It was the badge of an Air Corps senior pilot, awarded for flying so many years and/or for so many hours in the air. There were no comparable wings in the Marine Corps. A second lieutenant fresh from Pensacola wore the same golden wings as the two-star chief of Marine Aviation, who had been flying longer than the lieutenant was old.
Nevertheless, Clete liked what he saw.
This guy has been around.
“Welcome to Argentina and Estancia San Fedro y San Pablo, Colonel,” Clete said as they shook hands.
“It’s very kind of you to have me, Señor Frade,” Almond said in very good Spanish. “And actually, it’s lieutenant colonel.”
“I haven’t been out of the Marine Corps that long, Colonel,” Clete replied in Spanish. “And—my memory being better than my friend Coronel Martín’s—I still remember the difference between an eagle and a silver oak leaf.”
Martín laughed good-naturedly.
Clete put his arm around Ashton’s shoulders and shook Tony’s hand.
“And is one permitted to ask ‘how was the honeymoon’?” Leibermann asked.
“One is permitted to ask, Milton, but only a goddamn fool would answer.”
Leibermann laughed.
“I’m sure you have much to talk about,” Martín said. “So I will—what is it they say?—circulate?”
“Don’t let me run you off, Coronel,” Clete said.
Martín ignored the comment, shook Almond’s hand, told him he was sure they would see one another again, and walked away.
“I was telling Dick that Martín is very good at what he does,” Leibermann said.
“Oh, yes,” Clete said. “Whatever you do, Colonel, don’t underestimate Coronel Martín.”
“I try not to underestimate anyone, Señor Frade,” Almond said. “May I ask you a question?”
“As long as it’s not about my honeymoon.”
“The last place I expected to see a Lockheed Lodestar is on a dirt strip in Argentina.”
“I think you’ll be surprised by many things down here, Colonel,” Clete said. “You’re familiar with the Lodestar?”
“As a matter of fact, last month, I flew one from the States to Brazil—our air base at Pôrto Alegre. You know it?”
“I know it’s there.”
“They’re nice airplanes,” Almond said.
“Is that what you’ve been doing? Ferry pilot?”
“No, actually, I was going through the attaché course in Washington before coming here, when a brigadier general I never heard of before or since called me up, asked if I was current in the Lodestar, and when I told him I was—I’d been flying brass around the Pacific in one—told me I was going to ferry one to Brazil the next morning. So I flew one to Pôrto Alegre, parked it, and they put me on the next C-54 headed for the States. I never got an explanation.”
He either suspects that’s the Lodestar he flew to Brazil, or knows it is. But I don’t think he’s going to ask.
“You didn’t get a DFC flying brass around,” Clete challenged.
“I’ve got some P-38 time, too,” Almond said. “I like to think of myself as a fighter pilot.”
“We were getting an Air Corps P-38 squadron on Guadalcanal just when I left.”
“Then we apparently just missed each other,” Almond said. “I made three missions off Fighter One, took a chunk of shrapnel strafing a freighter, and got sent home.”