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“I’ve been hoping I’d get to meet you, sir,” Bristol said.
“Very kind of you, Colonel. But I don’t think we’re supposed to exchange military courtesies.”
“My fault,” Cronley said. “I should have said ‘Herr Gehlen.’ But I have a lot of trouble remembering General Gehlen is no longer a general.”
“Cronley,” Bristol said, “general officers are like the Marines. Once a general, always a general. And especially in this case. When General Clay told me what’s going on here, he referred to the general as General Gehlen, and went out of his way to make sure I understood the general is one of the good guys.”
“Again, that’s very kind of you,” Gehlen said. “And of General Clay.”
“So welcome to your new home, Herr Gehlen. I hope you’ll let me show you around. Perhaps you’ll have a suggestion or two.”
“Since you brought up the subject, Colonel . . .”
“Yes, sir. What’s your pleasure?”
“Would it be possible to extend this runway a little? Actually, for some distance?”
“Well, that’s on my list, sir. And just now it went to the top of the list.”
“Would it be too much to ask that it be done before we leave? My friend Kurt Schröder”—he pointed at Kurt—“once told me you need more runway to take off than to land.”
“Herr General, wir können hier gut raus,” Schröder said.
Bristol’s eyebrows went up as he looked at Schröder, who was wearing the Constabulary pilot’s zipper jacket that Lieutenant Colonel William W. Wilson had given Cronley.
“I don’t know why I’m surprised,” he said. “I guess a lot of you CIC guys speak German. I guess you’d have to.”
An explanation, or a clarification, proved to be unnecessary, as there was an interruption: Dunwiddie, who was wearing his rank-insignia-less CIC uniform, was looking intently at Lieutenant Stratford, and vice versa.
Then Stratford put his hands on his hips and barked, “Well, you miserable rook, don’t just stand there slumped with your mouth open and your fat belly hanging out, come to attention and say, ‘Good morning, sir.’”
Dunwiddie said, “I’ll be goddamned—it is you!”
Stratford walked quickly to Dunwiddie, started to offer his hand, then changed his mind and hugged him. Dunwiddie hugged him back, which caused him to lift Stratford at least eighteen inches off the ground.
“These two, Colonel Bristol,” Cronley said drily, “were once confined to the same reform school in Vermont. The large one is my Number Two.”
Cronley thought: They’re pals. Great!
Stratford is going to be very useful. And not only with the ambulances.
“Be advised, Cronley,” Bristol said sternly, “that I find derogatory references to Norwich University, the nation’s oldest and arguably finest military college, from which Lieutenant Stratford and I are privileged to claim graduation, totally unacceptable.”
Oh, shit!
Bristol’s cold glower turned into a smile.
“Relax,” he said. “Stratford warned me that I should expect—and have to forgive—such behavior from a graduate of Texas Cow College.”
He walked over to Stratford and Dunwiddie with his hand extended.
“Jack Bristol, Dunwiddie. Class of 1940. You’re Alphonse’s little brother, right? We were roommates.”
Oh, am I on a roll!
—
During the next two hours, while he learned more about Norwich University, its sacred and sometimes odd customs, and its long roster of distinguished graduates, than he really cared to know, Cronley also had reason to believe that he was indeed on a roll.
