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“I’d forgotten why I came down here,” Mattingly said, “but now remember. Stein needs electrical power to get the Collins up and running. What’s the status of the generator, Tiny?”
“Generators, plural, two of them, are on the way. I guess my guys waited to pick up what was going to fall 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?”
“P
atience 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.
