"You don't have to be an American to be a Marine," the Marine said. "I'm an Argentine citizen. Going home."
The Captain was curious about that, but to ask any questions would be close to calling him a liar. And he knew Customs and Immigration carefully checked all passengers.
"Well, we'll try to get you home quickly and in one piece," the Captain said, and then his curiosity got the better of him. "Not as fast aswhat did you fly in the Marine Corps?"
"Wildcats, F4F's," the young man said, and then, as if he sensed the Captain's suspicions, added, "with VMF-221 on Guadalcanal."
"These boats aren't as fast as a Wildcat," the Captain said with a smile, now convinced the young man was what he said he was. "But a hell of a lot more comfortable."
Because he had made the flight before and was thus really aware of how long it took to fly from Miami to Buenos Aires, Clete Frade had stocked up on reading matter in Miami.
He hadn't bought enough. When the steward came down the aisle to softly inform him that the Captain requested his presence in the cockpit, he was reading the April 1, 1943, edition of Time magazine for the third time.
It reported that the American First Armored Division was almost at the Tebaga Gapwhatever the hell that wasin Tunisia; that the Red Army had retaken Anastasyevsk, in the Kuban, north of Novorossiyskwherever the hell that was; maybe near the Russian oil fields the old man had talked about?and that 180 Japanese bomber and fighter aircraft operating off aircraft carriers and from the Japanese base at Rabaul had attacked Guadalcanal and Tulagi in the Solomon Islands, and that further attacks were anticipated.
He knew damned well where Guadalcanal and Tulagi were.
There was something unreal about sitting here in a leather-upholstered chair drinking champagne when people he knewunless they'd all been killed by nowwere climbing into battered, shot-up Grumman Wildcats to go up and try to keep the Nips from dumping their bomb loads on, or strafing, Henderson Field, Fighter One, and the ammo and fuel dumps on the 'Canal.
He drained his glass of champagne, unfastened his seat belt, stood up, and made his way forward to the cockpit.
"I thought you would be interested in that," the Captain said, jabbing his finger in the direction of the Condor making its parallel approach.
Clete Howell stared.
"Jesus," he said. "What is that?"
"I think it's a Condor," the Captain said, and then, attracting the engineer's attention, he called, "Charley, isn't there a pair of binoculars back there somewhere?"
"Yes, Sir," the engineer replied, and pulled open a drawer in his console, rummaged through it, and came up with Zeiss 7 x 57 binoculars. He stood up and handed them to the Captain, who handed them to Clete.
"Nice-looking bird," Clete said a minute or so later, taking the binoculars from his eyes. "I wonder where it came from."
"We were just talking about that," the Captain said. "Probably from Portugal, then from somewhere in Africa, and then across the drink to French Guiana. Wherever he came from, with the fuel he would have to have aboard, he can't be carrying much."
"That's the first German airplane I've ever seen," Clete said.
"They used to have regularly scheduled service before the war," the Captain said. "And I think I remember hearing that they sold Brazil a couple of those. Aerolineas Brasilia, or something like that. But that's the first one I've ever seen, too, and I've been coming down here for a long time."
"It would be almost a shame to shoot down something that pretty, wouldn't it?" Clete said, thinking aloud.
The Captain chuckled.
"Put such thoughts from your mind," he said. "You're out of the Marine Corps and back in neutral Argentina. From here on in, when you see a German, all you can do is look the other way. Or maybe say, 'Buenos dias, Fritz.'"
Clete chuckled, then said, "Look, there he goes. I guess he'll land at El Palomar." In 1943, El Palomar was the civilian airport on the outskirts of Buenos Aires.
The Captain looked. The Condor was banking away to the right.
"Pretty bird, isn't it?"
"Thank you, Captain. I appreciate your courtesy," Clete said.
"My pleasure," the Captain said. "Welcome home!"
[THREE]
Sea Plane Terminal
River Plate
Buenos Aires, Argentina
1525 9 April 1943
When Panagra's flight 171 appeared in the sky, obviously about to land, Mayor Pedro V. Querro, to Capitan Roberto Lauffer's carefully concealed amusement, became nearly hysterical.
"Lauffer," he ordered in a fierce whisper, "the boat's not here! Call them! There's a phone in there!" He pointed to the Customs and Immigration shed. "Ask where the hell it is!"
S?, Se?or," Lauffer said. "Who should I call, Se?or?"
Generals Ramirez and Rawson looked at the two of them.
"The School of Naval Warfare! They promised me a boat! And it's not here!"
"Is that what you're looking for, Mayor?" General Rawson asked, pointing.
A highly varnished speedboat was five hundred yards away, splashing through the swells on the river's muddy water. The flag of Argentina flapped at its stern and some sort of naval pennant flew from a short flagpole on the bow.
"That would appear to be it, Se?or," Querro said.
"I personally have found the Navy to be very reliable," Rawson said, and winked at Lauffer, whose father, a friend, was a retired Naval officer.
The speedboat arrived at the quay before the two boats moored therethe Customs and Immigration boat and the larger boat that would take off the passengersbegan to make their way out to meet the Mart?n flying boat. By then the aircraft had landed, and was in the process of turning around to taxi to the buoy that it would be tied to.
Meanwhile, the speedboat stopped in the water, the coxswain having apparently decided to wait until the other boats had left. When he saw that. Mayor Querro signaled almost frantically for it to approach the quay, then turned to Lauffer.
"Well, Lauffer, are you waiting for a formal invitation?" he said, then hurried down the stairs and jumped onto the Customs and Immigration boat to wait for the Navy speedboat.
Lauffer descended the stairs and joined him.
"What's going on?" one of the Customs officers asked.
"The Minister of War," Querro announced grandly, gesturing toward the quay, "is personally meeting a distinguished passenger on the Panagra flight."
As soon as the Navy speedboat came close, Querro jumped into it, then turned impatiently to wait for Lauffer.
"Out to the plane!" Querro ordered the moment Lauffer had stepped aboard.
The coxswain immediately gunned the engine, which almost caused Querro to lose his footing.
Pity,Lauffer thought. The idea of Querro taking an unintended bath in the River Plate had a certain appeal.
Lauffer was looking forward to meeting Se?or Cletus H. Frade, about whom he had heard a good deal but had never actually seen. Lauffer had been in the Army for seven years without hearing a shot fired in anger. According to what he'd heard, Frade fought at Guadalcanal, was twice shot down, and downed seven Japanese airplanes. All before he came to Argentina, where he apparently bested two assassins sent to kill him, and then was responsible for the sinking of an armed cargo ship.
"Distinguished passenger, my ass," Querro said softly. "If I had my way, he'd never make it from the plane to the shore."