Soldier Spies

by Griffin, W. E. B.

  And then he stopped.

  To hell with it. If I’ve done something wrong, it was an honest mistake, and I’ll take the rap for it. I am no longer a bushy-tailed ensign. For that matter, no longer a bushy-tailed captain. If the DCNO didn’t understand that my desk is crowded with stacks of paper and a clerk’s comptometer because I’m working, fuck him.

  The door from the corridor was opened at 1523 hours by the DCNO’s aide-de-camp. The DCNO marched in.

  “Good afternoon, Commander,” he said, and quite unnecessarily identified himself. He was a large man, tanned, who looked like—and indeed was—an ex-football player.

  “Good afternoon, Admiral,” Bitter said. “Admiral Hawley expects you, sir, and has asked me to show you right in.”

  The DCNO’s aide-de-camp, a full commander who looked like a younger version of his boss, nodded at Bitter, and Bitter nodded back.

  Bitter walked quickly, ahead of the DCNO, to Admiral Hawley’s door and pushed it open.

  “The Deputy Chief of Naval Operations, sir!” he announced.

  “Good afternoon, sir,” Admiral Hawley said as he rose to his feet behind his desk.

  “Hello, Enoch,” the DCNO said as he walked, with hand extended, across the room. “How the hell are you?”

  "I’m very well, sir. Yourself ?”

  “Overworked and underpaid and wishing I was anywhere else but here,” the DCNO said. He sounded sincere, if resigned.

  “May I offer you some coffee, Admiral?”

  “Only if you have something to put in it besides milk and sugar,” the DCNO said.

  “I’m sure we can take care of that, Ed, can’t we?” Admiral Hawley said.

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Bitter said.

  When he was out of the room, the DCNO said,“He’s limping.”

  It was a question.

  “He took a Japanese .50-caliber, or parts of one, in his knee,” Admiral Hawley said.

  “And what does he have pinned to his chest?”

  “They’re AVG wings, Admiral. Commander Bitter was a Flying Tiger.”

  “I find that absolutely fascinating,” the DCNO said.

  Admiral Hawley had no idea what the DCNO meant.

  “Bitter is a very good man,” Hawley said loyally. “Class of ’38, and he was nearly a double ace—he had nine kills—when he was hit. By ground fire, I think I should add.”

  “Hummmpph,” the DCNO said.

  Bitter came back into the room carrying a napkin-covered Coca-Cola tray and two cups of coffee. When he extended the tray, the DCNO said, “The name ‘Canidy’ mean anything to you, Commander?”

  “Yes, sir,” Bitter said, surprised at the question.

  “You were in the Flying Tigers with him?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That all?”

  "We were stationed together at Pensacola, sir, as IPs, before we went to China.”

  “That all?”

  “I don’t know what the admiral is asking, sir,” Bitter said.

  “Is he a good man?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Friend of yours, you would say, Commander?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The DCNO looked at his aide.

  “Charley, I think we have just been given a late Christmas present,” he said. “Would you agree with that?”

  “Yes, sir, Admiral, it certainly looks that way.”

  “Commander, get some of that coffee for Charley and yourself, and then sit down.”

  Bitter left the room, quickly returned with two mugs of coffee, and sat down, somewhat stiffly, beside the DCNO’s aide-de-camp.

  “We came here, Enoch,” the DCNO said, “more or less directly, from a meeting of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. The CNO was tied up, and so was Colonel William J. Donovan. A Navy captain named Douglass was sitting in for Donovan.”

  The DCNO took a swallow of his coffee and then looked at Bitter.

  “Are you familiar with either of the gentlemen I just mentioned, Commander? ”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How?”

  “Captain Douglass’s son was in the AVG, sir,” Bitter said. “I had occasion to meet the captain here in Washington. I met Colonel Donovan before I went to China.”

  “You know what they do now?” the DCNO asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Charley,” the DCNO said, “I think we just climbed out of you-know-where smelling like a goddamned rose.”

  “It’s really beginning to look that way, sir,” the DCNO’s aide said.

