Top Secret Page 5

  Two men entered the sitting room. One was a photographer and the other a full colonel, from whose epaulet hung the heavy golden cords that identify the military aide to the President.

  He handed a small box to the President. He took it and walked to Jimmy’s mother.

  “Would you like to pin these onto Captain Cronley’s epaulets, Mrs. Cronley?”

  She started sobbing again, and Mrs. Truman again put her arms around her.

  “Maybe you’d better do it, Mr. Cronley,” the President suggested.

  When he had done so, he hugged his son.

  “Thank you, Mr. President,” Jimmy said.

  “Right now you’re probably thinking ‘So what?’” the President said. “But that will change, Captain Cronley—believe me, based on my own experience—when some other soldier calls you ‘Captain’ for the first time.”

  “Yes, sir,” Jimmy said, chuckling. “Thanks again, sir.”

  “We’re not finished,” the President said. “Sid?”

  “Attention to orders,” Admiral Souers proclaimed. “The White House, Washington, D.C., twenty-sixth October 1945. Award of the Distinguished Service Medal. By order of the President of the United States, the Distinguished Service Medal is presented to Captain James D. Cronley Junior, Cavalry, Detail Military Intelligence, Army of the United States. Citation: Captain Cronley, then second lieutenant, while engaged in a classified operation of vital importance to the United States demonstrated great courage and valor and a willingness, far above and beyond the call of duty, to risk his life in the completion of his mission. In doing so, he also demonstrated a level of professional skill and knowledge far above that which could be expected of someone of his rank, youth, and experience. His actions and valor reflect great credit upon the U.S. Army. Entered the military service from Texas. Signed, George C. Marshall, general of the Army.”

  The aide extended to Truman an oblong blue box from which he took the DSM. He then pinned the medal to Jimmy’s uniform.

  The photographer went into action.

  “You understand,” the President said to the photographer, “that those photos are not to be given to the press?”

  “Yes, sir. Admiral Souers made that quite clear, Mr. President.”

  “You’ll be given copies, of course,” the President said to the room in general. “But I’m going to have to ask that you, at least for the time being, regard them as secret.”

  He waited until he got acknowledgment from everyone, and then he said, “Bess and I will be leaving now. Please forgive our intrusion on your grief.”

  II

  [ ONE ]

  Arriving Passenger Terminal

  Rhine-Main USAF Base

  Frankfurt am Main

  American Zone, Occupied Germany

  0825 28 October 1945

  “Captain,” the sergeant called.

  And then he called “Captain!” again, this time a little louder.

  Captain James D. Cronley Jr. belatedly realized he was the subject of the sergeant’s interest.

  “What?”

  “I think that’s yours, and the colonel’s, stuff over there,” the sergeant said, pointing. “You must have been the last people to get on the plane and they didn’t have time to put your stuff in the cargo hold with the other luggage.”

  Jimmy looked and saw their luggage against the wall. Until just now, he and Colonel Mattingly had been worried that it had been left behind in Washington.

  “That’s it, thanks,” Cronley said, and then raised his voice and called, “Colonel!”

  Mattingly was across the huge room, looking at stacks of luggage. When he turned, Cronley pointed. Mattingly nodded and started toward their luggage.

  When they had carried their luggage into the main terminal, Mattingly said, “The problem now is how to get you to Munich. In the good old days, one of our puddle jumpers would be waiting here.”

  The Piper Cub aircraft, known as the L-4 in the U.S. Army, was universally referred to as a puddle jumper. A dozen of them had been assigned, primarily for personnel transport, to the now out-of-existence organization known as OSS Forward.

  Cronley didn’t reply.

  “But let me get on the horn and see if I can get a puddle jumper from the United States Constabulary,” Mattingly said.

  “From whom?”

  “The newly formed police force of the American Zone.”

  Mattingly walked to a desk, where he commandeered a telephone. Ten minutes later, he walked back to Cronley.

  “You got lucky, Jimmy,” he said. “They loaned me one. You will be spared that long ride down the autobahn to Munich. And I called Tiny and told him to meet you there at the Vier Jahreszeiten.”

  The luxury hotel had been requisitioned by the Army. The XXVIIth CIC Detachment had space in the building.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “You okay, Jimmy?”

  “I’m fine, sir.”

  “Forgive me, Captain, for not thinking so.”

  “I’m really okay, sir. But thanks for getting me a ride.”

  “They said within thirty minutes. We can get a cup of coffee over there”—he pointed to a PX coffee bar—“while we wait.”

  “Colonel, you don’t have to wait with me.”

  “Captains don’t get to tell colonels what they don’t have to do. And I just realized I have some questions for you.”

  “Should I be worried?”

  “That would depend on the answers I get.”

  Mattingly pointed again toward the coffee bar. They walked to it and ordered coffee and doughnuts—it was all that was available—and sat at a small table.

  “When Admiral Souers told me that you had found that stuff everybody was looking for, I naturally wondered how you had found it,” Mattingly began his interrogation. “When I asked him, he said something to the effect that Cletus Frade had told him that after you had come up with a pretty good idea where that vessel was, you and two of our Germans got into Clete’s Fieseler Storch and a Cub, and went looking for it.”

