The Fighting Agents

by W. E. B Griffin

  “Colonel, I’m sorry about Major Till,” the weather officer said.

  “Yeah,” Lt. Colonel Douglass said after a moment. “Thank you.”

  Then he hung up.

  He went to a large, sagging-to-one-side wardrobe and worked the combination of the long-shafted bicycle padlock that, looped through two eye-rings, locked it. He opened the left door and looked inside, and then, frowning, the right door.

  One lousy, half-empty imperial quart of Scotch! What the hell had happened to the rest of it?

  He didn’t like his own answer. I have drunk the rest of it, that’s what has happened to it. A couple of little nips here, and a couple more there, and the four imperial quarts of straight malt Scotch have evaporated.

  Well, what the hell, there was more where that came from. There was a sturdily locked room at Whitbey House stacked to its high ceiling with booze. Canidy ran the OSS Station at Whitbey House on the philosophy that unless his people were now given by a grateful nation the best available in the way of booze and food, there was a good chance that his people would not be around to get it later.

  He would just have to run over to Whitbey House and replenish the larder, that was all there was to it. Canidy had declared him to be an Honorary Spook, with all the rights and privileges thereunto pertaining, such as access to the booze larder.

  And then he remembered that Canidy was gone. He was off on one of his nobody-knows-anything-about-it missions in his souped-up B-25G. Canidy had given Douglass no details, of course, other than that he “would be away for a couple of days.” But then Douglass had learned that Dolan was off somewhere, too. And he’d flown over Whitbey House, and the B-25G normally parked there was gone.

  Ergo. Canidy and Dolan were off somewhere doing something secret and important in the souped-up B-25G.

  There was a steady, sometimes nearly overwhelming, temptation for Douglass to ask Canidy—or, probably smarter, to ask OSS London Station Chief David Bruce— to have him transferred to the OSS. And there was little question in his mind that it could be easily arranged: For one thing, if the OSS wanted somebody, they got him. No matter what assignment an officer—or, for that matter, an enlisted man—had, it was not considered as essential to the war effort as an assignment to the OSS.

  And he was sure that David Bruce had at least considered that Lt. Colonel Peter Douglass, Jr., knew far more about the OSS and its personnel and operations than he was supposed to.

  Douglass had flown with Canidy and Bitter with the Flying Tigers in China and Burma, where their airplanes had been maintained by “Mr.” John Dolan. It made no sense to indulge the notion that any of them would regard Doug Douglass as someone who couldn’t be trusted with classified information, even if all of them, in fact, tried to keep him in the dark.

  He had learned, for example, that Eric Fulmar was in Germany. He hadn’t asked. Canidy had told him. He hadn’t asked what Fulmar was doing in Germany. And he had tried, unsuccessfully, not to put two and two together. So he had come up with the answer that if Canidy and Dolan had gone off somewhere in the B-25G, it was very likely that they had gone to bring Fulmar home.

  Finally, the Deputy Director of the Office of Strategic Services was Captain Peter Douglass, Sr., USN, Doug’s father. Considerations of nepotism aside, it made sense to have Peter Douglass, Jr., in the OSS, since he knew so much about it.

  There were reasons Douglass had not asked to be taken in. He would have been embarrassed to speak them out loud, for they would, he thought, seem both egotistical and overly noble. But in his own mind, he was one hell of a fighter pilot and one hell of a commander. By staying where he was, he believed that he was probably saving lives.

  He did not allow himself to dwell on the counterargument, that Canidy and Bitter and Jimmy Whittaker and the others were also saving lives. Not directly, by shooting down a Messerschmitt on the tail of one of his pilots, nor even less directly, by doing the things that a good commander does to keep his men alive, but in an almost abstract sense. If what the OSS was doing could shorten the war by a week, or a day, or even by six hours, that would mean that the guns would fall silent around the world, and more lives would be saved in six hours than he could hope to save by being a good fighter group commander for the rest of the war.

  That argument seemed to be buttressed by the fact that Canidy and Bitter and Whittaker had proven themselves as fighter pilots.

