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After sixty seconds, which seemed much longer, Mattingly asked, “Is your temper and foul mouth under control, Colonel Dooley?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Stand at ease,” Mattingly said, then turned to von Wachtstein. “Was your question about the convertible serious, von Wachtstein, or more of this sophomoric bantering?”
“It was serious, sir. I had a reason for asking.”
“Answer von Wachtstein’s question, Colonel Dooley,” Mattingly said.
Dooley shook his head, exhaled audibly, and with visible reluctance said, “When we were in Tunisia, we were flying interdiction missions—shoot anything that’s moving—and I shot up a Kraut staff car on the desert.”
“And then had it painted on your nose?” Frade asked disgustedly. “Jesus Christ!”
“That’s enough out of you, Clete,” Mattingly said.
Dooley went on: “I didn’t have it painted on my plane until General Halebury made it mandatory. That was much later, after we came to Europe. He said painting swastikas on the noses inspired junior officers.”
“And you didn’t?” Mattingly asked.
“When General Mattingly issued the order, I had four kills. What they were was that powered glider, the ME-323—”
“The Gigant,” von Wachtstein said and, when he saw Clete’s look, added, “We saw one just now. Very large aircraft, originally designed as a glider. Then they added four engines. It carries a great deal, very slowly.”
Clete, remembering, nodded.
“I got my four kills on one day,” Dooley said. “They were flying low across the Mediterranean at maybe one hundred twenty-five miles an hour. It wasn’t a
erial combat; it was murder. So I never painted swastikas for them on my nose. And then we’re getting ready for the invasion, in England, and Halebury issues the order to paint kills on the nose. Still, I don’t. And he sees my plane and eats my ass out. So then I painted four swastikas and the staff car on my nose.”
“I saw seven swastikas,” Clete said.
“I got two Messerschmitt Bf-109s and a Focke-Wulf Fw-190 after the invasion.”
“Do you remember where you strafed the staff car?” von Wachtstein asked softly. “And when?”
Dooley looked at him curiously, but after a moment answered: “About half past three on the afternoon of April seventh, 1943. Right outside Sidi Mansour, Tunisia. I remember that because when I got back, my squadron CO and the exec didn’t—and I got the squadron and my railroad tracks. Why do you want to know? Is it important?”
“You made just the one pass?” von Wachtstein asked. “You didn’t go back to make sure everybody was dead?”
“There were just two people in the car,” Dooley replied. “Both in the front seat. I saw the car go off the road and turn over. There was no need to make a second pass. Why do you need the details?”
“On the afternoon of seven April 1943, near Sidi Mansour, while riding in a staff car, a friend of mine serving in the Afrikakorps was attacked by an American P-51 Mustang. His car went off the road and overturned. Were you flying a P-51, Colonel?”
Dooley nodded. “You knew this guy?” he asked.
Von Wachtstein nodded. “Quite well. We were good friends. He told me what had happened to him. His name was Claus von Stauffenberg. Oberstleutnant Graf Claus von Stauffenberg—the officer who later saw it as his duty to try to kill Hitler.”
“The guy with the bomb under the table that didn’t go off?” Dooley asked.
“The bomb went off,” Mattingly said. “But the force was deflected from Hitler by the massive leg supporting the table. Hitler lived, and later that day the SS stood Colonel von Stauffenberg against a wall on Bendlerstrasse in Berlin and executed him with Schmeisser submachine-gun fire.”
“I don’t know how to handle something like this,” Dooley said. “If I’m supposed to say I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Hell, I was sorry when I did it.”
“Colonel, for what it’s worth,” von Wachtstein said, “I can assure you Claus would bear you no hard feelings. You were doing your duty, as he did his.”
“The details match too closely for this to be a coincidence,” Mattingly said, as if to himself. “I would say it is what happened.”
“Yeah,” Dooley said. “His version of what happened and mine match too closely.”
