Victory and Honor

He nodded. “Good idea.”

The Office of Strategic Services had taken over the National Institutes of Health building in the District of Columbia “for the duration.”

In the headquarters building, Frade quickly found the light bird’s office. It had a sign hanging over the door: LTCOL D. G. KELLOGG. PROVOST MARSHAL.

Several minutes later, about the time Kellogg had poured coffee into a chipped but clean china mug for Frade, Kapitan zur See Karl Boltitz and Major Freiherr Hans-Peter Baron von Wachtstein were escorted into the office by two military policemen.

They marched up to Lieutenant Colonel Kellogg’s desk and came to attention and clicked their heels.

Boltitz—a tall, rather good-looking, blond young man—was dressed in the white uniform worn by officers of the German navy at sea. He paid little attention to the officer in the Marine Corps uniform. Von Wachtstein, also blond, was smaller and stockier. He was wearing U.S. Army khakis, to which had been affixed the insignia of a Luftwaffe major and his pilot’s wings. When he saw the Marine Corps officer, he gave what could have been a double take, but quickly cut it off to stand at attention.

Kellogg began: “Gentlemen, this is Colonel—”

“Cletus Frade,” Clete interrupted in a commanding tone, “lieutenant colonel, U.S. Marine Corps. We’re going to take a little ride. And if you’re even thinking of trying to get away from me, don’t. I’d like nothing better than the chance to shoot either or both of you Nazi bastards.”

To add visual support to his statement, he took a Model 1911-A1 Colt from the small of his back.

“I always carry this with a round in the chamber.”

“Colonel Frade,” Colonel Kellogg said quickly and nervously, “I can assure you that both of these officers have been very cooperative and . . .”

Frade snorted his disbelief.

“. . . I’m sure they will give you no problems.”

“Their choice,” Frade said. “They either behave or they’re dead men.”

Neither German officer said a word.

[FIVE]

The Office of Strategic Services 2340 E Street, NW, Washington, D.C. 1535 10 May 1945

Preceded by an MP jeep and trailed by an MP weapons carrier, the Cadillac turned off E Street and stopped before a Colonial-style building that would have been quite at home on a college campus. Frade was in the front with the chauffeur; Boltitz and von Wachtstein rode in the back.

Frade surveyed the area and thought, What the hell do I do now? I never wanted to be here in the first place—and damn sure not with POWs I just broke out of the slam.

I’ve got to get rid of these MPs. . . .

Frade rolled down his window and commanded the driver of the lead jeep, “Drive around to the rear.”

In the back of the building were parking spaces. One of the two nearest the door was empty. It had a neatly lettered sign: RESERVED FOR THE DIRECTOR.

Frade pointed to it and ordered, “Pull in there, Tom.”

After Tom parked, Clete told Peter and Karl to wait in the car and then got out.

Two men in police-type uniforms came quickly—almost ran—from the building.

Clete intercepted them and announced, “Colonel Frade to see Colonel Graham.”

He did not offer his credentials. The security officers would know they weren’t bona fide.

“That’s General Donovan’s parking spot, Colonel,” the shorter of the security officers said. “You—”

“He told me to use it,” Frade cut him off, and started walking toward the building entrance.

Then he had a sudden idea.

He stopped, turned, and pointed to the jeep and weapons carrier.

“Have those escort vehicles moved to the front of the building,” he ordered the security men.

Frade heard them barking orders to the drivers of the MP vehicles as he entered the building. He came to two other security officers who were sitting behind a curved reception desk.

“Colonel Frade to see Colonel Graham,” Frade announced. “I do not have an appointment.”

One of the security guards automatically reached for a telephone and dialed a number.

With a little bit of luck, Frade thought, Graham won’t be here.

Then I will make sure the MPs have moved, and go back outside and see if there’s another way to get out of that parking lot.

Frade could quite clearly hear the voice of the male who answered the call snap: “What?”

Dammit—he’s here!

“Who is this, please?” the security guard said into the phone.

“Who did you expect to get when you called this number?” the voice on the phone demanded incredulously.

“Colonel Graham, sir.”

“Okay. You got him. What? ”

“There’s a Marine officer here, Colonel. Lieutenant Colonel Frade. He says he doesn’t have an appointment —”

“He damn sure doesn’t!” the voice said, then before hanging up added: “Send him up.”

Colonel Alejandro Federico Graham, USMCR, the deputy director of the OSS for Western Hemisphere Operations, was standing in the corridor when Frade got off the elevator. He wore his usual immaculate uniform.

“Well, look what the tide floated in!” Graham said in Spanish.

“Mi coronel,” Frade said, and saluted.

Graham returned the salute, shook his head, and said, still in Spanish, “We are Marines. Naval custom proscribes the exchange of hand salutes indoors unless under arms. Try to remember that in the future.”

Then he gestured for Frade to follow him into his office.

“I’m almost afraid to ask what you’re doing here,” he said, waving Frade into an inner office and then into a chair.

“A personnel matter, mi coronel. A personal personnel matter.”

“What kind of a personnel matter?”

“I am in receipt, mi coronel, of a letter from the Finance Officer, Headquarters, USMC, informing me that inasmuch as I have not provided the appropriate proof that I have flown any aircraft the required four hours per month for the past twenty months, I am therefore not entitled to flight pay, and it will therefore be necessary for them to deduct the appropriate amount from my next check.”

“?Jesucristo!”

“And since I have not received any paycheck at all for the past twenty-some months, I thought I’d come and see if I couldn’t clear the matter up.”

“Well, I’d probably be more sympathetic if I didn’t know how far removed from the welfare rolls you are, Colonel. What’s that phrase, ‘Rich as an Argentine’?”

“That, mi coronel, is what they call the pot calling the kettle black.”

Graham shook his head.