  Douglass understood that he would not be asked to join the OSS. If they wanted him in the OSS, he would have been transferred into it long ago. He was going to have to submit an application, no matter how informal, and he didn’t want to do that.

  Lt. Colonel Doug Douglass carried what was left of the imperial quart of Scotch whiskey to the battered desk. He unscrewed the top, took a healthy swig from the neck, and then set the bottle on the desk.

  He sat down and rolled a sheet of printed stationery into the typewriter. Then he typed the date.

  He would, he thought wryly, have been one hell of a squadron clerk.

  He opened the service record and found what he was looking for. His fingers began to fly over the keys.

  Headquarters, 344th Fighter Group APO 86344, New York

  16 February 1943

  Mr. and Mrs. J. Howard Till

  711 Country Club Road

  Springfield, N.J.

  Dear Mr. and Mrs. Till:

  By now, you will have been notified by the Adjutant General that David has been killed in action.

  He was my executive officer and my friend, and I share your grief.

  The 344th Fighter Group was assigned the mission of protecting B-17 and B-24 bombers of the Eighth Air Force on a heavy bombardment mission to Frankfurt, Germany. The Group was divided into two echelons. David commanded one, and I the other.

  Some distance from the target, we were engaged by a large group of German Messerschmitt fighter aircraft. In the engagement that followed, David shot down two German fighters. He was going to the aid of another pilot when his aircraft came under fire from several Messerschmitts. David’s aircraft was hit in the fuel tanks, which then exploded.

  David was instantly killed, probably without warning. He died, I think, as he would have wanted to, in aerial combat, leading his men as they protected other men.

  “Greater Love Hath No Man Than He Lay Down His Life for Another.”

  The two German fighter aircraft he shot down brought his total kills to six. The posthumous award of the Air Medal (6th Award) has been approved. I have, in addition, just been informed by Eighth Air Force that David will also be awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross, and the citation will reflect his flying skill, devotion to duty and courage, not only on his last flight but during the entire period of his assignment to the 344th Fighter Group.

  I am aware that military decorations are small consolation to you at this time, and can only hope that you will accept them as a token of the respect and affection in which David was held, not only by the officers and men of the 344th Fighter Group, but by the highest echelons of the Eighth Air Force.

  David was a splendid officer and a fine human being. He will be missed.

  If there is anything that I can do for you, please do not hesitate to let me know.

  Sincerely,

  Peter Douglass, Jr.

  Peter Douglass, Jr.

  Lt. Col., USAAC

  Commanding

  When he had finished typing, he rolled the sheet of paper out of the typewriter and read it.

  Then he ran an envelope into the machine and typed the envelope. He folded the letter, put it into the envelope, and then wrote “Free” on the envelope where a stamp would normally go.

  He picked up the telephone and, when the operator came on the line, said, “Find Captain Delaney and get him over here, will you?”

  He walked to a small door beside the washbasin. Beyond was a small cubicle holding a shower and an ancient English water closet with a warped and cracked wooden seat. The shower consisted of a rusting sho
werhead pointing straight down from the slanted ceiling to the brick floor of the shower. A three-tier layer of bricks kept the shower water in place, and a shower curtain, cut from a condemned parachute, hung from a wooden rod.

  An oil-temperature gauge, somehow modified by Douglass’s crew chief, who had also laid the bricks and found the crapper somewhere, was mounted on the wall. The needle, pointing to a green “OK” strip, indicated 280 degrees Fahrenheit, but it had been explained to Douglas that he should ignore the indicated temperature; when the needle pointed to the “OK” strip, the water was at the proper temperature for a shower.

  Douglass went to the wardrobe and took out fresh underwear and a clean uniform. Then he stripped. As he pulled his T-shirt over his head, he winced at the sharp, acrid odor. He knew what it was. It was the enduring odor of sweat-while-terrified. Literally, the smell of fear.

  He relived for a moment the absolute terror he had felt for about twenty seconds when it had looked like the pilot of the Messerschmitt on his tail was going to succeed in turning inside Douglass’s turn. It had been as if time had somehow slowed down, like a movie newsreel in slow motion; and while things had been in slow motion, he had been able to see the stream of German tracers moving ever closer to him.

