Authors: Walter J. Boyne
As they worked forward in the line down the handsome marble
halls, the usual high-decibel level of cocktail conversation declined.
Most of the group were military, the men with frozen smiles, their
wives looking anxious. As the group moved along the receiving line,
the tense silence was broken only by the mumbled introductions
that passed the guests from dignitary to dignitary. At the end of the
line, they could see Goering, jovial in a well-cut uniform of the new
Luftwaffe blue. He was of medium height, his rather long hair combed back, and not so much fat as heavyset. Behind him,
shorter, beautifully dressed in formal civilian attire, Adolf Hitler was
chatting casually with a young woman, holding her hand to detain her, gazing directly into her eyes as he spoke. Behind each man stood an interpreter.
Patty had squeezed Bandy's hand and whispered, "These men are
dangerous! They have cobra eyes!"
Yet Lindbergh and his wife had found them charming. The American air attache had shown them a photo taken at a luncheon, Goering in one of his wild chamois hunting outfits, Frau Goering
decked out in a gorgeous floor-length dress, the Lindberghs obvious
ly enjoying themselves. What had they seen that he and Patty had
not—or what had they missed? To know would help in the meeting
today.
The warrant officer's discreet cough brought Bandy back to real
ity, to the prospect of the imminent battle with Lindbergh. His
reports had differed significantly from those that Slim had rendered,
and an apparently outraged Lindbergh had demanded a face-to-face
meeting. Caldwell wouldn't permit either to read the other's report,
but gave them a brief summary that told Bandy that it was as if they
had visited two different worlds.
"You can go in now."
Bandfield snapped out of his reverie and walked into Caldwell's
office. Lindbergh stood up, but did not extend his hand.
"Well, Captain Bandfield, I wasn't aware that you were a foreign
affairs expert!"
"Wait a minute, Slim. I'm just saying what I saw."
Lindbergh sat down, looked directly at Caldwell. "Let's get this over with. I resent having someone sent to check my work. You
asked me to go to Europe, and I went. My report stands as written. If
you don't believe it, that is your privilege."
"Look, Colonel Lindbergh, I'd like to keep personalities out of this if I can."
"You can't. Bandfield has always been a minor Bolshevik, ever
since cadet days, and I suspect that has conditioned his report."
"Slim, that's not fair or true. What the hell has gotten into you?"
"It is both fair and true. Besides that, you don't have a basis for
comparison. You haven't been out of the country except for a trip to
South America."
"And Hawaii." It was a stupid correction, and Lindbergh's smile
was tightly superior.
"Ah yes, Hawaii, the famous industrial center."
"That's enough, gentlemen. Let's get on with it."
Caldwell referred to some notes.
"Let's talk about aircraft quality first. You both flew the Messer
schmitt and the Hurricane. I wish they'd let you fly the Spitfire. Slim, which was best?"
"The Messerschmitt, by a large margin."
"Bandy?"
"I'd agree that the Messerschmitt was perhaps a little more mod
ern than the Hurricane. But the Spitfire was clearly superior to them both."
"That's the sort of amateur response I resent. You can't tell anything about any airplane unless you fly it yourself!" As Lindbergh argued, he seemed to draw more into himself, to grow taller and leaner. His mouth was set and his eyes almost shut with the intensity of his anger.
"I disagree entirely! The RAF showed me the performance specs.
The Spitfire is a winner."
Shaking his head in mock exasperation, Lindbergh assumed a quiet, diplomatic tone. "One cannot always believe performance specs!" Then he rasped, "Look, you saw the Heinkel factory. They are demonstrating four prototypes—a bomber, a fighter, a dive
bomber, and a reconnaissance plane—all first-class. I defy you to
name another manufacturer in the world capable of such a display of technology."
Caldwell sighed. This was getting to be like a kids' fight. "What
about strengths and production figures? Slim?"
"My report is clear on that. Germany probably has six thousand
first-line combat planes today, and can produce, in wartime, at the rate of fifteen thousand or more per year."
"I strongly disagree, Slim. The training base wasn't there for an air force that big. I'd say they had half that number now, and no
more than a four thousand annual production rate even in wartime. "
Lindbergh's voice grew colder still. "Captain Bandfield, I saw
things that you were not privileged to see. I saw a duplicate un
derground factory, complete with equipment, offices, everything. There were even three pencils on each desk, sharpened, one hard, one medium, one soft."
"Jesus, Slim, they show that fake factory to everyone! It's a con
game."
The taller pilot stiffened with rage, infuriated both at being opposed and at the possibility that he had been duped. Once more Caldwell intervened. "The difference in production estimates is really crucial. Can we agree on something in between?"
Bandfield asserted himself. "I've run a factory, and I know what
can be done. I stand by my estimate."
"You are wrong. And events will prove you wrong. Germany has
done in four years what it took the United States nineteen years to do, what hasn't yet been done in England or France. They will roll over France and then defeat England from the air! You mark my words."
Caldwell was not enjoying the tension, and he decided to end the meeting soon. "Just a few more questions. What do you think of the
overall leadership, Colonel Lindbergh?"
"Goering is deceptive. He is genial and personable, but he is a hard-hitting executive, the kind who could run General Motors if he had to. Hitler is initially off-putting, but the more one sees and hears of him, the more impressive he is. Udet is a brilliant flyer, well qualified to run the technical development." He went on down
a list of officers, most of whom Bandfield had not met, commenting
favorably on almost all of them.
"Bandy?"
