“Yes. Your Flying Fortress—B-17?”
Clete nodded.
“…is formidable.”
“We have a saying—about pilots and watches—that you can always tell a B-17 pilot in the shower. He’s the one with the big watch and the small prick.”
He had to explain “prick” to Peter, the Mexican-Spanish vulgarism not being the same as the Spanish-Spanish; but eventually Peter laughed appreciatively.
I’m running off at the mouth, Clete thought, somewhat alarmed, which means I’m getting drunk. Why? I’ve only had three of these. What I should do, obviously, is politely tell mine enemy “good night,” go to bed, and sort this all out in the morning. To hell with it. We have a gentleman’s agreement that it’s Christmas Eve, and I like this guy.
He picked up the cognac bottle, poured some in Peter’s glass, and then refilled his own.
“I will not ask what an American Air Force officer is doing in Argentina,” Peter said.
“Thank you,” Clete said quickly. “An ex-officer. And I was a Marine, not in the Air Corps.”
“A Marine? What is a Marine?”
“Soldiers of the sea,” Clete said.
“Ah, yes. I have heard of the Marines. An elite force. They are like our SS.”
“An elite force,” Clete said coldly. “But not at goddamn all like your SS.”
Their eyes locked again.
“There is propaganda on both sides in a war,” Peter said. “Some of the SS—perhaps most—are fine soldiers.”
“I think we better change the subject, Peter.”
“And some are despicable scum,” Peter went on.
“I know why you’re here,” Clete said. “You escorted Jorge Duarte’s body, right?”
Peter nodded, then said, “My father arranged it. He wanted me out of the war, out of Germany.”
Gott, I must be drunk! Peter thought. Why did I tell him that?
“I don’t understand.”
“I lost my two brothers, and my mother, in this war,” Peter said. “My father wanted to preserve the family.”
“I’m sorry,” Clete said.
That was sincere, Peter thought. He meant that.
“Just before you came in here, I was wondering, with the assistance of Herr Martel”—he held up his brandy snifter—“if I have done the honorable thing.”
“You said your father arranged it. Could you have stopped him?”
“I was wondering about that too. I didn’t try.”
“I was glad to get off of Guadalcanal,” Clete said. “I figured I was running out of percentages.”
“Excuse me?”
“You can only go up and come down in one piece so many times,” Clete said. “Eventually, you don’t come back. We call it the percentage.”