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The American Zone of Occupied Germany
1305 4 January 1946
“How’d you do at the Ordnance Depot, Freddy?” Cronley asked, when Hessinger, trailed by First Sergeant Tedworth, came into what they were now calling “the sitting room.”
“I got us four 1942 Fords, one with three hundred miles on the odometer, one with forty-five thousand, and the other two somewhere between the extremes.”
“I was hoping for at least one Packard Clipper,” Cronley said.
“Even if you could get one, that would be stupid,” Hessinger said.
“Stupid? What have you got against Packards?”
“A Packard would draw unwanted attention. As will painting ‘Mess Kit Repair Company’ on the bumpers of the Fords. I came to talk to you about that.”
“Painting what on them?” Oscar Shultz asked.
He was sitting with Maksymilian Ostrowski at the bar. They were hunched over mugs of coffee and the Stars and Stripes. El Jefe had exchanged his naval uniform—and Ostrowski his dyed-black fatigues—for Army woolen OD Ike jackets and trousers. Civilian triangles were sewn to the lapels.
“You have to have your unit painted on the bumpers of your vehicles,” Cronley explained. “Since I didn’t want to paint CIC on them, and certainly don’t want to paint HQ DCI-Europe on them, I told Freddy to have what we have on all the other vehicles—711th MKRC—painted on them.”
“Which is?”
“It stands for the nonexistent 711th Mess Kit Repair Company,” Cronley explained.
“Very funny, but one day some MP is going to get really curious,” Hessinger said.
“What would you paint on them, Freddy?” El Jefe asked.
The question was unexpected, and it showed.
“Maybe some military government unit,” he said after a moment.
“Freddy, when you don’t like something, always be prepared to offer something better,” Schultz said. “Write that on your forehead. It’s up to Cronley, but I sort of like the sound of Seven-One-One-Em-Kay-Are-See.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And don’t call me ‘sir,’ Freddy. I am trying to pass myself off as a civilian.”
“I thought Captain Cronley would continue to be unreasonable,” Hessinger said, “so I got him and Captain Dunwiddie these.”
He handed each of them a small box.
“Oh, Freddy, you’re sweet, but you shouldn’t have!” Dunwiddie mocked.
“What the hell is this?” Cronley asked.
“Quartermaster Corps lapel insignia,” Hessinger said. “It is possible that when you are stopped by the MPs, they will be less suspicious if they think you’re in the Quartermaster Corps. Those swords you’re wearing now . . .”
“Sabers, Freddy,” Cronley corrected him. “Cavalry sabers.”
“. . . might make them curious.”
“He’s right,” El Jefe said.
“Again. That’s why I hate him. He’s right too often,” Cronley said. “Thanks, Freddy.”
“I will be disowned if anybody in my family hears I’m trying to pass myself off as a Quartermaster Corps officer,” Dunwiddie said.
