“When we get there this morning, you mean,” Canidy said, and then, puzzled, asked, “The Fourth?”
“The Fourth of July,” Douglass said “You remember, Independence Day? Parades? Fireworks? Patriotic speeches?”
“Jesus, are we going to celebrate it in the middle of a war?”
“Even more enthusiastically than before the war,” Douglass said. “Now it’s considered important for morale.”
“I know,” Canidy said, straight-faced. “I’ll see if I can’t come up with the makings, lobsters, beer, corn on the cob, that sort of thing, and then we’ll have a clambake on the beach.”
“That’s an idea, certainly,” Douglass said. “Why not?”
“If that’s all, Captain? And presuming you’re ready, Stanley?”
“Anytime,” Fine said. His eyes were smiling. He had caught Canidy’s sarcasm, even though it had sailed right over Captain Douglass’s head.
“Have a good flight,” Captain Douglass said. “Tell Chief Ellis I’ll be in the car.”
PART SEVEN
1
THE WILLARD HOTEL
WASHINGTON, D.C.
JULY 2, 1942
Charity Hoche, Sarah’s friend from Bryn Mawr, had arrived at half past five the day before. She was a tall, sharp-featured blonde. And she was so very Main Line that Sarah and Ann Chambers had joked behind her back that there was no way to tell whether Katharine Hepburn had lurked in the shrubbery at Bryn Mawr to study Charity before she made The Philadelphia Story, or whether Charity had gone to the movie over and over so that she could faithfully mimic the actress’s mannerisms and nasal speech.
Despite the heat, Charity had swept into the suite with an ankle-length mink coat over her shoulders. Under this she wore the college-girl uniform of sweater and pleated plaid skirt. She had large breasts, which Sarah and Ann called behind her back the Hoche Dairy and which the sweater did little to conceal.
“Daahling!” she cried. “I can’t wait to see it.”
“You can’t wait to see what?” Sarah asked, although she knew perfectly well that Charity meant the baby.
“Your child, Little Mother! What else?”
Charity searched through the suite until she found the crib, then picked up Joe with a skill that surprised Sarah.
I always have to keep reminding myself that Charity is far less incompetent—and much more intelligent—than she, for some reason, likes to paint herself.
“He’s adorable!” Charity said.
“Thank you,” Sarah said.
“I would never have dreamed you had it in you,” Charity said. “But then, no one did, did they? Still waters, daahling, that sort of thing.”
There were two remarks in that that could be innocent but I know were not. I should be offended and angry, Sarah thought, but of course I’m not. Charity is Charity.
“If this precious little bundle is the wages of sin, daahling, you’re just going to have to find a sailor for me.”
Sarah laughed, although she knew she shouldn’t. “The sailors seem to be spoken for,” she said. “Would you settle for an Air Corps fighter pilot?”
“Have you one?” Charity asked, bright with interest.
“I’ve got one coming in the morning,” Sarah said. “He’s the man who saved Eddie’s life.”
“A bona fide hero? Marvelous! I wanted to see you, of course, and the bundle of joy here, but I wasn’t really looking forward to a whole weekend of watching you change his diapers. Which, incidentally, is necessary now.”
She handed the baby to Sarah, then gestured at the furniture in the room. It had been furnished with the reputation of Child and Company, Merchant Bankers, in mind. Most of the Louis XIV furniture was genuine, and so were the Matisse and the Gainsborough and the other paintings hung on the brocade walls.
“It looks like a museum,” Charity pronounced. “The only thing that’s missing are velvet ropes and signs saying ‘Please Do Not Touch.’”
“It belongs to the bank,” Sarah said. “My father turned it over to us. You just can’t find anywhere to live in Washington.”
“Being rich is nice, isn’t it?” Charity said. “What about the admiral? How did he react to finding out that supporting you isn’t going to be the usual problem?”
“Ed is a lieutenant commander,” Sarah said. “He can support us.”
“Not like this,” Charity said flatly.
