Dry Bones

by Peter Quinn

  “Black, Captain, as you requested.” She returned with a mug of steaming coffee.

  He took a sip. A taste of New York. “Perfect. Like it’s fresh from the Automat.”

  “That’s Columbia Casualty & Life: ‘You can rely on us.’” She flashed another all-American smile. “Another minute, I’ll have your party on the line.” She closed the door softly behind her.

  He lit a second cigarette from the first, rubbed the butt in the ashtray, and picked up the phone on the first ring.

  “Captain Dunne, I have you connected.”

  He vainly searched for her name—Rita, Eleanor, Marge. Of course, she’d never given it. Peace might have arrived, but this was one of those corners where wartime protocols survived. “Thank you, Miss,” he said.

  “Go ahead, gentlemen.”

  “Fin?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s Turlough Bassante. I’m glad you made it through.”

  Dunne held the phone away from his ear and looked at the receiver. Maybe the only other name that would have surprised him more was if the speaker had identified himself as President Roosevelt.

  “Fin, you there?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I said I’m glad you made it through.”

  He hesitated, unsure how to answer. “Bunde didn’t.”

  “I know. But he was lucky. It was quick.”

  “Quick and dead, if you call that luck.”

  “What was your name for luck? ‘Totiusque,’ wasn’t it?”

  “You’ve got a good memory.”

  “Van Hull and you made it through. The odds were stacked against you. Operation Maxwell may not rank among the most famous of OSS exploits, but your determination to avoid capture was remarkable. Among connoisseurs of clandestine operations it’s, as the French say, a succès d’estime.”

  “Not so much luck as Van Hull. He’s the reason we survived. Either way, it’s over and done.” Dunne didn’t say what he felt: Who cares about one small, stupid, unsuccessful mission in a war that had been filled with them? What comfort would Bunde’s parents get from the details of their son’s broken neck?

  Bassante didn’t push the discussion of Operation Maxwell any further. “I hope I’m not interfering with your schedule.” He sounded as if he were on the other side of the wall, not the Atlantic.

  “I don’t have a schedule. I’m treading water till we’re ordered home.”

  “It’s disintegration, pure and simple. Disgraceful. There are aspects that are disturbing.” Bassante talked as though it were only a few hours and not ten months between this conversation and their last. He reported that General Donovan had recalled him to the States right after the German surrender in hopes of him helping put together a proposal for a peacetime version of the OSS acceptable to the new president.

  The best-laid schemes o’ mice an’ men gang aft agley. Dunne was tempted to quote it. Just a college-educated version of Murphy’s Law. True yesterday, today, tomorrow. But he listened in silence as Bassante went off on a monologue about the confusion and disarray that followed the new president’s order to disband the OSS.

  A skeleton staff at the newly formed Strategic Services Unit—the rump of the OSS, Bassante related—was doing its best to maintain a semblance of order and see to basic intelligence gathering but records were being lost. Nobody seemed in control. The skulduggery in Washington seemed endless.

  Dunne lit a third cigarette from the second. Bassante’s blather was a red light. He was coming at it sideways, with a crab’s indirection. But you played the game long enough, you knew what’s next: simple, subtle pitches delivered with Dizzy Dean’s finesse. He was being set up for another mission.

  Bassante seemed to intuit what he was thinking. “In short, it’s a mess.”

  “Sounds it.”

  “I thought perhaps I could call on you for help.”

  “In Washington?” Dunne lifted the cigarette from the ashtray, exhaled at the calendar’s horizontal rows, each beginning with a Sunday. The closest one was three days from now. A pitch worth swinging at: “Count me in. I can be there by Monday. Easy.”

  “No. Over there. I’m coming back at the end of the week.”

  “To London?”

  “Nuremberg. The war crimes tribunal is set to open on the twentieth. I’ll be in London for two days.”

  “Nuremberg?” He’d made known his availability. Swung and missed at a fastball down the middle. Strike one.

  “Technically, I wear two hats. In addition to my work with Strategic Services, I’m assisting with the prosecution at the International Military Tribunal. General Donovan arranged it. After he was invited aboard by Justice Jackson, he had me transferred to the Counterintelligence Corps and took me with him.”