  “One of the items, actually several of the items, on the agenda, Enoch,” the DCNO said, “was the German submarine pens at Saint-Lazare. First, there was a rather disturbing report about what hell those subs are raising with shipping, both in terms of shipping per se—they’re sinking ships almost as fast as we can build them—and in terms of matériel that is not reaching England.

  “Then the subject turned to what’s being done to take the submarines out. That was not a bit more encouraging. At that point, I got egg on my face.”

  “Sir?” Admiral Hawley asked.

  “Another proof, if I needed one, that, unless you know what you’re talking about, you keep your mouth shut,” the DCNO said. “I opened my mouth and announced before God and the JCS that the last information I had on the Navy project to take out the pens with torpedo bombers based in England looked very promising, and that I would fire off cables exhorting them to even greater effort.”

  The DCNO looked around the room, then shrugged.

  “At that point, rather tactfully I must admit, Captain Douglass told me that the torpedo-bombing idea hadn’t worked out—you can’t get enough explosive into a torpedo to take on that much concrete—and then he let me know that the OSS had been given the responsibility for taking the pens out. I had the definite feeling that there were senior officers at that table who felt that the DCNO should know something like that. And, of course, I should have.”

  “Sir,” Hawley said,“there was a message on that. . . .”

  “I’m sure there was, and I’m sure that I should have seen it, but I didn’t, so there I was with my ass hanging out. But I learned a long time ago that once part of your ass is hanging out, no further harm can be done, so you might as well let it all hang out. So I asked how come the job had been taken away from the Navy and why it was thought the OSS could do something the Navy and the Air Corps couldn’t.”

  "Admiral,” Admiral Hawley said,"it was my decision to recall the torpedo planes. We needed them in the Pacific. They were in Europe only because of the high priority of the submarine pens project. . . .”

  The DCNO interrupted him by holding up his hand.

  “No criticism was intended about that. What bothered me was that we were just as much as hanging up a banner saying,‘The Navy Can’t Handle Its Own Problems.’”

  "Sir,” said Admiral Hawley, "if I may say so, it wasn’t considered a Navy problem. It was considered a Theater problem. And I have been led to believe that it was given to the OSS to make that point.”

  “Don’t hand me that crap, Enoch,” the DCNO said. “Protecting the sea-lanes is the Navy’s business. Submarines, friendly or hostile, are Navy vessels. Enemy submarine pens are the Navy’s business. Bombardment of enemy shore bases, either by naval gunfire or aircraft, is the Navy’s business.”

  “Yes, sir,” Hawley said.

  “The Air Corps wants to be its own branch of service, Enoch,” the DCNO said. “And sooner or later, it will be. When that happens, I don’t want the Air Corps saying, ‘You might as well give us naval bombardment aviation, too. They have proved that they can’t handle it. Remember when we had to come in and take out the German submarine pens for them?’”

  “I take your point, sir,” Hawley said.

  “You can’t blame a man for honestly speaking his mind, but I was pretty uncomfortable sitting there and hearing a man in the uniform of a Navy captain assuring me that now that the OSS had the responsibility, a handful
of civilians in uniform was going to do something the Navy couldn’t.”

  He paused and shook his head, as if the memory was painful.

  “I said something else I shouldn’t have said,” he went on. “I made a smart-ass remark. An unfair and smart-ass remark. I said that I just had a hard time believing that Donovan’s Dilettantes were going to be able to do something the Navy couldn’t. Whereupon the Commandant of the Marines, that disloyal sonofabitch, joined the opposition.”

  “Sir?”

  “He said,‘What the hell, Jake, they stole a battleship. If all else fails, they can steal the Kraut submarines.’ Which of course got a big laugh. And then the Chairman asked if we could move on to something else. And then I got control of my runaway mouth and said that all I was trying to do was offer the Navy’s cooperation to the OSS in any way possible to solve the problem. Then the Chairman indulged me. He said that he certainly appreciated the offer of cooperation and suggested that I get together with Captain Douglass after the meeting adjourned.

