But this delivery boy was difficult. For one thing, he wasn’t a boy, but a young man. For another, he adamantly refused to turn his RCA envelope over to the doorman unless the doorman got the addressee on the house phone and the addressee told him to turn the message over to the doorman.
Somewhat reluctantly, the doorman passed him to the elevator, and the RCA messenger rode up to the penthouse atop the twenty-seven-story building. At the door, he then made the butler sign for the envelope. Only then did he hand it over. The butler, annoyed, reached into his pocket and handed him a quarter rather than one of the dollar bills in the vase.
Then the butler delivered the cablegram to Mr. Chandler H. Bitter, the fifty-five-year-old, silver-haired president of the Chandler H. Bitter Company, Commodities Brokers. Chandler Bitter was drinking a second cup of coffee with his wife on the small patio outside the second-story master bedroom.
She presumed it was business. Seeing him frown, however, she asked him what it was.
“I think it would be better if you read it yourself,” he said gently, and passed it to her.
mackay radio 1330greenwich 2apr42
chunking china via rca honolulu
mr mrs chandler bitter
2745 lakeshore drive
chicago ill usa
deeply regret inform you your son flight leader edwin h bitter wounded in action against Japanese aircraft vicinity chiengmai thailand march thirty stop complete recovery inJury right knee expected stop air evacuated us army hospital calcutta india stop letter from chinese ambassador to us follows stop claire chennault brig general commanding american volunteer group end
“Oh, my!” she said in frightened wonderment, and turned her face up at him.
She had said the same words, he remembered with sudden brilliant clarity, and looked at him in exactly the same way, in just about the same place, when her waters broke, just before he took her to Women’s Hospital to deliver Eddie.
“Helen,” Chandler H. Bitter, Jr., said very tenderly, “I want you to listen to me carefully.”
Her eyes locked on his, she waited for him to go on.
“He’s alive,” Chandler Bitter said. “And he has been taken to an American Army hospital, where he will receive the best of care. The important thing is that he is alive.”
There was a barely perceptible nod of her head.
“And this may very well be a good thing,” he said.
Her face now registered pain and surprise and shock—and an unspoken question: How can you say such a thing?
“I don’t mean to be brutal, Helen,” Chandler H. Bitter, Jr., went on, “but he has been injured in the knee. That’s bad, because knee injuries are difficult to repair and take a long time to heal.”
“Chan—” she said.
“Which means, Helen, that he won’t be able to fly for a while, perhaps never again. Which means that they’ll probably send him home for recuperation. He may well be out of it, Helen.”
“Oh,” she said thoughtfully.
“The military have a thing, Helen,” he said. “They call it the million-dollar wound. It means a wound like his. It’s not life-threatening, and it takes you out of the war.”
She stood up and went to him, and he put his arms around her.
He saw the butler watching them.
“Eddie has been hit, Morton,” he said. “In the knee. I think it means he will be coming home. Read the cable, if you like.”
Morton went to the glass-topped table and picked up the radiogram and read it.
“Thank God he’s alive!” he said emotionally.
“Would you please see if you can get Mr. Chambers on the telephone for me, Morton?” Chandler H. Bitter said.
“Yes, Sir,” Morton said.
“Brandon,” Chandler H. Bitter said into his wife’s hair, “has people over there, correspondents. I think he may be able to find out something more for us.”
The next day, there was a letter and a small package, sent registered special delivery, from the Chinese embassy, but it had nothing to do with Edwin’s being wounded, and Mr. Bitter had to explain to his nearly hysterical wife that the Chinese were not insane, but that the embassy had already mailed this letter before they heard about what had happened in China.
THE EMBASSY OF CHINA
Washington, District of Columbia
March 22, 1942
Mr. and Mrs. Chandler H. Bitter
2745 Lakeshore Drive
Chicago, Illinois
My dear Mr. and Mrs. Bitter:
It is with pleasure, pride, and gratitude that I am able to inform you that your son, Wingman Edwin Howell Bitter, of the American Volunteer Group, was on March 1, 1942, invested with the Order of the Cloud Banner of the Republic of China, at the direction of Generalissimo Chiang Kai-shek, and simultaneously promoted to the rank of flight leader.
