviation generally, and decided on the spot that I would recruit him for service with DCI-Europe. Then I asked him to give me an aerial tour of the area.”
“You decided to recruit him for DCI?” Wilson asked incredulously.
“He can do it,” Wallace said, smiling. “I think the phrase is ‘drunk with newfound authority.’”
“I mention that now because I wanted you to know you can speak freely in his presence about our current enterprise,” Cronley said. “He knows all about it. Well, maybe not all about it, but a good deal about it.”
“And how much did you tell Colonel Fishburn about our current enterprise?” Wallace asked.
“Essentially nothing, sir. When Captain Dunwiddie and I made our manners to the colonel, he led us to believe that Colonel Wilson had told him that he would explain everything to him when he got here.”
“So you didn’t tell Colonel Fishburn that you wanted Lieutenant Winters to fly you up and down the border?” Wilson asked.
“When we made our manners to Colonel Fishburn, I hadn’t met Lieutenant Winters. We met him at dinner last night.”
“In other words, Colonel Fishburn doesn’t know that you have been using one of his airplanes and one of his pilots to fly the border?”
“As far as I know, sir, he does not.”
“And you didn’t think you should tell him?”
“I thought he might object, and I wanted to make that tour.”
“I will be damned!” Wilson said.
“Why do you want the lieutenant in DCI?” Wallace asked.
“I thought it would be nice if at least one of the pilots in the aviation section of DCI-Europe was a bona fide U.S. Army aviator.”
“I didn’t know there was an aviation section of DCI-Europe,” Wallace said.
“As of today, there is. Or there will be as soon as I can sign the appropriate documents, which by now Fat Freddy and Brunhilde should have prepared.”
“You’re going to have an aviation section for the Storchs, is that what you’re saying?”
“I’m going to have an aviation section in which I can hide the Storchs. There will also be other aircraft, two L-4s or L-5s and, if General Greene can pry one loose from the Air Force, a C-45. I’m going to tell him just as soon as I can get on the SIGABA, which I think should be up and running by now.”
“He’s unbelievable! My God, he’s only a captain!” Colonel Wilson said. “A very young and junior captain! And he’s going to tell a general officer what he wants?”
“What’s that Jewish word, Billy
?” Wallace asked.
Cronley saw on Winters’s face that he had picked up on Major Wallace calling Lieutenant Colonel Wilson by the diminutive of his Christian name.
“‘Chutzpah’?” Wallace went on, “Meaning audacity? Isn’t that what Patton was always saying, ‘L’audace, l’audace, toujours l’audace!’?”
“It also means unmitigated effrontery or impudence,” Wilson said.
“I remember when you were a captain, they said the same things about you,” Wallace said. “And I remember your defense: ‘I did what I believed to be the right thing to do.’”
Cronley now saw on Winters’s face his expectation that Major Wallace would now suffer what a major could expect after speaking so disrespectfully to a lieutenant colonel.
“Tom,” Cronley said, “now that you’re in the intelligence business, you’ll have to understand that nothing is ever what it looks like.”
Winters looked at him, but did not reply.
“And look at you now, Billy,” Wallace went on, “the youngest lieutenant colonel in the Army.”
Wilson looked as if he was going to reply, but changed his mind.
“There’s more,” Cronley said. “Freddy did some research on how the OSS operated administratively, and found out they had people working for them they called ‘civilian experts.’”
“So?” Wallace asked.
“So now DCI-Europe has two such civilian experts. They will be paid—I’m quoting what Freddy found out—‘the equivalent of the pay of commissioned officers with similar responsibilities, plus a suitable bonus for voluntarily undertaking assignments involving great personal risk, plus a death benefit of ten thousand dollars should they lose their lives in the performance of their duties.’”
“We had a number of such people,” Wallace confirmed.
Cronley saw in Winters’s expression that he had picked up on the “we.”
“And now DCI-Europe has two of them. Maksymilian Ostrowski, former captain, Free Polish Air Force, and Kurt Schröder, former hauptmann, Luftwaffe.”
“I can’t find fault with that,” Wallace said. “What about you, Colonel?”
“I hate to admit it, but it makes sense.”
“Anything else?”
“A couple of things. When I speak with General Greene, I’m going to ask him to transfer to DCI-Europe not only the six ASA guys he’s loaned me, two of whom I brought here with me, but also to get Second Lieutenant Bruce Moriarty of the Eleventh Constabulary Regiment transferred to me. Us.”
“Not ‘us,’ Cronley,” Wallace said. “Transferred to you, in your role as chief, DCI-Europe. As you know, I have nothing to do with DCI-Europe.”
“Sorry.”
“But since the subject has come up, what’s this all about? Start with the ASA men,” Wallace ordered. “And the last time I looked, Brunhilde is not a guy.”
“Freddy had already arranged for Brunhilde to be transferred to DCI. I’m talking about the radio guys. They’re smart. Freddy told me that at the Reception Center, when they enlisted or get drafted, they all scored at least 110 on the Army General Classification Test and were given their choice of applying for Officer Candidate School or going into the ASA.”
“And these guys didn’t want to be officers?”
“They didn’t want to serve four years if they could get out of the Army after two,” Cronley said. “The point is, they’re smart. That has its ups and downs. Because they’re smart, they do their jobs well. That’s the up. The down is that if somebody else needs them, and Greene transfers them, they’ll walk away knowing too much about DCI-Europe, and that makes me uncomfortable.”
