Even Sue-Ellen had seen this special character, whatever it was, in Dick Canidy. Ann had seen Sue-Ellen looking at him, and she wasn’t looking at him with the eyes of a ‘‘nice’’ wife and mother. Ann had heard rumors that Sue-Ellen was playing around on her husband, and Ann’s reaction was that her damned-fool brother should have known better than to marry a woman who was smarter and stronger than he was. Ann was reasonably sure that, given the opportunity, Sue-Ellen might very well have made a play for Dick Canidy.
There had been no opportunity for that, of course. Too many people around and nowhere to go.
Too many people around had been her problem, too. Canidy would not have responded to staring soulfully at him, the way Sarah had stared at Ed Bitter, and staring soulfully was the only card Ann could have played in a house full of people. If she had given him the goofy looks, Ann was sure Canidy would have pegged her as a college tease, just a fool kid.
The way to snag Dick Canidy was to make him come to her. She thought she had already made the first correct step in that direction: she had discussed flying with him. And he had been genuinely surprised to learn that she wasn’t cooing at him like a schoolgirl who simply was thrilled by aviators, but that she had her private license, two hundred fifty hours, and had flown the Beech solo cross-country to San Francisco.
When he had time to turn that over in his mind, he would get the idea that she was something special and come after her. She would elude him until he was snared. She would become first his friend, and then give him the sex that all men were after. What more could he ask for?
Dick Canidy was the man she wanted to marry. The proof that she made a sound judgment about him was that her father really liked him. And her father had a favorite saying when he was with his friends: ‘‘The best thing about being my age, and in my position in life, is that I no longer have to suffer fools.’’
Dick Canidy was the first young man she ever saw her father seeking out because he was genuinely interested in what he had to say.
There wasn’t much time. She was going to have to move fast, to set her hook in him before he went swimming in distant waters.
Sarah and Charity stayed five days, until June 17, and then Ann and her mother drove them to Montgomery and put them on the train back up north. On the way back to The Plantation, Ann asked her mother if it would be all right if she asked Eddie and Dick Canidy to come for another weekend.
‘‘Well, of course,’’ her mother said. ‘‘You liked him, didn’t you?’’
‘‘I’m going to marry him,’’ Ann said.
‘‘This weekend, or after he comes back from China?’’ her mother replied dryly.
‘‘I may get unofficially engaged this weekend,’’ Ann said, ‘‘but we’ll wait until he comes back from China to get married. ’’
‘‘You seem very, very sure of yourself,’’ Jenny Chambers said. ‘‘What are you going to do if he has other plans for the weekend?’’
‘‘He wouldn’t dare!’’ Ann said.
She called Pensacola Naval Air Station the moment she got back to The Lodge. She asked for Canidy, and when the operator rang the number, another operator came on and said that number was no longer in service. Then she asked for Ed Bitter’s number. It was the same number she had been given for Dick Canidy.
‘‘Let me talk to the base public information officer,’’ Ann said. Her mother walked into the library in time to hear and raised her eyebrows.
‘‘Public information, Journalist Anderson speaking, sir.’’
‘‘Ann Chambers,’’ she said. ‘‘Nashville Courier-Gazette.’’
Jenny Chambers’s eyebrows rose even higher and she shook her head.
‘‘What can the Navy do for the Courier-Gazette?’’
‘‘I’m trying to run down one of two sailors,’’ she said. ‘‘Two lieutenants, one of them named Bitter, Edwin, and other one named Canidy, Richard.’’
‘‘I’m sure we can handle that,’’ he said. ‘‘Hang on, please.’’
He didn’t come back on the line. An officer did.
‘‘This is Commander Kersey, Miss Chambers,’’ he said. ‘‘I’m afraid we have no officers by those names on the base. May I inquire as to the reason you wanted to locate them?’’
‘‘Yeah,’’ Ann Chambers said. ‘‘I’m running down a story that they’re going to China, and wanted to ask them about it.’’
There was a pause. ‘‘Would you mind telling me where you heard that story, Miss Chambers?’’ Commander Kersey asked.
‘‘It’s all over Washington, Commander,’’ she said. ‘‘I’ll check it out with the Navy Department.’’
