The Secret Warriors

by W. E. B Griffin

  “And there was liquor?”

  “Yes, Sir. But I don’t think—I don’t know how to say this—Whittaker was weak, and the alcohol got to him more than it normally would. So he was probably drunk, but I don’t think that’s the reason he did what he did.”

  “Get into that,” Donovan said.

  “Mrs. Roosevelt kissed him, then asked him if he’d been in touch with his mother and Mrs. Whittaker. He told her he’d talked with them, and one of the stewards passed hors d’oeuvres—”

  “You were introduced how?”

  “As an old friend, who worked for you, Sir,” Canidy said.

  “Okay,” Donovan said. “Go on.”

  “Then we went in to dinner,” Canidy said.

  “The only other guest was General Marshall?” Donovan asked.

  “Yes, Sir,” Canidy said. “He introduced himself and welcomed Jimmy home. He sat on one side of the table. Jimmy and I were on the other, and the Roosevelts at the ends. A steward poured wine, and the President said he had a toast to make, but he thought it should wait until after grace.”

  “He said grace?” Donovan asked.

  “A brief grace,” Canidy said. “Standard Episcopal, with a couple of added lines, one about Jimmy making it home, and another asking for a speedy victory. When he was finished, he toasted Jimmy’s return, and then Jimmy gave him MacArthur’s letter. He read it, and then gave it to General Marshall, who, as I said before, didn’t like what it had to say.”

  “Did Mrs. Roosevelt read it?”

  “No, Sir,” Canidy said. “When the President got it back from General Marshall, he put it in his pocket.”

  “What next?”

  “We made small talk—prep school, Harvard, that sort of thing—and the food was served. That’s when Jimmy went off.”

  “What, exactly, did he do?”

  “Jimmy asked the steward for an extra glass and an extra plate,” Canidy said. “I thought it was a little odd, but nothing to worry about. It was also odd that he hadn’t eaten any of his soup. And then, when the steward tried to take the bowl away, he wouldn’t let him remove it. I thought that was odd, too, but I didn’t think it was alarming. I was more worried that he was going to get sloppy drunk, and that didn’t seem to be happening.

  “Then the meal, roast beef, was served. That’s when I realized he was up to something. He sliced a small piece off his baked potato, and put that on the plate he’d asked for. Then he did the same thing with the slice of beef. And a piece of butter, and a roll. Then he carefully spooned a small portion of the clam chowder into the glass he had asked for.

  “I asked him what the hell he was doing, and he smiled at me and winked. Then he stood up and walked around the table to George Marshall. He leaned over and pushed Marshall’s plate to the center of the table. Then he laid the plate he’d made up in front of Marshall and poured the clam chowder over everything.

  “And then he made his speech: ‘That, General, is a three-eighths share of our ration. The troops in the Philippines have been on a three-eighths ration for months. Except the men on Bataan and Corregidor have no beef. What they’re eating, if they have meat at all, is caribou and what’s left of the mules and horses of the Twenty-sixth Cavalry. And there is no butter, no bread, and no clam chowder.’”

  “Jesus Christ!” Donovan said.

  “I told him to sit down,” Canidy said. “He looked at me. He was excited, flushed in the face. He just grinned at me. And then he looked at the President, came to attention, and saluted. Very crisply.”

  “You couldn’t have stopped him?” Donovan asked.

  “This all happened very quickly,” Canidy said. “I didn’t know what he was up to.”

  “Did he say anything to the President?” Donovan asked.

  “He said he was sure the Commander in Chief and the Chief of Staff would like to know what a three-eighths ration was, and that he hoped they would enjoy it, but that he begged to be excused, because he seemed to have lost his appetite.”

  “What did Marshall do?”

  “Nothing,” Canidy said. “Mrs. Roosevelt looked like she was about to cry. The President looked at me and said that he thought it would be a good idea if I took Captain Whittaker home, he was obviously exhausted.”

  “By the time they got back,” Captain Douglass said, “General Marshall had called. He told me that Whittaker was on the way back to the house, and that since he obviously required medical attention, an ambulance had been dispatched. Marshall went on to say he had been ordered by the President to make sure that Whittaker was given this attention as soon as possible. It wasn’t until I saw Canidy that I learned what Whittaker had done.”