"It's hard for me to say; I only saw Hitler once, briefly. Goering I
met twice, but he didn't impress me as a businessman. I have to say
that my wife was distressed by what she saw in each of them—hired
killers."
Lindbergh was pained. "Now your wife is the expert, is that it? It's
utter nonsense to say that the German people would elect killers.
The Nazis didn't stage a revolution, you know, they came to power legally."
Bandfield spun. "Did you see the signs warning people about
shopping in Jewish stores? Did you see, as my wife and I did, a gang
of Brownshirts beating up a Jewish couple?"
"Straight Communist Party line, Bandfield. We have more problems with Negroes in the South than the Germans do with Jews.
Have you ever heard of a Jew being lynched like those colored boys
in the South? Besides, Hitler is right when he says that the Jews have
an unreasonable representation in the professions, in banking, in commerce. They have a stranglehold, and he's going to break it. I don't blame him at all."
Bandfield looked at him. There was no doubting Lindbergh's
sincerity or his patriotism. But he was so far off base, Bandfield
wondered what his real politics were—not Democratic or Republi
can, for sure.
Caldwell pressed on, weary, relentless. "And Udet?"
Bandfield hesitated. "A charmer, but technically incompetent. He is out of his depth, and knows it very well."
Lindbergh stood up.
"That is poppycock! Udet test-flies the aircraft personally! He shot
down sixty-two airplanes in the last war. Do you think for one moment that General Goering would put Udet in charge of something if he was not competent?"
The tall pilot's rage was translated into a nostril-ripping snort that
surprised and embarrassed him.
"Excuse me." He drew himself to his full height. "Colonel
Caldwell, if you are weighing Captain Bandfield's testimony equally
with mine, I'm afraid I'll have to ask to be excused. He is obviously
unaware of what is going on in Germany. My personal feeling is that Captain Bandfield is attempting to take some petty kind of revenge because I failed to buy an aircraft from his factory."
Bandfield's contained anger and resentment oozed out the seams.
"Jesus, Slim, you know that's not so. And since when are you an
expert on factories? You've been a hero so long you've forgotten what it is to actually do some work. You—"
"That's enough!" Caldwell's voice jarred them both. "I thought
we'd get some benefit out of a face-to-face meeting. I was wrong. You are both excused."
Lindbergh nodded and strode out. When Bandfield reached the door, Caldwell said, "Just a second, Bandy. Sorry about the argument. Can you stay another five minutes to talk about another subject?"
"Yeah, if I get to talk about one myself."
They eyed each other in the growing discomfort of his crowded office. The building's ancient coal-fired heating plant had failed again, and while they had argued a haunting graveyard cold had
seeped through the poorly fitted windows of the "temporary" build
ings put up in 1917.
Bandfield's anger began to subside. "I'm sorry I got sore, Henry, but the crack about the business really hurt." He grinned. "Partially
because he's not all wrong."
"You have to remember he's been through hell with the press, Bandy. You have to make allowances."
"I guess, but the thing that worries me is that they fooled him! He's a smart guy, and if they can fool him, they can fool most anybody."
Caldwell watched Bandfield's quick fuse gutter out. "How's mar
ried life?"
"It's okay—we've got some problems, but who doesn't?"
"Well, I hate to tell you, but you're going back to Europe. And this time Patty can't come."
"Jesus, Henry, she'll kill me. Where am I going, back to Germany?"
"No, Spain. You're going as Jorge Trego Gomez, a Spanish expatriate. You're going to fly with the Loyalists, check out the Russian equipment they're getting."
"Come on! I speak a little Spanish, but no one will believe I'm a Spaniard. And why me? Don't you have anybody else?"
Caldwell laughed. "Well, I sure as hell can't send Lindbergh! Besides, you've seen the German aircraft; it'll help you to evaluate what the Russians are using."
He paused, then went on, "Don't worry about the language. You
probably won't have to speak much Spanish, and it won't make any difference if they know you're American. Few of the Americans
volunteering for the Loyalists speak Spanish. It's just a dodge to get
you into Spain. Once you're there, nobody will care whether you're
Greek or Chinese. Everything will be greased, don't worry about it."
"No sense in arguing, is there?"
"None at all. I want you to go to New York, stay at the Waldorf just like you had good sense. They'll get in touch with you there."
"Well, I've got no job, and damn little money. Might as well." Bandfield tried to sound indifferent; inside he pulsed with excitement at the prospect. He thought about his father—he would be
pleased that his son was to fight on the Loyalist side. The way the world was, it was a wonder they didn't have him flying with the
Germans!
"Any chance that Hafner will be there with the Nationalists?"
"No idea. He'd be a natural, but we don't have personnel reports yet. I'll keep you posted if we hear anything."
Caldwell grinned and said, "Okay, that's my nickel. What's yours?"
"What is all this business about Patty making some sort of a secret
flight with Earhart?"
"Beats me. The only thing I know about the caper is not to know
anything at all. If I were you, I'd just butt out."
"Don't stall me, Henry. There's damn little that goes on in the Air Corps that you don't have a finger in, one way or another.'*
"Look, I'm telling you I don't know." He looked at Bandfield, and
grinned. "Ah, shit. Here it is. This is secret—don't talk about it with
anyone, not even Patty. Amelia asked for her. Amelia is a great
fair-weather pilot, I guess, Bandy, but she knows her limitations. She wants Patty along to help with the navigation and the radio work, and to make the heavyweight takeoffs."