The Last Heroes

by W. E. B Griffin

  ‘‘No, we don’t need him for that. We want him for several other reasons: He’s half German, knows Germany like a native, knows Morocco, and can pass for an Arab. He’s also very well connected in the United States. These together make him uniquely valuable.’’

  ‘‘To me as well.’’

  ‘‘I can well understand that.’’

  ‘‘Go on.’’

  ‘‘In conclusion, I would like Eric and Dick Canidy to effect a rendezvous with our agent, while you transport the French officer to Safi. Eric, Dick, and the agent will meet you there and proceed to the submarine.’’

  El Ferruch took a long look at Fulmar. ‘‘Eric,’’ he said at last, ‘‘do you want to go?’’

  ‘‘I think, my friend,’’ Fulmar said with unusual seriousness for him, ‘‘that I’m less immune to the German infection than you are. I better go.’’

  ‘‘All right,’’ el Ferruch said. ‘‘Then let’s return to the question of recompense. Make me a better offer.’’

  ‘‘One hundred thousand dollars strikes me as quite handsome, ’’ Baker said.

  ‘‘Mr. Baker, I think you should understand that for me the issue now is not money. There’s much more money for me in French gold and paintings. The issue is dignity—what the Chinese call face. I’ll have to take your proposals to Thami el Glaoui for approval. My approach must be dignified. ’’

  ‘‘How dignified?’’

  ‘‘More than one hundred thousand dollars.’’

  ‘‘OK, one hundred ten thousand dollars.’’

  ‘‘All right, I agree. But this could take time,’’ he said, raising himself from his cross-legged sitting position. ‘‘Perhaps a week or two. Meanwhile, all of us need to relax. What do you have in mind to do next?’’

  ‘‘Canidy and I will return to the consulate in Rabat tomorrow. We’ll wait there for your word.’’

  ‘‘Very good,’’ el Ferruch said. ‘‘By the way, Mr. Baker, do you play chess?’’

  ‘‘Why, yes, Your Excellency, in fact I do.’’

  ‘‘I thought so. Eric, Mr. Canidy,’’ he said, looking at them, ‘‘I imagine you’d like to spend time together. Come, Mr. Baker, we’ll play chess.’’

  Headquarters, U.S. Armed Forces, Far East Corregidor Commonwealth of the Philippines 23 February 1942

  The Signal Message Center received the message (PRIORITY FROM CHIEF OF STAFF PERSONAL ATTENTION COMMANDING GENERAL US ARMY FORCES FAR EAST) in two parts, radio reception having been interrupted when a shard of Japanese artillery fire sliced through the long copper wire antenna mounted on the hill over Malinta Tunnel. When it was re-strung, and USAFFE reported itself back on the air, the balance of the message was retransmitted, decoded, and sent by messenger to General Douglas MacArthur.

  By direction of the President, General Douglas MacArthur was to proceed at the earliest possible time to Mindanao Island, where he would determine the feasibility of the lengthy defense of that island in the event it became possible to defend successfully the Bataan Peninsula and Corregidor. After no more than seven days on Mindanao, General MacArthur would proceed by means of his own choosing to Brisbane, Australia, where he would assume command of all U.S. military forces in the western Pacific. He was authorized to designate whichever general officer he considered best qualified to assume command of U.S. Forces in the Philippine Islands.

  MacArthur was being ordered out of the Philippines at a time when his troops in Bataan were singing, with ever-increasing bitterness:

  ‘‘We are the battling bastards of Bataan,

  No mama, no papa, no Uncle Sam;

  No aunts, no uncles, no cousins, no nieces;

  No pills, no planes, no artillery pieces;

  And nobody gives a damn.’’

  His forces were being whipped, not because of a lack of valor, and certainly not because of a lack of highly skilled leadership, but because they had been left high and dry, without resupply worth mentioning of food, personnel, medicine, aircraft, or munitions. As constitutional Commander in Chief of the Armed Forces of the United States, the President bore the ultimate responsibility for the decision not to resupply the Philippines.

  And now Franklin Roosevelt was ordering him out, ordering him to desert his men just when they needed him most.