  “The ambulance was there no more than two minutes after we got to the house,” Canidy said. “An Army ambulance, from Fort Myer.”

  “There was a Medical Corps colonel with it,” Douglass said. “I didn’t know what to do but turn him over to them.”

  “I tried to go along with them,” Canidy said. “But they wouldn’t let me, and Whittaker said there was no reason to go. So he got in the ambulance, and they took him away.”

  “And then, Sir, I called here,” Douglass said.

  “Well,” Donovan said, after a moment’s thought, “first things first. You certainly can’t be blamed for his behavior, Canidy. And we accomplished what we set out to do. The President has MacArthur’s letter. If he chose to share it with General Marshall, that’s his business. And, from what you’ve told me, Jim Whittaker does need medical help. I’ll see if I can find out what they’ve done with him. If I can, Canidy, I’ll let you know.”

  “I don’t think he’s crazy, Colonel,” Canidy said. “I don’t think he deserves to be locked up in St. Elizabeth’s.”4

  “I said I’ll try to find out what they’ve done with him. If I find out he’s in St. Elizabeth’s, I’ll do what I can about that then.”

  “Yes, Sir,” Canidy said.

  “Would you mind waiting outside for a few minutes, Canidy?” Donovan said. “I’ve got a few things for Captain Douglass.”

  “I’d hoped to have a minute of your time, Colonel,” Canidy said.

  “About this?”

  “About me, Sir.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’d like to know what you have in mind for me,” Canidy asked. “Captain Douglass has been unable or unwilling to talk about that.”

  “I was told,” Donovan said, “that you were no longer so determined to leave the comforts of Washington for the glory of aerial combat in the wild blue yonder.”

  “Captain Douglass has managed to make it perfectly clear that my enlistment in your Navy was for the duration. I think I understand why I can’t go back to the other Navy, but I would like to know what I’m going to be doing in yours.”

  “For the time being, Canidy, you’re going to baby-sit Admiral de Verbey,” Donovan said. “He’s at Summer Place.”

  “Cynthia said something about trouble with him,” Canidy said, making it a question.

  “We have to keep the admiral at Summer Place and away from the press,” Donovan said. “Preferably amicably, but by force if necessary. Captain Douglass is arranging to have some Free French officers assigned to him as a staff, and there will be consultations between the admiral and various staff officers from the Navy. So far as the admiral is concerned, you will be his liaison officer. He knows you, of course, and we hope he will swallow that line. You’ll wear the uniform of an Air Corps major. The Navy is providing a security force, and they will be told they will take their orders from you.”

  “How long will that go on?” Canidy asked.

  “Until it has been decided by me that it is no longer necessary,” Donovan said.

  Canidy shrugged but said nothing.

  He takes orders, Donovan thought. That’s good.

  “For the long term, Canidy,” Donovan went on, “I’m sure we’ll find things for you to do, taking into consideration both your flying background and your demonstrated a
bility to do other things. Just what, and when, hasn’t been decided. The ever-resourceful Chief Ellis has scrounged an airplane for us, and we want you to pick that up and take it with you to New Jersey.”

  “What kind of an airplane?”

  “A Beech D18,” Donovan said. “Is that right, Peter?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “I’m a fighter pilot,” Canidy asked, more of a question than a challenge.

  “And an aeronautical engineer,” Douglass said, “who knows how to fly a D18S. Isn’t that correct?”

  “I got a few hours in the one the AVG had,” Canidy said.

  “Well, you’ll have plenty of time in New Jersey to become proficient,” Douglass said. “And we’ll try to arrange it so that you can get checked out in other aircraft as well. When you can spare the time from taking care of the admiral, of course.”

  Canidy nodded his acceptance of this.

  “Any other questions, Canidy?” Donovan asked.

  “No, Sir.”

  “I think there’s a coffeepot in the sitting room,” Donovan said, politely dismissing him.

  “Thank you,” Canidy said again, and left the bedroom, closing the door behind him.

