Blood and Honor Page 12
‘‘What happened to my father, General?’’
‘‘Banditos,’’ General Ramírez replied, exhaling. ‘‘They blocked the road near Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo. Your father, who had the courage of a lion, apparently resisted, and was shot to death.’’
Well, that’s the official version, apparently. Now I have to find out what really happened.
‘‘And Suboficial Mayor Rodríguez? Was he with my father? ’’
‘‘Yes.’’
‘‘And how is he?’’
‘‘He is in the Argerich Military Hospital,’’ Ramírez said. ‘‘He will recover.’’
‘‘If you please, General, I would like to see him.’’
‘‘Of course. I will arrange it.’’
‘‘I mean now, Sir.’’
Ramírez looked at him thoughtfully for a moment, then nodded.
‘‘Whatever you wish, Señor Frade,’’ he said, and leaned forward on the seat to give the driver his orders.
‘‘For whatever small comfort this might provide, Señor Frade,’’ Ramírez said, ‘‘the people who did this outrageous act did not get away with it. They were located by the Provincial Police and died in a gun battle which followed.’’
Clete’s mouth ran away from him.
‘‘He who lives by the sword shall die by the sword,’’ he said sarcastically, mentally adding, And dead men tell no tales, right, like about who hired them?
The sarcasm was not apparent to General Ramírez.
‘‘And if we are to believe the Holy Scripture,’’ he said, ‘‘they will burn in hell through eternity for their mortal sin.’’
V
[ONE] El Palomar Airfield Buenos Aires, Argentina 1535 9 April 1943
Sometimes a Condor flight came twice a month, most often once a month, and the last flight before this one had been five weeks ago. Whenever he went to meet one, Major von Wachtstein was always relieved and a little surprised that the Condor had made it at all. He knew aircraft: Before coming to Argentina he had flown in Spain with the Condor Legion, and with fighter and fighter-bomber squadrons in Poland, Russia, and France, and had commanded a squadron of Focke-Wulf 190s defending Berlin.
It was one hell of a long flight from Berlin to Buenos Aires, and the shooting down of transport aircraft of the enemy was just as legal under the Geneva Convention as torpedoing their merchant ships.
First, the Condor had to make the 1,436 miles from Berlin to Portugal. There were few places over Germany, and fewer over occupied France, where one could not reasonably expect to encounter an Allied fighter.
The skies over neutral Spain and Portugal were safe, but fifteen minutes out of Lisbon toward Dakar, in French West Africa on the next leg of the flight, the Condor lost the protection of Portuguese neutrality. To avoid Allied aircraft certain to be alerted to its departure by Allied agents at the field, it had to fly far out into the Atlantic. Now that the Americans were in Morocco, that was a real threat.
It was about 1,800 miles from Lisbon to Dakar. Marshal Petain’s officially neutral Vichy French government had no choice but to permit a German civilian aircraft to make a fuel stop at the Dakar airfield. But once the Condor left Dakar, the danger of being shot down was replaced by the danger of bad weather and running out of fuel. It was 2,500 miles from Dakar to Cayenne in French Guiana on the South American continent, and another 2,700 miles from Cayenne to Buenos Aires.
To avoid detection and interception on the Cayenne- Buenos Aires leg, the Condor had to fly at least one hundred miles off the coast of Brazil. Brazil had declared war against the Axis powers, and the Americans had given them some armed long-range maritime reconnaissance aircraft. On that leg the Condor faced dangers both from enemy aircraft and from the hazards of an incredibly long flight. Only a few years before, any aircraft that had successfully completed a flight of that distance would have made headlines. It was still a magnificent achievement.
Major Freiherr von Wachtstein privately thought the Condor flights were an exercise in idiocy. For one thing, they required a great deal of fuel. And the Condor, like any aircraft, had a finite weight-carrying capability. The unavoidable result was that when the Condor took off there was very little weight available for either passengers or cargo. Usually the planes arrived carrying only half a dozen passengers, a dozen or so mailbags, and the diplomatic pouches.
