"How difficult for you," von Heurten-Mitnitz said.
"He went on to refuse any help from me in any way. He wanted no part of me, or of his German heritage. At that point, Herr von Heurten-Mitnitz, I am ashamed to tell you, I lost my temper."
"You struck him?"
"No. But I called him an arrogant, ungrateful bastard' and told him that I washed my hands of him, once and for all."
"And his response?"
"He told me to go fuck myself, is what he said."
"I'm surprised you didn't strike him," von Heurten-Mitnitz said.
"During the entire conversation, el Ferruch's bodyguard stood behind my son's chair. He was an enormous Negro with a pistol in his belt.
Frankly, I was afraid. Not so much physically, you understand, Herr von Heurtenmitnitz, but because of the political and diplomatic ramifications of a confrontation with him. Because of his diplomatic status." Helmut von Heurten-Mitnitz managed to restrain a smile. His mind's eye saw the Baron nervously eyeing N'Jibba, el Ferruch's enormous, shining black Senegalese bodyguard. What had kept the Baron from doing something foolish was not his awareness of political and diplomatic ramifications, but a menacing robed character two meters tall and weighing 150 kilos.
"I gather the discussion concluded soon?" von Heurten-Mitnitz asked.
"And that was the end of it?"
"It wasn't the end of it, but yes, I left," the Baron said. "As soon as I could, I discussed the situation with my legal counsel. He confirmed my belief that I had the legal right under German law to bring my son to heel. But he also pointed out that the matter wasn't quite that simple. He therefore made a few discreet inquiries of highly placed persons within the Foreign Ministry and the Party."
"And?"
"The matter came to the attention of the Foreign Minister himself, who thought it would be ill-advised at the present time' to either exercise my parental rights or to seek to have my son declared a German. Under American law, since he was born there, he is an American. The Americans were liable to become highly indignant if a German court were to declare otherwise."
"And I would think," von Heurten-Mitnitz added, "that others had in mind the possible usefulness of el Ferruch should war come and we find ourselves in possession of French Morocco."
"I thought it might be something like that," the Baron said.
"I was the German representative to the Franco-German Armistice Commission for Morocco," von Heurten-Mitnitz said. "In that capacity, I came to know your son, Herr Baron."
"Did you?" the Baron asked, surprised.
"Before we get into that, let me ask, how often did you see your son after your first encounter? Or should I say confrontation'?"
"I never saw him again," the Baron said firmly.
"And you had no idea that the last time he left Germany, he had no intention of returning? There was no telephone, not even a postcard?"
"I never had any contact with him after that meeting."
"But you did pay his tuition at Marburg?"
"It was suggested to me that I do so," the Baron said.
"And gave him an allowance of--How much was it?"
"Five thousand Reichsmarks monthly," the Baron said. "But that, too, Herr von Heurten-Mitnitz, was at the recommendation of highly placed persons."
"So I understand," von Heurten-Mitnitz said.
He fixed the Baron with a stern look.
"Herr Baron, it goes without saying that what I will now tell you is a state secret. You are to tell no one."
"I understand," the Baron said.
"There is reason to believe that your son is now connected with American military intelligence." The Baron's face went white. "I can't tell you how ashamed that makes me." Helmut von Heurten-Mitnitz let him sweat a moment.
"The information we have is considered highly reliable," he said.
"Certainly, no one thinks--" the Baron began, and stopped.
"Certainty not," von Heurten-Mitnitz said. "There is no suspicion that in any way reflects on your own loyalty."
"Then... what?"
"It is considered possible that he will attempt to contact you, most probably through third parties, but perhaps in person, "von Heurten-Mitnitz said.
"FEG is involved with much that is of interest to the Americans."
"I must strenuously protest even the suggestion--"
"Herr Baron, there is no question whatever in my mind of your loyalty.
But he is your flesh and blood!" he is connected with American military intelligence," the Baron said, "he is an enemy of the German state. That transcends anything else."
"I am going to give you my private telephone number," von Heurtenmitnitz said. "And the private telephone number of Standartenfuhrer Muller, who is handling this matter for the Sicherheitsdienst. If there is any attempt by your son to contact you, or if anything comes up that arouses your suspicions in any way, I want you to contact either of us immediately."
"Yes, of course," the Baron said.
Helmut von Heurten-Mitnitz wrote the numbers on the back of another of the calling cards identifying him as Brigadefuhrer SS-SD, and handed it to the Baron.
"Thank you for giving me your time at this period of grief," he said.
"I thank you for your understanding, Herr Brigadefuhrer," the Baron said.
The Baron, von Heurten-Mitnitz thought, is fully prepared to denounce his son to the authorities if given the chance. And Eric von Fulmar and Colonel William't Donovan of the OSS certainly had known he would.
What, then, is the meaning of the postcard from Eric von Fulmar asking that his father be given his regards?
"One final question, Herr Baron," von Heurten-Mitnitz said. "Are you acquainted with Professor Doktor Friedrich Dyer?" He saw on von Fulmar's face that the question struck home.
