So, what do I do now?
“In another, happier life, I was a Marine fighter pilot,” Clete said.
Bendick’s eyes remained on his.
“Oh, really? And where exactly were you a Marine fighter pilot?”
He doesn’t believe me.
“They called it the Cactus Air Force, General.”
“In another, happier life, I was a B-17 pilot,” General Bendick said. “On one memorable day, I was saved from winding up in the drink off Guadalcanal by three Marine Grumman F4F Wildcats of VMF-221. Half a dozen very skilled Zero pilots had already taken out two of my engines and most of my vertical stabilizer when the Marines showed up. After dealing with the Zeros—the Marine F4Fs shot two down and scattered the others—the Marines then led me to Guadalcanal.”
He’s calling my bluff.
And he didn’t just make up that yarn.
“The name Dawkins mean anything to you?” General Bendick then asked.
Clete nodded. “If the general is referring to Lieutenant Colonel Clyde W. Dawkins, I had the privilege of being under his command.”
“At Fighter One? VMF-221?”
“Yes, sir,” Clete said.
“You were then a what?”
“A first lieutenant, sir.”
“And now?”
“I’m a lieutenant colonel, sir.”
“So, what’s this, Colonel?” Bendick asked, holding up the spurious OSS credentials. “I never saw anything like this before. What’s an OSS area commander? And this makes you area commander of exactly what area?”
“Argentina and Uruguay, primarily.”
Bendick’s eyes showed he wasn’t satisfied with that answer.
Bendick said: “Let’s go back down Memory Lane, Colonel. What did Colonel Dawkins’s officers call him?”
“‘Sir,’” Clete blurted.
Clete thought he saw the hint of a smile on Bendick’s lips.
“And behind his back?”
“‘The Dawk,’ sir.”
“And so they did,” Bendick said, “something that would be known only to his officers.”
He handed Frade the spurious OSS credentials.
“We had been briefed, of course,” he said, “on using Henderson Field in an emergency. We had also been briefed on Fighter One, and told it was not suitable for emergency landings of B-17 aircraft. As I approached Guadalcanal, I came to the reluctant conclusion that I had neither the altitude nor the controls to make Henderson, so I put it down on Fighter One.
“I was a pretty good B-17 pilot, but not good enough to land on only one main gear, so shortly thereafter I found myself sitting at the side of the runway with, thank God, all of my crew. We were watching my aircraft burn when a feisty tall drink of water showed up. He was wearing shorts and shoes—no shirt, no cap—and in each hand he had four of those little bottles of medicinal bourbon.”
Bendick met Frade’s eyes. Frade nodded.