Less kindly, they had come to understand that while the chances of getting a Luftwaffe fighter pilot into a wedding ceremony ranged from poor to none, Luftwaffe fighter pilots almost always could be counted on to provide access to food and luxuries not available elsewhere.
Including, of course, to French wine, cognac and Champagne, and even scotch whiskey.
With a couple of drinks of Rémy Martin or Martell to warm your heart, it seemed less important that the young man who had just given you a kilo box of Belgian chocolate, or two pairs of French silk stockings, was interested in getting you in bed, not to the marriage registry office.
Or to convince yourself that it was obviously your patriotic duty to bring joy, or solace, to a young hero of the Third Reich who daily risked his life to protect the Fatherland from the Bolshevik hordes.
“And this, my dear Trudi,” Generalmajor Galland said, “is another old comrade-in-arms, Major Freiherr Hans-Peter von Wachtstein.”
“I’m very pleased to meet you, Herr Baron,” Trudi said.
Trudi looked enough like Alicia to bring her picture clearly into Peter’s mind.
And she looks like a nice girl, like Alicia; there is nothing of the whore, or the slut, in her face.
So what is she doing here?
If the Brazilians were bombing Buenos Aires and I was an Argentine, flying one of their antique American Seversky fighters out of El Palomar, would Alicia be in a place like this smiling at me because I looked like a source of silk stockings or chocolate?
Maybe. If the Gendarmerie Nacionale was setting up roadblocks on the highway to Estancia Santo Catalina, to keep people from moving food around, maybe she would.
No, she wouldn’t, not Alicia.
“The pleasure is mine, Fräulein,” Peter said, and bowed his head at the neck and clicked his heels.
The white-jacketed steward rolled in a tray of hors d’oeuvres.
“Oh, I think I’m going to have some of that!” Trudi declared. “It all looks delicious.”
“I think, Hansel,” General Galland said thirty minutes later, “that you could take Trudi home.”
“Herr General?”
Trudi was smiling at them from across the room. She was warming a brandy snifter in her hands.
“I think she likes you,” Galland said. “But I am not sure, under the circumstances, that that would be such a good idea.”
“It was not my—”
“I was about to suggest if you told her you had to fly first thing in the morning, she might be amenable to spending the night here.”
“Am I flying first thing in the morning?”
“The Navy’s coming first thing in the morning,” Galland said. “How much of the scotch have you had?”
“Korvettenkapitän Boltitz,” Peter said. “He slipped my mind for a minute.”
“That’s understandable, Hansel. I’ve never seen a sailor nearly as attractive as Trudi,” Galland said, smiling. “But under the circumstances, I will, Major von Wachtstein, change that suggestion to an order.”
“Sir?”
“If you feel, Major von Wachtstein, that it’s your duty to maintain the reputation of Luftwaffe fighter pilots by providing what the lady so obviously wants, you will do so on the premises.”
Peter didn’t reply.
“I gave my word, you will recall,” Galland went on, “that I would have you here for the Korvettenkapitän in the morning. I don’t want to tell him you’re off God only knows where attempting to increase the Bavarian birth rate.”
“Jawohl, Herr General.”
“I had my orderly put your bag in the second bedroom to the left, at the top of the stairs,” Galland said. “And he will take Trudi home in the morning.”
“I wish I shared your high opinion of my irresistibility, Herr General,” Peter said. “I don’t think she’s all that interested in me.”
“Oh, I’m sure she is.”
“With all possible respect, Herr General, I disagree.”
Galland winked at Peter, smiled knowingly, punched him affectionately on the arm, and walked away.
Across the room, Trudi saw that Galland had left Peter, and she walked to him, offering the glass.
“I’ve got scotch, thank you.”
“Scotch tastes like medicine to me.”
“And the cognac?”
“Like…cognac,” Trudi said.
There was the sound of music, a phonograph playing in an adjacent room.
“That’s Glenn Miller,” Peter said.
“Well, I won’t tell if you won’t tell,” Trudi said.
It took him a moment to take her meaning. “Is Glenn Miller proscribed?” he asked.
“He’s decadent,” Trudi said, “Are you decadent, Herr Baron?”
“I really wish you wouldn’t call me that,” Peter said without thinking.
“Herr Major?” she asked with a smile.
“Peter will do nicely,” he said, and thought aloud: “He’s in the American Air Corps, you know. Glenn Miller, I mean.”
“Really?” She seemed surprised. “How do you know?”
“I read it in the English newspaper, the Buenos Aires Herald, when I was in Argentina. He and his whole band.”
“I thought reading enemy newspapers was proscribed,” Trudi said. “They’re decadent.”
“Actually, it was my duty to read them.”
“Really?”
“There’s a German newspaper in Buenos Aires—actually two of them, and some magazines. And I’m sure my counterparts—the military attachés in the British and American embassies—read them. The military principle involved is ‘know your enemy.’”
Cletus Frade, for example.
“Do you think you could get to know the enemy better if we went in there”—she inclined her head toward the door of the room where the sound of the music was coming from—“and danced to the decadent music of Glenn Miller?”