  “Yes, sir. The Germans were Willi Grüner—he’s the Luftwaffe buddy of Clete’s buddy von Wachtstein. They found him in Berlin and took him to Argentina—and Kapitän von Dattenberg. He’s the guy who surrendered U-405 to the Argentines. He and the captain of U-234 . . . Sorry. He and the captain of the vessel we were looking for were friends, and Clete thought that might be useful—and it was—if we found what we were looking for.”

  Mattingly made a Keep talking gesture with his hands.

  “Well, the first thing Clete did when I figured out where U-2 . . . the vessel . . . probably was, was to take the wings off his Storch and one of his Cubs. Then he had them loaded onto flatbed trucks and trucked them down to a place called Estancia Condor. He sent Grüner along to make sure the mechanics put the wings back on right. And Grüner had a lot of experience flying Storches in Russia.”

  “What was that all about?”

  “Well, when I say I figured out where the vessel was, I mean that I thought it was way down south, within fifty miles of the mouth of the Magellan Straits. There’s not much but mountains and snow and ice down there. To find anything, we knew we would have to fly low and slow. The only way to do that was with little airplanes—you can’t do that in, say, a Lodestar.”

  “Souers said that Commander Ford told him the material was brought to Mendoza, where it was transferred to the Constellation, on a Lodestar.”

  “Yes, sir. That’s right.”

  “The Lodestar was flown by Cletus?”

  “No, sir. If Cletus had left Buenos Aires to fly the Lodestar, the wrong people would have asked questions. So Clete didn’t go down south.”

  “Getting to the heart of our little chat, Captain Cronley: If Colonel Frade didn’t fly the Lodestar during this exercise, who did?”

&nbs
p; After a long moment, Cronley said, “I did.”

  “And you were flying what when you found U-234? It was you who found her. Correct?”

  “Yes, sir. I was flying the Cub.”

  “I wasn’t aware that you were a pilot.”

  Cronley didn’t reply.

  “You want to explain this?” Mattingly said.

  Again Cronley didn’t reply.

  “That was more in the nature of an order for an explanation, Captain, than an idle question.”

  “Yes, sir. Clete is like my big brother, Colonel.”

  “Would it surprise you to hear I have already come to that conclusion? And . . . ?”

  “I followed him all my life. Into the Cub Scouts. Into the Boy Scouts. Into Texas A&M. I was about to follow him into the Marine Corps when I decided I had had enough of following him.”

  “Was this before or after you became a pilot?”

  “I’ve been flying since Clete taught me when I was fourteen.”

  “So, passing up the glory of becoming a Marine fighter pilot, you joined the Army instead? On behalf of the officer corps of the U.S. Army, let me say how pleased we are that you’re slumming amongst us.”

  Jimmy didn’t reply.

  “I gather you did not qualify for the Army’s aviator training program? Why not?”

  “I never applied for it.”

  “Why not?”

  “I didn’t want to spend four years as an aerial taxi driver.”

  “Had you applied, would you have been qualified? What sort of a license to fly do you hold? How experienced a pilot are you?”

  When Jimmy hesitated, Mattingly said, “That, too, was not a question born of idle curiosity as we wait for your aerial taxi driver to appear, Captain Cronley.”

  “I’ve got eleven hundred hours, sir, and hold a commercial ticket, with instrument and multi-engine ratings.”

  “This secret talent of yours comes as something of a surprise. I’ll have to think about it.”

  “Life is just full of surprises, isn’t it, Colonel?”

  Mattingly looked at him for a moment.

  “Under the circumstances, Captain,” he said, “I’ll choose not to consider that a smart-ass remark.”

  —

  Five minutes later, a first lieutenant whom Cronley could not remember having seen before walked up to their table and saluted. He wore a zippered “Tanker Jacket” to which were sewn Liaison Pilot wings and a shoulder insignia—a circle of Cavalry yellow, in which was the letter “C” with a diagonal lightning bolt through it.

  “Sir, Colonel Wilson said you need a ride.”

  “Not me,” Mattingly said as he quickly—and Cronley belatedly—returned his salute. “The captain here needs a ride to Munich.”

  “Yes, sir. Not a problem. It’s right on my way. I’m headed to Sonthofen.”

  “Be gentle with him, Lieutenant,” Mattingly said. “The captain doesn’t like to fly.”

  The lieutenant, looking a little uneasy, said, “Yes, sir. If you’ll come with me, sir?”

  Jimmy stood and looked down at Mattingly, wondering if he was supposed to salute.

  Mattingly answered the question by getting to his feet and putting out his hand.

  “If I somehow forgot to say this earlier, Jimmy, I’m very sorry for your loss and greatly admire the way you’re handling it.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  [ TWO ]

  Supreme Headquarters, Allied European Forces

  I.G. Farben Building

  Frankfurt am Main, American Zone, Occupied Germany

  1045 28 October 1945

  Colonel Robert Mattingly returned the salute of the two natty paratroopers of the 508th Parachute Infantry Regiment on ceremonial guard at the entrance of the building and entered the lobby. He walked past the sea of red general officers’ personal flags—in the center of which was the red flag with five stars in a circle of General of the Army Dwight D. Eisenhower—and stepped onto the right of the two devices he thought of as the dumbwaiters.