She hung up and looked at her mother.
‘‘Goddamn it,’’ she said. ‘‘They’re already gone. Now what the hell am I going to do?’’ She was furious with herself when she felt the tears well up in her eyes.
Rockefeller Center New York, New York June 19, 1941
When Bitter and Canidy appeared at the CAMCO office, they were shown to a small, sparsely furnished conference room and given coffee and Danish rolls. A few minutes later, a man in civilian clothing appeared, identified himself as Commander Ommark of the Navy, and opened his leather briefcase.
The briefcase contained the necessary forms and other documentation required for the separation of officers, for the convenience of the government, under honorable conditions from the naval service. Among the documents were checks drawn upon the Treasury of the United States for their pay and allowances through 15 June 1941, including pay for unused accrued leave.
Why they hadn’t been given the discharge papers in Washington was not explained, and Canidy decided questioning the bureaucratic mind would be a waste of time.
‘‘Thank you, gentlemen,’’ Commander Ommark said. He shook their hands and wished them good luck.
A secretary came into the conference room a moment after he left, and told them they should return to their hotel and separate their clothing, military and civilian, into that which they would be taking with them, and that which CAMCO would store or send anywhere they designated.
Canidy could see no point in taking blues or whites or any dress uniforms with them, but khakis and aviator-green twill, from which U.S. Navy insignia could easily be removed, would more than likely be of service in the Far East. Ed Bitter asked her about aviator’s wings. The secretary said she didn’t really know, they could ask when they returned at half past two. She had unassembled corrugated paper boxes and a roll of paper tape for them, and, carrying that, they returned to the Biltmore Hotel, near Grand Central Terminal, and changed into civilian clothing.
Bitter said that he thought that he was going to ship his uniforms to Brandon Chambers to keep for him at The Plantation. They would probably be going to Pensacola anyway, when their year was up.
Canidy asked if Bitter thought Mr. Chambers would mind keeping his Navy uniforms, too. Bitter hesitated before replying, but said finally he was sure his uncle would not mind. Canidy felt Bitter’s attitude was cold and strange, as it had been strange for the last week or ten days. Now was the time to bring it to a head.
‘‘You want to tell me what I’ve done? Or are you planning to sulk from now on?’’ Canidy asked.
‘‘It’s a combination of things,’’ Bitter said after a long pause. ‘‘You were disgraceful in Washington.’’
‘‘I was a little drunk in Washington,’’ Canidy said. ‘‘Whittaker and I had a lot to drink.’’
‘‘You were visibly drunk this morning in Commander Porter’s office.’’
‘‘I won’t debate the point,’’ Canidy said. ‘‘We didn’t go to bed at all. But that’s not what’s bothering you. And I think we should get whatever it is out in the open.’’
Bitter looked at him. For a moment, Canidy thought there would be no reply, but then Bitter said, ‘‘I know what happened on the boat, Dick.’’
‘‘What boat?’’ Canidy asked, confused, and then he understood. ‘‘Oh.’’
‘‘You sonofabitch, that was a filthy thing to do,’’ Bitter said angrily.
‘‘What were you doing, watching?’’ Canidy asked. Bitter didn’t reply, but it was clearly written on his face that he had indeed been watching.
‘‘You fucking voyeur, you!’’ Canidy said, amused.
Bitter had the most infuriating urge to smile.
‘‘She’s my cousin’s wife, goddamn it!’’ he said.
‘‘I didn’t rape her,’’ Canidy said.
‘‘She’s my cousin’s wife,’’ Bitter repeated.
‘‘That’s his problem, Eddie,’’ Canidy said. ‘‘Not yours.’’
‘‘You have the morals of an alley cat,’’ Bitter said.
Canidy smiled at him. ‘‘Now we both understand that, what next?’’
‘‘You bastard!’’ Bitter said, but now he was smiling.
‘‘What the hell did you do?’’ Canidy asked. ‘‘Follow us to the boat?’’
‘‘I went down to the river to think,’’ Bitter said. ‘‘And saw the light.’’
‘‘A gentleman would not have looked,’’ Canidy said piously.
