He pushed himself up in the bed, so that his back was resting against the wall of his room.
“It wasn’t about today,” he said.
“Oh?”
“Years ago, flying with Dick as a matter of fact, I rolled a trainer close to the ground. When I was upside down, the engine quit. That’s what I was dreaming about.”
“I see.”
“I’m sorry I woke you, Sergeant,” he said. “I’ll be all right now.”
"Actually,” she said levelly,“you didn’t wake me. It was only that when I came in here I found you thrashing about.”
“I appreciate your concern, Sergeant,” he said.
“Do you think you could bring yourself to call me by my Christian name? Or would you rather I left?”
“I don’t quite understand,” Bitter said.
“Yes, you do,” she said.
He met her eyes but found himself unable to speak. After a long moment she nodded, then stood up and walked to the door.
"Agnes!” Bitter called.
She stopped and was motionless for a moment, and then turned around and ran quickly to the bed.
Chapter SIX
At 2115 hours Lieutenant Commander Edwin H. Bitter, USN, came to the attention of the Public Affairs Office of the Naval Element, SHAEF.
Commander Richard C. Korman had the duty. Six months before he had been Vice President, Public Relations, of the Public Service Company of New Jersey. Korman was writing a letter to his wife on his typewriter when he received a telephone call from a public information officer of Headquarters, Eighth United States Air Force.
“Commander,” his caller announced, “this is Colonel Jerry Whitney. I’m in the PIO shop at Eighth Air Force.”
“What can the Navy do for the Eighth Air Force?”
“We’re about to decorate one of your officers, and the Chief of Staff said it would be a good idea to touch base with you.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Are you familiar with our Impact Award program?”
“I can’t say that I am,” Korman said.
“Very briefly, when one of our people does something that clearly deserves recognition—when there’s no question about what he’s done and there are witnesses who can be trusted—we make the award just as soon as we can: the same day or the next day, and let the paperwork catch up later.”
“And you say one of our people is involved? What did he do?”
“He was riding as an observer in a B-17 on a raid we made on Dortmund today. Kraut fighters blew the nose off his airplane, killing the pilots, the bombardier, and the navigator. The plane was last seen in a spin with two engines on fire. We put it down as a confirmed loss. But then, at five o’clock this afternoon, it came in at Fersfield with your man at the controls. All by his lonesome he’d flown it and navigated it all the way from Germany with one engine out and the fuselage shot full of holes.”
“I’m surprised Kraut fighters didn’t pick him off as a straggler,” Commander Korman said.
“He avoided the fighters by flying it two hundred feet off the ground.”
“Fucking incredible!”
“It gets better,” Colonel Jerry Whitney said. “He’s a pilot, of course, but not a B-17 pilot. The Group Commander, who put him in for the DFC, said it was the first time the guy had even been inside a B-17; and that’s what he was doing on the mission, getting familiarized. Talk about on-the-job training!
“So when I heard about it, I immediately saw the public relations potential. So I called the Group Commander and told him not to give him the medal, we’d take care of the presentation ceremony.”
“How do you plan to handle that?” Commander Korman asked.
“As soon as I touch base with you, I’m going to call over to Fersfield and tell this guy to move his tail to London. And first thing in the morning, I’ll be at SHAEF, trying to find somebody senior to make the award. Maybe set up a special press briefing. Get the Signal Corps newsreel cameramen in. Using GI cameramen, we’ll have prints to give Pathé, the March of Time, all the newsreel outlets.”
“Sounds fine,” Commander Korman said.
“I’ll get the Navy a print, too, of course—interservice cooperation, right?—and I thought maybe the Navy would like to have a senior officer there, representing the Navy.”
“I’m sure we would,” Commander Korman said. “Who did you say is actually going to make the presentation?”
“That’s not firm yet,” Colonel Whitney said. “But I should know first thing in the morning. I’ll touch base with you again then.”
“I really appreciate your thoughtfulness,” Commander Korman said. “By the time you call me, I’ll have Navy representation firmed up. What’s this guy’s name?”
