She had begun thinking about making the telephone call to Iowa in the elevator in the Peabody Hotel the day her cousin Ed Bitter had told her that Dick Canidy had been sent home in disgrace from China for “refusing to engage the enemy.”
Ed obviously believed what he told her to be true. And it certainly would explain why her pen-pal letters to Canidy had gone unanswered. It was possible that he was a coward, though she didn’t feel that was likely.
In fact, the truth was that even if Dick did run away from the Japs she didn’t care. The truth was that she loved him more than she’d ever believed she could love any man. And what she wanted more than anything in the world right now was to get his head on her shoulder. Or her breast.
“This is Reverend Canidy,” the voice on the telephone said curiously.
“Reverend Canidy, this is Ann Chambers,” she said. “I’m Ed Bitter’s cousin, and, more to the point, a friend of Dick’s.”
“Oh, how nice!” he said, puzzled.
“The reason I’m calling is that I’m going—I live in Memphis—East, and I seem to have lost Dick’s address.”
“He’s home from China,” the Reverend Canidy said, “as I guess you know?”
“Yes,” Ann said.
“And he’s found work with the National Institutes of Health, as a pilot.”
The National Institutes of Health?
“I’d heard,” Ann lied. “Could you give me his address in Washington? And his phone number? I’d really like to say hello when I’m there.”
“Just a moment,” he said. “I’ve got it somewhere.”
Later, when she called the number Canidy’s father gave her, a woman answered and denied any knowledge of anyone named Canidy. When Ann called the National Institutes of Health, they had never heard of him either. When she called the Washington information operator, she said she had no listing for the address Reverend Canidy had given her on Q Street, NW.
Ann walked into the Teletype room and sat down before the Chambers News Service Teletypewriter. She typed rapidly, a service message to the Chambers News Service Washington Bureau. She asked for ALLINFO, FACT AND SPEC the Washington bureau could develop SOONEST on what was going on at the address Reverend Canidy had given her on Q Street, Northwest. She signed it CHAMBERS ADVOCATE. If they thought her father had sent the service message, so much the better. Her name was Chambers, too, and if they were inspired to drop something unimportant and get on this right away, fine.
As she’d hoped, the response was quick, but it was not quite the one she expected. Two hours after she sent the service message, she had a telephone call.
“Exactly what is your interest in that address on Q Street?” her father began without other preliminary.
“Hello, Daddy,” she said. “I’m fine, how are you?”
“What are you into?” he said. “What have you heard?”
“How did you get involved in this?” she asked.
“That address, so far as we’re concerned, doesn’t exist,” Brandon Chambers said. “Do you take my point?”
“No, I don’t,” she said.
“It’s a government installation,” he said. “We don’t know it’s there. We don’t write about it.”
“Oh,” she said.
“When you signed my name to that service message, they checked with me.”
“I didn’t sign your name to it,” she said. “My name for the time being is Chambers, too.”
She heard him sigh in exasperation, but he chose not to argue about that.
“I have to know, honey,” he said, “what you’re working on.”
“I was looking for Dick Canidy,” she said. “I got that address from his father.”
There was a long pause.
“Eddie returned from China with an unpleasant report on Mr. Canidy,” Brandon Chambers finally said.
“That he was a coward,” Ann said. “Eddie told me.”
“And Canidy’s father gave you the Q Street address?”
“And two telephone numbers,” Ann said. “I called both of them, and they said they had never heard of Canidy.”
“What’s behind your deep interest in Canidy?”
“I swore Mother to secrecy,” Ann said, “but I thought she’d tell you anyway. I’m going to marry him.”
“For Christ’s sake!” he said. “This is not a joking matter, Ann.”
“Who’s joking?”
“Now, listen to me,” he said. “Drop your inquiry right now. Right here. If you don’t, you can do us a great deal of harm. I’ve come to an agreement with certain people—”
“It’s a military secret, right?” she challenged. “And I’m a Nazi agent.”