‘‘Oh, you sonofabitch!’’ Bitter said. ‘‘Jesus Christ, you’re impossible.’’
‘‘Go in the bathroom, Saint Edwin, and get a wad of toilet paper.’’
‘‘Do what?’’
‘‘To moisten the paper tape,’’ Canidy said. ‘‘To seal the boxes. Then we can go cash our checks and get a couple of drinks to celebrate our freedom.’’
‘‘We shouldn’t show up there with liquor on our breath,’’ Bitter said.
‘‘We’re not in the Navy anymore, Ed,’’ Canidy said.
When they went back to the CAMCO offices in Rockefeller Center at half past two, a civilian, well dressed, well spoken, was waiting for them. His briefcase held their contracts and some other forms. There was, for instance, the question of what to do about their pay. CAMCO was willing to pay them in American money, or gold, in China, or to deposit their checks monthly to any bank of their choice in the United States. If they had no bank, CAMCO would arrange with the Riggs National Bank in Washington for accounts. He would suggest, he said, that they take part, say $150 or $200, for their pay in China, and have the balance credited to their bank.
When they had filled out the necessary forms, he gave them their railroad tickets. They were to share a compartment on the 20th Century Limited to Chicago, departing Grand Central Station at 5:30 that night, and then were to have roomettes on the Super Chief out of Chicago. He also handed them passports. Canidy realized he hadn’t even thought about a passport. He had never been out of the United States before. But somebody had thought of that detail, someone with influence to get their photographs from the Navy and have them affixed to passports they had not applied for.
‘‘When you get to San Francisco,’’ the man told them, ‘‘take a taxi to the Mark Hopkins Hotel and use the house phone to call Mr. Harry C. Claiborne. If there is some sort of delay, and you can’t make it to the Mark Hopkins by ten o’clock, go directly to Pier 17. You have passage aboard the Jan Suvit, of the Java-Pacific Line. It sails at midnight of the day you get to Frisco.’’
The Super Chief put them in San Francisco at four in the afternoon four days later. As they made their way through the station toward the taxi stand, Canidy caught Bitter’s arm.
‘‘You know what’s going to happen if we go to the Mark Hopkins?’’
Bitter didn’t understand the question.
‘‘No, what?’’
‘‘You heard what that guy said. The ship sails at midnight. If we go to the hotel now, you know what’s going to happen. Someone is going to sit on us, before they lead us by the hand to the taxi that’ll take us to the pier.’’
‘‘What are you driving at?’’
‘‘I don’t know if I’m up to six or eight hours of sitting around a hotel room, letting my very active imagination run away with me.’’
‘‘Imagination about what?’’ Bitter asked.
‘‘Getting killed over there, Eddie. You haven’t worried about that?’’
‘‘Sure, I have,’’ Bitter confessed.
But he was surprised that Canidy was afraid, and even more surprised that he would admit it. Now that he thought about it, it probably explained why Canidy had been drinking so much.
‘‘I’ve heard a lot about Fisherman’s Wharf,’’ Canidy said. ‘‘What do you say we go have a look at it?’’
It was a plea, Bitter realized.
‘‘What do we do about the hotel?’’
‘‘The ship sails at midnight. We go there at eleven,’’ Canidy said.
Ed Bitter wanted to do what he had been told to do, go to the hotel. But the prospect of sitting around a hotel room, reading magazines as if waiting for the dentist, now seemed as unpleasant to him as it did to Canidy.
He found a rationalization to go with Canidy: It was unlikely that Canidy would get so drunk that he would forget the time and miss ship. But it was a possibility, especially if he was alone. It was his duty to go with him, to keep him out of trouble.
‘‘What the hell,’’ Bitter said finally.
There was gratitude in Canidy’s eyes. Bitter was touched by it. He had another thought. Canidy was really his friend. He was damned glad Canidy was going with him to China. Going alone would have been very difficult, far more frightening.
At 11:15 they took a taxi to the Jan Suvit, the steamer that was to carry them to Asia.
