Honor Bound

by W. E. B Griffin

  He even went back to his hotel and put his uniform on for that. Protesting, of course, and telling himself at the time that he was doing it only to indulge Beth and Marjorie, who actually wept when they saw him standing in the foyer of the sorority house. They were going to miss their father at least as much as he did, he told himself then. And since there was little else he could do for them, putting on his uniform so they could display their Brother the Hero seemed not so much of a sacrifice.

  When the brunette proved to be fascinated with Marine Green and Wings of Gold, it seemed for a moment to be a case of casting bread upon the water. But he didn’t pursue it. For one thing, he wanted to spend as much time alone with the girls as he could; and for another, they had enough trouble without being labeled as the sisters of that awful fellow who took Whatsername out and tried to jump Whatsername’s bones in the backseat of his Buick.

  Perhaps he’d have a chance in New Orleans to make a few telephone calls and do something about his celibacy. It was a very long time since he’d even been close to a woman. On the ’Canal, he thought a good bit about a nurse he’d “met” in San Diego…that is to say, he walked into the hospital cafeteria and the nurse who thirty minutes before had drawn his blood asked him to share her table. She was also a brunette, deeply tanned, and magnificently bosomed. Her uniform was very tightly fitted; and if you looked—and he had—you could see a heavenly swell at the V neck of her whites.

  There hadn’t been time to pursue that—he’d boarded the Long Island the next morning.

  He hadn’t even gotten close to a woman at Pearl Harbor.

  He switched on the turn signal, waited for a St. Charles Street trolley to clatter past in the opposite direction, and headed up St. Charles. Then he turned off the street onto the drive of a very large, very white, ornately decorated three-story frame mansion.

  No car was parked under the portico, which probably meant that his grandfather, Cletus Marcus Howell, was not yet home from the office. He glanced at his watch; he’d probably be home any minute. That meant he would be greatly annoyed when he drove up and found another car occupying the space where he intended to park the car and get into his house without getting rained upon.

  Clete stopped under the portico and stared unhappily at the garage, a hundred yards behind the house. The three doors of the former carriage house were closed. Unless things had changed, they were closed and locked. He couldn’t get inside even if he drove there. All he would do was get wet.

  “To hell with it!” he said aloud, then turned off the key and opened the door. He reached across the seat and picked up his Stetson, put it on, and got out. He was wearing khaki trousers and boots and a faded, nearly white shirt frayed at the neck. The sheepskin coat was in the backseat. After a moment, he remembered that, and reached in and got it.

  The Buick would eventually go into the carriage house. Despite the best efforts of New Orleans’ best exterminators, there were rats in there, and he didn’t want them eating the jacket. Or gnawing through the Buick’s roof to get at the sheepskin.

  Was all that concern about the old man’s convenience the normal behavior of a Southern gentleman? Or am I still afraid of him?

  He was almost to the mahogany-and-beveled-glass door when it swung open to him.

  “Welcome home, Mr. Cletus,” Jean-Jacques Jouvier greeted him enthusiastically. The old man’s silver-haired, very-light-skinned Negro butler was wearing a gray linen jacket, which meant it was not yet five. At five, Jean-Jacques would change into a black jacket.

  “J.J., it’s good to see you,” Clete said, and wrapped his arm around his shoulders. This seemed to make J.J. uncomfortable, which was surprising, until Clete looked past him into the downstairs foyer and noticed Cletus Marcus Howell, Esquire, standing there with his hands locked together in front of him.

  “Welcome home, my boy,” Cletus Marcus Howell said.

  Cletus Marcus Howell was tall, pale, slender, and sharp-featured. He wore a superbly tailored dark-blue, faintly pinstriped three-piece suit, with a golden watch chain looped across his stomach.

  “Let me have your things, Mr. Cletus,” Jean-Jacques said. Clete handed the Stetson and the sheepskin jacket to him, then started toward his grandfather.

  “Grandfather,” Clete said.

  “You could have telephoned,” the old man said as Clete approached.

  “I hoped to be here before you came home from the office.”

