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“And Tiny is—or would have been—’forty-five at Norwich. The next time we get together we’ll have to knock rings and sing ‘Army Blue’ and ‘The Aggie War Hymn’ and whatever the hell they sing at Norwich.”

“Tiny didn’t mention you knew each other.”

“Tiny, like you and General White, is Cavalry. I’ve always thought you Horse Soldiers had odd senses of humor.” He paused, and then said, “Your boss is a University of the South—Sewanee—graduate. I think their school song is ‘Jesus Loves Me.’”

Cronley laughed. And then he had a series of thoughts.

He’s now treating me as an equal.

Well, maybe not as an equal.

But as a fellow professional soldier.

What did he say about “knocking our rings”?

Maybe this is what this is all about.

Maybe I am destined to be a professional soldier.

God knows with the Squirt gone—Jesus Christ, she’s probably being buried today!—I can never go back to Midland.

“Well, put your new jacket on, and I’ll get Kurt Schröder in here,” Wilson said.

“My new jacket?” Cronley asked, and then understood. “The jacket with the wings.”

“Affirmative. I don’t want Kurt to think I’m turning the Storches over to someone who can’t fly.”

“Yes, sir.”

I’ll put the jacket on as ordered, but as soon as I get back to Kloster Grünau and can find a razor blade, the wings come off.

III

[ ONE ]

U.S. Army Airfield B-6

Sonthofen, Bavaria

American Zone of Occupation, Germany

1105 29 October 1945

A short, muscular blond man in his late twenties came into Wilson’s office. He looked very much, Cronley thought, like Willi Grüner. Even though this man was wearing baggy U.S. Army mechanic coveralls, which had been dyed black, it was easy for Cronley to imagine him in a Luftwaffe pilot’s uniform, with a brimmed cap jauntily cocked on his head.

“You sent for me, Colonel?” he asked, in heavily accented but what seemed like fluent English.

“This is the officer who’ll be taking over the Storches,” Wilson announced, and then added, “Kurt, I told you that was almost certainly going to happen.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Cronley, this is Kurt Schröder, the man I’ve been telling you about.”

Schröder bobbed his head courteously at Cronley.

“Cronley may be able to use you and your men,” Wilson said. “Why don’t you tell him something about yourself and them?”

“Yes, sir. Sir, I was a pilot in the Luftwaffe, where I flew the Fieseler Storch. The men—”