Besides being females, Anna Thiele and Lorena Ortiz had only two other things in common: Both were citizens of Argentina and both worked as couriers for Milo Lattimer. At the first of each month, Milo gave them a round-trip pass to Oakland. Arriving midmorning, they would take the ferry to San Francisco and walk six blocks up Market Street to the Argentine consulate at 58 Sutter Street. An eleven o’clock arrival would ensure that Señor M. Radizar, the Consul, met them in a vestibule where they exchanged pouches for Señor Lattimer. Señor Radizar also handed over an envelope containing four one-hundred-dollar bills for the courier to use as she pleased. Keeping to a strict schedule, the courier returned with the pouch by day’s end and gave it to Lattimer.
Running over an awkward route from Buenos Aires to Lisbon to Berlin, traffic took from thirty to forty days, when Lattimer sent messages. Most of the incoming traffic contained encryption updates and schedules for radio reports to Germany. But Lattimer had only broadcast twice in the last three years. His heart had pounded as he kept his messages to thirty seconds. It pounded even harder when, both times, a dark unmarked van with an omnidirectional, top-mounted antenna slithered through the neighborhood.
The pouches from Señor Radizar usually contained two separate envelopes. The first one held messages, code changes, and other intelligence information. The second envelope had ten one-hundred-dollar bills, which Lattimer ferreted away with his other private belongs. It was all neatly stacked in three Samsonite suitcases in his hideaway. He was just too afraid to bank it or invest it, lest someone become suspicious about how a railroad employee had become so flush.
It was in one of their tender moments that Lorena got him to talk. She discovered that his real name was Helmut Gregor Burgdorf. Born in Munich on August 14, 1914. His father, Josef Burgdorf, was a private in the Kaiser’s army who did well in the import-export business after the Great War to end all wars. Josef and Stella, Helmut’s mother, moved in 1927 to New York City where he continued to prosper, allowing young Helmut to stay with friends in Germany.
A dream came true when young Burgdorf was accepted to Heidelberg’s medical school. But then he was kicked out in 1936. They thought he was Jewish. It was later proven a mistake, but the stigma held. Embittered, he moved to the United States to live with his parents who, by this time, had lost everything in the Depression. While Josef worked as a maître d’ in the Five Palms, a five-star restaurant, young Burgdorf got a job as a brakeman for the New York Central Railroad.
Germans agents found him a year later. Things were grim. Stella had died, and Josef had fallen ill with pneumonia from a bitter winter. The agents treated young Burgdorf like a king, and the promise of quick cash attracted him even more. After the transfer of five thousand dollars to Banco de Buenos Aires in Argentina, Burgdorf became a sleeper agent while working full-time on the railroad.
The year 1937 was the year of the Hindenburg dirigible disaster. It was a disaster for Burgdorf as well, for his father, Josef, succumbed to his pneumonia. He couldn’t get out of New York fast enough. Assuming the name of Milo Lattimer, Helmut Gregor BurgdorfB following the wishes of his German contacts -- moved to Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, and joined the Pennsylvania Railroad as a brakeman. For the next three years, his Argentine bank account grew as he reported strategic materials and troop movements to his control. His control was particularly delighted when, in 1939, Burgdorf accepted an offer from the Southern Pacific Railroad out west. Assigned to the Sacramento Division, he settled in Roseville and became a conductor on the Sierra route, one of the most strategic routes in the nation. He kept in touch with his handlers via the courier pouch system, beginning with Anna Thiele.
He did a stupid thing right after the war’s outbreak. There was a horrible troop train wreck on the Sierra. Seven men were killed and sixteen injured. Lattimer was on an eastbound freight that was stopped at the scene, the right-of-way blocked. Like everybody else, he pitched in to help the groaning injured. His Heidelberg medical training took over and before Burgdorf knew it, he was triaging patients, setting broken limbs, and working tourniquets long before medical help arrived. Lives were saved and an embarrassed Milo Lattimer was made Man of the Year by the Roseville Rotary Club.