  “I telephoned to Beth,” the old man said. “She told me when you left Houston. I arranged to be here for your arrival.”

  Clete put out his hand, and the old man took it. And then, in an unusual display of emotion, took it in both his hands.

  “You don’t look as bad as Martha and Beth said you did,” the old man said. “Both used the same term, ‘cadaver.’”

  “How is your health, Grandfather?” Clete asked, aware that the old man was still holding on to his hand.

  “I am well, thank you,” the old man said, and then, as if suddenly aware of his unseemly display of emotion, let Clete’s hand go. “Why don’t we go into the sitting room and ask Jean-Jacques to make us a drink.”

  He didn’t wait for a reply. He turned on his heel and marched across the foyer through an open double sliding door to the sitting room. It was a formal sitting room, furnished sometime before the War of Rebellion and unchanged since…with one exception: over the fireplace, the oil painting, from life, of Bartholomew Fitzhugh Howell (1805–1890), who had built the house in 1850, had been replaced by an oil painting of equal size, painted from a photograph, of Eleanor Patricia Howell Frade (1898–1922), who had been both born in the house and buried from it.

  Clete followed him. The old man walked to a cigar humidor on a marble-topped cherry table, opened it, and took from it a long, thin, nearly black cigar.

  “Will you have a cigar, Cletus?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “Would you like me to clip it for you?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  The old man took from the table an old-fashioned cigar cutter—something like a pair of scissors—walked to the fireplace, carefully clipped the cigar’s end, let the end drop into the ashes of the fire, and then walked to Clete and handed it to him.

  “You will excuse my fingers,” he said.

  “Certainly.”

  “It was cold, the radio said it was going to rain, and you always like a fire, so I asked Jean-Jacques to have the houseman lay one.”

  “That was very thoughtful of you,” Clete said.

  Jean-Jacques produced a flaming wooden match. Clete set his cigar alight while the old man repeated the end-clipping business over the fireplace with another cigar from the humidor. Jean-Jacques went to him and produced a fresh flaming match. When the old man’s cigar was satisfactorily ignited, he asked,

  “What may I bring you gentlemen?”

  “Ask Mr. Cletus, Jean-Jacques,” the old man replied. “He is the returning prodigal; we should indulge him.”

  “Oh, I don’t see how you could call Mr. Cletus a prodigal, Mr. Howell,” Jean-Jacques said.

  “You have not been in contact with a certain Colonel Graham, Jean-Jacques,” the old man said. “Prodigal is the word. You’re familiar with the Scripture, Jean-Jacques?”

  “‘There is more joy in heaven…’?”

  “Precisely,” the old man said. “Cletus?”

  “What I really would like, J.J.—”

  “I wish you would not call him that,” the old man interrupted. “It’s disrespectful. I’ve told you that.”

  “Mister Howell, Mister Cletus can call me anything he wants to call me, unless it’s dirty.”

  “Not under my roof he can’t,” the old man said.

  “Jean-Jacques, could you fix me a Sazerac?”

  “I certainly can, it will be my pleasure. And Mr. Howell, what for you?”

  “I’ll have the same, please, Jean-Jacques.”

  “And will you be taking dinner here, Mr. Howell?”<
br />
  “That has not been decided, Jean-Jacques,” the old man said.

  “Yes, Sir,” the butler said, nodded his head in what could have been a bow, turned, and walked out of the room.

  The old man watched him go, then turned to Clete.

  “One of your men is here,” he said. “The Jew. I understand there is a certain secrecy involved, and I didn’t want Jean-Jacques to hear me tell you.”

  “His name is Ettinger, Grandfather. Staff Sergeant Ettinger. He lost most of his family to the Nazis.”

  If Cletus Marcus Howell sensed reproof in Clete’s voice, he gave no sign.

  “Then there should be no question in his mind, wouldn’t you agree, about the morality of going down there and doing whatever Colonel Graham wants you to do to the Argentines?”

  “The Germans killed his family, Grandfather, not the Argentines.”

  “The Argentines are allied, de facto if not de jure, with the Germans. Two peas from the same pod. Certainly, you must be aware of that.”

