“Come along where?” Kennedy asked.
Canidy ignored the question.
“We’ll get you back however we get Douglass back,” Canidy said.
“I really would like no more than an hour of Major Douglass’s time right here and now,” Kennedy said.
“That’s not one of your options,” Canidy said. “Come or not, suit yourself.”
“This is official business,” Kennedy bluffed.
“No, it’s not,” Canidy said. “Doug is supposed to brief you people on Friday. You’re jumping the gun, Kennedy.”
Kennedy’s face again registered surprise at Canidy’s detailed knowledge of the project. Canidy saw it.
“Never lie to Canidy the Omniscient,” he said. “You coming or not?”
“I’m coming,” Kennedy said after a moment.
Chapter TWO
Whitbey House,
Kent, England
1015 Hours 25 December 1942
As Lt. Colonel Edmund T. Stevens and Captain Stanley S. Fine stepped out of a 1942 Ford four-door staff car at the entrance to Whitbey House, they were somewhat disconcerted by the roar of aircraft engines. They looked around for the source of the noise and spotted a B-25 Mitchell twin-engine bomber emerging from the cloud cover at about 1,000 feet.
Lt. Colonel Stevens was not pleased: The B-25 was attempting to land on the dirt runway built before the war by His Grace the Duke of Stanfield for his personal aircraft, a four-passenger single-engine Cessna. Engineering officers of the Eighth United States Air Force had recently examined the field in some detail. Their judgment was that the single runway was too short and too close to Whitbey House itself to be used by anything larger than single-engine observation aircraft. Furthermore, the experts said, improvement of the field was not feasible, because of the topography of the land. The strip could not be lengthened at the north-northeast end because of Whitbey House, nor at the south-southwest end because of the River Naer, whose steep banks were 135 yards from the end of the runway.
The experts had concluded that the field did not meet minimum safety standards even for an emergency landing strip and that it should thus be marked at both ends with at least fifty-foot-high X’s (whitewashed rocks were recommended) to warn aircraft commanders of the hazard.
There was no doubt in Lt. Colonel Stevens’s mind that the B-25 attempting to sit down on the closed and hazardous runway was the one that (not without difficulty) Dick Canidy had recently procured on indefinite loan from the Eighth United States Air Force and that Dick Canidy was flying it.
Why? No flights of the B-25 had been scheduled or authorized. It was supposed to be sitting in a revetment on the U.S. Army Air Corps base at East Grinstead, some thirty miles away.
A look at Captain Fine told Colonel Stevens that Fine had been considering the same possibilities, and was worried.
Worried not only that Canidy was attempting a dangerous landing, but more important (should he survive it) that he was about to be caught with his pants down by the Deputy Chief of the London Station of the OSS.
Colonel Stevens chose not to play the outraged senior officer. He pretended he’d never heard the B-25, prayed for Canidy’s safety, and walked inside the house and waited.
He was greeted at the door by Lieutenant Jamie Jamison and Captain the Duchess Stanfield, WRAC, who he suspected were considerably less than glad to see him, at this moment, than they attempted to be. Lt. Colonel Stevens did not ask about the present whereabouts of Major Canidy, nor did Lieutenant Jamison or Captain Stanfield volunteer any information.
Lt. Colonel Stevens and Captain Fine were led into the refectory of the mansion, where thirty officers and enlisted men who were undergoing training as OSS agents had gathered for a pre-Christmas-dinner drink. A huge silver punch bowl had been set up at a table, and everyone was holding a silver mug.
There was an Army tradition that the commanding officer of a unit and his staff took Christmas dinner with the troops. Whitbey House OSS station was not a line company, of course, and Stevens was not the battalion commander. But he was the senior commissioned officer of the OSS in England (Station Chief David Bruce was a civilian), and Stevens felt that his place was here.
When it was immediately evident that the trainees were pleased to see him, he knew that he had made the right choice.