  MacArthur’s face whitened when he read the cable, and he sharply demanded that his aide-de-camp, Lieutenant Colonel Sidney Huff, locate Mrs. MacArthur. That told Huff that whatever the cable said was really bad news. MacArthur always turned to his wife when he was deeply emotional. She could often temper his responses, and he seemed to understand that was often desirable.

  Huff told him a minute later that she was in one of the laterals off Malinta Tunnel. MacArthur headed in that direction, with Colonel Richard K. Sutherland on his heels.

  Forty-five minutes later, Huff was directed to call a staff conference.

  When the officers were assembled, MacArthur read them the direction of the President’s radio message.

  He had made his decision, he announced. In all of his commissioned service, he had never disobeyed an order. As an officer, he never would. But never in his military service had he deserted comrades in arms, and as a man he could not do so now. He intended to resign from the officer corps of the United States Army, go by boat to Bataan, and enlist as a private in the ranks. The officers would be advised when this change in status would take effect.

  He then went to his desk, a standard GI folding desk exactly like that issued captains commanding companies in the field. There, in longhand, he wrote out his resignation.

  The question arose as to who should receive his resignation. By regulation, resignations were addressed to the senior commander. General Douglas MacArthur was the senior commander in the Philippines, and in the entire U.S. Army subordinate only to General George Catlett Marshall (whom MacArthur had once officially described as unworthy of promotion beyond colonel). Now Marshall was a four-star general, the Chief of Staff, and sitting at the right hand of Franklin Delano Roosevelt.

  There was no question in MacArthur’s mind that Marshall was behind the cable, compliance with which would force him to violate everything he had held sacred since he had taken the oath of allegiance at West Point.

  Sutherland suggested that he think the whole matter over overnight, and in his required acknowledgment of the Roosevelt cable be careful to say nothing that indicated his plans.

  A radio message was sent acknowledging the order, but asking permission to pick his own time to leave. General MacArthur said his ‘‘departure from the Philippines, even to assume command of ‘relief forces’ in Australia, had delicate morale overtones, that had to be carefully weighed.’’

  Marshall, not Roosevelt, replied almost immediately to the first radio message. Since ‘‘maintaining the Luzon defense was imperative,’’ General MacArthur was permitted to choose his own time, and means, of going to Australia.

  The resignation was put in a drawer.

  Near Ksar es Souk, Morocco February 23, 1942

  Dick Canidy drove the first leg of the trip back to Rabat—in silence. He was tired and hungover after a very late night with Eric Fulmar. And Eldon Baker was more than glad to oblige him in his wish for quiet, for Baker had spent almost as much time playing cutthroat chess with Sidi Hassan el Ferruch and, inevitably, negotiating the details of their agreement. But by the time they reached the foothills of the Atlas Mountains, Baker sensed that Canidy had emerged from his fog.

  ‘‘So,’’ Baker said, ‘‘did you have an exciting time?’’

  ‘‘Splendid. And you?’’

  ‘‘Satisfactory. How is your friend Eric taking all this?’’

  ‘‘I actually think he’s looking forward to the change.’’

  ‘‘Hmmm. I believe he’s going to do us a lot of good. And what do you think about the pasha of Ksar es Souk?’’

  ‘‘He’s a man with a promising future.’’

  Baker laughed. ‘‘I know what you mean. A
few like him in their royal family and the English would before long find themselves without a Parliament.’’

  Canidy laughed, agreeing.

  ‘‘And are you satisfied,’’ Baker went on, ‘‘with your part in our Grunier plans?’’

  Canidy looked hard at him. ‘‘It all seems very nasty and cold-blooded,’’ he said. ‘‘Or does murdering a stranger in cold blood matter to you spies?’’

  ‘‘Grunier is that important to the war,’’ Baker said quietly. ‘‘You know it’s hard, Dick, after growing up and taking seriously all that Mom, Dad, pastors, and teachers taught me about being a good boy, to have to choose not to be a good boy. I expect that there’s an especially unpleasant room in hell waiting for people like me . . . and for you, Dick. I’m certain you have the gift. And I expect you and I will have a lot of time to chat when we meet in that room.’’

  ‘‘Some gift,’’ Canidy groaned. ‘‘So what do I do next?’’

  "We wait. I have a lot of books. I get a lot of reading done waiting."

