“Now I want to know what the hell’s going on,” Frade said.
“I recognize that voice. You’re the guy on the radio,” Dooley accused. “You’re the wiseass who called me Little Brother!”
“I plead guilty to both charges and throw myself on the mercy of the court,” Frade said.
“I wondered what that Little Brother business was all about,” von Wachtstein said.
“As a fighter pilot, Colonel Dooley,” Frade said, “I’m surprised you don’t know that the wings of your P-38 are a minor design variant of the wings of a Constellation. Hence ‘Little Brother.’”
“What do you know about what fighter pilots should know, wiseass?” Dooley exploded.
“Well, I agree with those who say most of them should not be allowed in public without their psychiatric nurses,” Frade said, smiled, and sipped his whiskey.
“With certain exceptions, of course,” von Wachtstein chimed in.
“Fuck you, too!” Dooley exploded.
Frade and von Wachtstein laughed.
“Before this gets any further out of hand, Colonel Dooley,” Mattingly said, “for your general fund of knowledge, I think I should tell you that these gentlemen are pulling your chain.”
Dooley was Irish. Once his ire was ignited, it did not go out easily.
“Meaning what?” Dooley demanded.
“They are—or were—fighter pilots.”
“And then we grew up and they let us fly real airplanes,” Frade said.
He and von Wachtstein laughed again.
“That one,” Mattingly said, pointing to von Wachtstein, “received the Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross from the Führer himself for his services as a fighter pilot. And that one”—he pointed to Frade—“had seven, I believe they’re called ‘meatballs,’ painted on the nose of his Grumman Wildcat.”
Dooley looked at Frade.
“No shit?” he asked. “Seven Jap kills?”
Frade nodded, then said, “But no convertibles. What the hell was that on your nose?”
“None of your fucking business,” Dooley flared anew.
“What did you do, pop some poor bastard out for a Sunday drive?” Frade pursued.
“Go fuck yourself,” Dooley said.
“All right, enough!” Mattingly said. “I’ll stand you all to attention, if that’s what I have to do.”
Dooley looked at von Wachtstein and said, “You’re telling me he was a Kraut fighter pilot? What the fuck . . . ?”
“Stand to attention, Colonel!” Mattingly ordered. “I said enough.”
“I’d like to know about the convertible,” von Wachtstein said, his tone of voice no longer joking or mocking.
“Go fuck yourself,” Dooley said.
“You’re at attention, Colonel!” Mattingly said, coldly furious. “You say one more word without permission and I’ll send you back to General Halebury under arrest pending trial for insubordination!”
Dooley stood to attention.