It had been planned that when Little Jimmy graduated, they would take him into the firm, but he had instead elected to go into the Army Air Corps and learn to fly. At the time, it had seemed like a good idea. Let him sow a few wild oats before he settled down. But now that Roosevelt had extended his service for a year and he had been sent to the Philippines, it obviously hadn’t been such a good idea.
Chesty Whittaker missed Jimmy very much, and so did Barbara, and Chesty was also worried about what the war that seemed imminent would mean for Jimmy. Today he would get some answers. Or thought he would. He was going first to a Giants game, and then to Washington, with his lawyer friend Bill Donovan. Donovan was already doing something very hush-hush for Roosevelt—so hush-hush that the normally cheerful and expansive Donovan changed the subject every time Chesty tried to pry out of him what it was he was doing for Franklin, though it was obviously related to what he and Commander Ian Fleming had been cooking up together last summer.
Donovan, nevertheless, had better access to what the future had in store for him and for Jimmy than Chesty himself did, and Chesty knew that except for those matters covered by secrecy, Donovan would give him straighter answers than he had got from Franklin the night he and Jimmy ate with him at the White House. When he’d asked him for straight answers, Franklin just grinned his enigmatic grin. ‘‘If you want to get in the game, Chesty,’’ he said, ‘‘you’re going to have to join the team.’’
Chesty Whittaker was damned if short of war he would join Roosevelt’s ‘‘team.’’ If the man wasn’t a socialist, he was the next thing to it.
When he went into the breakfast room to say good-bye to Barbara, she asked him if he had any money. When he looked, he found he didn’t, and she shook her head at him, took two hundred dollars in twenties from her purse, and gave it to him.
Barbara was his best friend, he thought, far more than a wife. And whenever she was kind to him, which was often, he was ashamed even more about Cynthia. If Barbara ever found out about that, she would be deeply hurt. Chesty Whittaker would rather lose an arm than hurt her. Mother Nature was a bitch, he thought. If she had caused Barbara to lose interest in the physical side of life, it seemed only fair that she dampen his urges too. And she had not. Cynthia kept him as randy as he had been as a young man.
He left the house by the kitchen door. Chesty squinted against the sunlight. It was so painfully bright as to cause pain. The last damned thing he needed was a headache—or rather another headache. For he’d had a few lately. And this sort of surprised him, because he was otherwise in perfect health.
At fifty-three Chesley Haywood Whittaker, Jr., carried only twenty pounds more than the one hundred eighty-two he had carried as a tackle at Harvard. He played golf at least once a week, squash at the New York Athletic Club every Thursday afternoon, and had given up the boat only when he marked his half century of life. He was, his doctor told him, in as good shape as he’d been at twenty-one.
Edward, the chauffeur, had the Packard waiting. He got behind the wheel and pushed the starter button and ground the damned starter gears. You actually could not feel or hear that the Packard engine was running, but that did not keep him from feeling foolish. He put it in gear and moved away.
Chesty saw Barbara wave at him from the breakfast room. He waved back, and he considered again that she probably sensed he had a woman somewhere. But if she knew, she hadn’t said anything, or done anything. There had not been so much as a hint or a pointed remark.
He forced that thought from his mind again, and the Packard turned past the sign his father had erected and headed for New York on Route 35, through Perth Amboy and into Elizabeth and then around Newark Airport and over the Pulaski Skyway. He smarted, as he always did, at the thought that he did not build the skyway. His firm had bid on it (all it was, really, was a high, paved railroad bridge; bridges were bridges) and had lost out by a lousy eleven million dollars.
There was a holdup of some sort in the Holland Tunnel— damned Sunday drivers out for a spin. But Edward managed to bring the car up to the box holder’s entrance to the Polo Grounds in good time. Chesty told the police to let Edward in after he’d parked the car.
The trouble with charming Irishmen was that they were seldom alone. There were seven people in the box with Bill Donovan. If he was going to have a word with Donovan, it would have to be on the train.
‘‘A little Scotch, Chesty?’’ Donovan said.
‘‘Is there any brandy?’’ Chesty asked. He had indigestion, or something. He had the makings of one of those damned headaches—from the fumes in the tunnel, probably. Brandy usually proved more effective for him than aspirin.
