‘‘I’ll be damned,’’ the First Officer unconsciously parroted when he found what had attracted the Captain’s attention.
A thousand yards away, on a parallel course at their altitude, was a very long, very slender, very graceful aircraft. It looked something like the Douglas DC-3, particularly in the nose. But it had four engines rather than two. It was painted black on the top of the fuselage, and off-white on the bottom. On the vertical stabilizer and on the rear of the fuselage were red swastikas, outlined in white.
‘‘Is that a Condor7?’’ the First Officer asked.
‘‘I can’t think of anything else it could be,’’ the Captain said.
‘‘He’s come a hell of a long way in something that won’t float,’’ the First Officer said, a touch of admiration in his voice. ‘‘Nice-looking ship, isn’t it?’’
The Captain grunted, then said, ‘‘Tell the steward to ask that ex-Marine to come up here.’’
The First Officer nodded and got out of his seat.
They met the ex-Marine, a good-looking kid, in Weather Briefing in the Pan American terminal in Miami. The Weather Briefing facilities were off limits to the general public, but there he was—dressed in a tweed jacket, tieless button-down-collar shirt, gray flannel slacks, and cowboy boots—standing in front of the wall-size maps holding the latest Teletype weather reports in his hands.
There was a brief conversation:
‘‘I don’t think you’re supposed to be in here, Sir,’’ the pilot said.
‘‘Probably not,’’ the young man said. ‘‘But I used to be an aviator, and I like to check the weather between where I am and where I’m headed.’’
‘‘Used to be?’’
‘‘I used to be a Marine,’’ the young man said.
‘‘Where are you headed?’’
‘‘Buenos Aires,’’ the young man replied, and then, when he saw the look of surprise in the Captain’s eyes, added, ‘‘Probably with you. Panagra 171?’’
‘‘Right,’’ the Captain replied. ‘‘What’s it look like?’’
‘‘Not a cloud in the sky,’’ the young man said. ‘‘Which probably means we’ll run into a hurricane thirty minutes out of here.’’
‘‘Let’s hope not,’’ the Captain said, and added, ‘‘See you aboard,’’ which ended the conversation.
The Captain, as was his custom, checked the passenger manifest with the steward before takeoff. It was often useful to know who was aboard, whether some Latin American big shot, or some exalted member of the Pan American hierarchy. The Captain had once carried Colonel Charles A. Lindbergh in the back, the man who had not only been the first to cross the Atlantic alone, but had laid out many— maybe most—of PAA’s routes to South America. If he had not checked the passenger manifest that day, he would never have known ‘‘Lucky Lindy’’ was aboard, and would have kicked himself the rest of his life for blowing the chance to actually shake the hero’s hand and offer him the courtesy of the cockpit.
The steward reported that there was nobody special aboard 171 that day, just the usual gaggle of diplomats and Latins of one nationality or another. No Americans this trip. The captain wondered what had happened to the ex-Marine who said he was going to Buenos Aires.
When he took his ritual walk through the cabin, he saw him.
‘‘I thought you were an ex-Marine,’’ the Captain said, stopping by the Marine’s seat. ‘‘The steward said we’re not carrying any Americans.’’
‘‘You don’t have to be an American to be a Marine,’’ the Marine said. ‘‘I’m an Argentine citizen. Going home.’’
The Captain was curious about that, but to ask any questions would be close to calling him a liar. And he knew Customs and Immigration carefully checked all passengers.
‘‘Well, we’ll try to get you home quickly and in one piece,’’ the Captain said, and then his curiosity got the better of him. ‘‘Not as fast as—what did you fly in the Marine Corps?’’
‘‘Wildcats, F4F’s,’’ the young man said, and then, as if he sensed the Captain’s suspicions, added, ‘‘with VMF-221 on Guadalcanal.’’
‘‘These boats aren’t as fast as a Wildcat,’’ the Captain said with a smile, now convinced the young man was what he said he was. ‘‘But a hell of a lot more comfortable.’’
Because he had made the flight before and was thus really aware of how long it took to fly from Miami to Buenos Aires, Clete Frade had stocked up on reading matter in Miami.