“It is a matter of military secrecy, Ann,” her father said.
“Odd, wouldn’t you say, that a coward is involved with military secrets?” she said.
“Just drop it, Ann, okay?” he said. “I want your word.”
“Or what?”
“Or you’re fired. This moment.”
He’s absolutely serious.
“It’s that important?”
“It is.”
“All right, then,” she said.
“And I don’t want you talking to anybody—even Eddie or your girlfriend—”
“Mrs. Edwin Howell Bitter, you mean?” Ann said.
“Goddamn it, I’m serious.”
“I know,” she said. “Okay, Daddy, you’ve made your point.”
“I really hope so, Ann,” he said.
Thirty minutes later, Ann walked into the office of the Advocate’s managing editor and told him her father wanted her to come to Washington for a couple of days, and she was thinking of going Saturday afternoon after they’d gotten most of the Sunday edition to bed. She hated to ask, but if she could have a business travel priority certificate for an airplane ticket, that would get her back to work that much quicker.
“Yeah, sure, Ann,” he said. “We can work that out.”
Being in love does strange things to you. So far this morning, I have lied to an Episcopal priest, my father, and my boss. And I’m not at all ashamed of myself.
Then she called Sarah Child Bitter at the Willard Hotel in Washington and announced that she would be in Washington on Saturday and needed a place to stay.
Sarah and Ed Bitter were living in Sarah’s father’s suite in the Willard. Ed was probably going to be more than a little annoyed when she showed up, since they had been married only a few days. Having Ann around would be like having your sister on your honeymoon.
To hell with him, Ann thought. He owes me for taking care of Sarah.
PART FIVE
1
LAKEHURST NAVAL AIR STATION
LAKEHURST, NEW JERSEY
JUNE 27, 1942
While Canidy was doing the preflight on the Beech D18S, Commander Reynolds’s Plymouth staff car drove into the hangar and stopped beside the aircraft.
“I didn’t know where you were going, Major,” he said. “But I thought you could use a thermos of coffee and a couple of sandwiches.”
“Washington,” Canidy told him. “Thank you.”
Commander Reynolds was impressed.
There is something about Washington that impresses professional naval officers, Canidy thought, as if the place were the residence of God.
“I’m glad you’re here,” Canidy went on. “I didn’t know about starting the engines inside the hangar.”
“We push aircraft to the center lane,” Reynolds said, “and make sure that both hangar doors are open. Then you might as well be outside. You’ve already been refueled.”
“I noticed,” Canidy said. “Thank you.”
“Sailor,” Reynolds said somewhat pompously to his driver, “would you round up some men to push the major’s aircraft?”
“Aye, aye, Sir,” the white hat said. Canidy winked at him, and he smiled back, as if to say that it was all right, Reynolds was a little salty, but a good guy.
Canidy climbed into the Bee
ch, released the brakes, and strapped the thermos and the bag of sandwiches in the copilot’s seat. He wasn’t going to need the sandwiches between Lakehurst and Washington, but it had been a nice thing for Reynolds to do.
He started to leave the cockpit, when the airplane lurched. A half-dozen white hats had started to push it to the center of the hangar. He went aft and closed the door, then returned to the cockpit and strapped himself in. He saw another pair of white hats roll up an enormous fire extinguisher on what looked like wagon wheels.
The plane stopped moving.
Canidy looked at the window. “Clear!” he called.
“Clear!” one of the white hats called back. Canidy set the mixture, primed the port engine, and hit the engine start switch. The starter whined and then the port engine bucked, backfired, and finally caught. He started the other and looked out the window.
Commander Reynolds was standing there with his fist balled, thumb up.
Canidy smiled and gave him the gesture back, whereupon Commander Reynolds saluted. Canidy smiled again, returned the salute, and advanced the throttles.
Once he was clear of the hangar, he got on the radio and asked for taxi and takeoff instructions.