‘‘We’re getting a little effete in our old age, aren’t we?’’ Donovan kidded.
‘‘I was gassed in the tunnel,’’ Chesty said. ‘‘I feel a headache coming.’’
‘‘I always have some for the ladies,’’ Donovan went on, looking in his bar box. ‘‘Oh, here it is. ‘For Female Vapors’ right on the bottle.’’
‘‘Go to hell, Bill,’’ Chesty said, taking the bottle.
He drank a shotglassful neat, and then poured another to sip on.
Donovan introduced him to the men he didn’t know. A Chicago banker, some relative of Jack Kriendler and Charlie Berns, who ran the ‘‘21’’ Club on Fifty-second Street, a state senator from Oswego (another Republican who, like Bill himself, had been active in Tom Dewey’s failed attempt to win the 1940 nomination), and a Boston surgeon. The last, Charley MacArthur, was a writer.
‘‘I want to talk to you seriously later,’’ Donovan said. ‘‘There’s something I want to ask you to do for me.’’
‘‘Name it,’’ Chesty said. Tit for tat, he thought.
‘‘On the train,’’ Bill Donovan said.
He could hardly tell Whittaker here that the President wanted Whittaker Construction to gear up with all possible haste for a monumental, multibillion-dollar, highly complex engineering construction project that was concerned with refining a mineral element that had never been refined in quantities larger than a pin could pick up.
The project was now official. As of yesterday, Saturday, December 6, the Office of Scientific Research and Development had been given several million dollars to get things started. And they were still working on building chain reaction at the University of Chicago.
The only thing they were certain of was that if this were going to work, they would need large quantities of an isotope called U 235. Right now in all the world—including what the Germans were known to have—there was .000001 pound of uranium 235.
At one minute after 2:00 P.M., there was an announcement over the public-address system. It was urgent that Colonel William Donovan call Operator 19 in Washington for an emergency message.
‘‘God, it must be nice to be that man’s confidant,’’ Chesty said to Donovan as Donovan went looking for a telephone.
‘‘I never voted for him,’’ Donovan said. ‘‘It’s just that I have this awesome respect for Harvard men.’’
The door to the box opened again two minutes later, and Donovan beckoned Chesty to come out of the box. He was not smiling, Chesty saw, and he didn’t like the look in Donovan’s eyes.
‘‘That was John Roosevelt,’’ he said. ‘‘The Japanese have bombed Pearl Harbor.’’
‘‘Jesus Christ!’’ Chesty said.
‘‘I’m wanted in Washington,’’ Donovan said. ‘‘Will you have your chauffeur take me to the station?’’
‘‘Certainly,’’ Chesty said.
‘‘Or to La Guardia,’’ Donovan said. ‘‘John’s trying to find me a seat on the three-fifteen Eastern flight. He’s going to call right back.’’
Chesty Whittaker went back to the box and motioned to Edward. Donovan was called to the telephone as Chesty was telling Edward he was to take Mr. Donovan to Pennsylvania Station, and then come back for him.
When Donovan returned, he said, ‘‘It’ll be La Guardia.’’
‘‘
They found a seat for you?’’ Chesty asked.
Donovan’s eyebrows went up.
‘‘Young Roosevelt just told me that by the time I get to La Guardia, there will be an Army Air Corps plane waiting for me.’’
‘‘Ooohooo,’’ Chesty breathed.
‘‘If you still want to go to Washington, Chesty,’’ Donovan said, ‘‘come with me.’’
‘‘How would I get back?’’
‘‘I presume that for the immediate future there will be no restrictions on travel,’’ Donovan said. ‘‘It will take them time to set something like that up.’’
Chesty Whittaker made two quick decisions. He would go to Washington. For some reason (and he didn’t think it was just Cynthia, but he acknowledged that she was part of his decision) it was important that he go. And there was no car in Washington.
‘‘Edward,’’ he said. ‘‘I’m going to Washington with Colonel Donovan. After you drop us at La Guardia, I want you to drive the Packard down there. Take it to the house on Q Street. If I’m not there, I’ll leave word what you’re to do next.’’
‘‘Is something wrong, Mr. Whittaker?’’
Chesty looked at Bill Donovan, who nodded before he replied.
