off the Constellation.”
“What’s going to fall off the Constellation?” Frade and Peralta asked together.
“We’re not talking about that,” Mattingly said.
Tiny Dunwiddie said, “What I’m wondering is what we do with the boys.”
“What?” Mattingly asked.
Dunwiddie related the story, then said, “When I had a chance to tell you about Max and Egon, Colonel, I was going to ask if it would be all right if the boys stayed with them on the third floor until we figure out what to do with them.”
“Where are your people going to stay?” Mattingly asked.
“I requisitioned the house next door,” Tiny said. “That’s why we need two generators, so they can have juice, too.”
“Okay,” Mattingly said after a moment. “That’ll work.” He turned to Max. “Do you think you could find us a housekeeper? Maybe two? Cook, wash, clean, make beds, et cetera? Both ugly and over fifty?”
Max nodded. “There are tens of thousands of women in Berlin—some young and quite beautiful—who will jump at the chance to work—or do anything else—for food and to be safe from the Russians.”
“Get us a couple of the old and ugly ones,” Mattingly ordered. “See if you can do that when you go pick up the kids. Tiny, send Max in one of the M-8s.” He paused. “I don’t know how we’ll handle two kids around here. How old did you say they were?”
“One is fifteen, the other fourteen,” Max said. “Just before we deserted, the fourteen-year-old, Heinrich, took out a Russian T-34 with a Panzerfaust—”
“With a what?” Frade asked.
“Handheld rocket,” Tiny furnished.
“This fourteen-year-old kid killed a Russian tank?” Frade asked incredulously.
Egon nodded. “And then Heinrich cried, Herr Oberst, and wet his pants, and that’s when Max and I decided it was time to desert and try to keep Heinrich and Gerhard alive.”
“Jesus Christ!” Frade said, and then asked, “I don’t suppose there’s anything to drink around here, is there?”
“Patience is a virtue, Colonel Frade,” Mattingly said. “Try to remember that all things come to he who waits.”
[THREE]
The first M-8 armored car that Frade had ever seen was when they had landed at Tempelhof. Curious, and wanting a better look at one, he and von Wachtstein followed Tiny Dunwiddie out to the street. Tiny was taking Max out to get him a ride to fetch Heinrich, the fourteen-year-old who had killed a T-34, his fifteen-year-old pal Gerhard, and two old and ugly women.
The M-8 had six wheels, like the standard six-by-six Army truck, and it looked like someone had set the turret of a tank down on top of the truck.
The Second Armored Division troopers were happy to show off their vehicle to the three men in the officer equivalent civilian employee uniforms.
“How about taking me along when you go get these people?” von Wachtstein said.
“Hell, we’ll both go,” Frade said.
“There won’t be room,” von Wachtstein said. “Why don’t you wait until we come back?”
Frade was about to argue but then saw a three-quarter-ton truck coming down Roonstrasse. It had two of Tiny’s men in it. Lieutenant Colonel Archer W. Dooley Jr., USAAF, sat beside the driver.
Frade looked at von Wachtstein and said, “Remember, Hansel, Mattingly said ‘old and ugly.’ You’re now a married man.”
Von Wachtstein gave him the finger. The M-8 started to move.
When the three-quarter pulled to the curb, Frade saw what had fallen off the Constellation. In addition to the generators, the truck carried one of the insulated containers holding fifty kilograms of chilled Argentine steak, another insulated container labeled VEGETABLES AND ORANGES, and two wooden cases on which was painted BODEGA DON GUILLERMO MENDOZA CABERNET SAUVIGNON 1944.
“You could have waited for me, hotshot,” Dooley said as he climbed out of the truck. “Until I saw Tiny’s guys, I was standing on the tarmac with my thumb up my ass.”
“Be careful with the wine, Sergeant,” Frade ordered. “It’s nectar of the gods.”
[FOUR]
Tiny’s men quickly got one of the generators up and running. Lightbulbs glowed and then came to full brightness. The refrigerator came to life with a screech and several loud thumps.
“Now that we have juice,” Mattingly said as he walked out of the kitchen, “Stein will have the Collins up and running, and I will be able to tell David Bruce that we done good.” He paused and added, “Don’t drink all the wine before I get back.”
Tiny pulled the cork from a bottle of the Cabernet with what looked like the corkscrew accessory on a Boy Scout knife. Clete put his hand out and after a moment Tiny took his meaning. He laid a knife with the Boy Scout insignia on it.
“‘Be Prepared’!” Tiny said. “You never heard that, Colonel?”
“You’re speaking to Eagle Scout Clete Frade, Troop 36, Midland, Texas,” he said with a knowing grin, then flashed the Scout sign with his right hand.
Frade’s grin faded quickly when von Wachtstein walked into the kitchen followed by Max, who had his hands on the shoulders of two gaunt, pale-faced boys wearing tattered, ill-fitting remnants of German army uniforms.
“Hello,” Frade said. “You’re Heinrich, right?”
The boy came to attention.
“The war is over, Heinrich,” Frade said. “You don’t have to do that anymore.”
Max walked to a corner of the kitchen and picked up two waxpaper-wrapped cartons labeled CRATION.
“With your permission, Herr Dunwiddie?”
“You don’t have to ask, for Christ’s sake,” Tiny snapped.
He pulled chairs out from the kitchen table and motioned for the boys to sit in them. When they had done so, he used his Boy Scout knife to open the Crations.
He took a
“It’s all right,” Max said in German. “It’s chocolate.”
Both boys took a small bite, then smiled shyly.
“Is that the best we can do for them, Crations?” Frade asked. He realized his voice sounded strange.
“In just a minute, Colonel, I’m going to open that”—he pointed to one of the insulated containers that had fallen off the Constellation—“and see if I can find them an orange.”
“They’re also going to need a bath and some clothes,” Frade said. “What can we do about that?”
“Now that we have electricity, Herr Oberst,” Egon said, “there will be hot water in half an hour.”
