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1035 18 October 1945
When Colonel Robert Mattingly had seen von Wachtstein waving cheerfully at him from the cockpit window of La Ciudad de Mar del Plata he had been mildly surprised that Cletus Frade had not been flying the Constellation.
He walked to the foot of the stairway that the ground handlers had moved to the cockpit door. He stood there, wearing a smile, his hand extended, when von Wachtstein came nimbly down the stairs.
“Colonel Frade wasn’t flying?” he asked.
“Colonel Frade’s not on the airplane,” von Wachtstein told him.
“Where the hell is he?” Mattingly snapped.
He heard the tone in his voice and realized his temper had been triggered.
And he knew why. The one thing he didn’t need now was trouble with Lieutenant Colonel Cletus Frade, USMCR. He absolutely had had enough unexpected trouble in the last forty-eight hours and didn’t need any more.
“I really don’t know where Colonel Frade is, Colonel,” von Wachtstein said. “Probably at Estancia Don Guillermo.”
Mattingly saw on von Wachtstein’s face that he had picked up on the tone of his voice and was both curious and displeased.
“What the hell is that?” Mattingly then said. “What’s he doing there?”
And I just made it worse. What the hell is the matter with me?
“It’s a vineyard he owns in Mendoza,” von Wachtstein said, somewhat coldly. “And what he’s doing is trying to keep Juan Domingo Perón alive.”
And what the hell is that all about?
Get your temper under control, you damned fool!
He forced a smile.
“Well, that sounds interesting. You can tell me all about that at the house. I suspect you could use some breakfast and a shower.”
“Yes, I could,” von Wachtstein said, and turned to Karl Boltitz. “Wie geht’s, Karl?”
Boltitz gave him a fond hug.
“How’s Willi, Hansel?” he asked.
Without thinking, von Wachtstein said, “The last time I saw him he was in the Jockey Club looking soulfully over a stem of champagne into the eyes of my sister-in-law.”
He heard what he had just said.
Mein Gott, where did that come from?
“Your wife’s sister?” Boltitz asked.
“No. Elsa. Karl’s widow,” von Wachtstein corrected him.
“Karl’s widow?” Boltitz parroted, surprised.
Von Wachtstein nodded and repeated, “Elsa. Karl’s widow.”
“Well, isn’t that interesting!” Boltitz said.
“I thought so,” von Wachtstein said.
I thought so when I first noticed it, just before Father Welner came into the Jockey Club and took me away from the table.
