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And those soldiers understood his German, making them more Argo-Germans?

Argo-German Nazis in the Argentine Army?

What the hell is going on here?

Two of the men in blue coveralls, each carrying a heavy iron hammer, trotted over to them.

“Major von Wachtstein will tell you what he needs done,” Herr Schmidt said.

“Jawohl, Herr Oberst,” the older of the two said, then saluted von Wachtstein.

Von Wachtstein crisply returned the Nazi salutes.

“What I need you to do, Stabsfeldwebel, is have your man drive these stakes so that I can make sure my airplane doesn’t get blown away.”

He pointed to the ground where he wanted the stakes driven.

“Jawohl, Herr Major,” the man said. He turned to the man with him and said, “You heard the Herr Major.”

And then he turned back to von Wachtstein. “Actually, it’s Oberfeldwebel, Herr Major.”

So, not sergeant major, but master sergeant.

Close enough. A sergeant.

Oh, you are clever, Hansel!

“How did you know he was a soldier, von Wachtstein?” Cranz asked.

And stupid, too.

“Well, before I was commissioned, Herr Standartenführer, I was an unterfeldwebel. Willi Grüner and I both were unterfeldwebels, commissioned the same day. One feldwebel can always recognize another, right, Oberfeldwebel? ”

The master sergeant smiled happily.

“I would say that’s so, Herr Major.”

“Willi Grüner?” Herr Schmidt said. “By chance, the son of our Oberst Grüner? I know he had a son in the Luftwaffe.”

“Yes,” von Wachtstein said simply. “The sad duty of telling him the circumstances of his father’s death fell to me in Berlin not long ago.”

Von Wachtstein exchanged a glance with Cranz.

So is this where the standartenführer decides that I really am a loyal officer?

Or that I am not, in which case Cranz takes out his Luger and shoots me?

No, probably not here. He’d have to drive back to Buenos Aires.

Maybe a little later—maybe when we’re back in Buenos Aires—when he can come up with a credible story. Maybe that he caught me trying to tell the enemy about this operation.

“Oberst Grüner died for the Fatherland, for National Socialism,” Schmidt said. “I am proud that he was my friend.”

“I regret that, while I did know him, I cannot claim to have been his friend,” Cranz said. “But back to duty. Major von Wachtstein said that if there had been a windsock, our landing would have been safer.”

“You will have to understand, Herr Major, that I am an officer of mountain troops and know very little about aircraft.”

“A windsock indicates to the pilot how the wind is blowing,” von Wachtstein explained.

“I suspect that this will not be the last time we will meet on a windy beach,” Cranz said. “Have a windsock the next time.”

“Jawohl, Herr Standartenführer. I assure you that omission will not happen again,” Schmidt said.

“See that it doesn’t,” Cranz said. He then smiled and asked, “I hope you did give some thought to our lunch?”

Schmidt pointed to an area behind the trucks, where von Wachtstein saw a tent fly had been erected over a folding wooden table.

“It is not much, Herr Standartenführer, but it will stave off starvation.”

It turned out to be sort of an Argo-German picnic lunch, served from insulated containers whose markings made it clear they belonged to the Argentine army. They were painted a dark olive drab, showed signs of frequent and hard use, and had serial numbers stenciled on them in white.

They contained empanadas, knockwurst and sauerkraut, leberwurst, butter and condiments, kaiser rolls, and loaves of rye bread of a kind von Wachtstein hadn’t seen since leaving Germany. It was all served on a white tablecloth by a young man in blue workman’s coveralls.

Von Wachtstein refused both beer and wine, saying he had to fly.

When lunch was over and the table cleared, another map was produced.

“Be so good as to explain to Major von Wachtstein his role in the operation, ” Cranz ordered.

“Jawohl, Herr Standartenführer,” Schmidt said. He used a pencil to point at the map. “The U-405 is here, Herr Major, just outside Argentine waters. In other words, twenty-one kilometers; twenty to comply with maritime law, plus one kilometer as a safety factor. Our last communication with it—”

“The Kriegsmarine would say ‘her,’ ” Cranz corrected.