  The combination of the two men—both former U.S. attorneys general, Jackson, an associate justice of the Supreme Court, and Donovan, wartime head of the OSS—generated a good deal of publicity. But as far as Bassante was concerned, it was a star-crossed arrangement. Jackson wanted a knowledgeable, pliable assistant. The general was looking to lead the prosecution. Jackson envisioned a trial based on documentation so exhaustive and specific it would be irrefutable. Donovan wanted a Tom Dewey–type assault on Luciano and the mob, shredding low-life thugs to pieces on the witness stand, cutting deals with one to get him to rat on another.

  “I was there when they tried to work out their differences,” Bassante remembered. “‘This isn’t the Supreme Court,’ the general said. ‘This is about drama, not decorum.’

  “Jackson wouldn’t be moved. ‘Maybe so,’ he said, ‘but I’m running the show, and I’m going to try the case by indisputable documentary evidence.’

  “It came out that the general was also against indicting the German General Staff. Jackson cut off the conversation. He fired the general. Poor Donovan sputtered with rage, but next day, ashen and crestfallen, he seemed a spent volcano. He thought I’d leave with him. I told him I felt a duty to the International Military Tribunal. He said he understood. But we never understand when someone we trust lets us down.”

  Dunne sympathized with Donovan’s wounded pride and personal disappointment, even betrayal, as well as Bassante’s sense of duty. Everyone has his motive. “That’s an uncomfortable situation to be in.”

  “Dick Van Hull is part of this, too.”

  “Van Hull?” His name hung in the air like a big, fat Dizzy Dean changeup.

  “He’s in an uncomfortable situation of his own.”

  Expect a fastball and a slow ball floats by. Strike two.

  “If you’re willing, Ginny has an envelope. The details are spelled out inside.”

  “Ginny who?”

  “Miss Thompson, the office manager.”

  Not Rita, Eleanor, Marge, after all. But Ginny. Ginny Thompson, Miss American Efficiency, 1945. With the war over, her name was apparently no longer a secret.

  “Don’t feel obligated, Fin.”

  Don’t feel obligated. Van Hull carried them through their mission in Slovakia. How could he be anything but obligated?

  “Read it over and let Miss Thompson know. If you can’t, I’ll understand.”

  A knuckleball. Swing or let it pass: Strike three. Dunne ground the stub in the ashtray. Bassante wouldn’t understand anymore than Donovan.

  On the calendar, above the muster of days, the exhausted (now deceased) president made a final attempt at a smile.

  Nothing left to fear.

  Nice try.

  If only.

  After he left, Dunne stopped at the same pub as he had in June ’44. This time, midday, the clientele was sparse. He ordered a pint. Two ex-Tommies (woolen khaki trousers gave away their former status) peeked over their shoulders. As ready for the Yanks to go home as the Yanks were eager to go, they attempted none of the friendly banter as when Americans were a much-welcomed novelty. The barman drew the pint without saying a word.

  He sat by himself and sipped the beer. Warm as piss. The way the Brits liked it.
Never got used to it. What American did? Instead of placing the manila envelope Miss Thompson had given him on the wet, unwiped bar, he rested it on his lap.

  She’d clasped it against her purple blouse and thrust it forward with both hands, as though proffering a gift. “Take it with you. But it would be most appreciated if you got back with an answer by tomorrow.”

  Annoyed at the skill with which Bassante had drawn him in, and already resentful at the idea of delaying his return home, Dunne intended the sharpness of his reply: “I can’t give an answer till I know the question.”

  “I’m just relaying what I was told.” She advanced toward the door with a confident, purposeful sway, toenail polish visible through her open-toed shoes same shade as fingernails and blouse. Purple majesty. If coast-to-coast television ever became commonplace in U.S. living rooms, as the newspapers promised it would, she’d be the country’s perfect hostess. Miss America the Beautiful.

  He went back to the bar, fetched a scotch, played with returning to the office of Columbia Casualty & Life, handing the unopened envelope to Miss Thompson, making his own declaration of independence: I’ve served my time, done my duty, had enough of warm beer, cold rooms, dreary streets, the dead and the damaged, this ruined, grudge-ridden, self-destructive continent. Two wars’ worth, Miss Thompson. More than enough.