“Bitter, spelled the way it sounds. Edwin H. Lieutenant Commander.”
“Where’s he assigned?”
“Naval Aviation Element, SHAEF.”
“Got it,” Commander Korman said, “I’ll tell you what I’ll do, Colonel. I’ll pull his records here, and by the time you get him here in the morning, I’ll have a biography mimeographed, next of kin, hometown, what he did as a civilian, and maybe with a little bit of luck, there’ll be a negative of him in the file. There’s supposed to be, but sometimes there isn’t. If there is, I’ll have our photo section run off a couple of dozen eight-by-tens.”
“We’d sort of like to keep control of this, Commander,” Colonel Jerry Whitney said firmly.
“Don’t misunderstand me, Colonel,” Lt. Commander Korman said. “All I want to do is cooperate. This is obviously your show. I understand that we’re getting a free ride.”
“Just as long as we understand each other,” Colonel Whitney said, not mollified.
“Absolutely,” Commander Korman said. “I’ll have whatever I can come up with by 0800 tomorrow. You just come in and I’ll turn it all over to you. I’m really grateful for your cooperation.”
“Well, what the hell, we’re all in the same war, right, Commander?”
When Colonel Whitney was off the line, Commander Korman pulled his letter to his wife from the typewriter, crumpled it up, and tossed it into a wastebasket. It would just have to wait.
Next Commander Korman called the duty officer at Naval Aviation Element, SHAEF, identified himself, and said he was coming right over and would be grateful if the file of Lieutenant Commander Bitter, Edwin H., had been pulled by the time he got there.
When he arrived, he was informed that the only thing they had on Lieutenant Commander Bitter, Edwin H., was that he had only a few days before he arrived in Europe; that his service records were not to be found; that the only thing they knew about him was that he was involved in some Top Secret project; and that the only person who knew anything about that was Rear Admiral G. G. Foster.
Thirty minutes later, Commander Korman found himself standing at attention in the Connaught Hotel suite of Admiral Foster. Upon hearing Korman’s recitation of the facts, Foster turned white. A moment later he informed him that while he admitted he knew nothing about public relations, he could see at least a half dozen ways that Commander Korman had fucked this up.
“Goddamn it, Korman, Bitter is a naval officer! His exploits should reflect on the Navy, not the goddamed Army Air Corps! That Air Corps public relations officer played you like a goddamned violin!”
“Sir,” Commander Korman began.
“You just stand there, Commander,” the vice admiral said, shutting him off,“and keep your ears open while I try to salvage what I can from the mess you’ve created.”
The admiral made several telephone calls, including one to General Walter Bedell Smith, whom he addressed as “Beetle,” and finally turned to Commander Korman.
“Now, here’s what you’re going to do, Commander,” he said. “And listen carefully, because I don’t want to repeat myself. You’re going to get in a car, and you’re going to drive to Fersfield, and you are quietly going to locate Commander Bitter. You are going to tell him
that I personally sent you for him. And nothing else. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” Korman said.
“In the Navy, Korman, when a subordinate wishes to signify that he understands an order and is prepared to carry it out, he says ‘Aye, aye, sir.’”
“Yes, sir. Aye, aye, sir.”
“You will bring Commander Bitter to London. You will see that he is in a blue uniform and wearing all of his decorations, including in particular his Flying Tiger wings…”
“Sir?”
“What?”
“What kind of wings, sir?”
“Flying Tiger,” Admiral Foster said impatiently. “You did know, Commander, did you not, that Commander Bitter was a Flying Tiger?”
“No, sir, I did not,” Commander Korman confessed.
“Well, I can’t say that surprises me,” the admiral said, coldly sarcastic. “But from a layman’s point of view, Commander, correct me if I’m wrong, it would seem to me that would be just the sort of thing they call ‘human interest. ’ Something that would suggest that a naval aviator is really something special. That a naval aviator who has nine Japanese kills as a Flying Tiger can easily shift gears and take over the controls of a badly damaged Army Air Corps B-17.”