  “Douglass told me, of course, that he would welcome any help the Navy could give the project. And he went on to say that there’s still one Navy officer on the project, a lieutenant named Kennedy. His ‘action officer,’ this man Canidy, is also a former naval officer. He’s no dummy—Douglass, I mean—and I think he understands my concern. He said he would have a word with Canidy and that there would be no objection if we beefed up our liaison staff with the project.”

  “I see,” Admiral Hawley said.

  “So I came to see you with two questions in my mind, Enoch,”the DCNO said. “First, I wanted the name of an officer of suitable rank and experience we can send over there to represent the Navy’s interests, and second, in the profound hope that you could disabuse me of the notion that there is no aircraft in the Navy inventory that can do what has to be done.”

  “The bad news first, Admiral,” Admiral Hawley said. “The problem is the weight of explosive throw. The submarine pens have been carved out of rock and then reinforced with concrete. It’s going to take tons of explosive, very precisely placed, to cause any real damage. Skip bombing has been tried, and it failed. Torpedoes you know about. If the pens could be taken out with bombs, it would have to be a bigger bomb than anything now available. A bomb far too large to be carried in any Navy aircraft. I think this flying bomb concept, turning a B-17 into an explosive-filled drone, is going to be the only answer.”

  “Someone has to pilot the drone from the control aircraft,” the DCNO said thoughtfully. “There’s no reason he cannot be a naval officer.” He looked at Bitter:“Are you on flying status, Commander?”

  “No, sir,” Bitter said.

  “Medically grounded? Because of your knee?” the DCNO asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “There are such things as medical waivers,” the DCNO said. “Is there any reason you can see, Commander, why you could not control a drone from an aircraft piloted by this Lieutenant Kennedy?”

  “No, sir,” Ed Bitter said.

  “Did I detect a moment’s hesitation, Commander?” the DCNO asked.

  “Sir,” Bitter said. “The question would be whether I would be permitted to do so.”

  “Captain Douglass has said he will have a word with your friend Canidy,” the DCNO said.

  “Major Canidy is sometimes difficult, sir,” Bitter said.

  “Christ, Commander, he’s a major. Majors, even Army Air Corps majors, do what they’re told.”

  “Sir,” Bitter said. “The thing is, he’s not really a major. He’s really OSS and wears a major’s uniform because it permits him a certain freedom of movement. I doubt if Captain Douglass would order him to let me fly the drone. Or if he did, that Canidy would accept the order if he didn’t think it was the thing to do.”

  “Hmmph,” the DCNO snorted. “Well, let me put it this way, Commander. When those submarine pens are taken out, I want them taken out by naval officers. Preferably by Navy officers in Navy aircraft. But in any event by Navy officers. How you arrange that, I leave up to you. If necessary, start singing ‘Auld Lang Syne’ and ‘Anchors Aweigh.’ Do I make my point?”

  “Yes, sir,” Bitter said. “I’ll do my best, sir. I’m grateful for the chance.”

  “How soon can you leave for England?” the DCNO asked.

  “Immediately, sir,” Bitter said.

  The DCNO sat for a moment tapping the balls of his fingers together.

  “I think the way to handle this, Enoch,” he said, “is to put the Commander on temporary duty. That way, if it becomes necessary, he can hoist your flag. And you can approve his application for waiver of physical condition and get him back on flight status.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Admiral Hawley said.

  “Take a couple of days at home, Commander,” the DCNO said. “And then get yourself to England. You know what’s expected of you.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Bitter said.

  [TWO]

  Marburg an der Lahn, Germany 31 December 1942

  Hauptsturmführer Wilhelm Peis had had to consider the possibility that once he actually met Fräulein Gisella Dyer, Standartenführer Johann Müller might not like her. Or that he would be put off by her negative attitude: More than once Fräulein Dyer had forgotten her situation. She did not in these moments become openly defiant. But with some alcohol in her she tended to lose her sweetness and innocence and turn into a flippant and sarcastic bitch.

