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At the end of the runway, Martín turned the Storch around and taxied down the runway. Von Dattenberg now saw two large hangars, one of which held an American twin-engine Lodestar passenger transport, also painted flaming red.
There were also four American Piper Cub airplanes.
And a welcoming committee—six armed men on horseback.
What the hell do they call those people who work the herds of cattle?
Gauchos! They call them gauchos!
Where the hell am I?
General Martín stopped the Storch, shut down the engine, and immediately answered von Dattenberg’s unspoken question.
“Welcome to Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo, Kapitän von Dattenberg.”
Martín pushed open the door of the Storch.
A gaucho walked up to the airplane. Von Dattenberg studied his clothing with interest. He wore knee-high black boots, into which were tucked billowing black trousers. His waist was encircled by a wide leather belt, liberally studded with silver ornaments. Tucked into his waistband was an enormous silver-handled knife. He had on a billowing white shirt, and wore around his neck a yellow-and-red scarf. Topping everything off was a wide-brimmed black leather hat with a silver-studded hatband.
The gaucho waited until General Martín had gotten out of the Storch and then saluted him crisply.
“How did it go, General?” he asked in English.
“Very well, I think, Jefe,” Martín replied, and then pointed back toward von Dattenberg. “That is Fregattenkapitän Wilhelm von Dattenberg, late master of U-405.”
“No shit?” the gaucho blurted.
“Which appeared off the Puerto Belgrano Naval Base flying a black flag at first light this morning.”
“I’ll be damned! What are we going to do with him?”
“I think I’d better see what Doña Dorotea has to say.”
“She’s not here. There was a telegram from Lisbon. They’ll be back probably early tomorrow morning, so she and Doña Alicia took everybody into Buenos Aires to meet the plane.”
“That’s good news,” Martín said. “What we’re going to have to do, Jefe, is keep the fregattenkapitän out of sight until Cletus and Peter can get out here.”
“Not a problem,” the gaucho said.
“I don’t think I have to tell you he’s not permitted to ask any questions, about anything, but especially about Cletus and Peter, do I?”
“No, sir.”
“I want someone with him around the clock. I don’t want him to try to emulate Kapitän zur See Langsdorff.”
“I understand, sir.”
“Or anyone to learn he’s here.”
“Understood, sir.”
The gaucho walked to the airplane. Von Dattenberg was just stepping to the ground.
“Do you speak English, Fregattenkapitän von Dattenberg?”
“Yes, I do.”
“I am Lieutenant Oscar Schultz, United States Navy. You will now consider yourself to be a prisoner of the United States Navy and conduct yourself accordingly. Understand?”
