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Kloster Grünau
Schollbrunn, Bavaria
American Zone of Occupation, Germany
0715 30 October 1945
First Sergeant Chauncey L. Dunwiddie, easily holding two large china mugs in his massive left hand, knocked at the door to Captain James D. Cronley Jr.’s bedroom with the knuckles of his right fist.
“Come!”
Cronley was sitting on his bed, pulling on his pointed-toe boots.
“Coffee?” Dunwiddie asked.
“Oh, yeah. Danke schön.”
Dunwiddie handed him a mug.
“You all right, Jim?”
“Why do I think you have a reason for asking beyond a first sergeant’s to-be-expected concern for his beloved commanding officer?”
Dunwiddie hesitated momentarily, then said, “I’ve been wrong before. But when I got back at oh-dark-hundred and walked past your room, I thought I heard you crying in your sleep. I almost came in then, but my back teeth were floating, so I took a leak. When I came back, you’d stopped.”
Cronley hesitated momentarily, too, before replying.
“I wasn’t crying in my sleep. I was wide awake. I had what is politely called ‘a nocturnal emission.’ I started crying when I woke up and realized that wet dream—and every goddamned thing associated with it—was never going to come true.”
Dunwiddie didn’t reply.
“Am I losing my mind, Tiny?”
Dunwiddie hesitated again before replying, and when he did it wasn’t a reply, but a question. He pointed at the chart case. “What’s that?”
“That’s an aviation chart case. Experienced pilots such as
myself use them to carry maps—aviation navigation charts—around.”
“You’re going somewhere?”
“Eschborn. As soon as I have breakfast.”
“Mattingly sent for you?”
“I told him I needed to talk to him.”
“You going to tell me what about?”
“Orlovsky.”
“He told me to deal with Orlovsky, Jim.”
“That’s what I want to talk to him about.”
“I heard you went to see our Russian friend. Twice.”
“Sergeant Lewis told you?”