Flight Leader Bitter was cited for his valor in the air, specifically the downing of five Japanese aircraft in aerial combat during the period from December 23, 1941, through March 1, 1942. I have learned that he has since then sent two more enemy aircraft down in flames.
You must certainly take pride that your son is one of that group of brave and farsighted young men who sensed the danger not only to China, but to America and to freedom throughout the world, in the ruthless and predatory course of Japanese militarism. Not waiting to be called, this group went forward to meet the enemy, prepared to sacrifice themselves, if need be, in order that the democracies might gain precious time, that freedom might live, and that countless other lives might be saved.
The record already made by the American Volunteer Group in aerial combat against the Japanese is one of which every American may be proud.
You may have heard that the American Volunteer Group has adopted as its emblem a Flying Tiger. The figure chosen was designed by Walt Disney Studios and shows a winged tiger leaping out of a Victory V. It is worn as a lapel insignia by your son and his comrades, and also appears in color on the fuselages of their planes. I have the honor to send, herewith, a gold replica of this insignia, as well as a gold miniature of the Order of the Cloud Banner.
As Foreign Minister of the Republic of China, I want to express to you on behalf of my countrymen and Generalissimo Chiang Kai-shek personally the sense of honor that is ours that your son has allied himself with the Chinese people in the cause of freedom. Like Lafayette in America, these gallant young men will ever be gratefully enshrined in the memory of the Chinese people.
Very truly yours,
TV Soong
T. V. Soong
Minister for Foreign Affairs
5
THE ST. REGIS HOTEL
NEW YORK CITY
APRIL 7, 1942
Colonel William J. Donovan, in white silk pajamas, was propped up against the headboard of the double bed when Captain Peter Douglass and Richard Canidy were shown into his room.
“Good morning,” Donovan said, offering his hand. Douglass took it first, and then Canidy.
“Nice to see you again, Canidy,” Donovan said. “Has Captain Douglass told you what’s wrong with me?”
“Yes, Sir,” Canidy said.
“And the medicine? Rat poison?”
“Yes, Sir,” Canidy said, and grinned.
“It’s enough to drive a man to drink,” Donovan joked. “And it has.” He gestured at a bottle of Pinch Bottle Haig & Haig on his bedside table. “I used to be, almost, a teetotaler.”
Donovan waited for the chuckle he expected, then went on.
“I consider this affair of MacArthur’s letter to the President important,” he said. “Which is why I asked you to come up here and tell me exactly what happened.”
“Yes, Sir,” they said, almost in unison.
“So let’s start at the beginning,” Donovan said. “You first, I guess, Peter, but I want you to feel free to interrupt, Dick, whenever you think it’s necessary.”
“Well, after I spoke with you, Colonel,” Douglass said, “I called A
lameda Naval Air Station. An old shipmate is in command, and he knew about Whittaker’s return. He was traveling on orders signed by MacArthur’s G-2, General Willoughby, which directed him to personally deliver to the President ‘certain secret documents’ placed in his possession. The last leg of his journey to the United States was, as I suspected, from Pearl Harbor to Alameda on that Catalina courier plane service the Navy operates.”
Douglass hesitated. “You said ‘exactly what happened,’ Colonel. Captain Whittaker was dead drunk on arrival.”
Donovan smiled. “He do anything wrong?”
“His priority bumped a naval officer,” Douglass said. “The senior officer of those who didn’t get bumped felt it his duty to report Whittaker. The first thing Whittaker did on arrival was make a telephone call. I don’t know to whom.”
“He told me he called Mrs. Whittaker,” Canidy furnished.
“Just the one telephone call?” Donovan asked.
“Yes, Sir, I think so.”