He thought, again very privately, that there were only two reasons for making the Condor flights at all, and both were connected with the convoluted thinking of the upper hierarchy of the National Socialist German Workers’ Party. First: Someone as important as Reichsmarschal Hermann Göring, head of all things in aviation in Germany, the Luftwaffe (Air Force), and Lufthansa (the national airline), probably felt that maintaining the flights increased—or at least maintained—Nazi prestige.
The effects on Nazi prestige when an Allied fighter pilot —inevitably—got lucky, happened across the pride of Germanic aviation, and shot it down had not occurred to Der Grosse Hermann.
The second reason, even more convoluted, and thus even more likely in the Nazi never-never-land, was that the Condor often carried high-ranking members of the Nazi hierarchy aboard. It was a matter of prestige for them to fly aboard a Condor; they would seem much less important if they traveled abroad on a civil aircraft of a neutral power.
As Peter von Wachtstein stood behind the fence, watching the Condor taxi up to the terminal building, the face of the pilot was familiar. They had flown together in Spain.
A stairway was pushed out to the plane as the pilot shut down the engines. Argentine Customs and Immigration of ficials stationed themselves at the bottom, and the passengers began to debark.
First off was a tall, well-dressed, good-looking, sharp-featured man in his middle forties. A moment later—still holding his diplomatic passport importantly in his hand— he marched through the gate in the fence, made directly for von Wachtstein, and greeted him somewhat abruptly: ‘‘You are?’’
‘‘Major von Wachtstein,’’ Peter replied.
‘‘Oh, yes,’’ the man said, his tone suggesting that he was very familiar with just who Peter was and where he fitted into the hierarchy. ‘‘In my luggage, I have a letter and a small package for you from your father.’’
‘‘Oh, really? How good of you, Herr.’’
‘‘Standartenführer Josef Goltz at your service, Major,’’ Goltz said with a smile.
Major von Wachtstein came to attention and clicked his heels.
‘‘Excuse me, Herr Standartenführer,’’ he said. ‘‘I had no way of knowing who you are.’’
‘‘My movement here was of course classified,’’ Goltz said. ‘‘No offense was taken, Major.’’
‘‘The Herr Standartenführer is very kind,’’ Peter replied.
A very tall, well-dressed, olive-skinned man with prominent features walked through the gate and joined them.
‘‘Colonel, this is Major von Wachtstein, of our embassy, ’’ Goltz said.
‘‘I have the pleasure of the Major’s acquaintance,’’ the tall man said, offering Peter his hand.
‘‘What a pleasure to see you again, Colonel Perón,’’ Peter said, saluting—the old-style, fingers-to-the-temple salute, now officially out of favor—and then shaking the Colonel’s hand.
‘‘And have you found here what I said you would find, Major?’’
‘‘What you told me, mi Coronel, was an understatement, ’’ Peter said, in absolute sincerity.
‘‘I told this young man,’’ Perón chuckled, ‘‘that it would not surprise me if he found our young women extraordinary, and that the reverse might also be true.’’
‘‘Is that so?’’ Goltz said with a somewhat strained smile, then looked at Peter and added, ‘‘I had rather expected First Secretary Gradny-Sawz to meet me,’’ Goltz said. ‘‘We are old friends.’’
‘‘I’m sure that the First Secretary did not know you were on the plane, Herr Standartenführer,’’ Peter said.
That did not surprise Peter, who knew that Military Attach é Grüner was, in fact, in the service not only of the Abwehr (the Intelligence Department of German Armed Forces High Command) but the Sicherheitsdienst as well. Grüner himself had actually confided this to von Wachtstein, and he had also been warned about it by Ambassador Manfred Alois Graf von Lutzenberger.
Military attachés are always intelligence officers, although the diplomatic community invariably pretends this is not the case. Grüner’s role as SD officer for the Embassy was thus a covert role within a covert role. It was one more manifestation of the Through the Looking Glass land of National Socialism that Peter von Wachtstein had only recently come to understand and loathe.
As a soldier, the scion of an ancient family of Pomeranian warriors, he found it a strange mixture of the comical and deadly. It was literally suicidal to criticize any facet of it.
