The Last Heroes Page 16

‘‘Would it be possible, Mr. President,’’ Hoover asked, ‘‘for me to send a couple of my agents with them?’’

  ‘‘Bill has something like that in mind, Edgar,’’ Roosevelt said.

  ‘‘ ‘Something like that’?’’ Hoover quoted. ‘‘Do I see a hook in there?’’

  ‘‘Bill thought about sending Commander Douglass. Or to have Douglass recruit some people from ONI and send them.’’

  ‘‘It’s an FBI function, pure and simple,’’ Hoover said, annoyed.

  ‘‘You know,’’ Roosevelt said, ‘‘I thought you would say something like that, Edgar.’’

  ‘‘It’s a statement of fact,’’ Hoover said. ‘‘Nothing personal, Bill, you understand.’’

  ‘‘Before I say this, Edgar . . . and pout if you like,’’ Roosevelt said, ‘‘I want to remind you that you were given the FBI in large measure because of the efforts of Bill Donovan to get it for you.’’

  ‘‘Bill knows I’m grateful,’’ Hoover said, not very graciously. ‘‘But with all respect to naval intelligence—’’

  ‘‘I’m not finished, Edgar,’’ Roosevelt cut him off. ‘‘What I have decided to do, and the operative word is ‘decided,’ is something entirely different.’’

  He paused there, then put on his smile again.

  ‘‘You will, of course, recognize this as yet another manifestation of my Solomon-like wisdom,’’ he said.

  He got the expected chuckle.

  ‘‘It occurred to me,’’ the President went on, ‘‘that if . . . when . . . we find ourselves in this war, it will undoubtedly be necessary for us to do certain things of doubtful legality. Things that neither the FBI nor any of the service intelligence agencies would like to be connected with.’’

  ‘‘The FBI,’’ Hoover said, ‘‘will do whatever is necessary, Mr. President.’’

  ‘‘Edgar,’’ the President replied, ‘‘under your leadership, the FBI has become the most respected agency in the government. I don’t intend to—I will not—see the escutcheon soiled.’’

  OK, Edgar, Donovan thought, wiggle out of that one if you can.

  ‘‘You are very kind, Mr. President, to say that,’’ Hoover said. ‘‘However, in the national inter—’’

  Roosevelt shut him off by raising his hand.

  ‘‘Edgar,’’ he said with a toothy smile, ‘‘I learned a long time ago that if you’re going to do something of questionable legality, the first thing you do is find yourself a good lawyer.’’

  Hoover laughed, but it was forced. He took the law seriously, and didn’t like jokes made about it.

  ‘‘So I’m going to give these necessary—but perhaps a little underhanded—missions to Bill, who is the best lawyer I know,’’ Roosevelt said.

  ‘‘I don’t quite understand, Mr. President,’’ Hoover said.

  ‘‘Among other things you are to do, Edgar,’’ the President said, ‘‘is not only to look the other way when you suspect COI is doing something it shouldn’t, but . . . and this is very important . . . you are to divert the eyes of other people who may be asking questions.’’

  ‘‘Isn’t that tantamount to giving COI a license to break the law?’’ Hoover asked.

  ‘‘It is giving him license to do whatever I tell him to do in any way he can most effectively do it,’’ the President said.

  ‘‘If this came out, Mr. President, it would be damaging, very damaging, politically,’’ Hoover said. ‘‘I respectfully suggest, Mr. President, that the FBI can handle this sort of business, when necessary, better than anyone else.’’

  Donovan was surprised that Hoover was offering the FBI to do the President’s illegal bidding. Roosevelt acted as if he didn’t hear him.

  ‘‘I yesterday afternoon sent to the Senate the name of Commander Douglass for promotion to captain,’’ Roosevelt said. ‘‘And I instructed the secretary of the Navy to place Captain Douglass on indefinite duty with the Office of the Coordinator of Information. In the absence of Bill, when dealing with COI, you will deal with Douglass.

  ‘‘I have also instructed the chief of naval intelligence that he is to transfer to COI whatever people Captain Douglass asks for. And I want you, Edgar, to send over six of your best people to Douglass. Your very best people.’’

  ‘‘Yes, Mr. President,’’ Hoover said.

  The people he will send, Douglass thought, will be the ones who will spy most effectively on us.

  ‘‘From the people so assembled, Captain Douglass will select those who will accompany the scientists to England as their protectors, and to see what other information they can develop.’’