  Obviously, Standartenführer Müller had to be entirely pleased with the evening: Peis hoped there would be an opportunity afterward to discuss his future with the Standartenführer. Peis had nothing specific that he wanted from the Standartenführer; he simply wanted the Standartenführer to look upon him favorably. There was no overestimating the influence of a Standartenführer SS-SD on the staff of the Reichsführer-SS in Berlin. A favorable—or unfavorable—word from a man like that in the right ears would have a pronounced influence on his career. A few little words could mean the difference between staying here with maybe a nice promotion or being assigned to the Eastern Front.

  Peis had to keep reminding himself that underneath, Müller was probably a man much like himself, that Müller had in fact once been a lowly Wachtmann on the Kreis Marburg police. A man didn’t change his spots, even if he came to wear the corded silver epaulets of a Standartenführer.

  Since he was a man, he wanted to spend a couple of pleasant hours on New Year’s Eve over drinks and dinner with an attractive young woman. And afterward he wanted to snuggle up with her in bed. It was little enough for him to expect of Peis, and he would likely be annoyed if things didn’t go well.

  Because of the very real possibility that Fräulein Dyer might show up in one of her difficult moods, Peis considered that it might be best for her not to show up at all and to solicit the help of Frau Gumbach.

  Frau Gumbach operated a whorehouse near the Bahnhof, a regular whorehouse with resident whores. She also had available a dozen women who operated outside the law—that is, who didn’t have the prostitute’s yellow identity card. These girls were available by appointment to men who could not afford being seen in the whorehouse, or picking up whores in bars or along the street.

  The problem was that Standartenführer Müller had expressed a specific interest in Fräulein Dyer. If Fräulein Dyer did not appear at supper at the Kurhotel, Standartenführer Müller might conclude that Peis was saving her for himself. It would not be desirable for Müller to harbor any such suspicions.

  When he telephoned Frau Gumbach, she assured him that she understood his dilemma perfectly and that it would be her pleasure to help. She knew just the girl: She had been bombed out of her home and employment in Kassel and the Hessian Labor Officer had sent her to work in the aircraft engine plant in Marburg. Not only would she be pleased to make a little extra money, but she would like the opportunity to associate with important people.

  “You’re not suggesting that I pay her?” Peis asked incredulously.

  “Of course not,
Herr Hauptsturmführer,” Frau Gumbach said. She was fully aware that Peis’s friendship kept her house open and her girls free not to “volunteer” to become manual laborers for the Todt Organization. “I will, of course, give her a little something, but you should consider this to be a simple gesture between friends.”

  “I’ll be in the parking lot behind the Café Weitz at quarter to seven,” Peis said.

  Frau Gumbach was usually reliable, but he wanted to see the girl from Kassel before he took her to the Kurhotel to meet Standartenführer Müller.

  He then called Fräulein Dyer and invited her to spend New Year’s Eve with himself and Standartenführer Müller. Müller, he pointedly told her, was a very important officer from Berlin. He asked her to be at the Kurhotel at seven. If he was not yet there, she was to wait for him at the bar.

  He did not offer to pick her up. Riding the streetcar and then walking almost a kilometer up the hill to the Kurhotel through the snow would give her time to reflect on her situation.

  [THREE]

  Gisella Dyer was twenty-nine years old. She was tall and rather large-boned, the kind of woman described as “statuesque” by those whose perceptions of statues are based on the baroque school. That is to say, she had broad shoulders and sturdy thighs, large, firm breasts and buttocks, but little fat.

  Gisella Dyer and her widowed father lived in a large and comfortable house close to the ancient fortress and later abbey that had been seized from the Papists and turned into Philips University by Philip, Landgrave of Hesse-Kassel, after his conversion to Protestantism by Martin Luther.

  The house had been her grandfather’s, and he had left it to Gisella’s father and mother; but it was no longer entirely theirs. She and her father (her mother had died when she was fourteen) lived in four large rooms, with private bath, on the second floor, twenty-five percent of the house. The rest of the space had been requisitioned (temporarily, until victory) by the Housing Office and was now occupied by three families and a bachelor, an engineer at the Fulmar Werke.