  And then the stream of tracers had stopped when the German pilot, who was good and knew his trade, realized that he wasn’t going to make it. He had turned and dived sharply to the left.

  As Douglass had turned to try to get on the German’s tail, he had become aware that he was sweat-soaked.

  “Jesus H. Christ!” Douglass said disgustedly, throwing the T-shirt to the floor.

  He went to his shower and turned it on full. It was hot, hotter than he liked, even too hot for comfort, but he stood under it, furiously rubbing red Lifebuoy soap over his skin, and then rinsing himself until the entire fifty-five gallons of the water supply in a former oil drum on the roof was exhausted.

  He shut the head off and quickly opened a valve that would replenish the water in the drum. He heard a momentary hiss as the cold water struck whatever it was his crew chief had installed in the drum to heat the water, and he remembered that the crew chief had sternly warned him never to use all the water in the drum, otherwise the heating element would burn out.

  “I’ve probably fucked that up, too,” Douglass said aloud.

  “Sir?”

  “Nothing.”

  Douglass wondered how long he had kept Delaney waiting.

  He wrapped a gray-white towel around his middle and went into his bedroom.

  Delaney was a serious-faced Irishman from someplace in Iowa, a devout Roman Catholic with a wife and several kids, although he was only twenty-two or twenty-three years old. He had been sitting in the chair by the desk and had gotten up when Douglass entered the room.

  “Sit!” Douglass said, and walked to his bed and pulled a clean T-shirt over his head.

  “Who do you recommend to assume command of your squadron, Major Delaney?” Douglass asked.

  “Sir?”

  “By the authority vested in me by Eighth Air Force, you have been appointed executive officer of the 344th Fighter Group,” Douglass said. “The job carries with it a gold leaf.”

  “I’m sorry about Major Till, Sir,” Delaney said.

  “Yeah,” Douglass said. “I asked you a question, Major.”

  “I’m not sure I can handle it, Colonel,” Delaney said.

  “I made that decision,” Douglass said. He had his undershorts on by then and was in the process of working his feet into half Wellington boots. When he had them on, he walked to the desk and unscrewed the cap on the imperial quart of Scotch.

  “Till, you unlucky bastard,” he said, holding the bottle up. “I hope you went quick.”

  He handed the bottle to Delaney.

  Delaney wiped the neck on his blouse jacket and took a swig.

  “Maybe he was dead before he went in,” Delaney said. “Needham followed him down, and he said he never got the canopy open.”

  “I just wrote his family that his ship blew up,” Douglass said. “One of the things a field grade officer must know, Major Delaney, is when to lie.”

  Delaney looked at him and nodded, but said nothing.

  “I will be gone for the next twenty-four to thirty-six hours,” Douglass said. “You will tell whatever lie you think you can get away with if there are inquiries as to my whereabouts. I’m going to leave a number where I can be reached. You will use it only if necessary, and you are to give it to no one.”

  “May I ask, Sir, where you will be?”

  “Repeating the caveat that you are to tell no one, I will be at Whitbey House in Kent. It’s where the OSS hangs out.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  There was relief in the way he said that, and on his face. The moral sonofabitch was afraid that I was going to tell him that I was going to be shacked up somewhere.

  “It takes me about an hour and a half to get back here from there,” Douglass said. “In case I am needed. I will not be needed to fly. I have checked the weather, and nobody will be flying.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “If you keep up that ‘yes, Sir’ crap,” Douglass said, “you will almost, but not quite, succeed in making me feel guilty for leaving my new executive officer in charge.”

  Delaney gave him a hesitant smile.

  “Am I allowed to ask what you’ll be doing with the OSS?”

  “I am going to get drunk, Major Delaney,” Douglass said. “I do that sometimes when something like Dave Till happens. It ill behooves a commanding officer to get shit-faced somewhere where his subordinates can see him in that condition.”

  “Yes, Sir,” Delaney said.

  “You will personally see to Till’s personal effects,” Douglass said. “Collect them, go through them to make sure there are no dirty pictures, love letters, or anything else that might suggest he was a healthy young male. Make an inventory of what’s left, and leave it on my desk.”

