Victory and Honor

When Clete Frade had announced that Peter von Wachtstein would fly Ciudad de Rosario from Lisbon to Frankfurt am Main in the left seat, and that he would fly as copilot, the faces of the three SAA pilots showed they didn’t like it at all.

Frade remembered what he had learned in the Marine Corps: When there is dissension in the ranks, try explaining your reasons.

He told them: “Von Wachtstein has flown all over Spain, France, and Germany. None of us has. And we don’t have reliable charts. We’re going to have to fly by the seat of our pants, looking out the window to see where we are. And Peter is the only one of us who’ll know what the hell he’s looking at.”

“But, Cletus,” Gonzalo Delgano protested, “von Wachtstein has less time at the controls of a Constellation than anybody else.”

Rule Two: If reasoning doesn’t work, apply a two-by-four with great force to the temples of the dissenters.

“Actually, Gonzalo, there’s an even more important reason von Wachtstein will fly in the left seat.”

“Which is?”

“I said so. Any further questions?”

Delgano’s face reddened, but he didn’t argue further.

Once they were in the cockpit, von Wachtstein suggested that while crossing Spain they take advantage of the Constellation’s capabilities to become inconspicuous. The Connie could cruise at twenty thousand feet at better than three hundred miles per hour. At that altitude they would be hard to see from the ground, and even if there were contrails, the natural presumption would be that they were an Allied bomber. Further, von Wachtstein said, the Spanish had no aircraft capable of climbing that high to investigate, and even if they tried, any Spanish aircraft would have trouble catching up with the Connie.

“What the Spaniards have are Luftwaffe rejects,” von Wachtstein said. “Nothing as fast as the Connie.”

You just lucked out again, Cletus Frade.

You put Hansel in the left seat impulsively. And he just showed you it was the right thing to do.

“Let’s do it,” Frade ordered.

On takeoff, they navigated by dead reckoning, flying southeast across Portugal toward Spain while climbing to an altitude of twenty-two thousand feet. The weather was clear, and there were only a few isolated clouds.

They had been airborne just about an hour when von Wachtstein said, “Take a look at three o’clock, Clete. That’s Madrid. Now, let’s see if we can find the Pyrenees.”

“Clete,” von Wachtstein said, “did you ever see pictures, or maybe a newsreel, of crazy Spaniards running away from bulls down a narrow street?”

Clete thought a moment, then said, “Yeah.”

“They do that in Pamplona,” he said, and pointed. “Which means that we’re about to fly over the Pyrenees. The last time I was here, I was flying an Me-210 and the oxygen wasn’t working. So, I had to fly through them. Very interesting experience.”

“Welcome to France,” von Wachtstein announced, pointing downward at the snowcapped Pyrenees mountains. “Now, let’s see if we can find Lyon.”

“God, I hope that isn’t what I think it is,” von Wachtstein said.

“What do you hope it isn’t?”

“Koln. You know, where the aftershave lotion comes from.”

“You mean Cologne.”

“That’s what I said,” von Wachtstein said. “If it is Koln, we’re too far north.” He shoved the yoke forward. “I guess there’s only one way to find out.”

“Please keep in mind this aircraft is not a fighter plane. Try not to tear the wings off.”

“That’s Koln, all right. That’s the cathedral. Christ, the whole city is destroyed!”

“My God!” Clete said, looking at square miles of utter destruction.

“Welcome to the Thousand-Year Reich, Herr Oberstleutnant,” von Wachtstein said.

“It’s hard to believe,” Clete said.

“Well, now that we’ve found the Rhine, I suppose we better go the rest of the way close to the ground.”

“Well, there’s what’s left of Frankfurt am Main,” Peter announced.

“The airport is to the south.”

“That looks as bad as Cologne,” Clete said. “Jesus, there’s hardly a building left standing.” He paused. “There’s one. A great big building.”

“The I.G. Farben building,” von Wachtstein said.

He pointed the Constellation toward it.

Clete saw the altimeter was indicating fifteen hundred feet.

They dropped another five hundred feet before flashing over the huge building that stood unscathed in the rubble.

“You’re going to give our passengers heart failure,” Clete said. “Jesus, there’s an American flag on that building!”

“The Americans must have decided they were going to need it and did not bomb it,” von Wachtstein said matter-of-factly. “Now, let’s see if we can find the airport. You have the tower frequency?”

Von Wachtstein shoved the throttles forward and raised the nose of the Constellation as Clete dialed in the radio.

“Frankfurt Air Base, this is South American Airways Double Zero Four.”

There was no response after several calls.

“Take us to five thousand feet, Peter. l’ll try another frequency.”

“Going to five thousand.”

“Frankfurt, South American Double Zero Four.”

There was no answer on the new frequency.

“Clete, we have company,” von Wachtstein announced.

Clete looked past von Wachtstein and saw a twin-tailed Lockheed P-38 fighter.

It was so close that Frade could count seven swastikas—signifying seven kills—painted on the nose. Next to those was the picture, a drawing, the image of something else. It looked like an automobile with crossed lines going through it.

What the hell is that?

He shot down seven German airplanes and a convertible?

The pilot was holding up a piece of cardboard with numbers lettered on it with a grease pencil.

Clete tuned the radio to the frequency on the piece of cardboard.

He keyed the microphone: “Hello, there, Little Brother. You’re our welcoming committee?”

“Constellation aircraft, make an immediate, repeat, immediate one-hundred-eighty-degree turn to the right, maintaining altitude.”

“Why should we do that?”

“Because I said so, goddammit! Commence one-eighty now!”

“Do it, Peter,” Clete ordered.

Von Wachtstein cranked the yoke hard to the right.

“If one of our diplomats was taking a leak,” Clete said, “he just pissed all over the wall. Or himself.”