Lt. Colonel Stevens and Captain Fine were offered, and took, a glass of punch. The taste was familiar to Lt. Colonel Stevens. It was Artillery Punch. One of the trainees had served in the prewar Artillery and come forth with the recipe. There were shortly going to be, Stevens knew, some very drunk people in this room, and tomorrow morning some monumental hangovers. Artillery Punch was judged by the smoothness with which it went down and by the jolt one got a few minutes later. This was, in his expert opinion, very good Artillery Punch.
He decided against warning Captain Fine of its potency. It might be good for Captain Fine to get a little drunk—both because it was Christmas and because it was good to know how people behaved when drunk. In vino veritas had a special meaning for those in the intelligence business.
Captain Fine was on his third glass—a little red in the face and silly of smile—and Lt. Colonel Stevens was still delicately sipping his first when Major Canidy appeared in the refectory. He was accompanied by Captain James M. B. Whittaker, which was not surprising, and by Major Peter Douglass, Jr., which was. But this explained what Canidy had been doing with the B-25. He had used it to fetch Major Douglass.
But what was really surprising was the presence of Lieutenant Joseph P. Kennedy, Jr., USNR. Stevens wondered where the hell Canidy had found him, and why he had brought him to Whitbey House.
Two days before, Canidy had decided that it would be nice to have Major Douglass at the Christmas dinner at Whitbey House. Douglass was close to going over the edge (the “incident” at Eighth Air Force headquarters was all the proof needed of that). And, because of his father, Douglass was one of the two exceptions (Ann Chambers was the other) to the rule that visitors to Whitbey House were absolutely proscribed.
But when Canidy called young Douglass at Atcham to offer him a ride, Douglass told him the base commander had restricted everyone to the base over Christmas. The Eighth Air Force was determined to nip in the bud a recently surfaced British resentment toward their American cousins. As in: Americans are “overpaid, oversexed, and over here.”
The base commander had decided it would not be in the best interests of Allied goodwill to turn loose his several thousand overpaid and oversexed officers and enlisted men to drown their homesickness on Christmas in English pubs. He had arranged activities for them on the base.
“If I wasn’t the group commander,” Douglass told him candidly, “I’d go over the fence. But I’m stuck, I’m afraid.”
Canidy actually winced when he saw Lt. Colonel Stevens. Then Canidy shrugged, and walked over to face the music.
Completely out of character, Captain Fine threw an affectionate arm around Canidy’s shoulders and asked,“How the hell are you, buddy?”
Canidy and Stevens smiled.
“Been at the punch, have you, Stanley?” Canidy asked.
“Noël, Noël,” Fine said happily.
“I’m happy,” Lt. Colonel Stevens said, “if a little surprised to see you, Major Douglass.”
“There I was, snug in my own little bed, minding my own business,” Douglass said. “When out of the blue—actually, it was out of the gray overcast—came Canidy in his airplane. He told the base commander I had been summoned to a briefing of VIPs. The base commander was very impressed.”
“I believe you know Lieutenant Kennedy, Colonel?” Canidy said innocently.
“Hello, Joe,” Stevens said. “It goes without saying that I’m more than a little surprised to see you here, too.”
“Major Canidy gave me the option of talking to Major Douglass here, or not talking to him at all,” Kennedy said.
“As you seem to have already learned,” Stevens said, “Canidy ofte
n does annoying things.” He turned his face to Canidy. “Was it smart to bring that airplane here, Dick?” he asked evenly.
“I didn’t have any choice,” Canidy said. “When I went to Wincanton, the MP at the gate told me that once I went on the base, I was restricted to it until December 26. Something to do with keeping the barbarians away from the natives at Christmas.”
“I thought this field was unsafe,” Stevens said.
“I wouldn’t want to try to take off with a load of bombs,” Canidy said, “but empty, it’s all right.”
Stevens reminded himself then that Canidy was not a fool. Not only that, he was an aeronautical engineer who fully understood the “flight envelope” of B-25 aircraft. Before he had decided to land the B-25 at Whitbey House, he had convinced himself that it could be done safely. Flight safety restrictions were based on the worst scenario, a fully loaded aircraft piloted by an aviator of no more than ordinary skill and experience.
