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The American Zone of Occupied Germany
1735 15 January 1946
It had taken Cronley, Hessinger, and Finney nine hours to drive the 270 miles from Vienna to Pullach in the Ford staff car. Schultz, Ostrowski, and Mannberg, who had left Vienna later on the Blue Danube, were already “home”—and sitting at the bar—when the three walked in. Captain Chauncey L. Dunwiddie, Major Maxwell Ashton III, and First Sergeant Abraham L. Tedworth were sitting at a table.
As Cronley headed for the toilet, Dunwiddie called, “My guys with you?”
He referred to the men who had gone to Strasbourg and then Vienna with Cronley in one of the ambulances and those in the two ambulances who had gone directly to Vienna.
“Very quickly, as my back teeth are floating,” Cronley replied. “They left when we did, but since there is an MP checkpoint every other mile on the road, God only knows when they’ll get here.”
He then disappeared into the toilet, emerged a few minutes later, and went to the bar.
“Wait a minute before you get into that,” Hessinger said, indicating the bottle of Haig & Haig Cronley had taken from behind the bar and was opening.
“With all due respect, Staff Sergeant Hessinger, I have earned this,” Cronley said, and gave him the finger.
Hessinger appeared about to reply, and then went into the toilet. He came out two minutes later, and as Sergeant Finney went in, announced, “I have been thinking of something for the past two hours that will probably make me very unpopular when I bring it up.”
“Then don’t bring it up,” Cronley said.
“We have to make a record, a report, of what we have been doing,” Hessinger said. “And we have to do it before we start drinking.”
When Cronley didn’t immediately reply, Hessinger went on: “Sooner or later, somebody is going to want to know what we’ve been doing. Somebody is going to want to look at our records. And when that happens, saying ‘We haven’t been keeping any records’ is not going to be an acceptable answer.”
“Jesus!” Cronley said.
“He’s right, Jim,” El Jefe said. “We at least need to keep after-action reports.”
“And who do we report to?” Cronley asked.
El Jefe didn’t immediately reply, and Cronley saw on his face that he was giving the subject very serious consideration.
“I don’t know why I didn’t think of this,” El Jefe said, after a long moment, and then answered his own question. “Because Cletus didn’t do after-action reports. But that was then and in Argentina. This is now and you’re in Germany. Cletus didn’t have two different groups of people looking over his shoulder to find something, anything, proving he was incompetent. You do, Jim.”
“Two groups?”
“Colonel Mattingly. And the two from the Pentagon . . .”
“Lieutenant Colonel Parsons and Major Ashley,” Hessinger furnished.
“And then there’s the problem of how do we keep the wrong people from getting their hands on the after-action reports Freddy is right in saying we have to make,” Schultz went on.
“Classify them Top Secret–Presidential and Top Secret–Lindbergh,” Cronley suggested.
“How do we keep the wrong people who hold Top Secret–Presidential and Top Secret–Lindbergh clearances from seeing them? Like Mattingly? And Whatsisname? McClung, the ASA guy?”
“And Dick Tracy,” Cronley said.
“Who?” Ashton asked.
“Major Thomas G. Derwin, the new CIC/ASA inspector general. He’s got all the clearances.”
“Why do you call him ‘Dick Tracy’?”
“He was more or less affectionately so known when he was teaching Techniques of Surveillance at Holabird High.”
“You mean the CIC Center at Camp Holabird?” Ashton asked.