I don’t want to dance with Trudi, and I don’t want to take her to bed.
Because of Alicia?
Or because I know Trudi knows getting in my bed is expected of her, and I feel bad about taking advantage of her?
That never bothered me before.
Why now?
Alicia, of course. I wonder where she is now?
It’s early. There’s five hours’ time difference between here and Buenos Aires.
Maybe she’s having tea with Dorotéa Frade in Claridge’s Hotel.
Or shopping with her for baby clothes in Harrod’s.
Why did I ever get involved with Alicia?
All I am going to do is bring her grief.
“Why not?” Peter said. He drained his scotch, set the glass down, smiled at Trudi, and motioned for her to precede him into the adjacent room.
One of Galland’s white-jacketed orderlies stood almost at attention beside the table that held the phonograph. When one record was finished, he replaced it with another, all the time pretending not to see that Oberstleutnant Henderver’s hands were pressing the girl he was dancing with against him by holding her buttocks, and that Hauptmann Grüner had his hand under the sweater of the girl dancing with him.
“General Galland really likes you,” Trudi said, her mouth close to his ear.
“How do you know that?”
She smells good. That’s French perfume. I wonder where she got it?
You know damned well where she got it, from someone like Henderver, or Willi, maybe from Galland himself.
“He told me,” Trudi said. “He said that I shouldn’t be misled by your looks….”
“My looks?”
“How young you look. He said that you were one of the old-timers, starting in Spain.”
“We
were in Spain,” Peter said.
“And then in Poland and France, and England…”
“Guilty.”
“And that you got the Knight’s Cross from the Führer himself.”
“Absolutely,” Peter said. “I was the only man in my squadron with a perfect record for six months of never missing Sunday mass.”
Trudi laughed delightedly, and far more enthusiastically than the bad joke merited. And when she leaned back to look up at his face, she pressed her midsection against his. That she left it there proved it was not accidental.
It produced an immediate reaction, and Peter withdrew his midsection. Trudi’s groin followed his.
“Meine Damen und Herren,” an orderly announced, “dinner is served.”
“I’m hungry,” Trudi said, stopping the dancing movements but not withdrawing her groin from his. “But I hate to stop dancing.”
“We’d better go in,” Peter said.
She moved her hand from his back to the base of his neck and pulled his face to hers and kissed him.
Not really lewdly, Peter decided. Not wide-open-mouthed with a tongue hungrily seeking mine, accompanied by a grinding of her pelvis against my hard-on.
A slightly opened mouth, with the tip of her tongue daintily touching my lips, and a just barely perceptible increase of pelvic pressure.
A promise of more to come.
And you like it, you sonofabitch!
You get near any reasonably good-looking female and you’re instantly ready to play the bull.
Jesus Christ! You really should be ashamed of yourself!
You don’t deserve Alicia.
General Galland, standing at the head of the table, smiled knowingly at Peter and Trudi as they took their seats.
Two white-jacketed orderlies served the meal. It was roast loin of wild boar, oven-roasted potatoes, creamed onions, and a salad. There was Champagne and wine.
Trudi tapped her Champagne glass against his and smiled.
Peter smiled back.
You are probably a very nice girl, Trudi.
And you are probably very good in the sack.
But thank you, no thank you.
After dinner, I am simply going to disappear.
I am not, so help me God, going to take you to bed.
[THREE]
Guest Room #1
Quarters of the General Officer Commanding
Luftwaffe Flughafen No. 103B
Augsburg, Germany
0715 17 May 1943
Major Freiherr Hans-Peter von Wachtstein was naked and spread-eagled on his back. Trudi pushed him in the ribs. She had been trying to wake him for at least ninety seconds. He grunted.
“Liebchen,” Trudi whispered fiercely, “there’s someone at the door.”
Peter opened his eyes and looked around the room, as if wondering where he was.
“Liebchen,” Trudi whispered again, “there’s someone at the door.”
He looked at Trudi. She was supporting herself on an elbow, which served to put her left nipple about six inches from his eye.
Oh, God!
“There’s someone at the door,” Trudi hissed a third time.
With a tremendous effort, Peter pushed his torso off the bed. “What is it?” he called as loudly as he could, which was not very loud, as the inside of his mouth was absolutely dry.
“Ruttman, Herr Major,” a male voice responded, “the Herr General’s orderly.”
“What is it?” Peter demanded.
“I am to drive the young lady into Augsburg, Herr Major.”
“Wait downstairs,” Peter ordered.
“Jawohl, Herr Major.”
“You were really sleeping, Liebchen,” Trudi said.
“Liebchen”? Oh, my God!
“How much did I have to drink last night?”
“Not very much,” Trudi said. “Do you feel bad?” She ran her fingers across his forehead.
Not very much? The way I feel? That’s absurd.
But enough obviously to bring Trudi up here.
“Poor Liebchen,” Trudi said.
Oh, my God, and Boltitz is coming this morning!
Was I out of my mind, to get drunk?
He let himself fall back against the bed.