“Navy Six-one-one,” the tower replied, “you are cleared to taxi to the threshold of runway nine. Hold on the threshold. We have an aircraft on final.”
The aircraft on final was a Curtiss C-46. Canidy thought he was coming in way too high, and he was right.
“Six-one-one,” the tower promptly announced, “hold your position. The forty-six is going around.”
“Six-one-one, roger,” Canidy said.
He followed the C-46 with his eyes as it rose again and made a low turn over the pine barrens. It glistened in the sunlight. A new one, Canidy thought. The next time the C- 46 came around at an altitude Canidy saw was much too low. He was right again. Even over the racket of his idling engines, he heard the roar of the C-46’s engines as the pilot gave them enough throttle to make the end of the runway.
When the C-46 flashed by Canidy, he wondered what it was doing here. There were no markings on either wings, fuselage, or tail. The only time aircraft did not have at least identification numbers on them was when their paint had been stripped off, as the paint had been stripped from the Pan American Curtiss at Newark Airport. Was this the Pan American Curtiss? If so, what was it doing here?
The Beech, caught in the C-46’s air disturbance, rocked. Canidy was reminded how big the C-46 really was and how powerful its engines.
“Six-one-one, you are clear for takeoff as soon as the forty-six clears the runway.”
“Roger,” Canidy replied as the forty-six moved past him. When it turned off the runway, its prop blast again rocked the Beech. Canidy waited until it stopped shaking, then spoke one final time into the microphone.
“Six-one-one rolling.”
A few minutes after ten, over eastern Maryland, Canidy raised the Anacostia tower and requested landing permission.
When he went into base operations to arrange for the refueling of the airplane, a Navy captain, curious about an Army pilot flying a Navy airplane, looked at the paperwork, and grew even more curious when he read it.
He had heard about this strange Beech D18S. Officially, he had been informed that by authority of the Chief of Naval Operations “the Navy liaison officer to the Coordinator of Information” would from time to time be basing a D18 aircraft at Anacostia. The aircraft was not to be considered part of the Anacostia fleet, and no one was to use the aircraft without the specific permission of Captain Peter Douglass, USN, the senior Naval officer assigned to COI.
“You at this place, too, Major?” the Navy captain, whose name was Chester Wezevitz, asked. “The information coordinator, or whatever it is?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“What the hell is it?” the captain asked. “I guess what I’m really asking is what the hell is a Navy captain—Captain Douglass—doing at the ‘Coordinator of Information’?”
The temptation was too great for Canidy (who had even been encouraged during one briefing or another to offer “disinformation” when questioned), and he gave in to it.
“You know those comic books, Captain? Warning the white hats about the lasting effects of VD?” he asked. “Urging them to use pro kits?”
“I wondered where the hell they came from,” the Navy captain said.
By appearing at that moment, Chief Ellis made things even better.
“Good morning, Major,” he said, saluting crisply. “I have the major’s car.”
“Jesus Christ,” the Navy captain said. “A chief, driving a staff car.”
When they were outside, Canidy asked: “What’s going on, Ellis?”
“We’re going to the office,” he said. “Mr. Baker’s there with the captain.”
“What does that sonofabitch want with me?”
“I dunno,” Chief Ellis said, “but don’t do nothing dumb, Mr. Canidy.”
“I’d like to feed him his balls,” Canidy said.
“That’s what I mean by dumb,” Ellis said.
“You know what’s going on, don’t you, you bastard?” Canidy said. “And you won’t tell me.”
“I’m surprised at you.” The old sailor laughed. “Didn’t anybody tell you loose lips sink ships?”
“Screw you, Ellis.” Canidy chuckled as he got in the front seat of the Buick beside him.
When they got to the National Institutes of Health building, Eldon C. Baker, a pudgy, bland-appearing man, was sitting on a red leather couch in Captain Douglass’s office bent over what Canidy in a moment realized were the flight plans Lindbergh had made up.