She followed Sarah into the bedroom and sniffed loudly as Sarah changed Joe’s diaper.
“My God, do they all smell that bad, or have you been feeding that innocent child something you shouldn’t have?”
“You get used to it,” Sarah said, and then: “Ed’s father is a commodities broker in Chicago. His mother is Ann’s father’s sister.”
“In other words, the Chambers Publishing Company,” Charity said.
“Uh-huh,” Sarah said.
“So you won’t have to take in washing, will you? What did you get from them for a wedding present?”
Sarah did not want to tell Charity that there had been two large checks, from Ed’s father and hers, “to help them get started.” So she pretended not to have heard the question.
“The story is that Ed and I were married secretly before he went off to the Flying Tigers,” she said. “I hope you can go along with that.”
Charity was not ready to give up.
“That got them off cheap, didn’t it?” Charity asked, making it a statement.
If I let that go unanswered, Charity will decide that our parents are cheap, and/or that they disapprove of the marriage.
“The Bitters wanted to give us a car,” Sarah said, “but my father had already given us one.”
“Hold out for a newspaper,” Charity said. “That would be a nice little nest egg in case the admiral misbehaves when the novelty wears off.”
“Before he gets here, Charity,” Sarah said sharply, “I want to ask you not to make fun of his being in the Navy. He’s an Annapolis graduate, a career officer, and he might not understand you.”
Somewhat to Sarah’s surprise, Charity and Ed got along very well. They quickly came up with a half-dozen mutual acquaintances. Then, again surprising Sarah, Charity firmly insisted that Ed take Sarah to dinner while she baby-sat Joe.
Ed even laughed heartily when Charity said that she had to “get in practice, if I’m to believe half of what Sarah says about your friend Douglass.”
In the morning, after Ed had gone off to work, they dressed Joe, took Sarah’s 1941 Cadillac Fleetwood from the Willard garage, and drove to the airport.
“I think I should have told Ann to take a cab,” Sarah said. “This is nearly out of gas, and I don’t have any more ration coupons.”
“Then buy some on the black market,” Charity said.
“Oh, I couldn’t do that,” Sarah said. “My God, Charity, my husband is a naval officer.”
“What’s that got to do with being out of gas?”
“If you can’t figure that out, I certainly couldn’t explain it to you,” Sarah said coldly.
At the airport, Charity Hoche went into the terminal to meet Ann while Sarah and the baby waited in the car. When Charity reappeared with Ann, there was a Marine officer Ann had picked up on the plane to carry her bags.
“I promised the lieutenant we’d drive him into town,” Ann said.
They drove back across the Potomac into Washington and dropped Ann’s bag carrier at the Temporary Navy Department buildings across from the Smithsonian.
“Now what?” Ann asked.
“We go to Bolling Field to meet Doug Douglass,” Sarah said. “Praying that we don’t run out of gas.”
“Out of ration coupons?” Ann asked.
“And, my God, don’t suggest buying black-market gas,” Charity said. “Sarah will turn you in as a Nazi agent.”
“Well, if it gets to push and shove,” Ann said, “she’ll just have to swallow her patriotism. I’ve got coupons for twenty gallons.”
“Where
’d you get them?”
“Journalism is an essential occupation,” Ann said. “I stole them from my city editor.”
“You two may think you’re clever,” Sarah said, “but I don’t.”
“Amazing, isn’t it,” Ann said, “what marriage does to a girl? One moment she’s making backseat whoopee with sailors, and the next she’s delivering lectures on patriotic duty.”
I was about to say something l would have later regretted, Sarah thought. But these are my best friends in the world, Ann especially.
“Sailor,” Sarah said. “Singular. One sailor.”
But I will not put black-market gas in this car, if we have to walk back to the hotel.
Getting into Bolling Field wasn’t as easy as they’d expected. The captain they went to had orders that only journalists on his list—they’d hoped Ann’s press card would see them waved through—were to be admitted. But Ann finally charmed the captain into passing her in as a guest and not as a journalist.
