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Next to the ration carton was the manila envelope filled to capacity with eight-by-ten-inch photographs of his family that the military police major had given him yesterday.
Frogger saw through the window that the same military police officer was getting out of the front seat of the staff car. And, a moment later, the man who had come to see him early last evening got out of the backseat.
Now he’s in uniform.
But it’s not a U.S. Army uniform.
What do they call their naval infantry—Marines?
Ja . . . the man is wearing the uniform of a colonel of the Corps of Marines.
And then another got out of the car. A civilian with long hair.
He’s the other man in the photographs of my parents.
That confirms it. The military police major is the other man in the photographs.
I have no idea who they are, or what they want from me, but I am going to have to be very careful.
Frogger looked at the table. He had taken several photographs from the envelope to look at them again, and had not returned them. He turned from the window, walked quickly to the table, put the photographs back in the envelope, then arranged it neatly beside the ration box.
He took a pack of Wings cigarettes from his shirt pocket, removed one cigarette and lit it with a kitchen match, then sat down in the metal folding chair to wait for whatever was going to happen next.
Oberstleutnant Wilhelm Frogger stood up and came to attention as military courtesy dictated when Colonel A. F. Graham, USMC, walked into the room followed by the military police major. A moment later, Frade entered the room.
“Guten Morgen, Herr Oberstleutnant,” Frade said.
“Guten Morgen.”
“My name is Frade.”
“Oberstleutnant Frogger, Wilhelm, Identity Number 19-700045.”
Frade gestured with his hand for Graham and Fischer to leave.
“And please close the door,” Frade said.
Graham and Fischer left the room and the door clicked shut.
Frogger picked up on that.
This man is younger than the Corps of Marines Oberst.
But apparently he is in charge.
Frade looked Frogger square in the eye.
“Do you speak English, Colonel? My German is not that good.”
“Lieutenant Colonel Wilhelm Frogger, Identity Number 19-700045.”
“The way you said that, Colonel, suggests you think you are about to be interrogated.”
“I believe that under the Geneva Convention,” Frogger said in vaguely British-accented English, “by which both our nations are bound, giving my name, rank, and identity number is all that can be required of me.”
“I’m not going to question you because you have no information I need. The Afrikakorps no longer exists. You may sit if you like.”
Frogger decided that standing at attention served no useful purpose, sat down, and picked up his cigarette from the Planters peanuts ashtray.