He hadn’t bought enough. When the steward came down the aisle to softly inform him that the Captain requested his presence in the cockpit, he was reading the April 1, 1943, edition of Time magazine for the third time.
It reported that the American First Armored Division was almost at the Tebaga Gap—whatever the hell that was—in Tunisia; that the Red Army had retaken Anastasyevsk, in the Kuban, north of Novorossiysk—wherever the hell that was; maybe near the Russian oil fields the old man had talked about?—and that 180 Japanese bomber and fighter aircraft operating off aircraft carriers and from the Japanese base at Rabaul had attacked Guadalcanal and Tulagi in the Solomon Islands, and that further attacks were anticipated.
He knew damned well where Guadalcanal and Tulagi were.
There was something unreal about sitting here in a leather-upholstered chair drinking champagne when people he knew—unless they’d all been killed by now—were climbing into battered, shot-up Grumman Wildcats to go up and try to keep the Nips from dumping their bomb loads on, or strafing, Henderson Field, Fighter One, and the ammo and fuel dumps on the ’Canal.
He drained his glass of champagne, unfastened his seat belt, stood up, and made his way forward to the cockpit.
‘‘I thought you would be interested in that,’’ the Captain said, jabbing his finger in the direction of the Condor making its parallel approach.
Clete Howell stared.
‘‘Jesus,’’ he said. ‘‘What is that?’’
‘‘I think it’s a Condor,’’ the Captain said, and then, attracting the engineer’s attention, he called, ‘‘Charley, isn’t there a pair of binoculars back there somewhere?’’
‘‘Yes, Sir,’’ the engineer replied, and pulled open a drawer in his console, rummaged through it, and came up with Zeiss 7x57 binoculars. He stood up and handed them to the Captain, who handed them to Clete.
‘‘Nice-looking bird,’’ Clete said a minute or so later, taking the binoculars from his eyes. ‘‘I wonder where it came from.’’
‘‘We were just talking about that,’’ the Captain said. ‘‘Probably from Portugal, then from somewhere in Africa, and then across the drink to French Guiana. Wherever he came from, with the fuel he would have to have aboard, he can’t be carrying much.’’
‘‘That’s the first German airplane I’ve ever seen,’’ Clete said.
‘‘They used to have regularly scheduled service before the war,’’ the Captain said. ‘‘And I think I remember hearing that they sold Brazil a couple of those. Aerolineas Bras ília, or something like that. But that’s the first one I’ve ever seen, too, and I’ve been coming down here for a long time.’’
‘‘It would be almost a shame to shoot down something that pretty, wouldn’t it?’’ Clete said, thinking aloud.
The Captain chuckled.
‘‘Put such thoughts from your mind,’’ he said. ‘‘You’re out of the Marine Corps and back in neutral Argentina. From here on in, when you see a German, all you can do is look the other way. Or maybe say, ‘Buenos días, Fritz.’ ’’
Clete chuckled, then said, ‘‘Look, there he goes. I guess he’ll land at El Palomar.’’ In 1943, El Palomar was the civilian airport on the outskirts of Buenos Aires.
The Captain looked. The Condor was banking away to the right.
‘‘Pretty bird, isn’t it?’’
‘‘Thank you, Captain. I appreciate your courtesy,’’ Clete said.
‘‘My pleasure,’’ the Captain said. ‘‘Welcome home!’’
>
[THREE] Sea Plane Terminal River Plate Buenos Aires, Argentina 1525 9 April 1943
When Panagra’s flight 171 appeared in the sky, obviously about to land, Mayor Pedro V. Querro, to Capitán Roberto Lauffer’s carefully concealed amusement, became nearly hysterical.
‘‘Lauffer,’’ he ordered in a fierce whisper, ‘‘the boat’s not here! Call them! There’s a phone in there!’’ He pointed to the Customs and Immigration shed. ‘‘Ask where the hell it is!’’
"Sí, Señor,’’ Lauffer said. ‘‘Who should I call, Señor?’’
Generals Ramírez and Rawson looked at the two of them.
‘‘The School of Naval Warfare! They promised me a boat! And it’s not here!’’
‘‘Is that what you’re looking for, Mayor?’’ General Rawson asked, pointing.
