involved with Elsie—he'd told Bandy privately that he wanted to marry her. He was talking about having children and Elsie hadn't even consented to an engagement. Bandfield worried that Caldwell was going to trip himself up. It was stupid to have an affair with the "personal assistant" of the president of an airplane company he was doing business with, yet Caldwell seemed to feel he could manage it. Bandfield was certain that Elsie would exploit the relationship.
Caldwell needed to be careful. The Air Corps was growing, bringing in young, ambitious hotshots eager to make general. And it was no different than any other organization—there would be sharks circling Caldwell, especially now that his influence had spread so far.
Recognized as Hap Arnold's right-hand man—although his help getting Arnold his position was not generally known—Caldwell had a moral authority far beyond his rank, gained by his knack for reaching across organizational boundaries. Caldwell had not just done people favors—he'd gone out of his way to create situations where he could do them. He had markers from the right people everywhere, and he used them judiciously as he imprinted his personality on the entire Air Corps. Perhaps his infatuation with Elsie was good, a sign that he was, after all, a mere mortal, not like the comic strip guy, Superman.
Patty groaned, and he picked up her hand. "I felt something move, Bandy—you'd better get the doctor." Two hours later, a baby boy was born, six pounds and four ounces of red-faced fighting fury. Bandy loved the sight of him, his little features compressed into prunelike wrinkles, tiny blue eyes peeping out at the strange new world, lungs loudly protesting the strange new order of things. Bandy had already picked out a name for his son: George Roget Bandfield—George for his father, whom he still loved deeply despite his desertion, and Roget for his best friend. Later, he sat again at Patty's bedside as she slept, happier than he'd ever been, aware of just how lucky he was.
*
Cottbus, Germany/July 13, 1940
Captain Helmut Josten felt that he was the unluckiest man in Germany. The woman he loved wouldn't marry him, and he was being dragged down a gravel path by a fat little Nazi to a meeting for which he didn't even know the reason. Behind them, the entourage of staff officers were struggling out of the convoy of flag-decked Mercedes sedans to stretch their legs.
Honorary SS Obergruppenfuehrer Kurt Weigand was almost running to stay ahead of Josten's crisp military stride. From the back he looked like a gingerbread man, so short that the tip of his SS ceremonial sword dragged in the crushed gravel of the path. Weigand's hand continually caressed the Hitler-duplicate mustache underneath the bobbed fleshy knob that was his nose. In 1916, during the first attack on Fort Douamont at Verdun, a French trenching spade had smashed into his face, breaking his nose and cheekbones, and knocking out his front teeth. The spade had provided the only angular relief to an otherwise perfectly round head and body. Almost bald, his remaining hair close-cropped, Weigand was essentially featureless—except for his eyes, which hinted at the complexity of his personality. When he spoke, their pale blue gleamed with the expectant happiness of a new puppy. Yet those same eyes were never still, always moving and recording, continuously assessing the value of every person and every event to himself.
Josten tried to get a feel for the meeting. "Sir, you flew with the Director in the World War, did you not?"
"Yes. After Verdun I was no longer fit for duty in the trenches, so they let me train as a pilot. That's the way they did things in those days—they felt you didn't need to be well to fly. We flew in the Richthofen Geschwader, through the great early days of 1918—and the sad last days, too. I've not seen him since. What unit are you with?"
"Jagdgeschwader 26; we're stationed on the Channel coast."
"You know the
Caldwell needed to be careful. The Air Corps was growing, bringing in young, ambitious hotshots eager to make general. And it was no different than any other organization—there would be sharks circling Caldwell, especially now that his influence had spread so far.
Recognized as Hap Arnold's right-hand man—although his help getting Arnold his position was not generally known—Caldwell had a moral authority far beyond his rank, gained by his knack for reaching across organizational boundaries. Caldwell had not just done people favors—he'd gone out of his way to create situations where he could do them. He had markers from the right people everywhere, and he used them judiciously as he imprinted his personality on the entire Air Corps. Perhaps his infatuation with Elsie was good, a sign that he was, after all, a mere mortal, not like the comic strip guy, Superman.
Patty groaned, and he picked up her hand. "I felt something move, Bandy—you'd better get the doctor." Two hours later, a baby boy was born, six pounds and four ounces of red-faced fighting fury. Bandy loved the sight of him, his little features compressed into prunelike wrinkles, tiny blue eyes peeping out at the strange new world, lungs loudly protesting the strange new order of things. Bandy had already picked out a name for his son: George Roget Bandfield—George for his father, whom he still loved deeply despite his desertion, and Roget for his best friend. Later, he sat again at Patty's bedside as she slept, happier than he'd ever been, aware of just how lucky he was.
*
Cottbus, Germany/July 13, 1940
Captain Helmut Josten felt that he was the unluckiest man in Germany. The woman he loved wouldn't marry him, and he was being dragged down a gravel path by a fat little Nazi to a meeting for which he didn't even know the reason. Behind them, the entourage of staff officers were struggling out of the convoy of flag-decked Mercedes sedans to stretch their legs.
Honorary SS Obergruppenfuehrer Kurt Weigand was almost running to stay ahead of Josten's crisp military stride. From the back he looked like a gingerbread man, so short that the tip of his SS ceremonial sword dragged in the crushed gravel of the path. Weigand's hand continually caressed the Hitler-duplicate mustache underneath the bobbed fleshy knob that was his nose. In 1916, during the first attack on Fort Douamont at Verdun, a French trenching spade had smashed into his face, breaking his nose and cheekbones, and knocking out his front teeth. The spade had provided the only angular relief to an otherwise perfectly round head and body. Almost bald, his remaining hair close-cropped, Weigand was essentially featureless—except for his eyes, which hinted at the complexity of his personality. When he spoke, their pale blue gleamed with the expectant happiness of a new puppy. Yet those same eyes were never still, always moving and recording, continuously assessing the value of every person and every event to himself.
Josten tried to get a feel for the meeting. "Sir, you flew with the Director in the World War, did you not?"
"Yes. After Verdun I was no longer fit for duty in the trenches, so they let me train as a pilot. That's the way they did things in those days—they felt you didn't need to be well to fly. We flew in the Richthofen Geschwader, through the great early days of 1918—and the sad last days, too. I've not seen him since. What unit are you with?"
"Jagdgeschwader 26; we're stationed on the Channel coast."
"You know the
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