Part 55 (1/2)
”Whatever I'm ordered to do, sir.”
”Jimmy, what the h.e.l.l are you up to?” Lieutenant Moriarty asked.
”Put a cork in it, Bonehead,” Cronley said.
”Same question,” Dunwiddie said. ”Lieutenant, Captain Cronley is known for his unusual-some say sick-sense of humor. Don't take him seriously.”
”Yes, sir,” Winters said, visibly relieved.
”I'm dead serious right now,” Cronley said. ”Answer the question, Lieutenant. Exactly what kind of flying do you do?”
”Sir, I do whatever is expected of me as an Army aviator.”
”Like flying the Hesse/Thuringia border?”
Winter's face tightened, but he did not reply.
”With a photographer in the backseat taking pictures of the picturesque Thuringian countryside?”
Winters stood up.
”The captain will understand that I am not at liberty to discuss the subject he mentions. The lieutenant begs the captain's permission to withdraw.”
”Sit down, Lieutenant,” Cronley ordered. When Winters remained standing, Cronley said, ”That was not a suggestion.”
Winters sat down.
”Clever fellow that I am, I suspected it was you the moment I saw the West Point ring. And, of course, the wings.”
”Sir?”
”What the h.e.l.l are you talking about, Jim?” Dunwiddie said, not at all pleasantly.
”You're an intelligence officer . . . and on that subject, show Lieutenant Winters your credentials. And that's not a suggestion, either.”
”Jesus!” Tiny said, but handed Winters his credentials folder.
”You may show that to Mrs. Winters, Lieutenant, but you are cautioned not to tell anyone what you saw.”
Mrs. Winters's eyes widened when she examined the credentials.
”Now, where were we?” Cronley asked rhetorically. ”Oh, yeah. Tell me, Captain Dunwiddie, if you were a West Pointer, and a lieutenant colonel of artillery, and an aviator, and required the services of another aviator to fly a mission . . .”
”Along the border,” Dunwiddie picked up. ”That you didn't want anybody talking about . . .”
”. . . wouldn't you turn first to another graduate of Hudson High who was also an artilleryman?”
Dunwiddie shook his head.
”I thought you were just being a pr- giving him a hard time.”
”That thought never entered my mind,” Cronley said. ”Because if he turned out to be who I thought he was, I wanted to be very nice to him, because first thing tomorrow morning he's going to take me border-flying again. I want to see what he saw and photographed.”
”Sir, I couldn't do that without authorization,” Winters said.
”Did Colonel Fishburn authorize the flights you already made?”
”No, sir. But-”
”A certain lieutenant colonel, whose name we shall not mention, told you it was all right, right?”
”Yes, sir.”
”Did he tell you why we were interested in the fields and back roads of Thuringia?”
”Yes, sir. He said that somebody was going to land a light airplane . . .”
”I'm one of them,” Cronley said. ”Now, we can go to Colonel Fishburn, which you will note Hot-the unnamed lieutenant colonel . . . did not do . . . and show him our credentials, following which I'm sure he will tell you to take me flying down the border. But if we do that, his sergeant major will hear about it, and so will his wife, and all the girls in what Captain Dunwiddie calls the Officers' Ladies Intelligence Network . . . which would not be a good thing.”
Lieutenant Winters looked at Cronley, expressionlessly, for twenty seconds.
Then he said, ”Sir, if you'll tell me where you're staying, I'll pick you up at 0530, which will give us time for a cup of coffee and an egg sandwich before we take off at first light.”
XII.
[ONE].
Hangar Two U.S. Air Force Base, Fritzlar, Hesse American Zone of Occupation, Germany 0840 19 January 1946 ”What the h.e.l.l is that?” Lieutenant Thomas Winters, Artillery, inquired of Captain James D. Cronley as they taxied up to the hangar in the L-5.
”I believe it is a C-47, which is the military version of the Douglas DC-3. I'm surprised you don't know that.”
There was indeed a C-47 sitting in front of Hangar Two. It had the Constabulary insignia on the nose, which surprised Cronley.
”I mean that funny-looking black airplane they're pus.h.i.+ng into the hangar,” Winters said, in exasperation.
”I don't see a funny-looking black airplane,” Cronley replied. ”Possibly because I know that funny-looking black airplanes like that are used only in cla.s.sified operations I'm not supposed to talk about.”
As Winters parked the L-5 and shut it down, a lieutenant wearing Constabulary insignia and aviator's wings walked up to it and saluted.
Cronley got out of the Stinson and returned the salute.
”Colonel Wilson's compliments, gentlemen,” the lieutenant announced. ”The colonel would be pleased if you would join him aboard the general's aircraft.”
”Lieutenant,” Cronley asked, straight-faced, ”is that the colonel some people call 'Hotshot Billy'?”