Secret Honor (Honor Bound 3)

“Indeed I am. Are you familiar with the aircraft, Cranz?”

“I’ve seen photographs,” Cranz said, “and read its characteristics.”

“And von Wachtstein flew it, Herr General?” Boltitz asked, obviously surprised.

“I personally qualified Major von Wachtstein in the ME-262,” Galland said.

“Isn’t that a little unusual?” Cranz asked.

“Major von Wachtstein is a very unusual pilot,” Galland said. “And if you’re familiar with ME-262 characteristics, you’re aware of the great increase in speed it offers?”

“I heard nine hundred kilometers,” Boltitz said.

“In level flight. The figure is considerably higher in a dive.”

“Amazing,” Cranz said.

“Naturally, flying an aircraft at those speeds subjects the human body to great stress.”

“I’m sure it does,” Cranz said.

“But nothing like the stresses placed upon the human body—in this case Hansel’s body—by the party that always follows a pilot becoming rated in the ME-262. What you see before you, gentlemen, bleeding from his shave and looking like death warmed over, is a brand-new ME-262 pilot.”

Cranz laughed dutifully. Boltitz chuckled.

“And he went beyond that, gentlemen,” Galland said. “Delicacy forbids me to get into specifics, but let me assure you that Major von Wachtstein gave his all—to judge by his bloodshot eyes, all night—to maintain, even polish, the reputation Luftwaffe fighter pilots enjoy among the gentle sex.”

“Hansel,” Willi Grüner said. “You look awful.”

Peter gave him the finger.

“Ruttman!” Galland called. The orderly appeared. “The emergency equipment for Major von Wachtstein, if you please.”

“Jawohl, Herr General!”

Ruttman left the room and returned in a minute with a face mask and a portable oxygen bottle. He handed them to Peter.

“What is that?” Boltitz asked. “Oxygen?”

“The best—so far as I know personally, the only—cure for a hangover,” Galland said.

The cool oxygen felt marvelous.

“With a little luck, Major von Wachtstein may live through lunch,” Galland said. “He may wish he were dead, but I think he may live.”

Obersturmbannführer Cranz kept Galland’s orderly from refilling his wineglass by covering it with his palm. “To get to the sad business before us,” he said. “Specifically, Hauptmann Grüner, the details of the interment of your father.”

Willi Grüner looked at him and just perceptibly nodded his head.

“It has been proposed by Reichsprotektor Himmler, in consideration of your late father’s distinguished service to the SS, that his interment and the accompanying ceremonies be joined with those of the late Standartenführer Goltz. Have you any objection to that, Herr Hauptmann?”

Willi shook his head.

“The Reichsprotektor also suggests that an appropriate place for the interment of both of these fallen heroes would be in the SS section of the Munich military cemetery. He has ordered that two grave places immediately adjacent to the Horst Wessel monument be made available. Does this also meet your approval, Hauptmann Grüner?”

Willi knew that was meant to be an honor. Horst Wessel, a student, who had been in trouble with the police “for rowdyism,” had joined the Nazi party in 1926, and become a storm trooper. In 1930, political enemies, possibly Communists, had killed him in a brawl in his room in the Berlin slums. Nazi propagandists had blamed three Jews for his murder, executed them, and elevated Wessel to martyrdom. “The Horst Wessel Lied” was now the anthem of the Nazi party.

“Yes, Sir.”