A twenty-two-year old Cal-Berkeley graduate named Diane Logan was aboard the train that day, riding with her father. And it was a wide-eyed Diane Logan who stepped in to help Burgdorf save lives. That was one of the things that had motivated her to apply to Cal’s med school. She was accepted and graduated in three years. During that time, Burgdorf made a clumsy play for her, but Stan Bartlett, a young marine dive-bomber pilot, swooped in and won her over. Lieutenant Bartlett and Burgdorf almost came to blows one night just outside the Logan home. Everybody was embarrassed, with Burgdorf vowing to concentrate on his job and forget about women.
And then Bartlett was killed over Bougainville. Good riddance. Burgdorf had given a thought about going back to Diane when Lorena came along. What a number she was, all right. It was a great convenience for Lattimer. After all, Lorena kept him contained with her favors. No longer was it necessary to chase after Diane Logan--or any other woman, for that matter. Thus, he was able to preserve his real identity...and concentrate on the mission.
And so today, as westbound X 4293 rumbled and clanked up the High Sierra, Milo Lattimer took out the pouch he’d received from Lorena late yesterday afternoon. After a quick glance at a snoring Captain Collins, he began decrypting his Berlin traffic using a double checkerboard code. Twenty minutes later, he sat back to read two messages. The first one read:
NEED DETAILS ON UPDATED USN TORPEDO EXPLODERS AS SOON AS POSSIBLE
Lattimer snorted. Those idiots in Berlin expected too much. Like all small ammunition items, the navy exploders were inventoried, locked, and double-locked in their containers. Then the cars were nearly impossible to get into. Trying to do something as stupid as this could cost him his life. He lit a cigar, then burned the message in a steel ashtray. Admiral Dönitz would have to figure some other way to improve his damn torpedo exploders.
The second message was a little more satisfying:
AMMUNITION SHIP SS REGINA DALMATIA DEBARKED PORT CHICAGO 29 JULY IN CONVOY TO HAWAII. BLEW UP SEA WITHOUT A TRACE. OUR CLIENTS PLEASED WITH YOUR PROGRESS. THAT MAKES TWO. CONGRATULATIONS.
Lattimer read the message again. The Japanese were pleased. So what? He couldn’t care less as long as the cash kept coming. Someday, sooner than later, he suspected, both Germany and Japan would be out of the war. Then the pressure would be off and he could begin to invest his money. And he thought he knew where.
“Whatcha doin’?”
Shit! Collins! He was stretched out, yawning, and smacking his lips. For a moment, Lattimer felt a rush of anger and thought he might have to kill the young Marine.A Damned schedules and maintenance reports. How do you feel?”
“Umm. Better, thanks. Say, where’s my coffee?”
Lattimer handed it over. “It almost fell on the floor, my friend.”
“Oh, sorry.”
They watched as a noisy eastbound freight flashed past on the downslope, hauling car after car of refrigerated fruit. Collins asked, “Where do you get such great coffee?”
While forcing a smile, Lattimer eased the pouch under his buttocks. “We work on the railroad, my friend. Anything’s possible.”
Collins raised an eyebrow.
Wrong thing to say. This man was good. “I mean the shippers give it to us as a favor. This blend is from a San Francisco brewer.”
“Pretty fancy.”
Lattimer dug in his voluminous briefcase. “They gave me three pouches this time.” He tossed over a pouch of coffee. “Take this one. It’s the best.”
Collins held the pouch to his nose and sniffed. “Mmmmm. I can’t wait to try it.”
“You won’t be disappointed.”
“Well, thanks.” Collins eyed the other pouch.
“Uh, that’s for the Logan family.”
“I thought Walt Logan gave up coff
ee after his heart attack.”
“Well, that’s true. So I give it to Diane and then she looks the other way while her father sneaks a cup or two.”
Collins shook his head. “Damn fool.”
“Damn fool,” Lattimer agreed. He decided to take a chance. “Is Commander Sabovik still head over heels for her?”
Collins gave a shrug that told him none of your business.
Ach! Shut up and do your damn job. Lattimer had lamented that Diane Logan was more or less pledged to a navy destroyer captain now out in the Pacific; that Sabovik still hovered around her; and that he was stuck with that stupid hot tamale Lorena Ortiz for business... and pleasure. He sat straight and drew his best smile. “Do you play chess, Captain?”
