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When Cronley didn’t reply, Wilson added, “Apropos of nothing, I was the aerial taxi driver who flew Major Wallace to accept General Gehlen’s surrender.”

Cronley nodded. “That being the case, sir, I’m going to run Schröder past Mannberg first, and then maybe past the general, too.”

“You’re good, Cronley. I now understand why Mattingly put you in charge of Kloster Grünau.”

“He put me in charge because he had no one else, sir, and because the guy who should be running it, Tiny, passed up a commission for the good of the service.”

“Modesty becomes you, but that’s not the way it was. What I said before, that you’re good, was a sincere compliment. Now comes the fatherly advice of a senior officer, welcome or not.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Prefacing this with the immodest announcement that I am, by thirteen months, the senior officer of the Class of 1940—in other words, I got my silver oak leaves thirteen months before the second guy in ’forty got his—and thus know what I’m talking about . . .”

He stopped, collected his thoughts, and then went on: “The disadvantages of getting rank and or authority and responsibility before your peers get it are that it (a) goes to your head, and (b) makes people jealous, which (c) causes them to try like hell to knock you back to their level by fair and—more often—foul means.

“The advantages of getting rank, et cetera, mean that you can do things for the good of the service that otherwise you could not do. And that’s what we professional soldiers are supposed to do, isn’t it? Make contributions to the good of the service? Lecture over.”

“Thank you, sir,” Cronley said softly.

“Get out of here, Cronley. Hie thee to thy monastery!”

Cronley came to attention and saluted crisply. Wilson returned it as crisply. Cronley executed an about-face movement and marched to the office door.

[ TWO ]

Kloster Grünau

Schollbrunn, Bavaria

American Zone of Occupation, Germany

1235 29 October 1945

Two machine gun jeeps were blocking the road, and Cronley had to make two low-level passes over what was to be his runway—very low and very slow passes, with the window open so they could see his face—before the jeeps started up and moved out of the way.

He put the Storch down smoothly, taxied to the end of the “runway,” and shut down the engine.

“It would appear that I have cheated death once again,” he said to Schröder.

Schröder’s expression did not change.

“May I ask where we are?” Schröder said.

“No.”

Tiny walked toward the airplane. Cronley made a slight hand signal to him, which he hoped would make Dunwiddie salute him and—more important—play the respectful role of a non-com dealing with an officer.

Dunwiddie understood. He saluted crisply and Cronley returned it.

“Two things, Sergeant,” Cronley ordered. “Have your men push the aircraft off the strip, and then have them put a tarpaulin over it. And then get someone to escort this gentleman while he’s here.”

“Yes, sir,” Dunwiddie said, and gestured for one of the jeeps to come to them.

When the jeep stopped before him, Dunwiddie pointed to the machine gunner, a corporal, and ordered: “You will escort this gentleman until you are relieved.”

“You got it, First Sergeant.”

Dunwiddie pointed to the driver.