  “Yes, Sir,” Delaney said.

  “How are you fixed for money?”

  “Sir?”

  “You have been promoted, Major,” Douglass said. “It is a hoary tradition of the service that you have a promotion party.”

  “I have money, Sir,” Delaney said. “But thank you.”

  “In this case,” Douglass explained, “your party will also serve to keep our young warriors on the base tonight. You will lie again. You will tell them that just before the colonel left for High Wycombe and the headquarters of the Eighth Air Force, he left word that twenty-four-hour passes for pilots are authorized as of—and not before—0400 tomorrow. It has been my experience that if I turn them loose after a mission like the one we flew today, they tend to behave in a manner unbefitting officers and gentlemen. And as you are about to find out, there is a good deal of paperwork involved when one of our young heroes punches out an English cop, or steals a taxicab.”

  “I understand, Sir,” Delaney said.

  “You do, Jack, you really do. That’s why I gave you the job.”

  “I hope I can measure up to your expectations, Sir,” Delaney said.

  “You may leave, Major,” Douglass said. “And you may take the Scotch with you.” Delaney looked surprised.

  “If I took it with me,” Douglass said, “I would never make it to Whitbey House.”

  “Thank you,” Delaney said.

  “By the time I get back, Jack,” Douglass said, “I expect you to have made up your mind about who’ll take over your squadron.”

  IX

  1

  THE ISLAND OF VIS 1615 HOURS 16 FEBRUARY 1943

  Four men were on hand to greet Canidy, Dolan, and Darmstadter in the B-25.

  One was a British officer wearing the red beret of a parachutist. The pips of a captain were on the shoulders of a sweater. Around his neck he wore a white silk scarf. There were two other Englishmen in British uniform. They were hatless and without insignia of rank. All three of the English had Sten submach
ine guns. The fourth man was in civilian clothing, a tieless white shirt, a double-breasted, heavy suit jacket, and baggy, unmatching trousers.

  The British officer came to attention and saluted, an almost parade-ground salute, his hand, palm outward, quivering as he touched his temple with his fingertips.

  “Afternoon, gentlemen,” he said casually. “My name is Hughson. Welcome to Vis.”

  Canidy returned the salute.

  “You’re the aircraft commander, Major?” Captain Hughson asked.

  Canidy jerked his thumb upward to the cockpit of the B- 25G.

  “Commander Dolan’s the aircraft commander,” he said.

  “With his permission, of course,” Captain Hughson said, “I would suggest the thing to do is get the aircraft under cover.”

  “How do we do that?” Canidy asked.

  Hughson gestured toward the hillside. Darmstadter saw there was a short, steep-sided indentation in the rocky hillside, a natural revetment, and that above it were rolls of camouflage netting.

  As if reading his mind, the British officer said, “Except as netting, the camouflage isn’t worth a damn. Unless, of course, we wish to give the impression that a North Africa wadi has been miraculously transplanted to the island.”

  “What do you do?” Canidy asked, chuckling.

  “We artistically arrange local evergreens atop the netting, ” Hughson said. “And devoutly pray that it works.”

  “Let’s get at it, then,” Canidy said.

  Capt. Hughson raised his hand above his head and snapped his fingers.

  Eight Englishmen, in various combinations of uniform, trotted up. One of them, with sergeant’s chevrons sewn to his rough woolen jacket, stamped his foot and gave the captain a quivering-hand salute.

  “Sir!” he barked.

  Darmstadter saw Canidy’s eyebrows go up at the non-com’s parade-ground behavior.

  “Would you have the chaps roll the aircraft into the revetment?” the British officer asked conversationally.

  “Sir!” the sergeant barked, and stamped his boot again.

  The English soldiers, without further orders, went to the B-25G and started to push it. When they had trouble getting it moving, Canidy went to the left wheel, put his back against it, and tried to help. Darmstadter went to the other wheel and did the same thing. As he heaved, he saw that neither the British officer nor the civilian was helping. They even seemed surprised that Canidy and Darmstadter were lending a hand.