“Call me Nitro.”
“Yes. Do you play chess, Nitro?”
“Well, yes, a little.”
CHAPTER THIRTY ONE
29 September 1944
USS Matthew (DD 548)
Two miles west of Ulithi Atoll
Caroline Islands
Ulithi was discovered by the Portuguese explorer Diego da Rocha in 1526. The oblong, fifteen-mile-long lagoon remained untouched by Europeans until 1731, when Spanish priests attempted to set up an outpost there. But Micronesians drove them off and Ulithi remained in the Micronesians’ hands until the Japanese set up a radio station early in the war. Believing the islets surrounding the clear, turquoise lagoon too small for an airfield and impractical for a fleet anchorage, the Japanese used it primarily for a weather station. However Admiral Halsey’s staff were well aware of the capabilities of Ulithi: the primary one was that Ulithi could safely anchor at least seven hundred ships. Plus, the atoll was strategically located just nine hundred miles east of Leyte and fourteen hundred miles southeast of Okinawa.
On 23 September 1944, American forces landed unopposed at Ulithi and began turning the atoll into a massive seaport and airbase. To prove the Japanese wrong, the Seabees immediately began construction of a thirty-six-hundred-foot airstrip on Falalop Islet on the lagoon’s northeastern side. Asor Islet, a mile west of Falalop, became an advanced fleet base. Within days, a one-hundred-bed hospital and boat pool went up on nearby Sorlen Islet. Perhaps the most important role was served by the half-mile long Mogmog Islet, which was established as a recreation base for the fleet. Once built, the recreation center on Mogmog was one of the largest for GIs in the Pacific war, once hosting approximately twenty thousand sailors and marines.
For the present, Admiral Halsey’s attack carriers were off marauding throughout the western Pacific. From Okinawa, to Iwo Jima, to Formosa, to the Philippines, Halsey’s planes hit airfields of all sizes, their intent: wipe out the Japanese air arm. Still, the lagoon bloomed with activity. The USS Bunker Hill, an Essex-class fleet carrier standing down for elevator and boiler repairs, was anchored in the lagoon’s center. On either side were two light carriers, an escort carrier, and an assortment of cruisers and destroyers. Speckled throughout the rest of the lagoon were a growing number of auxiliaries, from ammunition ships to oilers, repair ships, to seaplane tenders, LSTs, and attack transports. Just towed in yesterday were three barracks barges to house the Seabees shaping the islets of Ulithi Atoll.
* * * * *
Steaming at twelve knots, a convoy of three destroyers and three attack transports (APAs) looped around to Ulithi’swestern side and headed for the Rowaryu ChannelB the main entrance to the atoll. The destroyers had been in a bent-line screen running interference for the fat, ponderous APAs loaded to the gunnels with Sixth Army Expeditionary troops and equipment for the Leyte campaign. Of the destroyers, two were full-size fleet destroyers, the other a lighter destroyer escort; all three were joining the Pacific war for the first time. The USS Simpson (DD 549) was screen commander and squadron flagship for the newly formed Destroyer Squadron 77, nicknamed The Silver Bullets after The Lone Ranger of radio fame. Just before they’d left Hawaii, the eight ships in the squadron proudly painted their DESRON 77 logo, a red-and-white-striped shield overlaid with a large gleaming silver bullet, on their number one stack. The large numerals 77 were painted in a circle in the blue field at the top third of the shield.
Matthew, also wearing her brand-new DESRON 77 emblem, was second in the lineup. Third in the column was the destroyer USS Connelly (DD 452), also in DESRON 77 livery. The other five destroyers were a day behind, having been assigned to another convoy.
It was early morning as the APAs stood into the channel while the destroyers scurried about outside, looking for Japanese submarines.