According to the book, Canidy had made an unauthorized flight for personal reasons (which, making it worse, included aiding and abetting an officer to go AWOL), during which he had landed an aircraft on a field he knew had been officially declared unsafe. And he had brought with him an officer who was not (at least yet) cleared to visit Whitbey House.
According to the book, he should be tried by court-martial, if for no other reason than to set an example pour les autres.
There was another way to look at it: A highly skilled pilot had made a short hop to pick up a buddy, a buddy who had lost thirteen of the twenty-eight young pilots he had led on a suicidal assault on the German submarine pens at Saint-Lazare. Stevens decided, therefore, to forget the whole thing.
And so far as young Joe Kennedy was concerned, he was to have been told on Friday anyhow that overall responsibility for the flying bomb project had been assigned to the OSS.
“I’m dying to know what’s going on in this place, Colonel,” Kennedy said,“but I’m afraid to ask.”
“We were going to bring you here on Friday anyway,” Stevens said. “Canidy just pushed up the schedule a little.”
“Can I ask what’s ‘here’?”
“Whitbey House is under the Office of Strategic Services,” Stevens said, “which is under your father’s old pal Colonel Bill Donovan.”
“And I was to be brought here, you said?”
“OSS has taken over the ‘take out the Saint-Lazare sub pens’ project,” Stevens said, “to settle the squabble between the Air Corps and the Navy about who should do it and how. Canidy’s the action officer.”
That was the official version, but it wasn’t the entire truth. Canidy had gone to Stevens and told him he had heard about the flying bomb project: There was no question in his mind that when the Germans started to produce jet aircraft engines, they would do so in plants as well-protected as the submarine pens. Which meant that he wanted to get in on the ground floor of the project.
Stevens had agreed with that and taken the proposal to David Bruce. Bruce had gone to Eisenhower that same afternoon; and Ike, over the objections of the Navy and the Air Corps, had turned the flying-bomb project over to the OSS.
“So that’s how you knew so much about me,” Kennedy said to Canidy.
“I liked it better when you thought maybe I really was omniscient,” Canidy said. He looked at his watch. “We’ve got an hour or so before dinner. You want to talk now, or would you rather wait until we’re a little drunk, and stuffed with the roast beef of Merrie Olde England?”
“Now,” Kennedy said.
Douglass shrugged, accepting the inevitable.
One of the trainees had found the piano. Over the murmur of conversation, "O Little Town of Bethlehem” could be faintly heard.
“Kennedy,” Canidy said,“when Doug tells you what you’re facing at Saint-Lazare, and when you tell Doug about your B-17s full of Torpex”—a new, very powerful British-developed explosive—“you both may wish you were soused.”
“Christ!” Kennedy said softly.
“Something wrong, Joe?” Stevens asked.
“I guess I’m just surprised to hear discussed so openly what I thought was a secret,” Kennedy said.
“I’m glad you brought that up,” Stevens said.
“Sir?”
“Although he certainly has given you cause to think otherwise,” Stevens said, “Canidy is not a complete fool, nor does he play footloose and fancy-free with security. Everyone within hearing is involved in this project, and cleared appropriately. But no one else here is. You understand?”
“Yes, sir,” Kennedy said.
"And you understand, of course, Kennedy,” Canidy said, “that that was a none-too-subtle reprimand?”
“Don’t push your luck, Dick!” Stevens snapped. “Damn it, sometimes you go too far!’’
Stevens held Canidy in an icy glance for a long moment, until Canidy said,“I’m sorry, Colonel. I guess I do.”
“Guess?” Stevens snapped.
Here was another icy pause, then Stevens said,“I suppose the best place to talk is in your apartment, Dick. Shall we go there?”
“Yes, sir,” Canidy said. He sounded genuinely contrite.
As they started out of the room, Stevens became aware that conversation in the hall had died down and that the trainees were now singing along with the piano. Eyes were on them, and he thought he saw disappointment—and perhaps displeasure—in them that the brass was walking out on the Christmas carols.
He put his hand on Canidy’s arm.
“Don’t say anything smart, Dick,” he said softly. “Just turn around and sing.”