A highly varnished speedboat was five hundred yards away, splashing through the swells on the river’s muddy water. The flag of Argentina flapped at its stern and some sort of naval pennant flew from a short flagpole on the bow.
‘‘That would appear to be it, Señor,’’ Querro said.
‘‘I personally have found the Navy to be very reliable,’’ Rawson said, and winked at Lauffer, whose father, a friend, was a retired Naval officer.
The speedboat arrived at the quay before the two boats moored there—the Customs and Immigration boat and the larger boat that would take off the passengers—began to make their way out to meet the Martin flying boat. By then the aircraft had landed, and was in the process of turning around to taxi to the buoy that it would be tied to.
Meanwhile, the speedboat stopped in the water, the coxswain having apparently decided to wait until the other boats had left. When he saw that, Mayor Querro signaled almost frantically for it to approach the quay, then turned to Lauffer.
‘‘Well, Lauffer, are you waiting for a formal invitation?’’ he said, then hurried down the stairs and jumped onto the Customs and Immigration boat to wait for the Navy speedboat.
Lauffer descended the stairs and joined him.
‘‘What’s going on?’’ one of the Customs officers asked.
‘‘The Minister of War,’’ Querro announced grandly, gesturing toward the quay, ‘‘is personally meeting a distinguished passenger on the Panagra flight.’’
As soon as the Navy speedboat came close, Querro jumped into it, then turned impatiently to wait for Lauffer.
‘‘Out to the plane!’’ Querro ordered the moment Lauffer had stepped aboard.
The coxswain immediately gunned the engine, which almost caused Querro to lose his footing.
Pity, Lauffer thought. The idea of Querro taking an unintended bath in the River Plate had a certain appeal.
Lauffer was looking forward to meeting Señor Cletus H. Frade, about whom he had heard a good deal but had never actually seen. Lauffer had been in the Army for seven years without hearing a shot fired in anger. According to what he’d heard, Frade fought at Guadalcanal, was twice shot down, and downed seven Japanese airplanes. All before he came to Argentina, where he apparently bested two assassins sent to kill him, and then was responsible for the sinking of an armed cargo ship.
‘‘Distinguished passenger, my ass,’’ Querro said softly. ‘‘If I had my way, he’d never make it from the plane to the shore.’’
"Sí, Señor,’’ Lauffer said.
Clete Howell looked out the window, now splashed with water, as the Martin 156 taxied in a sweeping turn from the end of its landing roll toward the buoy where it would be moored.
Is it really, on a flying boat, a ‘‘landing roll’’? Land planes roll, on their wheels, until they’re slowed down enough to taxi. Flying boats, which have no wheels, obviously can’t roll. So what do flying boat pilots call it? ‘‘The landing slow-down’’? Or maybe ‘‘the landing splash’’?
Who cares? What difference does it make?
That’s the champagne working on me. I had damned near a whole bottle, which wasn’t too smart, since I may have to use my brain when I get to Customs and Immigration carrying an Argentine passport, issued here, which does not have an Exit Stamp. What am I going to say if the guy asks me how I got out of the country without an Exit Stamp?
Damn! Colonel Graham should have thought of that!
What the hell, when all else fails, tell the truth, or something close to it. I left Argentina on my American passport, duly Exit Stamped.
The forty-odd other passengers aboard Pan American- Grace Airlines Flight 171 all seemed to be out of their seats, collecting their cabin baggage.
Three boats were headed out from shore, obviously to meet the flying boat. There had been two the last time, a Customs boat and a graceful, narrow, varnished wooden powerboat. Pan American Grace had permanently chartered it from the owners of a fleet of substantially identical boats in El Tigre, a Buenos Aires suburb that Clete’s father had described to him, accurately, as ‘‘an undeveloped Venice.’’
The one leading the procession looked like a Navy boat of some sort, sort of an admiral’s barge, carrying two of ficers.
Obviously to meet some big shot. I wonder who?
The admiral’s barge reached the flying boat before it was tied up, and then moved close.
Those are Army officers, not Navy. What’s that all about?
The hatch in the side of the fuselage opened, and the two officers came aboard. One of them, a small and intense major, spoke somewhat arrogantly to the steward.
That major’s a feisty little bastard. Why are small people like that?
The major came down the aisle, shouldering past the passengers collecting their belongings.