  PART THREE

  1

  LAKEHURST NAVAL AIR STATION

  LAKEHURST, NEW JERSEY

  APRIL 9, 1942

  A Navy blimp was about to take off as Canidy approached the field in the twin Beech D18S. The tower ordered him to circle east of the field in order to get out of the way. Canidy was pleased. He hadn’t seen that many blimps, and he’d never before seen one take off. It apparently required a great deal of skill on the part of the pilot and the large ground crew. He could see them now, half a dozen teams—six to eight men to a line—pulling the blimp’s nose into the wind while simultaneously keeping the machine from being blown crossways.

  As large as blimps were—there were three others on the ground—they were in turn dwarfed by their hangar. This monster had been built, he remembered, when he was a kid, at a time when important people seriously believed that dirigibles were going to be the warships of the future. A series of disastrous crashes, including that of the Navy’s Indianapolis , off California, and the German passenger zeppelin Hindenburg right here at Lakehurst, had killed that idea.

  The blimp he was watching finally sailed gently into the air and headed due east, out to sea. It was going on a war patrol to look for German submarines.

  “Lakewood clears Navy Six-one-one for landing on runway two-seven,” his earphones announced, waking him up. “The winds are five, gusting to fifteen, from the west. The barometer is three-zero-zero-zero.”

  He banked the Beech back toward the field. It was brand-new, a VIP transport, neither the navigation trainer nor the bare-to-the-ribs small transport he had expected. It had been intended for a senior admiral who had been given a command at sea before he could take delivery. As was his way, Ellis had heard about this and “somehow” had arranged for it to be diverted to COI. A useful man, Ellis.

  “Six-one-one on final,” he said into the microphone as he lowered the wheels and put down the flaps.

  He had a little trouble putting it on the ground, and he was farther down the runway than he wanted to be when he heard the wheels chirp. He’d like to put blame, he thought, on the flight characteristics of the aircraft, but the truth was that the fault was his. Despite his newly issued Army Air Corps flight records claim that he was rated as pilot in command of C-45, C-46, and C-47 twin-engine aircraft, he had never been at the controls of a C-46 or a C-47, and when he had taken this Beech D18S off the field at the Beech factory in Wichita, it was the first time he had flown what the Air Corps called the C-45 solo.

  “Lakehurst, Six-one-one,” he reported to the tower. “I’m on the ground at ten past the hour.”

  “Six-one-one, take the taxiway to your left, and taxi to the east door of the dirigible hangar.”

  The hangar looked even bigger on the ground than from the air—simply incredibly vast. As he approached, with the building looming over him, a Navy officer walked from the hangar, stood in his path, and made “come to me” ground handler signals. Canidy thought it was odd that an officer should be parking aircraft, but his signals were even stranger. The officer with the commander’s shoulder boards was giving him a left-turn signal, into the hangar itself.

  Canidy made the turn, but stopped. One does not taxi airplanes inside hangars. Prop blast does interesting things inside confined spaces such as hangars—like turn other airplanes over on their backs.

  But inside the hangar was a proper plane handler, a white hat with wands in his hands. And he, too, was giving “come to me” signals.

  Canidy released the brakes, opened the throttles a crack, and obeyed. There was, he thought, an exception to every rule, and this hangar was obviously the exception to the one about not operating engines in a hangar.

  There were six other aircraft inside. A Catalina with both of its engines running taxied toward the far door. It looked at least a mile away.

  The ground handler, walking quickly backward, led him a hundred yards into the hangar and then signaled for him to turn left, turn around, and shut it down.

  When Canidy climbed out of the D18, the officer who had met him outside the hangar was standing there, waiting for him.

  Canidy saluted, and the commander returned it, then offered his hand.

  “Major Canidy?” the commander asked. When Canidy nodded, he introduced himself as Commander Reynolds, the air station commander.

  “I like your hangar,” Canidy said.

  Reynolds laughed. “It’s supposed to be the largest covered area without roof supports in the world,” he said.

  “I can believe that.”

  “The sun gets hot here,” Reynolds said. “When we have the room, we like to park airplanes inside, keep them from baking.”

