Aeropuerto Coronel Jorge G. Frade
Morón, Buenos Aires Province, Argentina
1100 20 October 1945
As the truck-mounted stairs were positioned at the passenger door of La Ciudad de Mar del Plata, men pushed a narrow set of stairs on wheels up to the cockpit door. As soon as it was in place, Cletus Frade quickly climbed it.
Hans-Peter von Wachtstein was getting out of the pilot’s seat when Clete entered the cockpit.
They shook hands.
“We were getting a little worried, Hansel.”
“We ran into a hell of a storm in the middle of the Atlantic, Cletus, and—”
Frade spotted Boltitz and interrupted him.
“Beth has been pawing the ground since nine o’clock. I thought we were going to have to pour a bucket of cold water on her.”
“Very funny, Cletus,” Boltitz said.
“Hansel, did Colonel Mattingly give you a package for me?” Frade asked.
“If you’re talking about two canvas suitcases, he entrusted it to the care of Second Lieutenant Cronley,” von Wachtstein said.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Say, ‘Welcome to Argentina, Jimmy,’ Clete,” Cronley said from the radio compartment.
He was wearing an olive drab U.S. Army uniform with gold second lieutenant’s bars and the crossed swords of cavalry on it—not the “civilian employee” blue triangles he had been wearing in Marburg an der Lahn. The jacket was unbuttoned, revealing a Colt Model 1911-A1 .45 ACP in a shoulder holster.
Why the pistol, Jimmy?
Who are you going to shoot on this airplane?
There were two other men in the radio compartment. The older of them looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t come up with a name. He had never seen the younger one.
Who the hell are these guys?
“What the hell are you doing here, Jimmy?” Frade asked, wrapping his arms around Cronley.
“Colonel Mattingly said because I ate my spinach I could come out and play with the big boys. I guess our side won in the civil war, huh?”
“What and where did you hear about a civil war?”
“Peter said the last time he saw you, you were taking off from here in a Lodestar with the local dictator aboard and the bad guys shooting machine guns at you.”
“Did von Wachtstein use that term, ‘local dictator’?” Clete asked, looking at Peter.
“No. He said it was a Colonel Peon.”
“Perón,” Frade said. “Colonel Juan Domingo Perón. I don’t want you ever to say, or even think, ‘local dictator’ again. Got it?”
“Got it,” Cronley said, smiling.
“Say, ‘Aye, aye, sir.’ That was an order.”
“Begging the colonel’s pardon, sir, the lieutenant is an Army officer. Army officers don’t say ‘aye, aye.’ But, that out of the way, yes, sir. I understand.”