“His orders,” Douglass went on, “were brought to the attention of the air station commander, my friend, who called around and found the next available space, military space, was on a B-25 being flown to Washington by a Brigadier General Jacobs. He arranged to have Jacobs diverted to Alameda. Shortly after Jacobs picked Whittaker up, I called out there.”
“And what does Jacobs know, other than Whittaker had a high priority?” Donovan asked.
“Just that, Sir,” Douglass said. “Nothing about the letter. I then arranged to keep tabs on the flight as it came across the country. When it was due at Bolling, Canidy, Ellis, and I were there to meet it. I stayed in the car, and Canidy went to the plane to meet him. Dick?”
“There was a colonel there who said he was from the Office of the Chief of Staff,” Canidy said. “He knew about the letter.”
“The word was probably sent from Hawaii,” Donovan thought aloud. “Or perhaps even from Australia.”
“Well, this colonel knew about it, Sir,” Canidy said. “And he told Whittaker he had come for him and the letter. I then showed him my marshal’s badge, and said that I had been sent for him.”
“Any trouble?”
“The colonel was pretty upset, Sir, but that marshal’s badge worked. I told him if he had any questions, he should direct them to the Attorney General. Anyway, Jimmy came with us because he knew me. In the car, we told him—I thought we should, and I think Captain Douglass reluctantly agreed—about Miss Chenowith and his uncle.”
“I thought he knew about that,” Donovan said.
“I mean the business about where Mr. Whittaker died,” Canidy said.
“Oh,” Donovan said. “Was Cynthia at the house when you arrived?”
“She got there shortly after we did,” Canidy said. “So Whittaker took a bath and went to bed. In the master bedroom, which annoyed Miss Chenowith somewhat—”
“Canidy, please keep your differences with her out of this,” Donovan said, more reasonably than sharply.
“Yes, Sir,” Canidy said.
“What shape was he in?” Donovan asked.
“Sick and exhausted,” Canidy said. “I’m sure he has malaria, and Christ knows what else is wrong with him.”
“Vermin,” Douglass said. “He’s vermin-infested.”
Donovan shook his head. “MacArthur must have had him on the first plane out of Australia.”
“Yes, Sir,” Canidy said. “He told me he left Brisbane two hours after he got there.”
“At eight the next morning, Colonel,” Douglass said, “I went to the house on Q Street and checked on him. Then I called Steve Early. I thought as the President’s press secretary Steve would be able to reach the President immediately. I told him that Whittaker had just flown in from Australia with a letter from General MacArthur, and that he was under orders to deliver it personally to the President. I had the feeling, Sir, that Steve was surprised to hear about it.”
“And he carried the word to the President?”
“Thirty minutes later, the White House switchboard called. The President wished to speak with Whittaker. The Roosevelt and the Whittaker families have been friendly for decades, you’ll recall. If Whittaker was asleep, the White House said, we need not wake him, but he was to call as soon as he woke up.”
“Was he awake?”
“No, Sir,” Douglass said. “And I decided to let him sleep.” Donovan nodded approval.
“At half past two,” Douglass said, “I called you, and you told me you thought he had to return the President’s call. Canidy and I woke him up. He was sick. Shivering and nauseous. He insisted we give him something to drink. We did. That might have been the wrong thing to do.”
“Much?”
“A good stiff pull at the neck of a Scotch bottle,” Canidy said. “He said it would ‘keep the worms happy.’”
“And then I placed the call to the White House,” Douglass said. “The President came on the line in a minute.”
“Do we know what was said?” Donovan asked.
“I had a stenographer on the line,” Douglass said. “I have the transcript. But there wasn’t much. The President welcomed him home, expressed his condolences about Mr. Whittaker, and said that he wanted him to come for supper. Whittaker told him that he had MacArthur’s letter, and the President said he knew he did, and he could bring it with him.”
“You told Early, and Early must have told him,” Donovan said.
