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Two days later, the Thomas had sailed from Buenos Aires without Chief Schultz. Schultz set up shop on Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo, Frade’s enormous ranch, where Cronley had met him, and where he had quickly acquired both the regalia of a gaucho and a Rubenesque lady friend, who became known as “the other Dorotea,” the first being Señora Dorotea Frade.
More importantly, he had become an important member of “Team Turtle,” the code name for Frade’s OSS operation in Argentina. So important that he had been given a direct commission as an officer.
What the hell is El Jefe doing here?
Before the question had run through his mind, Cronley knew the answer.
Admiral Souers, knowing that Polo would refuse the assistance of a nurse, even a male nurse, although he really needed it, had ordered Schultz up from Argentina so that he could assist and protect Polo while he traveled to Germany and then back to Argentina.
That noble idea seemed to be destined to become a spectacular disaster.
As Tiny bounded up the stairway, El Jefe, seeing an enormous black man headed for his charge, started bounding down them to defend him.
Cronley recalled Cletus Frade telling him that El Jefe enjoyed the deep respect of the gauchos of the estancia, despite his refusal to get on a horse, because he had become both the undisputed bare-knuckles pugilist of the estancia and the undisputed hand-wrestling champion. Gauchos add spice, Cletus had told him, to their hand-wrestling fun by holding hands over their unsheathed razor-sharp knives.
Captain Dunwiddie and Lieutenant Schultz had a brief conversation near the top of the stairs. Then, suddenly, as if they had practiced the action for months, they had Polo in a “handbasket” between them and were carrying him—like the bridegroom at a Hebrew wedding—down the stairs, across the tarmac, and into the passenger terminal.
Cronley was surprised that no one s
eemed to pay much attention.
“Welcome to occupied Germany,” Cronley said, as Schultz and Dunwiddie set Ashton on his feet and Ostrowski handed him his crutches. “Please keep in mind that VD walks the streets tonight, and penicillin fails once in seven times.”
Ashton shook his head.
“Thanks,” he said to Dunwiddie, Schultz, and Ostrowski. “Where’s the colonel?”
“Which colonel would that be?”
“Mattingly.”
“I don’t know. I hope he’s far from here.”
“The admiral said I should see him as soon as I got here. I’ve got a letter for him. What do you mean you hope he’s far from here?”
A letter? From Souers to Mattingly? Why does that scare me?
“We’re going to have to have a little chat before you see him,” Cronley said. He gestured toward the door. “Your ambulance awaits.”
“I don’t need an ambulance.”
“You do unless you want to walk all the way across Rhine-Main airfield.”
“What’s all the way across the field?”
“The Storchs in which we are going to fly to Kloster Grünau—the monastery—to have our little chat.”
“How they hanging, kid?” Schultz demanded of Captain Cronley.
“One beside the other. How about yours?”
“I don’t have to tell you, do I, about how lousy I feel about what happened to the Squirt?”
“No. But thank you.”
“I really liked that little broad,” Schultz said. “Mean as a snake, but nice, you know?”
“Yeah,” Cronley said.
