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“I ain’t gonna wear the damned thing, which is sort of moot, since I ain’t going to fly up there to play nice with Mattingly.”
“When you get an order, Captain Cronley, the correct response is ‘Yes, sir.’”
After a ten-second pause, Cronley said, “Yes, sir.”
More obfuscation was in play here.
In order to make DCI-Europe seem less important than it was, to have it sort of fade into the background, it was decided that it be commanded, as far as anyone outside of DCI was concerned, by a junior officer. Such an officer was available in the person of Jim Cronley, who had just been awarded the Distinguished Service Medal and promoted from second lieutenant to captain at the verbal order of the President of the United States. The Citation stated that he had demonstrated at the risk of his own life not only valor above and beyond the call of duty but a wisdom far beyond that to be expected of an officer of his age and rank while engaged in a classified operation of great importance.
DCI-Europe was important, and not only because it was involved in surreptitiously keeping former members of Abwehr Ost, and their families, many of them Nazis, out of the hands of the Russians by surreptitiously flying them to Argentina. This activity, should it become public knowledge, would have seen Truman—who had authorized Allen Dulles to make the deal with Gehlen—very possibly impeached, even if Eisenhower, who had brought the deal to Truman, agreed to fall on his sword to save the commander in chief.
Under these conditions, it was obviously necessary to have some experienced intelligence officer looking over Cronley’s shoulder to “advise” him and, should it become necessary, to take DCI-Europe over. Such an officer was available in the person of Major Harold Wallace, who had been commander of OSS-Forward until its dissolution, and was now assigned to USFET Counterintelligence.
And there was more obfuscation here, too. In order to keep “Army G-2 off my back,” as Wallace, a full colonel, had phrased it, he had taken t
he eagle off his epaulets and replaced it with the golden leaf of a major and allowed the Army to think Colonel Robert Mattingly was actually commanding OSS-Forward.
Major Wallace was given command of the XXVIIth CIC Detachment in Munich, from which position he was able to look over the activities of the XXIIIrd CIC Detachment, commanded by Captain James D. Cronley, which had been established to provide Cronley with a credible reason for being in Munich, in the hope that people would not connect him with DCI-Europe at the Compound.
Originally, Cronley was not told of Wallace’s role, but he soon figured it out. They worked out an amicable relationship, largely because Cronley accepted that Wallace could give him orders.
[TWO]
As Cronley entered the lobby of the Schlosshotel, a bellman snatched his canvas Valv-Pak from his hand and led him to the desk.
“I’m going to need a room,” he said to the clerk.
“I’m very sorry, Captain, the Schlosshotel Kronberg is a senior officers’ hotel.”
“I thought this was a low-class dump the moment I walked in,” Cronley said, his automatic mouth having gone into action.
Another clerk rushed over.
“Sind Sie Hauptmann Cronley, Herr Hauptmann?”
“Ja.”
The clerk switched to English.
“We’ve put you in 110, Captain. Your bag will be there whenever it’s convenient for you to go there.” He handed Cronley a key, which came attached to a brass plate with the number on it.
“Captain Cronley,” a voice said in his ear, “if you’ll come with me, sir?”
He turned to see a naval officer, a full lieutenant, who had the silver aiguillettes of an aide-de-camp dangling from his shoulder.
“Who the hell are you?”
“I’m the admiral’s aide, sir,” he replied, his tone suggesting “dumb question.”
“What admiral?”
The lieutenant didn’t reply, instead gesturing for Cronley to follow him. Cronley did so, out of the lobby and down a corridor, where the lieutenant opened half of a double door, gestured for Cronley to precede him, and then bellowed, “Admiral, Captain Cronley.”
Cronley looked into the room. There were six people sitting around a table on which were three bottles of whisky, an ice bucket, and a soda siphon. He recognized two of them. Harold Wallace and Oscar Schultz. He saw that Wallace had the silver eagles of his actual rank on the epaulets. Oscar was in a business suit.
And that has to be Admiral Souers. All that gold on his sleeves.
What the hell is going on here?