“Yes, Sir,” Douglass said. “And then Whittaker said, if it would be all right, he wanted to bring a friend with him.”
“Canidy,” Donovan said.
“Yes,” Douglass said. “And the President said fine, and that he and Mrs. Roosevelt both looked forward to seeing him.”
“Whittaker then said he wanted to catch up on his sleep,” Canidy said. “And asked us to wake him when it was time.”
“And you did?”
“We sent up a tray, in case he woke and was hungry. And we did what we could to make him look presentable,” Canidy said. “A rush dry-cleaning job on his uniform. At five-thirty, I went up and woke him again, and shaved him.”
“You shaved him?”
“He wanted more to drink,” Canidy said, “and I didn’t think he should have it. When I told him so, he held up his hands, which were shaking, and asked me how the hell he was supposed to shave, so I told him I’d shave him, and I did.”
“At six-fifteen I sent them to the White House, in the Buick,” Douglass said.
“Had he been given anything else to drink?”
“I gave him a drink in the car,” Canidy said.
“I told you not to,” Douglass said.
“I thought it was necessary,” Canidy said, unrepentant. “He was shaking, and he said he hurt. I think he had cramps. The drink seemed to help. In view of what was waiting for him at the White House, I think it was the right thing to do.”
“The press, you mean?”
“Yes, Sir,” Canidy said. “There was a Marine officer waiting for us. He took us into the Oval Office. The press was already there. Whittaker didn’t know they would be, of course, and he didn’t like it. I was glad he’d had something to drink.”
“Where was the letter all this time?”
“He had it.”
“There was no chance for you to see it?” Donovan asked.
“It was sealed, Sir,” Canidy said.
“We didn’t have time to risk opening and resealing it, Colonel,” Douglass said. “I made that decision.”
“I’d love to know what the hell it says,” Donovan said.
“Whatever it says, General Marshall didn’t like it,” Canidy said. “As soon as Whittaker gave it to the President, he gave it to General Marshall, and Marshall didn’t like what it said.”
“We’re getting ahead of what happened,” Donovan said. “Take it in sequence.”
“There were half a dozen photographers, and eight, ten reporters, and crews from Fox Movietone newsreel and the March of Time,” Canidy said.
“The President was already propped up. Standing, I mean, leaning against a back support. It was very carefully rehearsed, apparently. Early got Jimmy in position, and then they turned on the floodlights, or whatever they’re called, and started to operate the cameras. The President started out and said he wanted them to meet an authentic hero who had just escaped from the Philippines with MacArthur and flown to Washington with a message from the general. He said—with his grin—that it was normal for an officer to salute the Commander in Chief, but in this case he was going to give him a hug, because he was the son of one of his best friends, and he had known him since he was in diapers.
“Then Early pushed Jimmy into camera range, and the President hugged him and introduced him by name. Then he gave him the Silver Star for his heroic escape and told the press that Jimmy had already won medals for valor in the air and on the ground.”
“Very touching,” Donovan said. There was a hint of sarcasm in his voice. “Roosevelt is marvelous at that sort of thing.”
“The press wanted to ask Whittaker all kinds of questions,” Canidy went on, “but the President wouldn’t let them on the grounds that Whittaker was exhausted, and that after he and Mrs. Roosevelt had a family supper with him, he was going to let him go to bed. Somebody turned off the bright lights, and the press was ushered out.”
“You weren’t involved at all in the press conference?”
“I almost had to fight my way into the room,” Canidy said.
“But none of the press made any connection between you and Whittaker?”
“If anything, they thought I was Secret Service,” Canidy said.
“Good,” Donovan said. “Then what?”
“The orderly put the President in his wheelchair,” Canidy said, “and we went upstairs.”
“General Marshall was in the living quarters?” Donovan asked. “Not in the Oval Office?”
“He was waiting for us in the living quarters,” Canidy said. “He and Mrs. Roosevelt.”
The Secret Warriors Page 7