"I am not personally acquainted with him," the Baron said. "But he is, at the request of Reichsminister Speer, serving as a consultant to our Marburg Werke." "So I understand," von Heurten-Mitnitz said smoothly. "But you're not personally acquainted with him? nx
"No," the Baron said.
Von Heurten-Mitnitz now understood that the answers to the questions posed by the Bad Ems postcard had to lie with Professor Dyer of the University of Marburg, his relationship with the Fulmar Werke there, and most important of all, his relationship with Albert Speer.
Muller was going to have to go to Marburg, while he himself tried to find out why Reichsminister Speer was interested in an obscure professor there.
U. S. Navy Bureau ol hrosauticn Washisgton, D. C.31 December 1942 The second-ranking officer in the United States Navy was formally known as the Deputy Chief of Naval Operations (DCNO). The DCNO was a busy man.
When he had business, for example, with the Director, U. S. Navy Bureau of Aeronautics, the DCNO's aide-de-camp would call the Director BUAIRs aide-de-camp and tell him the DCNO wished to see the Director, BUAIR, and that if it was convenient, he would like to do so from, say, 1420 hours to 1445 hours on that day, or maybe the next. The DCNO's aide-de-camp was very rarely told that the ssuggested" time and date would be inconvenient.
The chain of command was considered very important to the smooth administration of the Navy Department in Washington. If the DCNO had business with a subordinate of the Directog BUAIR (which rarely happened), the word would be passed through the Officer of the Director to the subordinate in question.
Lieutenant Commander Edwin Ward Bitter, USN, was aide-de-camp to Vice Admiral Enoch Hawley, USN, who was Chief, Aviation Assets Allocation Division, of the Bureau of Aeronautics. He was very surprised that the aide de-camp of the DCNO would telephone his office at all, and even more surprised at the conversation that followed, The DCNO wished to see the Chief AAAD as soon as it would be convenient.
When would that be?
"I'm sure the admiral can be in your office in thirty minutes, Commander," It. Commander Bitter said. "Can you tell me anything that will help the admiral prepare? X In other words, what does the DCNO wan
t to know?
"The admiral will come to your office, Commander, the aide-de-camp to the DCNO said. He then apparently consulted his watch. "It is 1455.
The admiral will expect to be received by Admiral Hawley at 1525.
Thank you very much, Commander. will The phone went dead.
Bitter cocked his head in curiosity, then stood up from his desk and walked to Admiral Hawley's open office door. The office was neither large nor elegantly furnished. The desk was wood, but it was scarred, and utilitarian rather than ornamental. An American flag and a blue flag with the three silver stars of a Vice Admiral hung limply from poles against the wall. On the desk were In and Out boxes and three telephones, and an old Underwood typewriter was on a fold-out shelf.
Bitter knocked at the door.
Admiral Hawley, a silver-haired man in his late forties, glanced up and made a come in" gesture with his hand. Then, as Bitter walked into the room, he returned his attention to the stack of papers on his desk, reaching several times from them to punch buttons on his Monroe Comptometer, then waiting with impatience as the automatic calculator clicked and spun through its computation process.
Finally, he looked up at It. Commander Bitter.
"Admiral, DCNO will be here at 1525. His aide just telephoned. sx "Here? Admiral Hawley asked, demanding confirmation.
"Yes, sir," Bitter said. "I told him that I was sure you could be in his office in thirty minutes, and he said DCNO would come here." Admiral Hawley made a strange noise, half grunt, half snort.
"Is the Chief still here?" he asked.
"No, sir. I gave him liberty," Bitter said.
"Then I suppose you had better make a fresh pot of coffee," the admiral said.
"Yes, sir."
"Is there anything stronger around?"
"There is the emergency supply, Admiral," Bitter said.
"This may qualify--I am presuming, Ed, if you knew what he wants, you would have told me--as an emergency."
"I asked," Bitter said. "He avoided the question." Admiral Hawley nodded.
"Make sure it's available, and ice and glasses and soda, but don't bring it out until I tell you to. The only reason I can imagine why he's coming here is that he's so ticked off at me that he doesn't want to wait until I could get over there."
"I'm sure it's nothing like that, Admiral," Bitter said.
"Then you enlighten me, Ed," Admiral Hawley said.
Bitter thought about it and finally shrugged. He then went to prepare the coffee and to make sure the Chief had not made a midnight requisition upon the bottle of Scotch and the bottle of bourbon, the emergency rations, in the filing cabinet behind his desk.
Admiral Hawley stood up, pulled a thick woolen V-necked sweater off over his head, stuffed it in a cabinet drawer, and then put on his uniform blouse. After that, he made an attempt to make his desk look more shipshape than it did.
And then he stopped.
To hell with it If I've done something wrong, it was an honest mistake, and I'll take the rap for it. I am no longer a bushy-tailed ensign.
