“Who?”
“The President’s Chief of Staff,” Graham said. “I think what we should do now, Clete, is go take a look at the charts.”
“Where are we going to get charts?”
“According to the Navy, the Alfred Thomas has the most recent charts available.”
“She was supposed to arrive here today,” Clete said.
“She arrived at 0500 this morning,” Graham said.
Clete’s eyebrows rose, but he didn’t say anything.
“She has, under the Geneva Convention, seventy-two hours to refuel and leave Argentinean waters. If she leaves slowly, maybe she can take soundings of the Bay of Samborombón that will answer the question of whether we can bring a submarine in there or not. A submarine is on the way.”
“Jesus!”
“Is there any reason you can’t come with me to the Alfred Thomas?”
“Give me ten minutes to get dressed.”
His conversation with Colonel A. J. Graham, USMCR, so distracted First Lieutenant Cletus H. Frade, USMCR, that he completely forgot the visitor in his apartment. When he returned to his apartment and found the visitor—clad only in one of his shirts, mostly unbuttoned—sitting on his bed combing her hair, he there-upon became so distracted that he completely forgot Colonel Graham was in the foyer, expecting his momentary return. Consequently, Colonel Graham was forced to cool his heels for thirty-five minutes before Lieutenant Frade returned to the foyer, neatly dressed, though bearing on his neck what looked to Colonel Graham like the teeth marks of another human being. This is sometimes called a “love hickey.”
[TWO]
Dársena “B”
Puerto de Buenos Aires
1715 24 December 1942
Getting past the Armada Argentina and Policía Federal guards to Dársena “B”—Wharf “B”—where the USS Alfred Thomas, DD-107, was docked proved considerably easier than getting past the two U.S. Marines, in dress uniform, stationed on the wharf barring access to her gangplank.
“I’m sorry, Señores,” the Marine buck sergeant said, politely but firmly, in not bad Spanish, “but the vessel is not open to visitors.”
“It’s all right, son,” Graham said, producing an ID card. “I’m Colonel Graham, and this is Lieutenant Frade.”
“Sir, I’m sorry, but my orders are that no visitors are allowed aboard.”
“Your orders from whom, Sergeant?”
“From the officer of the deck, Sir,” the Marine said, nodding his head toward an ensign in dress whites standing by the gangway.
“Son, you think about this. Who would you rather have pissed at you? A wet-behind-the-ears ensign or a Marine colonel?”
“If the Colonel will tell the sergeant where he wishes to go aboard the vessel, Sir, the sergeant will be happy to escort him.”
“We’re here to see the Captain, Sergeant.”
“If the Colonel will follow me, Sir? The Captain is on the bridge, Sir.”
The Marine walked up the gangplank. An ensign in dress whites and a sailor stood by a table.
“Sir,” the Marine barked, “a colonel, United States Marine Corps, and a lieutenant, United States Marine Corps, request permission to come aboard, Sir.”
The Ensign looked baffled, and made no reply.
“You’re not considering withholding that permission, are you, Mister?” Graham asked.