‘‘The Oberst was charged by First Secretary Gradny-Sawz with handling the Herr Standartenführer’s arrival,’’ Peter said. ‘‘He thought that I could safely be entrusted with meeting the unidentified very important personage arriving on the Condor, while he saw that your hotel accommodations were both suitable and ready for you.’’
Goltz looked at him coldly for a moment.
‘‘I presume you have a car, von Wachtstein? I have offered Colonel Perón a ride.’’
‘‘Oberst Grüner’s car and driver are at your service, Herr Standartenführer.’’
‘‘I can call, and have someone come meet me,’’ Perón said.
‘‘Don’t be silly. I knew the embassy would send a car for me. Where am I going, von Wachtstein?’’
‘‘A suite has been taken for you at the Alvear Palace Hotel, Herr Standartenführer. Oberst Grüner will be there waiting for you.’’
‘‘And how will you get to town?’’ Perón asked.
‘‘A bus is here, Sir, to take the crew, the mail, and diplomatic pouches. I’d planned to go with that. I regret, Sir,’’ he said, turning to Goltz, ‘‘that regulations require that I sign for the diplomatic pouches here. It will take a few minutes to get them through Customs. If the Herr Standartenf ührer doesn’t mind waiting, I would be happy to accompany the Herr Standartenführer—’’
‘‘Thank you very much, von Wachtstein, but that won’t be necessary,’’ Goltz—far too important a personage to be forced to wait around anywhere for anything—interrupted him. ‘‘My luggage?’’
‘‘I would be happy to see the Herr Standartenführer’s luggage arrives safely at his hotel.’’
‘‘Splendid. You are most obliging, von Wachtstein.’’
‘‘It is a privilege to be of service to the Herr Standartenf ührer,’’ von Wachtstein said.
‘‘I’m sure we shall be seeing more of you, Major,’’ Per ón said. ‘‘While I am sure you have met some of our beautiful women, I’m sure you haven’t met all of them. Perhaps we can have dinner.’’
‘‘It would be a great privilege, mi Coronel,’’ Peter said.
He led them to Grüner’s Mercedes, saw them safely inside, closed the door, and rendered the Nazi salute as the car drove off.
‘‘Scheisskopf’’—shithead—he muttered more than a little bitterly. And then, his diplomatic carnet8in his hand, he made his way through the Customs and Immigration section, out to the tarmac, and climbed up the movable stairs into the Condor.
The pilot, copilot, and crew chief were still in the cockpit, their laps covered with the mounds of paperwork made necessary both by arrival in a foreign country and to ensure that maintenance personnel had a complete list of items to inspect, replace, or repair.
‘‘Well, Peter,’’ the pilot said, ‘‘I thought that was you standing out there showing all the signs of your dissolute and immoral life among the Argentines.’’
‘‘That sounds like jealousy, Dieter,’’ von Wachtstein said, shaking hands with the pilot and nodding at the copilot. ‘‘How was the flight?’’
‘‘Wonderful. There’s nothing I like better than spending an hour in the air with all the LOW FUEL lights lighting up the cockpit.’’
‘‘Was it that bad?’’
‘‘Not really. We had at least thirty minutes’ fuel remaining when we sat down.’’
Both knew that on a 2,800-mile leg, a thirty-minute reserve of fuel at an average airspeed of 220 miles, which meant a reserve of 110 miles, was so small as to be meaningless. Or suicidal.
‘‘And when we came out of the soup just now, we almost ran into an American China-Clipper flying boat,’’ the copilot said. When Peter turned to look at him, he added, ‘‘I don’t have the privilege of the Herr Freiherr’s acquaintance. ’’ He put out his hand. ‘‘I’m First Officer Karl Nabler, Herr Major.’’
‘‘Peter, please,’’ von Wachtstein said. ‘‘I stand in awe of your balls, Sir.’’
Nabler chuckled. ‘‘Because of the low fuel, you mean? It wasn’t really only thirty minutes. I made it closer to an hour’s reserve.’’
‘‘For flying with Dieter, is what I meant. I’ve always believed that at a certain age, old birdmen should be forced to retire.’’
‘‘You can kiss my ass, Peter,’’ the pilot said.
‘‘What did you almost run into? A China Clipper?’’