“Okay. Point taken. But how do you know they want to leave the ASA?”
“Because I offered them an immediate one-stripe promotion if they did, and a second three months after that.”
“You can do that?”
“According to Fat Freddy, I can. I promoted him to staff sergeant.”
“Okay. What about the lieutenant? Who is he?”
“An A&M classmate of mine. He’ll be given command of Company C, 203rd Tank Destroyer Battalion and the Polish guards.”
“That’s a lot of responsibility for a second lieutenant,” Wallace said.
“He can handle it. And we need somebody to handle it.”
“Anything else?”
“I told Brunhilde to look for some clerical help among the WACs in ASA. We’re going to need all kinds of help in that department.”
“It looks like you’re building quite an empire, Cronley,” Wilson said. His tone suggested he didn’t approve.
Cronley’s temper flared and his mouth went on automatic, and as usual, he regretted the words as soon as they came out of his mouth.
“Sir, I’m doing what I believe to be the right thing to do. If my superiors in the DCI decide I’m not doing the right thing, or doing more than I should, they’ll relieve me.”
Not smart. Not smart. Rubbing what Wallace said to him in his face was not smart.
And that “my superiors” crack sounded as if I’m daring Wallace to relieve me. Not smart.
Stupid.
“I’m sure that would happen,” Wallace said.
“We saw one of the black birds as we came in,” Cronley said. “Are they both here?”
“The second came in just before you did. They’re being serviced. I brought the mechanics I gave you with us.”
“I should have thought of that, of servicing the Storchs.”
“Yes, you should have,” Wallace said, “but nobody’s perfect, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What do we hear from Seven-K?” Cronley asked.
“We have communication scheduled for noon,” Mannberg said. It was the first time he opened his mouth. “We may get a schedule then.”
“Then there’s time for Winters to take Schröder on a tour of the border,” Cronley said. “I think that’s important. I saw a lot I didn’t see in the photos.”
“As you may have noticed, Tom,” Wilson said, “Captain Cronley has a tendency to volunteer people for things they’d really rather not do. Are you comfortable with what’s happening? Are you sure you want to get involved in something like this?”
“Sir, something like this is obviously more important than dropping bags of flour on M-8 armored cars, which is what I’ve been doing here.”
“Tom, you wouldn’t be here now if I hadn’t asked you to make the first tour of the border, the one with a photographer in the backseat. Then Cronley, who is clever at that sort of thing, and knew about that mission, figured out that it was you who flew it, and then cleverly convinced you that flying the border again with him in the backseat was something I would approve, so you flew it. Correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That being the case, I feel that I should say this: Intelligence, and especially black operations like this one, are indeed more exciting and important than dropping flour bags on M-8 armored cars. But there’s a downside for someone like you. You’re a West Pointer, a professional soldier, the son of a general officer. You know there is little love between intelligence types and . . . the Army Establishment. If you go with Cronley, you will almost certainly be kissing your career goodbye. And any chance of pinning stars on your own epaulets one day. And if your father were here, I know he’d agree with me.”
“Sir, I got the impression I didn’t have any choice in the matter.”
“Well, I’m going to give you that choice. Now, and think your answer over carefully before you reply. Let me add there’s no need for you to fly the mission Captain Cronley suggests. He can fly Schröder down the border as well as you can. Here’s the question: Would you like to just walk out of here and go back to your duties with the Eleventh Constabulary and forget anything like this ever happened? Colonel Fishburn doesn’t know you flew this
unauthorized mission, and I can see no reason that he should ever learn about it. Think it over carefully.”
You sonofabitch! Cronley thought, as his mouth went on automatic.
“I’ve got something to say,” he said.
“No, you don’t, Captain Cronley,” Wilson snapped. “This is between Lieutenant Winters and myself.”
“No, Billy, it isn’t,” Wallace said. “Cronley’s involved. Let’s hear what he has to say.”
“It’s none of Cronley’s goddamn business!”
“I disagree,” Wallace said. “Go ahead, Jim.”
I don’t have a goddamn clue what to say, Cronley thought, and then his mouth went on automatic again:
“The first thing I thought when I heard Colonel Wilson just now was that I wished he would keep his nose out of my business,” Cronley said. “Then, I thought, well, he’s actually a nice guy. Colonel Wallace—”
“Oops!” Wallace interrupted. “Another cow out of the barn. Watch yourself, Jim.”
“—has made that clear, and I know it from personal experience.”
“Why don’t you tell him to keep his nose out of my business?” Wilson asked.
“Pray continue, Captain Cronley,” Wallace said.
“And then I remembered another time Colonel Wilson had wisely counseled a junior officer. The day I met him. He knew that I had been promoted to captain from second lieutenant before I had enough time in grade to be a first lieutenant, and he was kind enough . . . as the youngest lieutenant colonel in the army . . . to explain to me what he believed that meant.
“I remember what he said. Word for word. I’ve thought of it a thousand times since then. And I even quoted it, and the source, when Captain Dunwiddie—another professional soldier like you, Tom—was uncomfortable with the direct commission as a captain I asked the admiral to arrange for him.”
“How long do I have to listen to this?” Lieutenant Colonel Wilson protested.
“For however long it takes him to make his point. Put a cork in it, Billy.”
“Quote,” Cronley said, “‘The advantages of getting rank, et cetera, means that you can do things for the good of the service that otherwise you could not do. And that’s what we professional soldiers are supposed to do, isn’t it? Make contributions to the good of the service?’ End quote.
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