  Dunne ripped it open. The handwriting was clear, neat, parochial-grammar-school precise, a style uniformly enforced in institutions of every size as though a tenet of the One True Church. Hail, holy penmanship.

  He presumed Bassante had written it himself:

  Dear Fin,

  Sorry to be so careful in communicating with you. The times, I’m afraid, require such caution. The war is over. It remains to be seen what peace, if any, we’ll have.

  I spend most of my time with the Counterintelligence Corps. The focus is on identifying those within the National Socialist regime—the Wehrmacht, SS, corporations, the scientific and medical communities—whose conduct exposes them to prosecution as war criminals. Given the scope of the crimes, it would be an immense challenge under the best of circumstances. But the CIC is seriously understaffed and/or staffed by wet-behind-the-ears recruits with absolutely no familiarity with the matters at hand.

  Worse, it too often seems that among the more knowledgeable within the CIC, not only does one hand not know what the other is doing, but the other doesn’t want it to know.

  Dick Van Hull has become a victim of this squeeze. He volunteered early on for the CIC. His linguistic skills and field experience were considered invaluable. His enthusiasm for the work was unbounded. Now, however, certain rumors are being spread about him. He’s being pressured to resign. He says he will face court-martial rather than do so.

  I would appreciate your help in this matter. I realize you’re probably scheduled to return stateside very soon, and while I hesitate to delay your departure, I can’t think of anyone more qualified or more appreciative of Dick’s qualities as a man and as a soldier.

  Please let Miss Thompson know your answer as soon as you decide. I’ll be in London the day after tomorrow.

  Turlough

  Dunne tucked it back into the envelope. The phone connection to the office of Columbia Causality & Life was supposedly secure—but not secure enough that Bassante felt comfortable using it to convey the information in the letter.

  He finished the whiskey and ordered another. Two Brits at the bar played a game of darts. The casual precision of their throws—feathered tails crowded around the bull’s eye—was impressive. They went back to their drinks. That moment of triumph at war’s end had been just that: a moment, sweet and short. What followed was a collective letdown. Goods still rationed. Streets and people had a shabby, secondhand feel.

  He’d have to write Roberta immediately and let her know his return to the States was delayed. She’d be as much angered as disappointed, especially since he’d have to leave the reason vague. He couldn’t mention Van Hull. Even if he could, she’d have no way to grasp the size of the debt he owed him.

  Dunne hadn’t seen Van Hull since return from Prague, the previous May. He vividlly recalled how eager Van Hull had been to get into the streets and join the uprising. Their protector, Jan Horak, insisted they stay hidden. An intelligence officer with the Red Army, he informed Van Hull, had already grumbled about the presence of “American spies” with the partisans. “In order to avoid complications, you must stay where you are. You had your war. This chapter belongs to us Czechs. We’ll celebrate when it’s over.”

  They slept most of the next several days. The silence and darkness of their hideout added to their cumulative weariness and abetted the rest they both needed. They didn’t know about V-E Day and the German surrender or the final liberation of Prague until Jan Horak returned with Lieutenant Colonel Carlton Bartlett.

  Bartlett was dressed in civilian clothes, brown ulster over brown suit. They didn’t recognize him at first, and he didn’t hide his surprise at their drawn appearance. “My God, you two look as though you’ve been washed, wrung, and hung out to dry.”

  “We’ve been playing too much golf,” Dunne said.

  Bartlett pulled a carton of Luckies and two bottles of champagne from inside his coat. He popped the cork on one, jovially apologized for not bringing glasses, and passed the bottle around. After several slugs, Horak left.

  “It’s stuffy down here.” Bartlett removed his suit jacket. Dunne caught the scent of aftershave. Bay rum.

  Van Hull and Dunne sat on their cots as Bartlett, unable to stay still, paced back and forth, stopping only when it was his turn for the champagne. “The general will be overjoyed I’ve found you. He’s not the kind to show any emotion—you know that, Dunne, having served under him in the first war—but you also know how deeply he feels the loss of each and every man. He could barely hide his reaction to what happened with Operation Dawson and with your drop.”