Trudi looked down at him, smiled, and ran the tips of her fingers over his chest. And then lower. “And how is he this morning?” she asked naughtily.
“I suspect he’s out of service,” Peter said.
I don’t even remember bringing her up here, much less anything about what obviously happened last night.
The last thing I remember is standing at the bar, arguing with Oberstleutnant Henderver about the best way to fight a Mustang.
What happened after that?
“He doesn’t act as if he’s out of service,” Trudi said as she manipulated him.
“Trudi, I’ve got to get up and have a shower and get dressed.”
“Oh, really?”
She sounds genuinely disappointed. Is that because I am the greatest lover since Casanova? Or because she’s a nymphomaniac?
Oh, Jesus Christ, I’m really hard!
“I would really hate to waste that,” Trudi said.
“Trudi, I’m beat,” Peter said. “I don’t have the energy…”
“Ssssh,” Trudi said, putting her finger on his lips. Then she straddled him and guided him into her.
Oh, my God!
Peter opened his eyes. Someone was knocking at door.
Christ, I told him to wait downstairs!
He looked around for Trudi. She wasn’t in the bed with him, and there was no sign of her in the room—no purse, no clothing. He remembered that she had collapsed on him, and he hadn’t particularly liked that, and he remembered that he was just going to have to close his eyes and get a couple of minutes sleep.
“What is it?” Peter called.
“Herr Major, the Herr General and the other gentlemen are downstairs.”
“I’ll be there directly,” Peter said.
He found his watch. The U.S. Army Air Corps chronometer said that it was 12:09.
Christ, I remember telling Henderver—and, my God, Galland too—about that slime of an SS officer who stole it from the American pilot.
What else did I run off at the mouth about last night?
And the orderly said “gentlemen,” More than one. Who’s with Boltitz? That charming slime, Obersturmbannführer Karl Cranz, who met us in Lisbon?
Galland had been disgusted with the story. Disgusted enough to tell Obersturmbannführer Karl Cranz about it?
You goddamn irresponsible fool!
Getting drunk out of your mind!
He swung his feet out of the bed and walked unsteadily to the bathroom. He turned on the cold water of the shower and stood under it until he was shivering nearly out of control. He hoped the cold water would clear his head.
All it did was make me shiver.
Keep your goddamn mouth shut when you go downstairs.
Peter cut himself in three places while shaving.
Generalmajor Adolf Galland, Obersturmbannführer Karl Cranz, Korvettenkapitän Karl Boltitz, Oberstleutnant Henderver, Oberstleutnant Deitzer, and Hauptmann Willi Grüner were in the sitting room when Peter walked in. “Heil Hitler!” Peter said, giving the Nazi salute. “My apologies, Herr General, for my tardiness.”
The Nazi salute was returned with varying degrees of enthusiasm.
“You may notice, Cranz,” Galland said, “that Major von Wachtstein looks a bit pale.”
“So he does.”
“Yesterday,” Galland went on. “Major von Wachtstein flew a new aircraft—”
“You’re not referring
the ME-262?” Cranz asked.
“Indeed I am. Are you familiar with the aircraft, Cranz?”
“I’ve seen photographs,” Cranz said, “and read its characteristics.”
“And von Wachtstein flew it, Herr General?” Boltitz asked, obviously surprised.
“I personally qualified Major von Wachtstein in the ME-262,” Galland said.
“Isn’t that a little unusual?” Cranz asked.
“Major von Wachtstein is a very unusual pilot,” Galland said. “And if you’re familiar with ME-262 characteristics, you’re aware of the great increase in speed it offers?”
“I heard nine hundred kilometers,” Boltitz said.
“In level flight. The figure is considerably higher in a dive.”
“Amazing,” Cranz said.
“Naturally, flying an aircraft at those speeds subjects the human body to great stress.”
“I’m sure it does,” Cranz said.
“But nothing like the stresses placed upon the human body—in this case Hansel’s body—by the party that always follows a pilot becoming rated in the ME-262. What you see before you, gentlemen, bleeding from his shave and looking like death warmed over, is a brand-new ME-262 pilot.”
Cranz laughed dutifully. Boltitz chuckled.
“And he went beyond that, gentlemen,” Galland said. “Delicacy forbids me to get into specifics, but let me assure you that Major von Wachtstein gave his all—to judge by his bloodshot eyes, all night—to maintain, even polish, the reputation Luftwaffe fighter pilots enjoy among the gentle sex.”
“Hansel,” Willi Grüner said. “You look awful.”
Peter gave him the finger.
“Ruttman!” Galland called. The orderly appeared. “The emergency equipment for Major von Wachtstein, if you please.”
“Jawohl, Herr General!”
Ruttman left the room and returned in a minute with a face mask and a portable oxygen bottle. He handed them to Peter.
“What is that?” Boltitz asked. “Oxygen?”
“The best—so far as I know personally, the only—cure for a hangover,” Galland said.
The cool oxygen felt marvelous.
“With a little luck, Major von Wachtstein may live through lunch,” Galland said. “He may wish he were dead, but I think he may live.”
Secret Honor Page 53