“I take the admiral’s point, sir,” Commander Korman replied. He wondered how the admiral knew that Commander Bitter had nine kills. The Air Corps PIO guy hadn’t mentioned that. Had he known? Had he planned somehow to use that fascinating piece of information to sandbag the Navy?
“General Smith is going to try to see if he can fit Commander Bitter’s award of the DFC into General Eisenhower’s schedule tomorrow. If he can’t, he’ll arrange for Bitter to get it from General Eaker, or give it to him himself. I will be there, of course. Now, can you handle this, Commander, or would you like me to send one of my aides with you?”
“I’ll check in with you just as soon as I have Commander Bitter in London, Admiral.”
Chapter SEVEN
London Station Office
of Strategic Services
0800 Hours 11 January 1943
“I’m almost afraid to ask why you’re dressed like that, Dick,” Chief of Station David Bruce said to Richard Canidy.
Bruce was a tall and handsome man, silver-haired, expensively tailored. Whittaker had told Canidy of a remark Chesley Haywood Whittaker had once made about Bruce:“I always feel like backing out of his presence.” The remark had stuck in Canidy’s mind because Bruce was indeed more than a little regal.
Lt. Colonel Edmund T. Stevens chuckled.
Canidy looked like a page from the Army Regulations dealing with prescribed attire for commissioned officers. He wore a green blouse and pink trousers. The shoes were regulation brown oxfords, suitably polished. The cap he had placed on the conference table in the chief of station’s office was a regulation overseas cap. And the proper insignia of rank and qualification were affixed to the blouse in the proper places.
At the last division chiefs’ conference he had shown up wearing a khaki shirt, a sheepskin flight jacket, olive-drab pants, sheepskin flight boots, and a leather-brimmed felt cap that, according to Colonel Stevens, looked to have just been rescued from five hours of being run over by traffic in Picadilly Circus.
“I have been shamed by Captain Fine,” Canidy said, “who is psychologically unable to deviate by so much as an unshined button from ‘What the Properly Dressed Officer Should Look Like.’” He paused, then went on:
“Actually, we have a little publicity problem, and I thought I should try to blend into the woodwork at SHAEF when I go over there.”
“Since we don’t go seeking publicity,” David Bruce asked dryly in his soft and cultured voice,“quite the opposite, how can we have a problem?”
“This one came looking for us,” Canidy said. “At 1115, some big shot, as yet unspecified, is going to pin the DFC on Ed Bitter. And from what I have been able to find out so far, it will be done before newsreel cameras and fifty or sixty reporters.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Colonel Stevens asked, a little impatiently.
“Bitter went to Dortmund yesterday,” Canidy said. “As a waist gunner on a B-17.”
“He did what?” Bruce demanded.
“He was sort of suckered into it, according to Dolan, which is where I am getting my information. Anyway, he went. They were hit. The pilot was killed, and the bombardier and the navigator, and the copilot wounded. Bitter, who had never been in a B-17 before, took it over—it was by then in a spin—and brought it home. The bomber group commander, a light bird name D’Angelo, decided to hang a DFC on him. Deserved, by the way, for it was really some distinguished flying. Then it got out of hand.”
“How out of hand, Dick?” Bruce asked softly. Canidy could sense that Bruce was angry.
“D’Angelo,” Canidy explained. “I talked to him about four this morning. He sent a routine TWX to High Wycombe asking routine permission to give him the medal. Some hotshot PIO guy—and I talked to him, too—got his hands on it. And he had some kind of notion that a Navy pilot flying an Air Corps bomber was more newsworthy than most DFCs, and decided to make a big deal of it. He talked to the Navy PIO and the Navy PIO talked to Colonel Stevens’s good pal, Admiral G. G. Foster, and Foster sent a full commander to Fersfield in the wee hours of the morning. He stood Bitter and Dolan tall, and carried Bitter here to London.”
“Where’s he now?” Stevens asked.
“I don’t know,” Canidy said dryly. “Admiral Foster is in conference, and has been since 0800. Between 0345, when I first called him, and 0800, he was ‘unavailable.’ If I were a cynical man, I would begin to suspect that the admiral has no intention of letting us keep the heroic saga of Commander Bitter under wraps.”