  He had no idea of the proper nomenclature of the devices that moved people up (the right one) and down (the left one) in the largest office building in Europe. They functioned by constantly moving small platforms onto which passengers stepped on and off.

  In 1941, I.G. Farben G.m.b.H. had been the fourth largest corporation in the world, after General Motors, U.S. Steel, and Standard Oil of New Jersey. Eisenhower had decided, early on, that he wanted the building as his headquarters. With great difficulty, the enormous structure had been spared damage by the thousand bomber raids that had reduced most of Frankfurt to rubble.

  Mattingly, ascending upon what he now idly thought could probably be called the “vertical personnel transport device,” arrived at the fifth floor. It was his intention to call upon Brigadier General H. Paul Greene, chief, Counterintelligence, European Command, whom he hoped to deceive sufficiently to get him off the backs of the XXIIIrd and XXVIIth CIC detachments—and off himself personally.

  The last time Mattingly had seen Greene, who was de jure but not de facto his immediate superior, Greene had ordered him to consider himself under arrest for disobedience of a direct order. The one-star released him from arrest only after Mattingly had threatened to bring their disagreement to the personal attention of General Eisenhower.

  There was a very good chance, Mattingly understood, that he would again find himself under arrest today. But that chance had to be taken.

  He stepped off the dumbwaiter and marched purposefully down the marble-floored corridor to General Greene’s suite of offices.

  When he entered the outer office, a major and a master sergeant looked up from their desks. The master sergeant then stood.

  “Good morning,” Mattingly said. “I’m here to see General Greene.”

  “I’ll see if the general is free, sir,” the major said, and reached for his telephone.

  “Just to clear the air between us, Major: That was an announcement of intention. As deputy commander, CIC, I don’t need your permission to see the general. Perhaps you might wish to write that down.”

  Mattingly marched to, and through, the doorway to General Greene’s office, then up to his desk. The major hurriedly followed him to the doorway.

  Mattingly came to attention and saluted.

  General Greene’s face whitened and he glared at Mattingly for a long moment before returning the salute.

  “Good morning, General,” Mattingly said.

  General Greene did not immediately reply.

  “General,” the major began, “he just walked in—”

  Mattingly turned to him. “That will be all, thank you, Major. I’m afraid you’re not cleared for the matter the general and I will be discussing.”

  The major looked to General Greene for guidance. After a moment, Greene waved his hand, telling him to leave.

  “Please close the door tightly, Major,” Mattingly ordered.

  When the door was closed, General Greene said, “You better have a good explanation for this, you arrogant sonofabitch!”

  “With the general’s permission, I have several documents, classified Top Secret–Presidential, I would like the general to peruse.”

  After a moment, still white-faced and tight-lipped, General Greene made another hand gesture—Let’s see them.

  Mattingly opened his briefcase, took from it a thin sheath of papers and photographs, and laid them before General Greene.

  On top was an eight-by-ten-inch glossy photograph of Captain James D. Cronley Jr. with, on his right, the President of the United States and, on his left, Rear Admiral Sidney William Souers. To their left and right were James D. Cronley Sr., Major General William J. Donovan, and Colonel Robert Mattingly.

  “What am I looking at?” General Greene asked, more than a little unpleasant
ly.

  “Forgive me, sir, but I must have your confirmation of your understanding that this material is classified Top Secret–Presidential.”

  “I’m not deaf, Mattingly,” Greene snapped. “I heard you the first time.”

  “That photograph was taken the day before yesterday, General, immediately after President Truman promoted Captain Cronley to that grade and awarded him the Distinguished Service Medal.”

  “Who the hell is he?”

  “He’s the officer I placed in charge of the Twenty-third Detachment’s—”

  “Twenty-third Detachment?” Greene interrupted. “We don’t have a Twenty-third Detachment!”

  “I formed it, sir, under the Twenty-seventh, to run the operation at Kloster Grünau, sir, to further shield it.”

  Green stared at him a long moment. “Tell me more about this Captain Cronley.”

  “I think you’re asking if he’s the officer who had the misunderstanding with Colonel Schumann at Kloster Grünau. Yes, sir, he is.”

  “‘Misunderstanding’? You call blowing the engine out of Tony Schumann’s car with .50 caliber machine gun fire a misunderstanding? Jesus, Mattingly!”

  “Sir, that was regrettable. Sir, I have been authorized to make you privy to some of the details of Operation Ost. With the caveat that you are not to share anything I tell you with anyone absent my express permission in each instance. May I have your assurance, General, that you understand?”

  Greene glared at him again, but finally said, “You have my assurance, Colonel.”

  “Thank you, sir. Sir, the use of deadly force has been authorized if necessary to preserve the security of Operation Ost.”

  “You’re telling me that this operation of yours is so important that that young officer could have killed Colonel Schumann to keep him from finding out about it?”

  “Yes, sir. That is indeed the case. Colonel Schumann or anyone else posing a threat to the operation. Or anyone who might threaten to compromise the security thereof.”