‘‘The Japanese have bombed Pearl Harbor, Hawaii, Edward. It looks as if we’re at war.’’
Rangoon, Burma 0930 Hours 8 December 1941
When Dick Canidy went down to breakfast in the villa in Kemmendine, the houseboy first gave him a cup of coffee and then extended a tray on which sat a small packet of waxed paper tied with a string.
‘‘It came this morning, sair,’’ he said.
Canidy nodded, picked up a knife, and cut the string around the package. Inside was mail: a four-inch stack for Ed Bitter, and a half-inch stack for Canidy.
‘‘A couple of eggs, up,’’ Canidy said. ‘‘Juice, toast. Is there any ham?’’
‘‘No, sair, but small steak.’’
‘‘Please,’’ Canidy said, and then, handing him Bitter’s mail, added: ‘‘This is for Mr. Bitter. Go wake him up with it.’’
‘‘Yes, sair.’’
Five of Canidy’s nine pieces of mail were bills. There were three letters from his father, and one which surprised him. It bore the return address of Ann Chambers, at Bryn Mawr College.
He tore it open and thought, aloud: ‘‘Christ, it took long enough to get here.’’
P.O. Box 235
College Station
Bryn Mawr, Pa.
Sept. 4, 1941
Dear Lonely Boy, Far From Home & Loved Ones:
I call you that because a Red Cross Volunteer—a lady dressed in so splendiferous a uniform I was truly disappointed to learn she was not a field marshal—told me that’s what guys like you are. She also said that it was clearly my patriotic duty to become your pen pal.
And she told us (we were in church at the time) that Far From Home & Loved Ones (I think she had in mind such remote places as Fort Dix, N.J., and San Diego, Cal., rather than wherever this finds you, if it ever finds you) there are Lonely Boys yearning for a demonstration of concern from Young Ladies At Home while they are off defending All That We Hold Dear.
By a pleasant coincidence, she just happened to have a list of addresses of such Lonely, etc., Boys, which she would be happy to dispense, no more than two to a customer. While I am as interested as anyone in keeping the barbarians out of Bryn Mawr, I draw the line at writing letters to complete strangers. Hence, this. I got the address from my father, who sends his best regards and asks that you keep your eye on my idiot cousin.
If you are where you said you were going, and write back, I can probably win the prize for writing the Lonely Boy Furthest From Home, etc. I will also get a gold star on my report card to show my mommy.
I’m also more than a little curious to know if it’s true the ships you will be flying, as Daddy heard (P40-Bs?), are the ones the English rejected as obsolete. If that’s a military secret, of course, ignore the question.
Take care of yourself, Canidy.
Cordially,
Ann Chambers
Bitter came into the dining room as Canidy was rereading one of his father’s letters.
He fixed him with a penetrating stare and kept it up until Bitter finally responded.
‘‘Why are you staring at me?’’
‘‘That’s what’s known as keeping an eye on an idiot cousin,’’ Canidy said, pleased with himself.
He handed Bitter Ann Chambers’s letter. He wondered how her father had been able to come up with CAMCO’s Rockefeller Center mail-drop address.
Bitter handed the letter back.
‘‘She writes a funny letter,’’ he said. ‘‘I got one too. I mean a morale builder. From Ann’s friend.’’
‘‘Which friend?’’
‘‘Sarah Child,’’ Bitter said, handing it to him.
‘‘The one with the nice ass,’’ Canidy said. He read the letter.
P.O. Box 135
College Station
Bryn Mawr, Pa.
Sept. 4,1941
Dear Ed:
I suppose you’ll be as surprised to hear from me as I am surprised to be writing. There was a Red Cross program here to get the girls to write to men in the service. I just don’t have the courage to write to a complete stranger, and Ann, as usual, came up with a solution that will keep the powers that be off our backs: She’s writing Dick Canidy (she got the address from her father) and I’m writing you.
I’m sure that you have absolutely no interest in what’s happened since we were at Ann’s place, but for lack of anything else to write about, I spent most of the summer in New York, except for two weeks, when we went to Mackinac Island, where there is an enormous old hotel and no automobiles. It was kind of nice, probably just the way it was in the 1890s.
