“I was born here,” Krantz replied. “My father was brought here as a small child.”
That explains your bellicosity, doesn’t it? You’ve never heard a bomb fall, or the screams of the dying, or seen the body of the enemy burned to a crisp.
“But you have visited Germany?”
“Only once, as a child. I intend to go after the war.”
This man is an amiable idiot. Still, Grüner says he’s useful. What’s the matter with you, anyway? All this man is doing is being polite and patriotic. No. Polite and treasonous. If he was born here, doesn’t that make him an Argentinean, not a German? He owes his allegiance to Argentina, not Der Führer.
“One more,” Krantz said, refilling his and their glasses. “What is it they say? A bird who flies with only wing does so badly?”
Grüner and Krantz drank theirs at a gulp. Peter returned his glass to the table barely touched. He didn’t like Slivovitz, and he was concerned about alcohol loosening his tongue—Krantz was sending champagne, and there would probably be more than one bottle. It was entirely likely that the purpose of Grüner’s friendliness was to feel him out. Ambassador von Lutzenberger warned him to be careful around him.
Krantz finally left.
“No more of this for you?” Grüner asked as he picked up the Slivovitz bottle.
“Thank you, no, Herr Oberst.”
“You don’t like it, or you’re a little afraid of drinking with your new commanding officer?”
“A little of both, Herr Oberst.”
“Good for you. In my line of work, alcohol is a dangerous thing. And I suppose the same is true with flying.”
“We have a saying in the Luftwaffe, Herr Oberst, that there are old cautious pilots, somewhat fewer old bold pilots, and no old drunken pilots at all.”
Grüner smiled his appreciation of that.
“In my line of work—it will now to some degree be your line of work as well—a tongue loosened by alcohol is a dangerous thing. One is often possessed of knowledge that should not be shared with others.”
“I’m sure that’s true, Herr Oberst.”
“I have, for example, two pieces of information about you that I elected not to share with Ambassador von Lutzenberger.”
“Whatever the accusations, Herr Oberst, I plead guilty and throw myself on the mercy of the court.”
Grüner laughed.
“The first makes Krantz’s free champagne especially appropriate,” Grüner said. “The Ambassador will soon be notified, and he will in his own diplomat’s good time notify me, that you have been promoted major.”
“Really? You’re sure, Herr Oberst?”
“The reason I am sure is that my source is impeccable,” Grüner said, obviously pleased with himself. “A source about whose credibility I have absolutely no doubt.”
“The Führer told you I was being promoted?”
“No.” Grüner chuckled, then reached into his pocket and tossed a photograph on the table.
Peter picked it up. It showed two pilots standing under the engine nacelle of a Messerschmitt ME-109, holding between them the bull’s-eye fuselage insignia torn from a shot-down Spitfire. Both wore black leather flying jackets, each of which was adorned with brand-new second lieutenant’s insignia and brand-new Iron Crosses. One was Second Lieutenant Freiherr Hans-Peter von Wachtstein and the other was Second Lieutenant Wilhelm Johannes Grüner.
Did I shoot that Spit down? Or Willi? Or was that piece of fuselage fabric just one of the half-dozen around the officers’ mess, and we picked it up to have the photo taken?
“Willi,” Peter said. “France. Calais, I think. Or maybe Cherbourg. 1940.”
Why the hell didn’t I make the connection? I knew Willi’s father was an officer, an Oberstleutnant. Because I don’t like to think of Willi Grüner? Because the last time I saw Willi was outside London. His aircraft was in flames, and he was on his way down by parachute.
“Willi,” Grüner repeated.