Death and Honor

[THREE]

Near Necochea Buenos Aires Province, Argentina 1415 23 July 1943

When von Wachtstein taxied the Storch up to the trucks, he saw that the straight-arm Nazi salute was being rendered by perhaps a dozen men, all but one of whom were wearing the dark blue coveralls of Argentine workmen. The lone man not in coveralls wore a suit.

You are not only paranoid, Hansel, but certifiably insane.

A couple of hours ago, you were scared shitless that Cranz was going to execute you out of hand. Now you’re having a hard time keeping a straight face at the gray pallor of your passenger.

He shut down the engine.

“Well, we’re down, Herr Standartenführer.”

“I see that we are,” Cranz snapped. “Why was this flight so rough?”

“I regret that, Herr Standartenführer, but landing on a dirt strip with the winds coming off the ocean is not like landing at El Palomar. But not to worry, sir. The Storch is a splendid airplane.”

The man wearing the suit walked up to the airplane and again gave the Nazi salute as soon as Cranz had climbed out.

Von Wachtstein busied himself taking tie-down ropes from the Storch and, when he had them in hand, said, “I wonder if anyone has a hammer for the tie-down stakes, Herr Standartenführer?”

“Erich,” Cranz was saying to the man in the suit, “this is my pilot, Major Freiherr von Wachtstein, who received the Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross from the hands of Der Führer himself.”

Now he’s going to dazzle this guy, whoever he is, with my Knight’s Cross?

The man threw another Nazi salute and said, “A great honor, Herr Major. I am—”

Cranz silenced him midsentence with an imperiously raised hand.

“I think it better, Herr Schmidt, that the fewer facts von Wachtstein knows about you, the better. No telling who’s liable to be asking him questions. Am I right, von Wachtstein?”

“The Herr Standartenführer is quite correct. How do you do, Herr Schmidt?”

They shook hands.

“Now, what is this about tie-downs, whatever you said?” Cranz asked.

“The Storch has to be tied down, sir. I have the ropes and the stakes, but I need something to drive the stakes.”

“If I may, Herr Standartenführer?” Herr Schmidt said.

Cranz nodded.

Schmidt turned toward the workers at the trucks and bellowed, “Two men and a hammer. Two hammers. Here. Immediately!”

There was sudden frenzied activity at the trucks to comply with the order.

Which, von Wachtstein decided, was indeed an order.

“Herr Schmidt” gave it like an officer.

And those guys are responding to it like soldiers.

He talks funny. I can generally tell where somebody’s from in Germany by their accent; I can’t with this guy.

So, what does that mean?

That he’s not a German? Somebody like Günther Loche, maybe? A German who came here from Germany.

What do they call them? Argo-Germans.

The Loche family are better Nazis than Hitler.

And those soldiers understood his German, making them more Argo-Germans?

Argo-German Nazis in the Argentine Army?

What the hell is going on here?

Two of the men in blue coveralls, each carrying a heavy iron hammer, trotted over to them.

“Major von Wachtstein will tell you what he needs done,” Herr Schmidt said.

“Jawohl, Herr Oberst,” the older of the two said, then saluted von Wachtstein.

Von Wachtstein crisply returned the Nazi salutes.

“What I need you to do, Stabsfeldwebel, is have your man drive these stakes so that I can make sure my airplane doesn’t get blown away.”

He pointed to the ground where he wanted the stakes driven.

“Jawohl, Herr Major,” the man said. He turned to the man with him and said, “You heard the Herr Major.”

And then he turned back to von Wachtstein. “Actually, it’s Oberfeldwebel, Herr Major.”

So, not sergeant major, but master sergeant.

Close enough. A sergeant.

Oh, you are clever, Hansel!

“How did you know he was a soldier, von Wachtstein?” Cranz asked.

And stupid, too.

“Well, before I was commissioned, Herr Standartenführer, I was an unterfeldwebel. Willi Grüner and I both were unterfeldwebels, commissioned the same day. One feldwebel can always recognize another, right, Oberfeldwebel? ”

The master sergeant smiled happily.

“I would say that’s so, Herr Major.”

“Willi Grüner?” Herr Schmidt said. “By chance, the son of our Oberst Grüner? I know he had a son in the Luftwaffe.”

“Yes,” von Wachtstein said simply. “The sad duty of telling him the circumstances of his father’s death fell to me in Berlin not long ago.”

Von Wachtstein exchanged a glance with Cranz.

So is this where the standartenführer decides that I really am a loyal officer?

Or that I am not, in which case Cranz takes out his Luger and shoots me?

No, probably not here. He’d have to drive back to Buenos Aires.

Maybe a little later—maybe when we’re back in Buenos Aires—when he can come up with a credible story. Maybe that he caught me trying to tell the enemy about this operation.

“Oberst Grüner died for the Fatherland, for National Socialism,” Schmidt said. “I am proud that he was my friend.”

“I regret that, while I did know him, I cannot claim to have been his friend,” Cranz said. “But back to duty. Major von Wachtstein said that if there had been a windsock, our landing would have been safer.”