  Clete didn’t reply.

  “Anyway, Staff Sergeant Ettinger is in the Monteleone. He arrived yesterday, and telephoned. I told him you were due today or tomorrow, and would contact him. Then I called one of the Monteleones, Jerry, I think, and told him I would be obliged if he would see that Staff Sergeant Ettinger is made comfortable.”

  “That was gracious of you, thank you.”

  “Simple courtesy,” the old man said. “I was going to suggest, now that you’re here, that we take him to dinner. Would that be awkward? If it would, we could have him here.”

  “Why would it be awkward?”

  “As I understand it, there is a line drawn between officers and enlisted men.”

  “Well, I’ve never paid much attention to that line. And I would guess that Ettinger will be in civilian clothing.”

  “We could take him to Arnaud’s,” the old man said. “It’s right around the corner from the Monteleone, and it has a certain reputation.”

  In other words, unless absolutely necessary, no Jews in the house. Not even Jews who are bound for Argentina to kill Argentineans.

  “Arnaud’s would be fine. It’s been a long time.”

  “When we have our drink, you can call him,” the old man said. “Do I correctly infer that you are no longer wearing your uniform?”

  “Yes. I have a new draft card, identifying me as someone who has been honorably discharged for physical reasons.”

  “Have you your uniform?”

  “It’s in the car. They are in the car.”

  “Your dress uniform among them?”

  “Yes.”

  “And your decorations?”

  “Yes. Why do you ask?”

  “I thought I would have your portrait made,” the old man said. “In uniform. I thought it could be hung in the upstairs sitting room beside that of your uncle James.”

  “I’m not sure there would be time.”

  “I don’t mean to sit for a portrait,” the old man said impatiently. “That’s unnecessary. They can work from photographs. Your mother’s portrait was prepared from snapshots.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “When you know something of your schedule, we’ll make time for a photographer. It will only take half an hour or so.”

  “If you’d like.”

  Jean-Jacques returned, carrying a silver tray on which were four squat glasses, two dark with Sazeracs, two of water, and two small silver bowls holding cashews and potato chips.

  Clete and the old man took the Sazeracs. Jean-Jacques set the tray down on a table.

  “Just a moment, please, Jean-Jacques,” the old man said. Then he turned toward the oil portrait of the pretty young woman in a ball gown hanging over the fireplace.

  “If I may,” Cletus Marcus Howell said, raising his glass toward the portrait. “To your mother. May her blessed, tortured soul rest in God’s peace.”

  “Mother,” Clete said, raising his glass.

  “And may your father receive his just deserts here on earth,” the old man added.

  Clete said nothing. He sometimes felt a little disloyal that he couldn’t share the old man’s passionate loathing for his father. Based on his grandfather’s frequent recounting, over the years, of that chapter of Howell family history, he understood the old man’s hatred: He held el Coronel Frade accountable for the death of his only daughter. But Clete’s mother died when he was an infant, and he had no memories of his father.

  That’s about to change. I’ll certainly meet him in Buenos Aires. And he probably won’t have horns and foul breath. But he is obviously a sonofabitch of the first water. I’ve never known the old man to lie. And Uncle Jim and Aunt Martha have silently condemned him as long as I can remember. Both believed, and practiced, the principle that unless you can say something nice about someone, you say nothing. Anytime I asked them about my father, they answered with evasion and a quick change of subject.

  If nothing else, it should be interesting to finally see the man—how does the Bible put it?—from whose loins I have sprung.

  Been spranged?

  He smiled, just faintly, at his play on words.

  Clete saw in the old man’s eyes that he had seen the smile, and hoped it wouldn’t trigger anything unpleasant. The old man looked at him intently for a moment, then turned to the butler.

  “Jean-Jacques, would you please call the Monteleone and see if you can get Mr. Ettinger on the line for Mr. Cletus?”

  Clete took a healthy sip of his Sazerac.

  It is true, he thought, that the only place you can get one of these is here. Strange but true. You can take all the ingredients with you, right down to Peychaux’s Bitters—as I did to Pensacola—but when you make one, it’s just not a Sazerac.

