This outrageously unorthodox behavior had shocked the cavalry purists, of course, but their criticism had been muted by their belief that Frade was almost certain to be become el General Frade, or El Presidente Frade, and most likely both.
Shortly afterward, Frade had with unconcealed pride shown Welner the story in the New Orleans Times-Picayune headlined, “Lt. Cletus H. Frade Earns Marine Corps Wings of Gold.” At the same time, he had observed, “Of course, flying is in our blood.”
The Staggerwing Beechcraft was now on the bottom of Samborombón Bay, having crashed in flames after Cletus H. Frade had flown it into the antiaircraft weaponry of the Portuguese-registered Reine de la Mer. But also on the bottom of the bay were the Reine de la Mer itself and the German U-boat tied up alongside her when she was torpedoed by the American submarine Cletus Frade had led to her.
The official Argentine story was that the Reine de la Mer had been destroyed by a mysterious explosion.
The Lockheed Lodestar had been sent by the OSS to replace the Staggerwing. The official US story was that it was a gift, a small token of the respect and friendship felt toward Colonel Frade by the President of the United States.
Father Welner finally pulled up in front of the big house.
A heavyset man in his forties, wearing a full mustache and carrying a 7mm Mauser cavalry carbine in one massive hand, came quickly off the porch and opened the Packard’s door. “Padre,” he said, not quite able to wholly restrain his Pavlovian urge to salute. It turned into an awkward wave.
Welner had known for years Sargento Rudolpho Gomez, Argentine Cavalry, Retired.
“Rudolpho,” Welner said, offering his hand. “Señor Clete?”
“In el Coronel’s garage,” Rudolpho said. “With Enrico. Shall I put your bag in your room, Padre?”
For years, a small apartment in the sprawling structure had been set aside for Welner’s exclusive use.
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“No, thank you, I won’t be able to stay.”
Welner stepped onto the porch, then walked down it and around the corner of the house to the rear. The working buildings were behind the big house. In front of the house, in the direction of the airstrip, was a carefully tended, formal English garden.
When he reached what was still known as “El Coronel’s Garage,” he found Cletus Howell Frade nearly buried—both feet off the floor—in the engine compartment of an enormous black Horch convertible sedan. Only a soiled pair of khaki trousers and a battered pair of American cowboy boots were visible.
A heavyset man in his late forties, with a carefully cultivated, now graying cavalryman’s mustache, was sound asleep and snoring on a leather couch near the door of the garage. He had a short-barreled Browning semiautomatic 12-gauge shotgun in his lap, and there was a leather cartridge belt beside him. He was Suboficial Mayor (sergeant major) Enrico Rodríguez, Retired. Sergeant Rodríguez had been born at Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo, and left it at sixteen to become batman to newly commissioned Subteniente Jorge Guillermo Frade. He had served his officer until his death, and had himself been left for dead in the bloody and bullet-riddled Horch.
Though still recovering from his wounds, he nevertheless now saw the protection of el Coronel’s only son as his mission in life, and was determined not to fail him, as he thought he had shamefully failed to protect his father.
The last time Welner had seen the Horch, the hood, windows, and doors had all been pierced by bullet and buckshot holes, and the bright red leather upholstery and carpeting had been stained black with blood.
On the car there was no sign of any of that now. But against the wall of the garage were both bullet-holed sections of the split windshield, apparently replaced so recently there hadn’t been chance to throw them out.
I wonder how Cletus is going to manage leaving Enrico home when he goes on his honeymoon?
Or, for that matter, whether he should? A number of people in Argentina, not only Germans, would like to see Cletus Frade dead.
Including Enrico Mallín.
That’s not true. I should be ashamed of myself for even thinking that in jest.
No father likes to learn that his beloved nineteen-year-old unmarried daughter is about to become a mother; but Enrico would really not like to see the father of his forthcoming grandchild dead. Perhaps dragged across the pampas for a kilometer or two behind a galloping horse, but not dead.
Father Welner bowed his head without really thinking about it, and offered yet another prayer for the peaceful repose of his friend’s soul. Then he walked up to the car.
As he approached the car, from beneath the hood came a profane, colorful string of expletives—an interesting combination of cultures, Father Welner observed with a smile: Texan, United States Marine Corps, with a soupçon of Spanish Argentine thrown in.
“I will pray to God, my son,” Father Welner announced loudly, unctuously, in British-accented English, “that He may forgive, in His infinite mercy, your profane and obscene outburst.”
Cletus Howell Frade, a lanky, dark-haired, 180-pound twenty-four-year-old, wiggled out of the engine compartment. His face was grease-stained, and he held several wrenches in his grease-stained hands.
“What brings you out into the country?” he challenged, smiling. “I thought you hated fresh air.”
“I am the bearer of good news,” Welner said. “The Cardinal Archbishop has agreed to permit Dorotéa’s priest to participate in your wedding.”