‘‘I think it’s a follow-on model to the China Clipper— bigger engines, for one thing,’’ the pilot said. ‘‘Anyway, when we came out of the soup, there it was, a four-engine Pan American flying boat with a great big American flag painted on the fuselage.’’
‘‘And you didn’t consider it your National Socialist duty to try to cut its tail off with your propellers? Shame on you, Dieter.’’
‘‘That would have been nice, Peter,’’ the pilot said, something in his eyes telling von Wachtstein that jokes of that nature were not wise in the presence of the copilot, ‘‘but I decided that the safe arrival of Standartenführer Goltz and Colonel Perón were really more important to Germany than one downed China Clipper.’’
‘‘And I wasn’t sure where we stood, neutrality-wise,’’ the copilot said, making it clear that he didn’t consider it insane to try to cut the vertical stabilizers off an enemy civilian transport with one’s propellers. ‘‘I think that we were within what Argentina claims as its territory.’’
‘‘Yes, and they take their territorial claims very seriously, ’’ von Wachtstein said. ‘‘It could have proved embarrassing, whether or not you succeeded.’’
‘‘Karl, why don’t you get the diplomatic pouches out of the baggage compartment?’’ the pilot suggested, handing him a set of keys. ‘‘So that Peter can sign for them and get them off our hands?’’
‘‘Yes, Sir.’’
‘‘I’ll give you a hand,’’ Peter said, and stood to one side so that the copilot could get out of his chair.
The copilot walked past him, and Peter started to follow.
‘‘Peter?’’ the pilot called, and Peter turned. ‘‘Have a look at this, will you?’’
Peter leaned over the pilot’s shoulder. The pilot handed him a thick, well-sealed envelope. Peter glanced at it quickly, just long enough to recognize that the address— "H-P v. W."—was in the handwriting of his father, then stuffed it quickly into the inside pocket of his uniform tunic.
The letter from his father sent in the custody of Standartenf ührer Goltz was obviously a decoy, sent because a Generalleutnant with connections in high places could be expected to ask someone like Goltz to carry a letter to his sole surviving son—despite specific prohibitions against doing so. It would be thought odd if he hadn’t asked the favor.
The letter he had just taken from the pilot was a real letter. Its contents would probably get both of them shot, or more likely garroted, if it wound up in the hands of the SD or Gestapo.
‘‘Thank you,’’ he said.
The pilot nodded.
‘‘Watch what you say around Nabler
, Peter,’’ the pilot said. ‘‘He still thinks Adolf pisses lemonade.’’
Major Freiherr Hans-Peter von Wachtstein nodded, then turned and left the cockpit.
[TWO] Dr. Cosme Argerich Military Hospital Calle Luis María Campos Buenos Aires 1655 9 April 1943
As the convoy of staff cars rolled through the gates of the hospital, Clete had several thoughts, some of them irreverent and on the edge of unkind.
There was absolutely no reason for all these brass hats to be following them. But they had apparently been told to accompany Ramírez to the Panagra terminal to meet him, and nobody had the balls to leave without further orders. And the term ‘‘brass hat’’ was really more appropriate here, where the headgear of the senior brass was both enormous and heavily encrusted with gilt decoration, than it was in the States, where most general officers he had seen had worn soft fore-and-aft caps.
I’ll bet those hats weigh more than a steel helmet. These guys probably go home at night with one hell of a headache, groan loudly as they take off their caps, and then have their wives massage their necks.
The guards at the gates, wearing German-style steel helmets, wide-eyed at the parade of brass hats in their cars, snapped to the Argentine equivalent of Present Arms— holding their Mauser rifles vertically, at arm’s length, in front of them, where Marines held their rifles so close to their chests that they nearly touched their noses.
I was no better. The first time I saw a general up close I was a little surprised he didn’t have a halo.
This place is bigger than I remember. What the hell, it’s the Argentine equivalent of Walter Reed Army Hospital in Washington, so why not? The difference, of course, is that probably the only wounded soldier in the whole place is Enrico. Unless some Argentine boot shot himself in the foot on the Known Distance Range.
‘‘Mi General,’’ Clete said, turning to Ramírez. ‘‘I know that you and your officers are busy men. I can manage by myself from here.’’