“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 Watch, Wrist, Hamilton, Naval Aviator’s Chronometer, which had been issued to First Lieutenant C. H. Frade, USMCR, VMF-221, on Guadalcanal and never been returned.
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?”
Well, some people think I live on Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo outside Buenos Aires, but what the hell!
“That’s correct.”
“Unfortunately, that’s outside the twenty-four-hour zone.”
“What the hell is the twenty-four-hour zone?”
“Officers in your status cannot be placed on leave to any address from which he cannot return, when so ordered, to NAS Pensacola within twenty-four hours. Hence ‘twenty-four-hour zone.’”
“Am I going on leave?”
“Officers returning from overseas service are automatically granted a thirty-day leave. Providing, of course, that their leave address is within the twenty-four-hour zone. Perhaps you might consider going to one of the fine hotels or motels on Pensacola Beach and having Mrs. Howell join you there. The beaches here are absolutely beautiful.”
“Mrs. Howell?”
“Mrs. Martha Howell, your adoptive mother, of the Midland address, is listed as your next of kin. Isn’t that correct?”
I have a wife and two children, but I don’t think this is the time to get into that.
“That’s correct. Tell me, Commander, how far is it, timewise, from here to New Orleans?”
“You have a family member in New Orleans, Colonel?”
“My grandfather.”
And who is the last person in the world I need to see right now.
If the Old Man hears what’s going on with me—and I would have to tell him—ten minutes after that two senators and his pal Colonel McCormack of the Chicago Tribune will be coming to my rescue.
“I’ll need his name and address, Colonel. And his telephone number.”
What the hell, I’ll call the house and see if the Old Man is there.
If he is, I’ll hang up. If he’s not . . .
“The address is 3470 Saint Charles Avenue, New Orleans. My grandfather’s name is Cletus Marcus Howell. I don’t know the phone, but I’m sure it’s in the book.”
“And your grandfather is sure to be there?”
“Absolutely. At his age, getting around is very difficult.”
Please God, let the Old Man be in Washington, Venezuela, Dallas, San Francisco—anywhere but on Saint Charles Avenue.
“You understand, Colonel, that I am taking your word as a Marine officer and gentleman about your grandfather and that address?”
“I understand, Commander.”
“Well, then, I happen to know there is a three-forty train to New Orleans. You’ll just have time to make it.”
[FOUR]
3470 Saint Charles Avenue New Orleans, Louisiana 1955 25 June 1945
“The Howell Residence,” Jean-Jacques Jouvier said when he picked up the telephone. He was an elderly, erect, very light-skinned black man with silver hair. He wore a gray linen jacket. He had been Cletus Marcus Howell’s butler for forty-two years.
“No, Mister Cletus, he’s in Venezuela.”
He took the telephone from his ear and held it in his hand and looked at it.
Then he looked at the pale-skinned blond woman standing at the door to the library.
“That was Mister Cletus, Miss Dorotea,” he said.
“Where is he? What happened? Why did you hang up?”
“I didn’t hang up, Miss Dorotea. Mister Cletus did. When I told him that Mister Howell was in Venezuela, he said, ‘Get out the Peychaux’s Bitters, the rye, and crack some ice. I’ll be right there.’ And then he hung up.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Jean-Jacques,” Dorotea said.
“Mister Cletus—and Mister Howell—really like a Sazerac or two before dinner, Miss Dorotea. It’s a cocktail. Rye whiskey . . .”
“And something bitter and cracked ice,” Dorotea said. “While you crack the ice, Jean-Jacques, I’ll change into something suitable to welcome our boy home.”
[FIVE]
Arnaud’s Restaurant 813 Bienville Street, New Orleans 2145 25 June 1945