  ‘‘I respectfully—’’ Hoover tried again.

  ‘‘I told you before, Edgar,’’ the President said, ‘‘that this decision is not open for debate.’’

  ‘‘Yes, Mr. President,’’ Hoover said. The second most skilled politician in Washington knew when not to argue.

  ‘‘Is that about it, Bill?’’ the President asked.

  ‘‘Just one thing,’’ Donovan said. ‘‘Edgar, if we want to arm our people, what would be the most inconspicuous way to do it?’’

  ‘‘Are you asking me if I will see FBI credentials given to your people?’’ Hoover asked, his face flushing.

  ‘‘Edgar,’’ the President said, ‘‘you missed the point. If Bill asks you for FBI credentials, you will either give him the credentials or explain to me why you can’t.’’

  ‘‘I don’t want FBI credentials,’’ Donovan said. ‘‘I want something that won’t call attention to our people. The FBI is famous. We want to be anonymous.’’

  ‘‘Did you say ‘infamous’?’’ the President asked.

  "Deputy U.S. marshal," Hoover said after a moment’s thought. ‘‘They’re armed, and they travel a good deal. How soon will you need them?’’

  ‘‘As soon as you and the Navy send your people,’’ Douglass said.

  ‘‘I’ll take care of it,’’ Hoover said.

  ‘‘I have heard from the National Institute of Health about you, Bill,’’ the President said.

  ‘‘The National Institute of Health?’’

  ‘‘You will be thrilled, I’m sure, to hear that you now have offices. In the National Institute of Health.’’

  ‘‘The NIH?’’ Hoover asked, amused.

  ‘‘I considered St. Elizabeths for a while,’’ the President said, ‘‘before settling on NIH. At least it will be close to your place in Georgetown.’’

  ‘‘Your kindness overwhelms me, Franklin,’’ Donovan said.

  ‘‘I wish you’d call me ‘Mr. President,’ ’’ Roosevelt said.

  Donovan’s eyebrows went up, but he didn’t reply.

  ‘‘I have another remark I wish to make as President,’’ Roosevelt said. ‘‘I consider this atomic-bomb business the most important single thing we’re doing. If I have made that point, gentlemen, I think we can finally get down to the drinking part of the evening.’’

  ‘‘Yes, Mr. President,’’ Donovan said immediately.

  Roosevelt looked at Hoover.

  ‘‘Mr. President,’’ Hoover said, ‘‘the FBI and I are absolutely at your disposal.’’

  ‘‘That’s very fine of you, Edgar,’’ Roosevelt said. ‘‘I expected nothing less.’’

  He really didn’t know whether Roosevelt was being sarcastic or not, Donovan thought.

  ‘‘I think our first little snort,’’ the President said, ‘‘should be a toast to the newly promoted Captain Douglass.’’

  Rangoon, Burma 16 September 1941

  Ed Bitter had presumed the .50-caliber ammunition spilled into the hold at Pearl Harbor had been intended for the American Volunteer Group’s aircraft. The P40-B had two .50-caliber Brownings mounted in the nose, and two .30-caliber Brownings in the wings. But when the Jan Suvit stopped at Manila, the ammunition had been off-loaded.

  After a day and a half in Manila, they steamed back out of the harbor, past the fortress of Corregidor, for Batavia, Indonesia. From
Batavia, there was another long leg of the journey, the last, into the Gulf of Martaban, and then twenty-odd miles up the Rangoon River to Rangoon itself. They had been almost ninety days en route from San Francisco.

  A representative of the American Volunteer Group, another old birdman in the mold of Chennault, came aboard with the river pilot, and there was a military-type formation in which the 106 Americans aboard the Jan Suvit were divided into two groups. One group would consist of most of the pilots, Crookshanks told them, with a few maintenance and administrative personnel, and the other group would consist of the bulk of the maintenance personnel, a few administrative people, and two wingmen, Bitter and Canidy.

  Canidy’s running warfare with Crookshanks had obviously resulted in his being left behind, as a wiseass, with the other guilty-by-association wiseass, while the rest went off to start their training.

  Bitter kept his mouth shut until they were in an ancient Ford taxicab, en route to downtown Rangoon.

  ‘‘You realize, of course,’’ he said, ‘‘that you’re the reason I’m doing this with you.’’