  Café des Deux Sabots Rabat, Morocco February 23, 1942

  Müller will always be recognizably a cop, Max von Heurten-Mitnitz reflected as the headwaiter led Müller to the table. Like a priest, naked on a beach where everyone would recognize him for what he was.

  ‘‘How are you?’’ von Heurten-Mitnitz said, rising just enough to show proper regard for a friend in Müller’s station. ‘‘Are you well?’’

  ‘‘I’m late,’’ Müller said, ‘‘but with excuses.’’

  ‘‘I’m aware you are late,’’ von Heurten-Mitnitz said. He was already into his main course, which was a more than passable Moroccan imitation of bouillabaisse. ‘‘Whose bed were you under? Or do you have a better excuse?’’

  ‘‘Better,’’ Müller said, laughing. ‘‘Two minor American consular officers drove to the pasha of Ksar es Souk’s palace yesterday. They have returned to Rabat today. My guess is that the two minor consular officers were not paying a social call on Sidi el Ferruch.’’

  ‘‘Who were the officers?’’

  ‘‘One was a man named Baker. For a time he was a minor American official who watched over their embassy after we liberated Paris from the French. The other is named Canidy. He seems enough of a nobody that we have no file on him in Morocco. The two of them are obviously intelligence agents.’’

  ‘‘The Pope is Catholic,’’ von Heurten-Mitnitz agreed. ‘‘So what did they tell el Ferruch?’’

  ‘‘I don’t know.’’

  ‘‘And they are now back in Rabat?’’

  ‘‘Yes.’’

  ‘‘Put surveillance on them. Real surveillance, not Sécurité surveillance.’’

  ‘‘That’s already done.’’

  ‘‘Good. And what about el Ferruch?’’

  ‘‘I don’t know.’’

  ‘‘You don’t know what he’s doing? Or you don’t know where he is?’’

  ‘‘Neither.’’

  ‘‘Shit,’’ von Heurten-Mitnitz said, ‘‘the elusive Pimpernel. ’’

  ‘‘What’s that?’’

  ‘‘The hero of a very bad novel that was turned into a very good film with Leslie Howard. The Pimpernel was a British nobleman who saved a number of his French colleagues from the Revolutionary guillotine. None of the French officials could ever figure out who he was, what he was up to, or where he’d turn up next. By rights, Müller, Sidi Hassan el Ferruch ought to be one of the more visible people in Morocco. Find him and keep an eye on him. Let him go about his enterprises, but find out what those are.’’

  ‘‘It will be done.’’

  ‘‘And what about young Herr Fulmar?’’

  ‘‘Still in Ksar es Souk.’’

  ‘‘That’s as good as a jail. But if he leaves, attend to him like a mother—without letting him become aware of your attentions."

  "Yes, sir."

  TWELVE

  Headquarters, U.S. Armed Forces, Far East Corregidor Commonwealth of the Philippines 9 March 1942

  On 6 March, there had been another radio message from Chief of Staff George Marshall to Douglas MacArthur. It was not an order, MacArthur judged, but a gloved reminder: ‘‘The situation in Australia indicates desirability of your early arrival there.’’

  MacArthur offered no comment on the cable to his staff, nor did anyone bring up the subject of his handwritten resignation, still in his desk.

  Today, there had come a third radio message, priority URGENT, on the subject, and this time it was an order. General MacArthur was informed that he, ‘‘by direction of the President,’’ was expected to depart Corregidor no later than 15 March, to arrive in Australia no later than 18 March.

  General MacArthur then replied to someone (no one later remembered who) softly, in bitter resignation, that an order was an order, and that he would have to obey. He would, he said, probably leave on the submarine Permit, which was en route to Corregidor.

  Later that day, someone told him that the Permit’s arrival was by no means assured, and that even if it came, it would probably not arrive in time for MacArthur to comply with his latest orders.

  MacArthur then issued two orders to Huff. First he told him to contact Navy Lieutenant Johnny Buckley and have him consider their chances of getting through the Japanese blockade in Buckley’s remaining patrol torpedo boats, then tied up in battered condition at a fishing wharf in Sisiman Bay, on the Bataan Peninsula.

