Cronley didn’t answer.
“Phase two,” he said. “Two to four days after that, the Storches fly into Eschborn again. This time they have a passenger. The passenger and I get in the ambulance, which has come from its stash place to meet me. We drive to Rhine-Main. The passenger—who may have a companion, we haven’t decided about that yet—gets on an SAA airplane. The ambulance drives me back to Eschborn and the Storches take off. The ambulance drives off, destination Kloster Grünau.”
“Who’s the passenger?”
“If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”
“He is not pulling your chain,” Dunwiddie said.
“For how long am I supposed to stash your ambulance?”
“Maybe two ambulances?” Cronley asked. “I am a devout believer in redundancy.”
“Two ambulances.”
“Thank you,” Cronley said. “When I get back to Kloster Grünau, we’ll send them to Frankfurt. In other words, from tomorrow until this is over. At least a week. Maybe ten days.”
“We’ve got a relay station outside Frankfurt, in an ex-German kaserne not far from the 97th General Hospital. I could stash your ambulances there in what used to be stables for horse-drawn artillery.”
“Thank you,” Cronley said again.
—
When they came out of the building, intending to join Colonel Bristol and General Gehlen, Technical Sergeant Abraham L. Tedworth rolled up in a jeep. He was heading a convoy. Behind him were three canvas-backed GMC 6×6 trucks—each towing a trailer—and three jeeps, also towing trailers and with their .50 caliber Browning machine guns now shrouded by canvas covers.
Sergeant Tedworth got out of his jeep. He put his hands on his hips and bellowed at the 6×6s, “Get your fat asses out of the trucks and fall in!”
Lieutenant Stratford was visibly impressed as forty black men, the smallest of whom was pushing six feet and two hundred pounds, all armed with Thompson submachine guns, poured out of the trucks and, without further orders, formed four ten-man ranks, came to a
ttention, then performed the Dress Right Dress maneuver.
Sergeant Tedworth took up a position in front of them, did a crisp about-face, and then saluted Cronley, who was by then in position, with First Sergeant Dunwiddie standing the prescribed “one pace to the left, one pace behind” him.
“Sir,” Tedworth barked, “First Platoon, Company C, 203rd Tank Destroyer Battalion, reporting for duty, sir.”
Cronley returned the salute.
“Welcome, welcome,” Cronley said. “At ease, men.”
They looked at him curiously.
“I’m sure you all noticed the precision with which First Sergeant Dunwiddie marched up behind me,” Cronley said. “This officer”—he pointed to Stratford—“Lieutenant Stratford is responsible. He taught First Sergeant Dunwiddie all he knows about Close Order Drill.”
This produced looks of confusion.
“I shit you not,” Cronley said solemnly.
This produced smiles.
“And after he did that, Lieutenant Stratford taught Rook Dunwiddie, as he was known in those days, how to tie, as well as shine, his boots and other matters of importance to a brand-new soldier.”
This produced wide smiles and some laughter.
“He will, I am sure, be happy to explain all this to you as he shows you around your new home,” Cronley said. “First Sergeant, take the formation.”
Dunwiddie was unable to restrain a smile as he saluted and barked, “Yes, sir.”
—