  ‘‘Oh, that’s all right, Eddie,’’ Canidy mocked him. ‘‘You can put something extra in my stocking at Christmas.’’

  ‘‘The fuckups got left behind, as usual,’’ Ed said. ‘‘The trouble is that I’m not fucked up.’’

  ‘‘And you’re not too bright, either,’’ Canidy said. ‘‘The other guys are being loaded on a train for that place with an obscene-sounding name. They’re going to be put up in old, and I mean old, English Army barracks, and General Chennault is going to read them his book, aloud, until the planes get there.’’

  ‘‘And what are we going to be doing?’’

  ‘‘We’re going to lie in bed in a hotel, and with just a little bit of luck, not alone, until CAMCO gets the airplanes put together. And then we’re going to test-fly them. When they’re ready, we’ll fly them up to Fongoo—’’

  ‘‘Toungoo,’’ Bitter corrected him. He recognized ‘‘Fongoo’’ as some sort of Italian dialect obscenity.

  ‘‘Wherever the other dummies are,’’ Canidy went on, ‘‘and then come back for more. We’re going to have a lot more time in those airplanes than anybody else. I intend to test them very, very carefully.’’

  He was right, Bitter realized.

  ‘‘How did you pull this off?’’

  ‘‘The chief went to Crookshanks and told him that he happened to know that you and I were damned good test pilots.’’

  ‘‘We’re not, for God’s sake!’’

  "Nobody I met on the ship was any better,’’ Canidy said reasonably.

  5

  As they were having breakfast the next morning in the hotel dining room, John B. Dolan came in and sat down with them. There was no fouled anchor insignia pinned to the collar points of his khaki shirt, and there was no brimmed uniform cap perched cockily atop his head, but with those exceptions, he looked no less a chief petty officer of the United States Navy than he had at Pensacola NAS.

  Dolan motioned with his finger for a cup of coffee and helped himself to a sugared bun from a basket on the table.

  ‘‘CAMCO’s got a house for use,’’ Dolan said, ‘‘with its own mess and laundry. Right now there’s only Finley and me and an ex-chief radioman named Lopp. You’d probably be more comfortable there than here. Interested?’’

  ‘‘Fascinated,’’ Canidy said immediately.

  Bitter felt uncomfortable sharing quarters with ex-enlisted men, even if they were now, as civilians, technically social equals. Dolan and Canidy immediately made him even more uncomfortable.

  ‘‘There’s more,’’ Dolan said. ‘‘They sent me down to the wharves to pick up a car. There’s a whole godown full of new Studebaker Commanders. All you have to do, I think, is walk in, sign a chit, and ride out with one the way I did.’’

  ‘‘All they can do is tell me to give it back, right?’’ Canidy said.

  ‘‘Who owns the cars?’’ Bitter asked.

  ‘‘CAMCO,’’ John Dolan replied. ‘‘What we need is spare engines and assembly racks, and stuff like that, which we don’t have, instead of Studebakers, but what the hell, use what you do have, right? No sense in letting them just sit in the warehouse.’’

  ‘‘Isn’t the group going to need them?’’ Bitter asked.

  Dolan gave him a patient look.

  ‘‘The way it is, Mr. Bitter,’’ he said slowly, with more than a little disdain, ‘‘is we need all this stuff in China, which is the other end of the Burma Road. And we can’t get it there, at least right now, you understand?’’

  ‘‘Yes, of course,’’ Bitter said. He was uncomfortable that he had been treated like a fool.

  ‘‘I’ll go change,’’ Canidy said, and got up and walked out of the dining room.

  ‘‘I guess I’m a little surprised that an old salt like you and Mr. Canidy could be friends,’’ Bitter said.

  Dolan gave Bitter a tolerantly contemptuous look.

  ‘‘Let me put it this way, Mr. Bitter,’’ Dolan said. ‘‘There’s three kinds of officers. At the bottom are the really dumb ones. That’s maybe two percent. Then there’s most of them, say ninety-six percent. They do their job, and most of the time they don’t cause anybody any trouble. Then there’s the last two percent. You learn to spot them, and if you’re smart, you really take care of officers like that, because you know that they’ll take care of you. Not only when that’s easy for them, but when you really need taking care of and it costs them.’’

  ‘‘And you think Mr. Canidy is in the elite two percent?’’

  ‘‘Oh yeah,’’ Dolan said. ‘‘I spotted him right away, first time I took a ride with him. I’ve flown some, Mr. Bitter. I used to be a gold-stripe chief aviation pilot.’’