There was a chain-link fence beside the base operations building, and Sarah pulled the Cadillac’s nose against it. Then, because she had a Naval Dependent’s ID card, Sarah went into base operations to ask what they knew about the arrival of an Air Corps plane from Selma, Alabama.
Very politely they told her they could not give out that information to her, dependent or not.
“What do we want to know?” Charity asked when Sarah returned to the car and told them she hadn’t been able to do any good.
“The ETA of a P-38 inbound from Selma, Alabama,” Ann furnished.
“The ETA of a P-38 inbound from Selma, Alabama,” Charity parroted, obviously committing that to memory.
Then she got out of the Cadillac and walked toward base operations. Five minutes later she was back.
“An Air Corps P-38, probably ours,” she announced, “has called in extending his ETA by forty-five minutes. He should be on the ground in ten or fifteen minutes.”
“How did you do that?” Sarah asked.
“She kept brushing lint off her boobs,” Ann said. “Right?”
“That, too,” Charity said. “But I think what really got to him was the way I kept licking my lips.”
“You two are disgusting!” Sarah said.
Five minutes later, there was unusual activity on the field. Two red fire engines, what looked like a water truck, an ambulance, and several pickup trucks, all with flashing red lights, raced across the field and stationed themselves on either side of the main runway.
“I don’t like the look of that,” Ann said seriously.
“What does this airplane we’re looking for look like?” Charity asked.
“A P-38,” Ann said. “It has twin engines and a dual tail structure.”
“Like that?” Charity asked, pointing.
“Like that,” Ann said.
A P-38, its polished aluminum skin glistening in the bright sunlight, straightened up from a steep bank and lined up with the runway.
“One of its things isn’t working,” Charity said.
“Engines, idiot,” Ann snapped. “He’s coming in on one engine.”
The fire trucks and crash equipment proved to be unnecessary. The P-38 touched down in a perfect three-point landing—a greaser, Ann thought—then turned off the runway. It disappeared for a minute or two. But then, trailed by one fire truck and several of the other vehicles, it reappeared on the taxiway right in front of them. A ground handler showed the pilot where to park.
The canopy was back and they could see the pilot clearly as he taxied into position. He was bareheaded and wearing sunglasses. Ten red-and-white Japanese Meatballs and the legend “Major Doug Douglass” were painted on the nose of the fuselage.
“Now, there’s a sight,” Charity Hoche said softly, “that would make the Virgin Mary, much less any red-blooded American female patriot—say, this one—jump on her back and spread her knees.”
“Charity!” Sarah said.
Ann Chambers grinned. “I think that’s yours, Charity,” she said. “Say thank you to Sarah.”
“Thank you, Sarah,” Charity said.
“I don’t know you two,” Sarah said, trying hard to suppress a smile.
“I’m glad he didn’t hear her,” Ann said. “But she’s right, Sarah. Nature takes care of that, making the warriors powerfully attractive before they go off to get killed. She wants them to impregnate the maidens while they still can.”
Sarah looked at her. “Are you trying to say that’s what you think happened to me?”
“If the shoe fits, Cinderella.” Ann laughed.
When she saw that Douglass had shut the P-38 down and climbed down to the ground, she reached over and tapped the Cadillac’s horn: Shave and a haircut, two bits.
It caught Douglass’s attention, and after a moment’s confusion he smiled, waved, and, ignoring the people who were now fussing over the engine that had failed, walked over to the fence. Ann stepped out of the car, then Charity, and finally Sarah, carrying Joe.
“You’re Sarah,” Doug Douglass said. “I’ve seen your picture.”
He now had a battered cap on the back of his head and was wearing a battered horsehide jacket on the front of which was painted the Flying Tiger insignia. On its back was a Chinese flag and an extensive legend in Chinese calligraphy.
“What happened out there?” Sarah asked.
“I blew a jug in my right fan,” he said. “That’s why I was late.”