  He looked up at his mother’s portrait and had a thought that disturbed him a little: Jesus, she looks just like the brunette in Beth’s sorority house, the one I think I could have jumped.

  “I have Mr. Ettinger for you, Mr. Cletus,” Jean-Jacques said, handing him the telephone.

  “Ettinger?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “This is Clete Howell.”

  “Yes, Sir. I was told that you would be arriving about now.”

  “Is there anyone else there?”

  “No, Sir. There was a telegram several hours ago, saying that the…people from Virginia…will be here tomorrow morning. And I was told that Lieutenant Pelosi will be on the Crescent City Limited tomorrow. He’ll be coming here. I don’t know about the others.”

  “Have you made plans for dinner?”

  “No, Sir.”

  “Good, then you can have it with my grandfather and me. Would eight be convenient?”

  “Sir, I don’t want to impose.”

  “You won’t be. Can you be in the lobby at eight, or maybe outside, if it’s not raining?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “You have civvies?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Wear them,” Clete said.

  “I was told to, Sir.”

  “And one more thing, Ettinger…David…from here on out, we will dispense with the military courtesy.”

  “Yes, S—All right,” Ettinger said.

  Clete thought he heard a chuckle.

  “Eight o’clock,” he said, and hung up.

  Cletus Marcus Howell nodded his approval.

  “Jean-Jacques, would you please tell Samuel we will need the car at seven-forty? And then call Arnaud’s and tell them I will require a private dining room, for three, at about eight?”

  “Yes, Sir,” Jean-Jacques said.

  “And finally, Mr. Cletus has left his luggage in his car. Would you bring it in and unpack it for him, please? And, as soon as you can, see to having his dress uniform pressed, or cleaned, or whatever it takes?”

  “Mr. Cletus’s car is in the carriage house, Mr. Howell,” Jean-Jacques said. “His luggage is in his room. Antoinette’s already taking care of his laundry, and she heard what you said about
painting Mr. Cletus’s picture, so she’s already working on the uniform.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Can you think of anything else, Cletus?”

  “I think I would like another Sazerac, Jean-Jacques, if you could find the time.”

  “If you fill yourself with Sazeracs, Cletus, you won’t be able to appreciate either the wine or the food at Arnaud’s.”

  “Grandfather, I am prepared to pay that price.”

  “You might as well fetch two, please, Jean-Jacques,” the old man said.

  “Yes, Sir,” Jean-Jacques said. He turned and started out of the room. When his face was no longer visible to the old man, he smiled and winked at the young one.

  [FOUR]

  Schloss Wachtstein

  Pomerania

  1515 1 November 1942

  Generalmajor Graf Karl-Friedrich von Wachtstein, wearing a leather overcoat over his shoulders, walked into the library and found his son slumped in an armchair facing the fireplace, a cognac snifter in his hand.

  “It’s a little early for that, isn’t it, Peter?” he asked, tossing the overcoat and then his brimmed uniform cap onto a library table.

  Hauptmann Hans-Peter von Wachtstein turned and looked at his father but didn’t reply or stand up. After a moment, he said, “I’ve just come from turning over my staffel.”

  “You’re celebrating, then? Peter, I really wish you hadn’t started drinking,” the Graf said.

  “I’m all right, Poppa. A little maudlin, perhaps, but sober. I was just telling myself I should be celebrating. But it doesn’t feel that way.”

  “My father once told me that the best duty in the service is as a Hauptmann, in command of a company. In your case, a staffel. Giving up such a command is always difficult. Perhaps you should consider that it was inevitable…”

  “Inevitable?”

  “You would have had to turn it over when your majority comes through; and that should be, I would think, any day now. With a little luck, before you go to Argentina.”

  “I had the most disturbing feeling, as a matter of fact,” Peter said, “particularly afterward, when we all had a cognac in the bar, that it was a funeral, or a wake, that we were all seeing each other for the last time.”

  “I’ve had a bad day, a bad week, myself,” Graf von Wachtstein said.