6
The steward came to their cabin early in the morning with tea on a tray and told them breakfast would be served in half an hour. Canidy beat Bitter to their shower, and when Bitter came out, he saw that Canidy was wearing khakis, so he took khakis from his suitcase too.
They made their way through the passageways to the dining salon and took a table under a porthole near the door. The porthole was open, but Bitter noticed that the glass had been painted black.
Two large, ruddy men in their forties, wearing ill-fitting business suits, came to the door and stood there uncomfortably. Canidy glanced up at them, then away, and then back again. He knew one of them from Pensacola.
‘‘Sit down with us, why don’t you, Chief?’’ he called out.
The heavier of the two men looked at him, frowning, and then smiled.
‘‘Hey, Mr. Canidy,’’ he said. ‘‘I didn’t know you’d joined the Chinese Navy.’’ He walked to Canidy, gave him his hand, and sat down.
‘‘Chief, do you remember Mr. Bitter?’’
‘‘Yes, sir. How are you, Mr. Bitter?’’ ex-Chief Petty Officer John B. Dolan said, and gave Bitter his hand. ‘‘I don’t think you know Chief Finley. He just came off the Saratoga. "
They shook hands.
‘‘I don’t suppose they have a chief’s mess aboard this thing, do they?’’ the chief said as a white-jacketed steward turned Dolan’s coffee cup over and filled it.
‘‘I guess you’ll have to put up with this,’’ Canidy said.
‘‘I was a China sailor years ago,’’ Chief Dolan said, ‘‘before I signed over to aviation. You can quickly learn to like being waited on like this.’’
Bitter had by then recognized the chief as a chief aviation machinist’s mate who had also been stationed at Pensacola NAS. He was a little embarrassed at not having thought that they would require maintenance and other ground personnel, and that enlisted men as well as officer pilots would have been recruited. He was a little uneasy sitting with enlisted men.
The steward returned with a hand-lettered menu. The variety was impressive, and the food, later, was delicious.
When they had just about finished eating, a man who looked to be in charge rapped his water pitcher with the handle of his knife.
‘‘Gentlemen,’’ he said. ‘‘May I have your attention, please?’’
There was a shuffling of chairs as people turned around so they could sit facing him.
‘‘My name is Perry Cr
ookshanks,’’ the man said. ‘‘And I signed on as a squadron commander. I’m the skipper, in other words. And I have some bad news—which is that this is not a pleasure trip. We’ll be at sea for a long time, and all you splendid physical specimens would be piles of blubber with all food and no exercise. So there will be PT every morning for thirty minutes before breakfast, and again at half past two, before you start your drinking. I expect to see everybody there, wearing shorts and a smile.’’
‘‘Bullshit,’’ Canidy said louder than he intended. The chief chuckled.
‘‘Did you say something?’’ Crookshanks said angrily.
‘‘I said ‘bullshit,’ ’’ Canidy replied.
‘‘I’ll see you after we’ve dismissed here,’’ Crookshanks said icily.
Bitter flushed.
"We’re going to be flying P40-Bs, as you know," Crookshanks went on. ‘‘I was promised dash-ones and other technical material about the aircraft, but it just hasn’t shown up.’’
The dash-one was the pilot’s operating manual, a technical manual, for a particular aircraft. For example, TM-1-P 40B-1 was the pilot’s operating manual for the P40-B. Similarly, TM-1-C47A-1 was the operating manual for the Douglas DC-3, known to the Army as the C-47 and to the Navy as the R4-D.
‘‘Jesus Christ!’’ someone across the room complained bitterly. ‘‘I’ve never been close to one of the sonsofbitches, and no dash-ones!’’
‘‘Fortunately,’’ Crookshanks said, responding to the complaint, ‘‘we have several people with us who have flown the aircraft, and what we’re going to do is have them tell us about it. We’re going to start this program right away. I want you all back here, with notebooks and pencils . . . God, I hope you have notebooks and pencils . . . at 1030. We’ll do an hour in the morning and an hour in the afternoon. Any questions?’’
There were no questions.
‘‘Dismissed,’’ Mr. Crookshanks said.
Bitter was surprised and angry when Canidy got up and started to leave the dining salon.
The Last Heroes Page 13