  He’s a nice guy, Canidy decided, but that isn’t the only reason he’s being so charming. He is a professional, keeping the apple polished. NAS Lakehurst had orders coming directly from the Office of the Chief of Naval Operations to provide whatever guard force was deemed necessary for Summer Place, and to place that guard force under the absolute authority of a United States deputy marshal who would make his identity known to them.

  And that morning the “deputy U.S. marshal,” who was in fact one of the FBI agents on loan to COI, had told the commander, NAS Lakehurst, that he was being relieved by an Air Corps major named Canidy, who would be arriving in a Navy airplane.

  “Mr. Delaney said that he’d like to turn over to you at Summer Place,” Commander Reynolds said. “And I thought, if you had no objection, I’d tag along. I don’t know what your requirements are going to be, and it might save time if I was there from the beginning.”

  “I’m glad you can spare the time,” Canidy said.

  “I understand the importance of your mission,” Reynolds said.

  Translated, Canidy thought, that means you don’t want me to make any waves.

  Commander Reynolds drove Canidy to Summer Place in his Navy gray Ford staff car. The last time he had been in a Navy car with a white-hat driver had been at Pensacola. The admiral had dispatched his car and driver to fetch Lieutenant (j.g.) Canidy from the beer hall to the admiral’s quarters, where he had been introduced to a leathery-faced old Army fighter pilot named Claire Chennault. Chennault promptly announced that he was asking for volunteer pilots to fly Curtiss P-40B Tomahawks for the Chinese, and that Canidy had been selected.

  “It’s a beautiful place,” Commander Reynolds volunteered. “A turn-of-the-century mansion right on the ocean.”

  “I know,” Canidy said. “I’ve been here before.”

  Reynolds obviously thought he meant in connection with whatever was going on there now. But what Canidy meant, what Canidy was thinking, was how often Jimmy Whittaker’s aunt and uncle had entertained him—and Eric Fulmar—there when the three friends had been in St. Mark’s School together.

  M
ounted every hundred feet or so on the fence that surrounded the estate there were signs announcing that this was a U.S. Government Reservation, where trespassing was forbidden, and that trespassers would be prosecuted.

  And far enough inside the gate not to be seen from the road, a guard shack had been set up. A white hat in puttees carrying a Springfield rifle stepped onto the road and barred their passage until Commander Reynolds identified Canidy.

  The “deputy U.S. marshal” and a young lieutenant (j.g ) who was in charge of the guard detail were waiting for them at the house. Canidy recognized the ex-FBI agent from the house on Q Street. If the ex-FBI agent was surprised to see Canidy in a major’s uniform, it didn’t show.

  “Just as the weather turns nice here,” the ex-FBI man joked, “I have to go back.”

  “Virtue is its own reward,” Canidy announced unctuously.

  The details of the guard arrangement were explained to Canidy: there were, in addition to the man who met Canidy, four more “deputy U.S. marshals” at the house working eight-hour shifts in rotation. They supervised the Navy guards, who worked four to a shift, around the clock, guarding the road and making irregular patrols of the fence and along the beach.

  A telephone switchboard had also been installed. This was operated by the “deputy marshals.” There were direct lines to Lakehurst, to the Coast Guard station three miles down the beach, and to the police department in Asbury Park.

  Ten minutes after the turnover had begun, it was over. On his way back to Lakehurst, Commander Reynolds gave the ex-FBI agent a ride to the train station in Asbury Park.

  As soon as Reynolds’s car was out of sight, Canidy went looking for Vice Admiral d’Escadre Jean-Philippe de Verbey.

  He found him—a tiny little man who looked both very fragile and very intense—in a glassed-in sunporch drinking a cup of coffee.

  “Monsieur l’Amiral,” Canidy said, saluting. “Je suis encore une fois à votre service.” He had rehearsed the French. He had liked him from the moment he met him in Morocco.

  “It is my pleasure to see you again, Major,” the admiral said in excellent English, returning the salute. “I have often wondered what had happened to you after you were left behind by the submarine that carried me to this country.”