“You will have to understand, Herr Major, that I am an officer of mountain troops and know very little about aircraft.”

“A windsock indicates to the pilot how the wind is blowing,” von Wachtstein explained.

“I suspect that this will not be the last time we will meet on a windy beach,” Cranz said. “Have a windsock the next time.”

“Jawohl, Herr Standartenführer. I assure you that omission will not happen again,” Schmidt said.

“See that it doesn’t,” Cranz said. He then smiled and asked, “I hope you did give some thought to our lunch?”

Schmidt pointed to an area behind the trucks, where von Wachtstein saw a tent fly had been erected over a folding wooden table.

“It is not much, Herr Standartenführer, but it will stave off starvation.”

It turned out to be sort of an Argo-German picnic lunch, served from insulated containers whose markings made it clear they belonged to the Argentine army. They were painted a dark olive drab, showed signs of frequent and hard use, and had serial numbers stenciled on them in white.

They contained empanadas, knockwurst and sauerkraut, leberwurst, butter and condiments, kaiser rolls, and loaves of rye bread of a kind von Wachtstein hadn’t seen since leaving Germany. It was all served on a white tablecloth by a young man in blue workman’s coveralls.

Von Wachtstein refused both beer and wine, saying he had to fly.

When lunch was over and the table cleared, another map was produced.

“Be so good as to explain to Major von Wachtstein his role in the operation, ” Cranz ordered.

“Jawohl, Herr Standartenführer,” Schmidt said. He used a pencil to point at the map. “The U-405 is here, Herr Major, just outside Argentine waters. In other words, twenty-one kilometers; twenty to comply with maritime law, plus one kilometer as a safety factor. Our last communication with it—”

“The Kriegsmarine would say ‘her,’ ” Cranz corrected.

“Jawohl, Herr Standartenführer,” Schmidt replied, then went on: “The last communication with her was early this morning. There be will no other radio communication with her unless there is an emergency of some sort. Now that we have the airplane, that won’t be necessary. U-405 currently is submerged. At sixteen-thirty, she will come to the surface, where she will hope to see you, Herr Major, in your Storch. That will—”

“Presumably, von Wachtstein,” Cranz interrupted, “you will be able to find U-405, now that you know where she is?”

“If she’s where the Herr Oberst indicated, I can, Herr Standartenführer.”

“Why did you refer to Herr Schmidt as ‘Herr Oberst,’ von Wachtstein? And don’t tell me that it’s because all obersts recognize one another.”

Because my old friend the oberfeldwebel addressed him as such, you arrogant prick.

“It was a slip of the tongue, Herr Standartenführer. I can’t imagine that Herr Schmidt would be an Argentine coronel.”

“Of course not,” Cranz said.

They all smiled at each other.

Schmidt continued: “Seeing the Storch will be the signal for the U-405 that everything is going according to plan. She will acknowledge seeing you by some means. Will you be low enough to see someone waving a flag?”

“I can fly low enough to see someone smiling at me, Herr Schmidt,” von Wachtstein said, and they all smiled at each other again.

“The U-405 will then submerge,” Schmidt resumed, “and head toward the beach, to this, the fifty-fathom line. At ten knots, she should be there in under an hour—”

“By which time,” Cranz interrupted again, “Sturmbannführer Raschner and Fregattenkapitän Boltitz will be here.”

What the hell is Raschner doing with Boltitz?

I know he said they were driving here in an American Packard, but why?

“Yes, sir?”

“At seventeen forty-five,” Cranz explained, "U-405 will rise to periscope depth and look for a signal which Fregattenkapitän Boltitz will transmit with a signal lamp. On receipt of that signal, she will surface and come closer to the beach. . . .”

Cranz gestured somewhat imperiously at Schmidt to pick up the story. “This is the ten-fathom line,” Schmidt said, pointing to the map with the pencil. “It is, as you can see, about five hundred meters from the beach.”

“Yes, sir,” von Wachtstein said.

“During this period, we will have communication with the U-405 with the signal lamp,” Schmidt went on. “When she is in position, she will launch rubber boats to bring the special cargo ashore. As soon as it is ashore, the U-405 will move to the fifty-fathom line, submerge, and return to the high seas.”

“And while all this is going on, von Wachtstein,” Cranz said, “you will be flying overhead the shoreline to make sure that Herr Schmidt’s plans to make sure no one happens to come up the beach have been as good as he assures me they will be. And as soon as you see the rubber boats heading for the beach, you will land in case something has come up that will require your aviation skills.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you have any questions, von Wachtstein?”

“No, sir. But I think I had best see about refueling the Storch.”

“Can Schmidt’s men handle that?”

“I’d rather do it myself, sir.”

“Speaking of Schmidt, is there any reason Schmidt could not go with you when you go to signal the U-405?”

Afraid you might get your feet wet, Herr Standartenführer?

“No, sir.”

“I think his splendid work setting this up has earned him that privilege,” Cranz said.

“Yes, sir. So do I.”