Jesus, he’s coming to me!
‘‘Teniente Frade?’’ the little major asked, with a patently insincere smile.
"Señor Frade,’’ Clete said.
‘‘I was led to believe you served as a Teniente in the Norteamericano Corps of Marines, Señor.’’
‘‘I served as a major in the U.S. Marine Corps, Major.’’
Clete thought he saw amusement in the eyes of the good-looking captain standing behind the major.
‘‘Mayor Frade, I am Mayor Querro, who has the honor of presenting the compliments of Teniente General Ramírez, the Argentine Minister of War.’’
‘‘How do you do?’’
‘‘This is Capitán Lauffer, Mayor Frade.’’
‘‘How do you do, Capitán?’’
‘‘I have the honor of presenting the compliments of General Rawson, mi Mayor,’’ Lauffer said. ‘‘And may I offer my condolences on the death of el Coronel Frade, under whom I was once privileged to serve?’’
‘‘Thank you very much,’’ Clete said.
‘‘If you will give your baggage checks to Capitán Lauffer, Mayor Frade, he will deal with that. I will take you to General Ramírez.’’
‘‘What about Customs and Immigration?’’ Clete asked.
‘‘Capitán Lauffer will deal with that. Will you come with me, please?’’
As soon as the admiral’s barge moved alongside the quay, Major Querro jumped out, then extended his hand to assist Clete in leaving the boat.
Clete ignored the hand, more because he thought being assisted offered more risk of taking a bath than jumping out himself.
Major Querro motioned for him to precede him up a flight of stairs cut into the massive stone blocks of the quay.
A half-dozen ornately uniformed senior officers, coronels and generales, of the Argentine Army were lined up at the top of the quay behind an officer whom Clete recognized— he had been introduced to him by his father—as General Pedro P. Ramírez, the Argentine Minister of War.
Ramírez marched over to Clete, saluted him crisply, then put out his hand. The others raised their hands to the leather brims of their high-crowned uniform caps.
‘‘Señor Frade,’’ Ramírez said, ‘‘please accept the most profound condolences of the Ejercito Argentina’’—Argentine Armed Forces—‘‘and my personal condolences, on the tragic loss of your
father, el Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade.’’
‘‘You are very kind, mi General,’’ Clete replied as Ram írez emotionally grasped his hand.
One by one, the other officers identified themselves and shook Clete’s hand. One of them, a General Rawson, he also recognized, and remembered his father telling him they were old friends.
‘‘Our cars are here, Señor Frade, if you will come this way?’’ Ramírez said.
A crowd of people stood behind a barrier waiting to greet the incoming passengers. One of them Clete recognized— a slight, somewhat hunch-shouldered, thickly spectacled man in his late twenties wearing a seersucker suit and carrying a stiff-brimmed straw hat and a briefcase. His name was H. Ronald Spiers, and he was a Vice Consul of the Embassy of the United States of America.
As two policemen shifted the barrier to permit General Ramírez and his party to pass, Spiers stepped forward.
‘‘Mr. Frade?’’
Clete stopped.
‘‘I am here on behalf of the Embassy, Mr. Frade,’’ Spiers said. ‘‘To offer the condolences of the Ambassador on your loss, and to assure you the American Embassy is prepared to do anything within our power to assist you in any way.’’
‘‘That’s very kind of you,’’ Clete said. ‘‘Thank you very much, but I can’t think of a thing right now.’’
‘‘We are ready to assist in any way we can,’’ Spiers said.
‘‘Thank you very much,’’ Clete said, and offered his hand.
Spiers has a handshake like a dead fish, Clete thought, but at least Colonel Graham will know, as soon as a message can be encrypted and transmitted, that I not only got into the country without trouble, but am being treated like the prodigal son returning.
General Ramírez seemed to be annoyed at the delay.
Outside the building stood a line of official cars. Ramírez led him to the largest of these—a soft-top Mercedes limousine, said to be identical to that provided for field marshals in the German Army.
‘‘Your father is lying in state in the Grand Salon of Honor in the Edificio Libertador,’’ General Ramírez said when they were inside. ‘‘We can go there directly, if you like. Or if you would like to compose yourself, we can go to your father’s home.’’
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