For that matter, no longer a bushy-tailed captain. If the DCNO didn't understand that my desk is crowded with stacks of paper and a clerk's comptometer because I'm working, fuck him.
The door from the corridor was opened at 1523 hours by the DCNO's aide-de-camp. The DCNO marched in.
"Good afternoon, Commander," he said, and quite unnecessarily identified himself. He was a large man, tanned, who looked like--and indeed was--an ex-football player.
"Good afternoon, Admiral," Bitter said. "Admiral Hawley expects you, sir, and has asked me to show you right in." The DCNO's aide-de-camp, a full commander who looked like a younger version of his boss, nodded at Bitter, and Bitter nodded back.
Bitter walked quickly, ahead of the DCNO, to Admiral Hawley's door and pushed it open.
"The Deputy Chief of Naval Operations, sir!" he announced.
"Good afternoon, sir, "Admiral Hawley said as he rose to his feet behind his desk.
"Hello, Enoch," the DCNO said as he walked, with hand extended, across the room. UHOW the hell are you?"
"I'm very well, sir. Yourself?"
"Overworked and underpaid and wishing I was anywhere else but here," the DCNO said. He sounded sincere, if resigned.
"May I offer you some coffee, Admiral?"
"Only if you have something to put in it besides milk and sugar," the DCNO said.
"I'm sure we can take care of that, Ed, can't we?" Admiral Hawley said.
"Aye, aye, sir," Bitter said.
When he was out of the room, the DCNO said, "He's limping." It was a question.
"He took a Japanese. 50-caliber, or parts of one, in his knee," Admiral Hawley said.
"And what does he have pinned to his chest?"
"They're AVG wings, Admiral. Commander Bitter was a Flying Tiger."
"I find that absolutely fascinating," the DCNO said.
Admiral Hawley had no idea what the DCNO meant.
"Bitter is a very good man," Hawley said loyally. "Class of 38, and he was nearly a double ace--he had nine kills--when he was hit. By ground fire, I think I should add." "Hummmpph," the DCNO said.
Bitter came back into the room carrying a napkin-covered Coca-Cola tray and two cups of coffee. When he extended the tray, the DCNO said, "The name Canidy' mean anything to you, Commander?"
"Yes, sir," Bitter said, surprised at the question.
"You were in the Flying Tigers with him?"
"Yes, sir."
"That all?"
"We were stationed together at Pensacola, sir, as IPS, before we went to China."
"That all?"
"I don't know what the admiral is asking, sir," Bitter said.
"Is he a good man?"
"Yes, sir."
"Friend of yours, you would say, Commander?"
"Yes, sir." The DCNO looked at his aide.
"Charley, I think we have just been given a late Christmas present," he said. "Would you agree with that?"
"Yes, sir, Admiral, it certainly looks that way."
"Commander, get some of that coffee for Charley and yourself, and then sit down." Bitter left the room, quickly returned with two mugs of coffee, and sat down, somewhat stiffly, beside the DCNO's aide-de-camp.
"We came here, Enoch," the DCNO said, "more or less directly, from meeting of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. The CNO was tied up, and so was Colonel William J. Donovan. A Navy captain named Douglass was sitting in for Donovan." The DCNO took a swallow of his coffee and then looked at Bitter.
"Are you familiar with either of the gentlemen I just mentioned, Commander?"
"Yes, sir."
"How?"
"Captain Douglass's son was in the AVG, sir," Bitter said. "I had occasion to meet the captain here in Washington. I met Colonel Donovan before I went to China."
"You know what they do now?" the DCNO asked.
"Yes, sir." "Charley," the DCNO said, "I think we just climbed out of you-know where smelling like a goddamned rose."
"It's really beginning to look that way, sir," the DCNO's aide said.
"One of the items, actually several of the items, on the agenda, Enoch, " the DCNO said, "was the German submarine pens at Saint-Lazare.
First, there was a rather disturbing report about what hell those subs are raising with shipping, both in terms of shipping per se--they're sinking ships almost as fast as we can build them--and in terms of materiel that is not reaching England.
"Then the subject turned to what's being done to take the submarines out. That was not a bit more encouraging. At that point, I got egg on my face."
"Sir?
"Admiral Hawley asked.
"Another proof, if I needed one, that, unless you know what you're talking about, you keep your mouth shut," the DCNO said. "I opened my mouth and announced before God and the JCS that the last information I had on the Navy project to take out the pens with torpedo bombers based in England looked very promising, and that I would fire off cable
s exhorting them to even greater effort." The DCNO looked around the room, then shrugged.
"At that point, rather tactfully I must admit, Captain Douglass told me that the torpedo-bombing idea hadn't worked out--you can't get enough explosive into a torpedo to take on that much concrete--and then he let me know that the OSS had been given the responsibility for taking the pens out. I had the definite feeling that there were senior officers at that table who felt that the DCNO should know something like that.
W E B Griffin - Men at War 3 - The Soldier Spies Page 16
