Death and Honor

“You didn’t get the word that no one was to attempt to speak to these gentlemen? To communicate in any way with them?” Second Lieutenant Leonard Fischer, Signal Corps, demanded rather nastily.

“Huh?”

“The response I expect from you, Captain, is ‘Yes, sir’ or ‘No, sir.’ Now, which is it?”

“No, sir. I didn’t hear anything about anything like that.”

“Well, now you have,” Fischer said.

“Yes, sir.”

“I suggest that on your way to your quarters, you spread the word.”

“Yes, sir.”

The two captains and the lieutenant made a beeline for the door.

Fischer turned to Hughes and Frade.

“Now, what are you two doing in here? You were told to be as inconspicuous as possible.”

"We were going to have a drink in our room, Major,” Clete said. “But they wouldn’t sell us a bottle or let us take glasses from the bar.”

“Well, if you insist on drinking, you’ll have to do it in your quarters,” Fischer said. “Go to them now. I will bring you something to drink. You understand I’ll have to tell the colonel about this.”

Five minutes later, the MP major, carrying a bottle of rye whiskey, glasses, and a small tin bucket full of ice, walked into BOQ Room 7, which was being shared by Frade and Hughes.

“A little warm in here, isn’t it?” the MP said.

“Howard, say hello to Second Lieutenant Len Fischer of the Signal Corps,” Frade said.

Hughes did not appear to be surprised to learn Fischer was neither a major nor an MP. The two wordlessly shook hands.

“Actually, it’s first lieutenant,” Fischer said. “As of two days ago.”

Hughes relieved Fischer of the bottle of whiskey and the glasses and began to pour.

“You are going to tell us where you got the MP uniform? And the major’s leaf?” Frade asked.

“At Fort Myer,” Fischer said. “Early this morning. Two guys from the OSS showed up at Vint Hill Farms with a letter of instructions and the photographs we took of the Froggers at Casa Chica—”

“Where?” Hughes interrupted.

“Casa Chica,” Frade explained, “a small estancia where we’ve stashed the Froggers.” He turned to Fischer and asked, “What instructions?”

“The letter said I was to go to Camp Clinton, as an MP major, give the photographs to Colonel Frogger, say nothing, answer no questions, and wait for him there.”

“You’ve seen Frogger?” Clete asked.

Fischer nodded. Hughes handed him a drink.

“What’s he like?”

“More like his father than his mother. Smaller than I expected him to be. Anyway, they took me to the MP battalion at Fort Myer, got me suited up like this, and then took me to Bolling Air Force Base, loaded me on a B-26—that was an experience—and flew me down here.

“A light colonel from Camp Clinton met me, and took me out there, and put me together with Frogger. They had him in a room in a small wooden building. He had a duffel bag with him.”

“And?” Clete asked.

“I did what Colonel Graham’s letter said to do. I walked in and saluted, and said, in German, ‘Colonel Frogger, I have been instructed to give you these photographs, ’ and gave them to him. They shook him up, obviously, and he asked what was going on. I told him he would be informed in good time, saluted him again, and left. And waited for Colonel Graham to show up.”

“You think he recognized you in the pictures?” Clete said. “You were in civvies.”

Fischer shrugged, then took a close look at Hughes.

“You’re Howard Hughes,” he said.

“Yeah, I know,” Hughes said.

“The pilot, the movie guy,” Fischer went on.

“Right again, Len,” Frade said. “You have just won the cement bicycle for celebrity spotting. Give him your autograph, Howard.”

Hughes gave Frade the finger.

“What are you doing here?” Fischer asked.

“The same thing you are, pal,” Hughes said. “Waiting for Graham to tell me what to do.”

“Welcome to the OSS, Len,” Frade said.

“You’re in the OSS?” Fischer asked Hughes.

“Sometimes it feels that way, but, technically, no.”

“And I am?” Fischer asked.

“I don’t know if you are, technically,” Frade said. “But if I had to bet, I’d say you are.”

“I’m out of Vint Hill Farms? Out of the ASA?”

“I think when this is over,” Frade said, “Graham will send you back there. You’re very useful there. Unless something unexpected comes up, of course, and something unexpected will probably come up.”

“So what happens now?” Fischer asked.

Now Frade shrugged.

“I know not what course others may take,” Hughes intoned solemnly, “but as for me, give me rye whiskey when bourbon and scotch are not available.”

He reached for the bottle.

Colonel A. F. Graham came into BOQ Room 7 ninety minutes later, just as Howard Hughes was shaking the last drops of the rye whiskey into his glass.

“You’re out of luck, Alex, the booze is all gone,” Hughes said.

“You two are going to have to fly tomorrow,” Graham said. “And you’re drinking?”

“Only this one bottle,” Hughes said. “And it was nowhere near full when Len here brought it to us.”

Graham didn’t reply. He turned to Frade.

“I really wish you had a uniform. And a haircut. But there wasn’t time, so we’ll have to go with what we have.”

“Go where? And what do we have?” Frade asked.