  “What was the outcome with Dawson?” Van Hull wiped his mouth with his sleeve, lit a cigarette, and rested the champagne bottle on his knee.

  “Mike Jahn and the others were taken to Mauthausen, as was Doctor Schaefer, who was also in the custody of the SS. There they were interrogated and executed. The sad fact is they’d already been shipped to Mauthausen by the time you were dropped.” Van Hull guzzled the remainder of the bottle and dropped in the cigarette. He lay back, head on pillow, forearm covering his eyes.

  Bartlett popped the second bottle. He continued his pacing. It seemed to be a habit, but if it was, it had done nothing to slim his pear-shaped, midbody bulk.

  Bartlett explained that his mission had been entirely Donovan’s idea: “Wild Bill at his wildest and most daring!” Get into Czechoslovakia and rescue Dr. Herschel Cernak, Schaefer’s former business partner, prominent scientist, and Jewish layman, from the Nazis. That part of the mission was complete. The Russians would love to take credit for the rescue. They’d also welcome the chance to question some OSS operatives. “Trick is to get out of Prague pronto. Donovan is seeing to that. You two sit tight for now. I’ll let you know when it’s time.”

  Dunne gave him back the bottle. He drained it. “It’s a sin to gargle such fine champagne, but with victory at hand, we’re entitled to certain liberties.” He looked down at Van Hull. “You men are the hidden heroes of this war. But now it’s the next one we have to prepare for. In war, as in life, intelligence is the ultimate weapon.”

  He donned his jacket and folded the ulster over his arm. He turned and repeated himself on his way out, this time with a slight slur: “You two s-s-sit tight, and I’ll let you know when it’s-s-s time to go.”

  The champagne left Dunne light-headed. The room felt more prison cell than hiding place. The residual discomfort in his ankle made him limp. He turned out the light and lay down on his cot. He woke in a sweat. His mouth was dry. He had an urgent need to pee. He used the flashlight to guide his way to the bathroom. On the way back, the peripheral play of the beam alerted him Van Hull’s cot was
empty.

  “Dick?” Dunne whispered. No answer. He switched on the overhead light. Van Hull was gone. He went into the corridor. “Dick!” His shout echoed through the marble emptiness. He went up the stairs, flashlight puncturing the dark. The clock on the wall in the office in which Van Hull and he had found the radio indicated 4:30.

  He wandered more hallways. He called Van Hull’s name but knew he was gone. Mulholland’s warning resurrected itself, a haunting refrain: Once the cork is popped, there’s no putting it back. No use going into the street. No way to contact Horak or Bartlett. All he could do was wait until one of them returned.

  It was an agonizing several hours before there was a shuffled commotion of voices and footsteps in the hallway. Arms draped over their shoulders, Van Hull was supported by Horak and a companion. Bartlett, red-faced and in full uniform, was behind them.

  Horak and his helper lowered Van Hull onto the cot. Pacing beside it, Bartlett ran his hand through his hair. “Jesus H. Christ!” he exploded. “He’s supposed to be a professional soldier, the epitome of the American fighting man, and instead he acts like a drunken circus clown! If Horak here hadn’t been alerted there was a boozed-up American busting up a tavern, the Russians would have grabbed him, and then we’d be in some fix!”

  Van Hull lay unconscious, mouth agape, arms spread like a crucified man. Dunne patted his cheek. “Dick, it’s Fin. You all right?”

  “All right? Look at him! His pathetic antics came within a hairsbreadth of drawing the Soviets’ attention and scotching our chance to get out of Prague.”

  Without stopping his relentless pacing back and forth, Bartlett let Dunne in on the arrangements General Donovan had made to land a plane full of medical supplies that would whisk them to the west. Tonight, Bartlett would leave his quarters on the pretense of joining the celebration of the reopening of the Prague State Opera House. He would have already sent Dr. Cernak ahead to the plane. His car would swing by the museum. “Horak will have Van Hull and you at the side entrance, and you’ll hop in. There better not be any slipups. I’m counting on you, Dunne.”