“What does that mean?” Charity asked breathlessly.
“He lost a cylinder in the engine,” Ann explained.
“And I know who you are, then,” Douglass said to Ann. “You’re the one with the stagger-wing Beech. Canidy told me about you.”
“Guilty,” Ann said.
I must be in love, she thought. All it took to get my heart thumping was to hear that sonofabitch has been talking about me.
“And I’m Charity,” Charity said, brushing lint off her sweater front and looking right into his eyes.
“God, I hope so!” Douglass said. “Well, ladies, your welcome makes me feel like a conquering hero.”
“That was the intention,” Sarah said.
Douglass took a close look at the baby. “I hate to tell you this,” he said, “but he looks like his father.”
“He’s handsome, you mean,” Sarah said.
Douglass laughed. “It’ll take me a couple of minutes to do the paperwork about the blown jug,” he said. “I’ll make it as quick as I can.”
It took him, in fact, closer to an hour.
“Sorry it took so long,” he said when he finally appeared. “But there was a silver lining. The maintenance officer, his chin on his knees, just told me there’s no way he can swap engines for me before the Fourth of July. Which means I can be here longer than I thought I could.”
“Great,” Sarah said. “Would you mind driving? I think we could make it off the base easier if you did.”
“Sure,” he said, and slipped behind the wheel. “Where’s Eddie!”
“He had to work,” Sarah said, “but he should be home by one o’clock.”
“Where’s your friend Canidy?” Ann asked.
“God only knows,” Douglass said. “He works for my father. Whatever they’re doing, they’re not supposed to talk about it, and they don’t. When we find somewhere where there’s a phone, I’ll see if I can run him down.”
Wonderful! Ann thought.
They were well into the District before Douglass happened to glance at the fuel gauge. “Does the fuel gauge work?” he asked.
Ann giggled.
“If it does, we’re running on the fumes,” Douglass went on.
“Sarah’s out of ration coupons,” Ann said.
“Well, we’ll just have to get some on the black market,” Douglass said.
“How does that fit in with your patriotism?” Ann asked innocently.
“What’s running out of gas got to do with patriotism?” Douglass asked.
Ann and Cha
rity were now both giggling.
And then Douglass suddenly pulled the car to a curb.
“Don’t tell me we’re out of gas?” Ann asked.
“Not yet,” Douglass said. “Just almost. There’s a cop. I’m going to ask him.”
“Ask him what?”
“Where I can get some gas,” Douglass said. He got out of the car and walked toward a policeman.
In a minute, Douglass was back behind the wheel.
“There’s a Shell station,” he said. “Second right, and then two blocks up on the left. He said he wasn’t sure if they had coupons too, but he thought they did.”
Fifteen minutes later, the fuel gauge of the Cadillac indicated past full, and there was a sheet of ration coupons in the glove compartment.
Sarah wasn’t pleased, but she didn’t say anything.
When they got to the Willard, Ed was already there, and Admiral Hawley was with him.
“I didn’t want to intrude on this reunion,” the admiral said. “But I did want to meet you and shake your hand, Major Douglass. That was an incredible bit of flying you did when you picked Ed up.”
With genuine modesty, Douglass downplayed what he had done, but there was no question in anyone’s mind, least of all Sarah’s, that Doug Douglass was a storybook hero.
There were drinks. Then, without asking, Sarah called room service and ordered shrimp salads—it was too hot to eat anything else—and the women watched while Douglass and Ed, using hand movements, explained the fine points of attacking a Japanese bomber formation in diving sweeps to the admiral.
It was nearly two-thirty before the admiral left. Ann decided it was time then to again bring up Dick Canidy—before Douglass and Ed Bitter had more to drink.
Douglass settled himself comfortably on one of a pair of couches facing a low table that was in front of the fireplace. After Charity had brought him another drink and Ann the telephone, he consulted a small pocket notebook for the number and dialed it.
The Secret Warriors Page 20