Donovan lay in his sea cabin bunk, fidgeting. Fully dressed, he waited for Burt Hammond to call up special sea detail for entering Ulithi Atoll. He didn’t want to be on the bridge too early, lest they think he didn’t trust them. Actually, he didn’t trust them. They were simply too young and inexperienced. But he had to let them have their head or they wouldn’t grow into their jobs, and then nothing would be accomplished. Right now, Burt Hammond was officer of the deck and Ensign Kenneth Muir was the junior officer of the deck.
It was humid and Donovan’s porthole was open, a clear warning for people to be discreet when nearby. At times, though, the open porthole acted as an informal channel to the captain, a suggestion box, so to speak. And he’d heard the strangest things the past few days.
“Hey, Leon,” a muffled voice called. It was laced with a thick Brooklyn accent Donovan knew belonged to Estes Schumacher, an eighteen-year-old seaman striking for gunner’s mate.
“Yeah?” This voice belonged to Leon Constantine, a tall, lanky seaman with a large Adam’s apple, also striking for gunner’s mate.
“You hear the latest horseshit?”
“Yeah?”
“We got more drills scheduled after we load ammo.”
“Plan of the day sez we get to hit the beach.”
“Naw, Mister Manure has screwed us again with another horseshit exercise.”
“Yeah?”
This was the second time this type of disrespect had been flaunted before Donovan. Two nights ago, another sailor had referred to Mister Muir – Ensign Kenneth W. Muir III, –as Mister Manure. And now Schumacher and Constantine carried on this bizarre conversation near the captain’s porthole.
Donovan recalled that last evening, he had jumped on Kruger about mediocre performance in the gun mounts. Their shooting just wasn’t fast enough in recent exercises: six, sometimes seven seconds between rounds for each mount on the average. Not good enough. He wanted it – gunners call this interval dead time – down to three and a half to four seconds. Especially in case of air attack, he wanted the rounds pouring out. Accordingly, Kruger ordered Ensign Muir to schedule yet another loading-machine drill for this afternoon. The loading machine was a mock-up five-inch gun mounted aft near the quarter deck where the gun crews practiced loading dummy fifty-five-pound projectiles and twenty-seven-pound powder cases. Keeping this up for ten or twenty minutes or longer took real stamina, and the ship’s loaders weren’t up to that level, Donovan could tell. It was a real slave-driving, business but that’s what they needed: four seconds’ dead time at the most. No more. And someone had to put on the heat. Otherwise they would die. It was that simple. Recently they’d tried to set up competition among the mounts, giving rewards to the best crew performance: cigarettes, candy, extra sack time. But so far, it hadn’t worked. They needed something else to really get into it, and Donovan racked his brain to figure out what it was.
The men were almost openly grousing. Donovan had been drilling them from the Golden Gate to Diamond Head. After a week’s upkeep in Pearl Harbor, he drilled them again when they stood out to sea and shaped course for the Carolines and the Western Pacific. And now they were tired; he knew they deserved a break. Kruger had announced in today’s plan of the day an afternoon on Mogmog where they could guzzle 3.2 beer.
Now he had to take it from them. Upon arrival, they were supposed to top off with ammunition, an activity that could take the rest of the morning and part of the afternoon. F
or the rest of the day, they would be working the loading machine instead of letting off steam on Mogmog. And he had to restrict the whole crew, not just the gunners.
“Did you hear me?” asked Schumacher in a clear voice.
“Huh?
“We ain’t goin’ ashore, you idiot, that’s what. Say, how’d you get in the second division, anyway?”
“Got ninety-five on the third-class gunner’s test. Putting on my crow next week.”
“Oh.”
There was a moment of silence, then Schumacher continued. “You know what pisses me off about all this crap?”
“Better button your lip. Cap’n can hear you.”
“I don’t give a rat’s ass. I’m not so dumb, either. I applied to sub school right out of boot camp. And I got it.”
“You? On the level?”
Schumacher’s voice rose a notch. “This is a TINS (THIS IS NO SHIT) message.”
“Yeah?”
“They kicked me out of sub school because they said my eyes were bad.”
“Tough.”
“So I don’t get it. They send me to the fleet and assign me to a lousy tin can and what do you know? Guess why we’re up here?”
A CALL TO COLORS: A NOVEL OF THE BATTLE OF LEYTE GULF Page 28