“I’ll fix his ass,” the chief of station said. Canidy raised his eyebrows. He was not used to either visible anger or any vulgarity from Bruce. “Have you called the Chief Censor?”
“That was my first thought,” Canidy said,“fixing the admiral’s ass, I mean. But sometime in the wee hours, it occurred to me that it’s lovely disinformation. All Bitter has to say to the press is that he has been sent here to— what the hell,‘coordinate Navy bombing with the Air Corps.’ That’s credible, and it would take attention away from Fersfield.”
The chief of station looked at him for a long moment without speaking, and then made a come-on movement with both his hands.
“The reason for all the secrecy with the sub pen project has nothing to do with the sub pens,” Canidy went on. “It has to do with using the drones to take out, probably, the German rocket-launching sites, and possibly the heavy-water facilities in Norway and the jet-engine factories in Germany,” Canidy said. “That’s the secret we want to keep.”
“I don’t follow you, Dick,” Bruce said impatiently.
“So we give them a secret we don’t care they have: We can presume the Germans will get very nosy about what Bitter’s doing at Fersfield and will send at least one Friendly Son of Saint Patrick down there to find out what he can.”
Bruce shook his head and smiled at the description of the IRA agents.
“I’m going to throw a little security around Fersfield,” Canidy said. “Not too much, but enough to make the IRA work a little to find out we plan to blow up the sub pens with drones. They’re liable to feel clever as hell when they find that out, and stop there.”
The chief of station thought that over for an even longer moment, then turned to Colonel Stevens.
“Ed?”
“We’ve got a turned agent in that area,” Stevens said. “A fellow who used to live on Prospect Park in Brooklyn, incidentally. We could feed that to the Abwehr through him. Rumors of an all-out, very secret operation to take out the sub pens.”
“I don’t think we can stop the public relations business,” Fine offered. “Once something like that starts—”
“I was about to say the same thing, Captain Fine, thank you,” the chief of station said, a little
stiffly. “And what do we do about Admiral G. G. Foster?”
“Leave him there,” Canidy said. “He thinks he’s won, and Dolan tells me Bitter has decided where his loyalty belongs.”
“You willing to trust Dolan about that?” Bruce asked.
"Absolutely,” Canidy said.
“Okay, we’ll do it your way,” the chief of station said. “What’s next?”
“We have four teams for Greece sitting at Whitbey House about to go crazy,” Canidy said. “What the hell are we waiting for?”
“We’re waiting to make sure we don’t parachute them into the arms of the Germans,” Bruce said impatiently. “The same answer applies to the Yugoslav teams, to forestall your next question.”
“Actually, I was going to ask about Fulmar,” Canidy said innocently.
“He arrives from Casablanca early this afternoon,” the chief of station said. “Fine wants to keep him in London until we get the messages ready, and then I think he should be sent to Richodan. Do you agree, Canidy?”
“No,” Canidy said flatly.
“Eldon Baker feels there is too much of an emotional relationship between you and Fulmar, and Fulmar and Jim Whittaker. And Fulmar and Stanley. ”
“Eldon Baker is an asshole,” Canidy said.
“Jesus Christ, Dick!” Stanley Fine protested.
Colonel Stevens decided that Canidy knew full well that “asshole” was the sort of word certain to offend the chief of station. He wondered if Canidy had used it on purpose, decided he had, and then wondered why.
“Presumably,” Bruce said icily,“there is a professional, as opposed to personal, reason behind that little outburst?”
“If you send Fulmar to Richodan,” Canidy said, “you get Eldon Baker to talk him into what I think you have in mind. I won’t. I will not run von Shitfitz if Baker keeps putting his two cents in.”
“Sometimes, Canidy,” the chief of station flared, “the thought runs through my head that maybe you should be at Richodan.”
“Sometimes I wish I was there,” Canidy said, matter-of-factly. "I didn’t ask for the jobs you’ve given me, and the more I do them the less I like them. I’ll do them, but not if I’m to be second-guessed by Baker.”
The Soldier Spies Page 26