Canidy met his eyes for a moment and nodded.
They sang "O Little Town of Bethlehem” and “Good King Wenceslaus,” and as they were singing “Away in a Manger,” Ann Chambers, in her war correspondent’s uniform, came into the refectory, walked up to Canidy, kissed him on the mouth (which introduced applause into the caroling), and then stood with her arm around him.
They sang until it was time for dinner.
After dinner they went to Canidy’s apartment and discussed killing the enemy.
Chapter THREE
Schloss Steighofen Hesse, Germany
28 December 1942
Beatrice, Countess Batthyany and Baroness von Steighofen, woke shivering, her arms wrapped over her large, dark-nippled breasts for warmth. In her sleep, she had kicked the sheets and blankets off. She reached down for them, dragged them over her, and glanced at the other side of the bed. It was empty.
She had not, she concluded, taken the captain of the honor escort into her bed. She reconstructed the end of the evening: The captain had been the perfect German officer and gentleman. His training and standards had not permitted him to believe that sexual congress between himself and the widow of his late commanding officer, in the familial Schloss and on the eve of a memorial service to the late Oberstleutnant Baron Manfried von Steighofen, could possibly take place.
Beatrice was now pleased that sexual congress had not, in fact, taken place. It had seemed like a splendid idea around midnight, but in the cold light of morning, she was glad to avoid the consequent awkwardness.
She rolled on her side and looked at the clock on the bedside table.
It was not the cold light of morning. It was the cold light of almost two o’clock in the afternoon. With a sudden movement, she kicked the bedclothes down and swung her feet out of bed. She searched with her feet for her bedroom slippers for a moment. When she could not immediately find them, she stood up and walked to the window.
The apartment Manfried had built in the Schloss (with her money) looked down upon the snow-covered fields outside the Schloss wall. It was a beautiful day, clear and bright. She liked cold, crisp, clear days. What she would do was take a ride, perhaps even a fast ride, a gallop, if the paths were not icy. It would sweat the cognac out of her, and then she would return and take a long bath.
She walked to her chest of drawers and took out a rather unattractive pair of und
erpants. No one was going to see her in them anyway, she thought, so it wouldn’t matter that the heavy cotton underpants concealed the curves of her belly and buttocks and hung down nearly to her knees. They would absorb the sweat of her ride. She put on riding breeches and sat on the floor to tug on English-made, knee-high riding boots.
She glanced at herself in a mirror as she walked to another chest of drawers for a blouse. In riding breeches and boots, and naked above the waist, she looked like a character in a blue movie she had been shown in Budapest. All she needed to complete the costume was a whip and a black mask over her eyes.
She put on a white cotton blouse and tucked it into her breeches. Her nipples pushed against the thin material, making them clearly visible. She was going to have to wear either a brassiere or a sweater, or face the disapproval of the servants and the captain (whose name, she realized, she could not remember) if she took off her tweed riding jacket.
She opted for the sweater, taking a tan woolen pullover from a closet and pulling it over her head.
Then she realized that she wasn’t going to be able to make it to the stables, much less mount a horse, without help.
She went to the bedside table and poured two inches of Rémy Martin cognac (about the last cognac here; and she had not remembered to bring any from the house in Vienna) into a glass and drank it straight down. She held her breath as she felt the brandy burn her throat and stomach, and then exhaled as the warmth spread through her body.
After that she left the apartment, which was like stepping from the present into the past. A few years ago, she had hired a Berlin architect to do it over. The Bauhaus School was now frowned upon by the Bohemian corporal and his sycophants, but the architect had studied there, and that was obvious in what he’d done to this wing of the Schloss.
Outside the door she was back in the Dark Ages. The Cold Ages would have been a better term, she thought. The walls were stone, the floors wide oaken planks. There had been no way to install electricity except by bolting conduits to the walls. Crossed lances and crossed swords, ancient battle flags, and dark portraits of the Barons von Steighofen and their women hung on the walls above the conduits. A narrow carpet ran down the center of the corridor, but it did nothing to take the chill from the place, either physically or aesthetically.
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