  ‘‘I didn’t know that,’’ Bitter said. The Navy had a small corps of enlisted pilots. The elite of the enlisted pilots were the chief petty officer pilots, and the elite of that elite were the gold-stripe chief aviation pilots. The chevrons of their insignia were embroidered in gold thread.

  ‘‘I figured if you’re not flying, you shouldn’t be wearing wings,’’ Dolan said. He was, Bitter realized, letting him off the hook.

  ‘‘And that’s why you recommended Mr. Canidy to be a test pilot?’’

  ‘‘That’s part of it,’’ Dolan said. ‘‘And at Toungoo, what Chennault’s going to do is run everybody through pursuit pilot school, the Army way. Mr. Canidy doesn’t need that, especially if it means he has to sleep in some old English barracks knocking bugs off his bunk.’’

  ‘‘You don’t think he needs pursuit pilot school?’’

  ‘‘You know the difference between flight training and pursuit pilot training?’’ Dolan asked.

  ‘‘Tell me,’’ Bitter said.

  ‘‘In pursuit pilot school, they unlearn you everything you’ve been taught so far about what not to do with an airplane, and they try to teach you just how far you can go without dinging it. I think Mr. Canidy’s got that down pretty pat already.’’

  ‘‘And you think I have, too?’’ Bitter asked. ‘‘I understand you recommended both of us for test pilots.’’

  Dolan didn’t answer for a moment. Then he turned in his chair and looked right into Bitter’s eyes.

  ‘‘There’s a couple of things with you,’’ Dolan said. ‘‘You went to the Academy, for one thing. For another, Mr. Canidy told me about you losing your engine while you were barrel-rolling. But I guess what’s most important is that I know that no matter what some people might think, Mr. Canidy wouldn’t have a genuine asshole for a buddy.’’

  For a moment, Bitter was speechless. But finally he managed, ‘‘Well, thank you, Dolan.’’

  ‘‘That’s all right, Mr. Bitter,’’ the old chief said.

  6

  The house that CAMCO had acquired for the maintenance people, the communications technicians, and the two pilots was a large Victorian structure in the suburb of Kemmendine. They could see the gold-d
omed Shwe Dagon Pagoda from the window of their rooms, far away, dominating the skyline.

  An hour after they had moved into the house, Canidy stuck his head in Ed Bitter’s door, where Bitter was sitting in an armchair rereading the P40-B dash-one.

  ‘‘You want to take a ride out to the airfield?’’ he asked. ‘‘And see what’s going on?’’

  The Studebaker Canidy had signed for at the CAMCO godown had less than a hundred miles on the odometer, and there was still a faint new-car smell—even though the car was chronologically at least a year old and had traveled ten thousand miles to the docks of Rangoon.

  Canidy found Mingaladon Air Field without much trouble, and then the CAMCO hangars. In front sat four Curtiss P40-B aircraft. Three of them looked ready to fly, and there was a group of mechanics squatting under the wing of the fourth, peering up into the right wheel well. The right wing of that airplane had been jacked off the ground.

  Canidy parked the Studebaker beside the nearest of the aircraft and got out. With Bitter following him, he walked around the airplane, studying it closely, and then he climbed up on the wing root and looked inside the cockpit. A middle-aged man detached himself from the group around the last P40-B and walked over to them.

  Canidy jumped off the wing root.

  ‘‘Canidy?’’ the middle-aged man asked, and when Canidy nodded, he identified himself as Richard Aldwood, of CAMCO. ‘‘Dolan told me about you,’’ he said.

  ‘‘You’re more than just ‘of’ CAMCO, aren’t you?’’ Canidy asked, shaking the offered hand. ‘‘Vice president, right?’’

  ‘‘Yeah, and at the moment in charge of making a studied guess about why that goddamned wheel won’t go up,’’ Aldwood said modestly, gesturing at the jacked-up airplane.

  ‘‘Ed Bitter,’’ Bitter said, and he and Aldwood shook hands.

  ‘‘How much time do you have in one of these?’’ Aldwood asked almost idly.

  ‘‘I read the dash-one real carefully,’’ Canidy said wryly.

  ‘‘I figured as much,’’ Aldwood said. He looked at Bitter.

  ‘‘I’ve never seen one before, sir,’’ Ed Bitter said.