[THREE]
Navy Pier Pensacola, Florida 0915 25 June 1945
Captain Prentiss and Lieutenant Colonel Frade were standing on the flying bridge of the USS
“I would hazard the guess, Clete, that that’s your welcoming party,” Prentiss said, nodding toward an officer standing beside a Navy gray Plymouth sedan on the pier.
“I’m crushed, Slats. I was expecting a brass band and a cheering crowd.”
“I’ve been meaning to ask,” Prentiss said, tapping the Navy Cross on Frade’s chest, “where you got that.”
Frade glanced down at it, then replied: “In a hockshop on Bourbon Street in New Orleans. I bought a pair of those”—he tapped the binoculars hanging from Prentiss’s neck—“and the hockshop guy threw that in for free. I thought it looked nice, so I pinned it on.”
“Is that also where you got the Wings of Gold? In a New Orleans pawnshop?”
“No. A very long time ago, in another life, I got those here.”
“I’ll walk you to the gangway,” Prentiss said.
“Thanks for the ride, Slats.”
“In other circumstances, Clete, I would have been delighted to have you aboard.”
Prentiss and Frade reached the gangway just as it was lowered into place. The Navy officer—they were close enough for Frade to be able to see that he was a spectacles-wearing, mousy-looking lieutenant commander with the insignia of the Judge Advocate Corps where the star of a line officer would be, above the stripes on his sleeve—now stood waiting to come aboard.
Frade said: “I don’t see any reason I can’t get off, do you?”
Prentiss shook his head.
“Permission to leave the ship, sir?” Frade said.
“Granted.”
Frade saluted Prentiss, then the colors flying aft.
Prentiss offered his hand.
“Good luck, Clete.”
“Thank you, Captain.”
The JAG officer saluted as Frade stepped off the gangway.
Frade returned it.
“You are Lieutenant Colonel C. H. Frade, sir?”
“Guilty—for lack of a better word.”
The JAG officer ignored that. He said, “I’m Lieutenant Commander McGrory, Colonel. I have been appointed your counsel.”
He offered his hand. Frade was not surprised that McGrory’s grip was limp.
“We have a car, sir,” McGrory said.
A sailor opened the rear door of the Plymouth and Frade got in. As the car started down the pier, Frade saw that Prentiss was standing on the deck of the
When they were on Navy Boulevard, which would take them to Main Side, Naval Air Station, Pensacola, Frade said, “Exactly what are you going to counsel me about, Commander?”
“Certain allegations have been laid against you, Colonel . . .”
“What kind of allegations?”
“. . . and naval regulations provide that you are entitled to counsel while you are being interviewed with regard to these allegations.”
“In other words, you’re not going to tell me?”
“The specifics of the allegations will be made known to you in formal proceedings, Colonel.”
“And when are these formal proceedings going to take place?”
They were now at the gate to Main Side, Naval Air Station, Pensacola.
A perfectly turned-out Marine corporal took a look at the Plymouth, popped to attention, saluted, and bellowed, “Good morning, Colonel! Pass.”
Clete returned the salute, remembering the first time he’d come through this gate.
Life had been much simpler then.
All Second Lieutenant Frade, USMCR, had to do was learn how to fly the Marine Corps’ airplanes—and that wouldn’t be hard, as he had been flying since he was age twelve—then go to the Pacific and sweep the dirty Japs from the sky, whereupon all would be well with the world and he could go back to Big Foot Ranch, Midland, Texas, and get on with his life.
The Plymouth entered Main Side.
“What about the formal proceedings, Commander?” Frade asked.
“Inasmuch as no charges have been laid against you, Colonel, your status is that of a Marine officer returning from service abroad. Regulations prescribe certain things must take place for all returning officers. We will deal with that first.”
Two hours later, the medical staff of Naval Hospital, Pensacola, after a thorough examination of his body, determined that Lieutenant Colonel Frade not only was free of any infectious diseases—including sexual—that he might have encountered in his foreign service, but also that his general condition was such that he could engage in flight.
An hour after that, the Disbursing Office, NAS Pensacola, determined that inasmuch as he had not flown for more than three years the minimum four hours per month that was necessary to qualify for flight play, and inasmuch as on several occasions he had been paid flight pay in error, that flight pay would have to be taken from the amount of pay he was now due.
As would $102.85, the cost to the government of one
He left the Disbursing Office $1,255.75 richer, most of it in new twenty-dollar bills. It made quite a bulge in his tunic pocket.
The Housing Office, NAS Pensacola, took three of the twenties as a deposit against damage to Room Twenty-three, Senior Officers Quarters, and another twenty as a deposit for a telephone that they hoped to connect within seventy-two hours.
The Housing Office also required him to sign a statement acknowledging he understood that the presence of female guests in his quarters at any time was proscribed, and that violation of the proscription could result in court-martial or such other disciplinary action as the base commander might elect to impose.
Thirty minutes after that, Lieutenant Commander McGrory, sitting at his desk in a spotless office, said, “We have a little problem, Colonel.”
“I’m breathless with anticipation, Commander.”
“Your home of record is Big Foot Ranch, RFD Number 2, Box 131, Midland, Texas. Is that correct?”
“That’s correct.”
“Unfortunately, that’s outside the twenty-four-hour zone.”
