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A representative of the CIC sat in a jeep watching the proceedings. James D. Cronley Jr. was blond and blue-eyed, an enormous—six-one, two-twelve—twenty-one-year-old whose sole qualification for the CIC was that he spoke German fluently.

Cronley had been commissioned into the Army of the United States as a second lieutenant of Cavalry seven months before, on his graduation from Texas A&M.

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Just about as soon as the outcome of the war had been clear, there was concern in the Army about dealing with the capture and trial of Nazis as war criminals in a defeated Germany. It became obvious that the CIC was the best-qualified agency to deal with the problem. It was equally obvious that the CIC was not large enough to deal with their to-be-expanded duties. Further compounding—indeed, greatly compounding—the problem was the awareness on the part of senior officers that as soon as the war was over there would be a great hue and cry to “bring the boys home.”

The chief of staff of the U.S. Army told the assistant chief of staff for Intelligence to take whatever steps necessary to deal with the problem.

The result of this was that in his third week of the Basic Armor Officers Course at Fort Knox, Kentucky, Second Lieutenant James D. Cronley Jr. was summoned from a course in Track & Bogie Maintenance to the Orderly Room of the Student Officer Company.

He was told to report to the colonel now ensconced in the company commander’s office. Following the protocol, he knocked at the frame of the open door and was told to come in.

He was already inside the office and saluting before he realized the order to come in had been issued in German.

“How well do you speak German, Lieutenant?” a major standing beside and behind the full colonel asked, in German.

“Pretty well, sir.”

“Learned it from your mother, did you, son?” the colonel asked in German.

“Yes, sir.”

“From now on, speak German.”

“Jawohl, Herr Oberst.”

“Your mother is Wilhelmina Stauffer Cronley? And your father James D. Cronley Senior?”

“Ja, das ist richtig, Herr Oberst.”

“Who is A&M ’16, and president of Cronley Petroleum Company?” the colonel asked, now in English.

“Ja, das ist richtig, Herr Oberst.”

“Who won the Distinguished Service Cross with the Big Red One in France, and then volunteered for the Army of Occupation after the Armistice?” the major asked, in German.

“Ja, das ist richtig, Herr Major.”

“Where he met, wooed, and won over the lady who would become your mother?” the colonel asked.

“Ja, das ist richtig, Herr Oberst.”

“Tell me, Lieutenant, what do you know about the Counterintelligence Corps, the CIC?”

“I don’t know anything about it, sir,” Cronley confessed in English.

“Try saying that in German,” the colonel snapped, in German.

Cronley did so.

“Well, they’ll tell you all about it in Baltimore,” the colonel said, now in English.

“Entschuldigen Sie, bitte, Herr Oberst?”

“Congratulations, Lieutenant Cronley,” the colonel went on, in English. “Your application for transfer to the Counterintelligence Corps has been approved. Go pack your gear. And hurry up. We have a five-fifteen flight to Washington.”

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