Charity came in and said that what we’re doing is no fair. She was going to write one or the other of you, but we told her that would be unfair to you, that you had more important things to do with your time than solve what must seem like a silly problem for us.
It was very nice meeting you and Dick Canidy in Alabama, and I hope this finds both of you happy and in good health. If you do have a spare moment sometime, it would be nice to get a postcard. Or do they have postcards in China?
Sincerely,
Sarah Child
‘‘Holy shit!’’ Bitter exclaimed excitedly. Canidy looked at him. Bitter was pointing to an enormous insect crawling across an ancient copy of the Times of India on the table beside Canidy. ‘‘Kill the fucking thing!’’ Bitter said.
‘‘My God, you’re learning to swear and everything,’’ Canidy chuckled. ‘‘You kill it. I’m willing to talk things over with it.’’
‘‘Fuck you,’’ Ed Bitter said. He dumped the insect on the floor by turning the newspaper over and then stamped on the bug.
Canidy handed Sarah Child’s letter back to him.
‘‘Clever,’’ he said. ‘‘Not as clever as Ann’s, but clever.’’
‘‘Are you going to reply?’’ Bitter asked.
‘‘Sure,’’ Canidy said. ‘‘Why not?’’
‘‘She’s a little young for you, isn’t she? Not quite your style?’’
The reference was obviously to what had happened between Canidy and Sue-Ellen.
‘‘I hadn’t planned to send her dirty pictures, Eddie,’’ Canidy replied. ‘‘Just help her get her gold star to show her mommy.’’
Ex-Chief Radioman Edgar Lopp rushed into the dining room.
‘‘The Japs just bombed Battleship Row at Pearl Harbor.’’
‘‘Oh shit!’’ Canidy said.
‘‘Oh my God!’’ Bitter said.
Lopp turned on the Hallicrafter’s communications receiver they had ‘‘borrowed’’ from the CAMCO warehouse, and they listened for bulletins all over the dial.
At eleven o’clock, a messenger delivered a radio message from Toungoo:
AIRCRAFT OF THE AVG WILL NOT REPEAT NOT PARTICIPATE IN
ANY REPEAT ANY OPERATION WITHOUT THE SPECIFIC AUTHORIZATION OF THE UNDERSIGNED. CHENNAULT.
Since Canidy and Bitter were the only AVG aviators in Rangoon, the message was obviously intended for them. Bitter was powerfully disappointed. He took the Japanese attack as a personal affront, and wanted to rush out to Mingaladon Field, jump into a P40-B, roar into the sky, and take revenge on whatever treacherous Japanese aircraft happened to be conveniently there.
Canidy, on the other hand, felt something closer to fear. The Japanese had not attacked Pearl Harbor foolishly. They had imagined, and now had proved, that they could get away with it. And if, as the radio reported, they had destroyed most of the Pacific Fleet, things were going to be very bad for the United States and its allies in the Pacific.
As a practical matter, Canidy decided the smart thing to do was try to get in touch with Crookshanks at Toungoo. Incredibly, the telephone call went through immediately.
‘‘This is Canidy, Commander,’’ he said. ‘‘For your information, there are two we can bring up there right now, if you think that’s best.’’
‘‘Are they in revetments?’’ Crookshanks asked.
‘‘Yes, sir,’’ Canidy said. ‘‘I’d say they’re safe from anything but a direct hit.’’
‘‘I think the thing to do is let them sit right there until things settle down a little. You got the general’s TWX?’’
‘‘Yes, sir. Just now.’’
‘‘Our priority, obviously, is to get the aircraft to China,’’ Crookshanks said. ‘‘Unless you hear to the contrary, ferry them up here first thing in the morning.’’
‘‘Yes, sir,’’ Canidy said.
‘‘My, aren’t we courteous this morning?’’ Crookshanks said dryly, and hung up.
‘‘What did he say?’’ Bitter asked after Canidy had hung up.
‘‘Tomorrow morning, we take the two that are flyable up to Toungoo.’’
‘‘And what are we supposed to do today?’’
‘‘We’ve been invited to tiffin,’’ Canidy said. ‘‘At Wing Commander Hepple’s house. With a little bit of luck, that redheaded Scottish lassie will be there. Maybe she’ll have a friend for you.’’
The Last Heroes Page 20