  The second order was to locate Lieutenant James M. C. Whittaker of the Army Air Corps and, if he was still alive, order him to Corregidor.

  Near Abucay, Bataan 1330 Hours 10 March 1942

  First Lieutenant James M. C. Whittaker, United States Army Air Corps (Detailed Cavalry), late of the 414th Pursuit Squadron (disbanded 10 December 1941) and late of the 26th Cavalry (which had been dismounted and for all practical purposes disbanded 16 January 1941), was wearing pink cavalry officer’s breeches and knee-high riding boots. Most of his uniforms had been destroyed when BOQ at Clark Field had been bombed out on 9 December. The cavalryman’s breeches and boots had been in the apartment in Manila.

  On 12 December 1941 he had managed to get to the apartment en route to Clark Field, where he had been handed a message informing him that Chesty Haywood Whittaker, Jr., had died of a stroke. While still terribly shaken by that, his turn came to appear before a hastily convened board of officers.

  ‘‘The situation, gentlemen,’’ an Air Corps major told thirty-three young Air Corps officers, fliers and nonfliers, ‘‘is that we have a surplus of Air Corps officers and a critical shortage of ground force officers. You have been selected for detail to ground duty. The board will determine where your past experience will permit you to best fit in.’’

  His appearance before the board, four field-grade officers of the combat arms and the Signal Corps, had been brief.

  As Whittaker was still in the process of saluting, a cavalry officer smiled and turned to the others.

  ‘‘We’ll take this one,’’ he said. ‘‘How are you, Jim?’’

  Two weeks after the cavalry major, a fellow polo player in happier times, had welcomed Whittaker into the ‘‘gentleman’s branch of service,’’ he was killed by mortar fire on the Bataan Peninsula. And just two weeks after that, an even more informal board of officers, convened to reassign what was left (not much) of the officer corps of the 26th Cavalry, had assigned Lieutenant Whittaker to the Philippine Scouts.

  That assignment hadn’t lasted long either. Lieutenant Whittaker, who had let it be known that he had had summer jobs in construction, where he had learned to handle explosives, became commanding officer of the 105th Philippine Army Explosive Ordnance Disposal Detachment. The unit consisted of two Americans, himself and a Regular Army staff sergeant, George Withers, and eight Philippine Scouts, one second lieutenant, one master sergeant, and six technical sergeants. Lieutenant Whittaker had unit promotion authority to technical sergeant, and he had promoted all of the Scouts, none of whom had previously held rank above
corporal.

  Lieutenant Whittaker’s tall riding boots were highly polished. They formed an interesting contrast to the rest of his uniform: a peasant’s wide-brimmed straw hat, a short-sleeved white (nonuniform) polo shirt, and a Colt Model 1917 .45 revolver (manufactured for the last war) stuck in the waistband of his breeches.

  For a number of reasons, Lieutenant Whittaker was highly thought of by his subordinates. For one thing, they were all eating well. Lieutenant Whittaker carried with him a strong-box containing gold coins. One of his missions when assigned to the 26th Cavalry was to visit a rural branch bank and relieve it of its gold before the bank fell to the Japanese. When he returned with the coins, the officer who had sent him was dead, and he decided that he could put the gold to better use keeping his troops fed than it would serve in a box sent to Corregidor.

  The natives on Bataan did not trust paper money. But they would sell rice, eggs, chickens, and pigs for gold, and Lieutenant Whittaker had kept first his Filipino troopers of the 26th Cavalry and now his Boom Boom Boys well fed with the coins from the bank. The gold had also purchased transport, when other units had none, and gasoline. The Boom Boom Boys had two pickup trucks and one fenderless 1937 Ford convertible. Some of the fuel came from dwindling Army stocks (because getting Explosive Ordnance Disposal people where they were needed enjoyed a high priority), but most of it Whittaker bought from the natives.

  He was regarded highly even by Staff Sergeant George Withers, who did not ordinarily have much respect for officers who were not West Pointers with fifteen years’ service. Staff Sergeant Withers was a highly skilled Explosive Ordnance Disposal expert, and Whittaker readily acknowledged Withers’s superior technical skill when it came down to taking the fuse from an unexploded 105 or 155 shell.