That seemed to prove that the Curtiss he had seen landing at Lakehurst was indeed the Pan American aircraft.
“How are you, Canidy?” Baker said, leaning forward and offering his hand.
Canidy ignored the offered hand. The last time he had seen Eldon C. Baker had been in the palace of the pasha of Ksar es Souk in the foothills of the Atlas Mountains in Morocco. Baker had known then that Canidy was not going to be loaded aboard the sub then at sea off Safi. He had not told Canidy.
Baker shrugged. “I’m sorry you still feel that way,” he said.
“Do you know what you’re looking at?” Canidy asked.
“I have a general idea,” Baker said. “I’m sure you can explain anything I can’t figure out myself.”
Captain Douglass, carrying an armful of military service records, walked into the office.
“Good morning, Dick,” he said. “Nice flight? How’s the admiral?”
“A little restive, but under control. Did you know that de Gaulle sent him a letter saying he couldn’t afford to pay him?”
“No, I didn’t,” Douglass said.
“I would have guessed you were reading his mail,” Canidy said.
“His mail is being read,” Douglass corrected him. “But his pay status has not until now been brought to my attention. I’ll see what I can do. Obviously, you think it’s important, or you wouldn’t have brought it up.”
“Do I detect an ever-so-subtle reprimand?”
“Not at all,” Douglass said, and smiled. “As a matter of fact, I was about to tell you that a number of people have been saying nice things about you. After that I was going to tell you I think you’re doing a fine job keeping the admiral happy.”
“Is that what this is all about?” Canidy asked.
“You’re not interested in the nice things people have been saying about you?”
“Go ahead,” Canidy said.
“Our friend at Pan American told the colonel that you are an unusually bright, unusually capable young man.”
Canidy was embarrassed.
“Perfectly capable of supervising the Curtiss flight by yourself from here on in,” Douglass finished.
“I saw that you had the plane moved to Lakehurst,” Canidy said. “But before we go any further, there is one little detail that seems to have been overlooked: I’ve never flo
wn a C-46.”
“No problem,” Baker said. “You won’t be flying it anyway.”
“Who will?” Canidy asked.
“I’m not finished with the nice reports,” Douglass said. “I had occasion last night to discuss you with an Air Corps officer. To hear him tell it, you combine the character traits of a Boy Scout with the flying skill of Baron von Richthofen.”
It took Canidy a moment to guess what was up. Then he broke into a broad smile. “Oh,” he said, “have you by any chance been talking to your son and namesake? Is Doug back?”
“He’s been back about a month. He was home. He stopped off here, on his way to Alabama. He’s been made a major, and they gave him a fighter group, P-38s.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” Canidy said.
“I took what he said about you with a large grain of salt, of course,” Douglass said. “But I thought I would pass it on.”
Canidy laughed. “Who is going to fly the African mission?” he asked.
“African mission?” Baker asked incredulously.
“That depends in large part on you,” Captain Douglass said, ignoring Baker and acknowledging that Canidy’s suspicions were correct.
“I don’t understand,” he said.
Douglass handed him one of the service records. “This is the man we would like to make the flight,” he said. “Do you think he could handle it?”
Canidy took the records and found the Air Corps captain’s flight records. The officer had entered the service with several hundred hours of single-engine civilian time, taken a quickie course in a basic trainer, and then gone right into B-17s. He had picked up not quite two hundred hours as a B-17 pilot in command, and was currently commanding a bomber squadron.
The first thing he thought was that the captain was not especially qualified for either a quick transition course to the C-46 or to fly across the Atlantic to Africa. And then he glanced at the pilot’s name: Captain Stanley S. Fine.
There were, Canidy thought, probably fifteen Stanley S. Fines in the Washington telephone directory, and three times that many in the directories of Los Angeles, New York, and Chicago, but he knew, somehow, that this one was his Stanley S. Fine.
The Secret Warriors Page 14