The Last Heroes Read online

  Sixty seconds later, Lieutenant (j.g.) Edwin H. Bitter, USN, landed the second F4F-3, and sixty seconds after that, Lieutenant (j.g.) Richard L. Canidy, USNR, landed the third.

  Commander Hawes was forty-three, a veteran naval aviator, and an Academy graduate. He was the F4F-3 project officer stationed at the Grumman factory at Bethpage, Long Island.

  Lieutenants Bitter and Canidy, each twenty-four years old, had been selected from the large pool of naval aviators at Naval Air Station, Pensacola, where they were both instructor pilots. The requirement had been for two pilots who had more than the usual capacity to guide the aircraft. These two had to have something extra—the talent really to fly. They also had to be bright enough to understand both the real purpose behind the flyover and the damage they could do to naval aviation if they screwed something up.

  Lieutenant Edwin H. Bitter fit the requirement perfectly. He was an earnest, intense-looking young man who had graduated from the Naval Academy with the class of 1938. Though on the small side, he had earned his letter on the football field; and he still exercised regularly—and looked as if he did. In spite of their unorthodox nature, which at other times would have bothered him, Bitter had taken particular pleasure in today’s maneuvers over Annapolis. He considered, correctly, that his selection for the job was an honor.

  Lieutenant Bitter was, in other words, the straightest of straight shooters. Lieutenant Richard L. Canidy was another thing entirely. Though if anything he was a better pilot than Bitter, he was not an Academy man, and—more damaging still—his attitude disturbed more than a few people who counted. All too often, when his name came up, one would hear words like cocky, blasé, arrogant, or defiant. Canidy was thought to cut too many corners. He was even thought by some not to be ‘‘serious.’’ The trouble with Canidy, it was generally agreed, was that he was too smart for his own good. Not smart-ass smart, really smart. He had received (cum laude) a Bachelor of Science, Aeronautical Engineering, from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology in 1938.

  Canidy was dark-eyed, dark-haired, and quick to smile. He was tall—nearly a head taller than Bitter—and moved with fluid grace, but he was not really good-looking. This deficiency, however, in no way hindered the frequency or the (mutual) pleasure of his encounters with more than usually beautiful and attractive members of the opposite sex. In fact, he was often said to have the same talent for women that Alexander the Great had for territory.

  And Canidy was also a magnificent pilot. When he had entered the Navy, he was already a skilled airman with a commercial pilot’s license, an instrument ticket, and 350 hours of solo time. And his skills had steadily improved. An easy way up the Navy ladder was open to him, if he wanted to go that way. He didn’t. He had lost no time letting it be known that while he would, to the best of his ability, do whatever the Navy asked of him, he was not planning to become an admiral.

  A Navy scholarship, in exchange for four years of post-graduation service, had gotten him through MIT. That four years would be up in June of 1942. At the moment Canidy intended to swap his gold stripe-and-a-half for an engineer’s slipstick. The Boeing Aircraft Company of Seattle, Washington, had made him a very good offer of employment, based just about equally on his B.S., A.E., cum laude; on the opinion held of him by several of his professors; and on his thesis, ‘‘An Hypothesis of Airfoil Tip Vibrations at Speeds in Excess of 400 MPH.’’

  In the end, it had been decided that Bitter and Canidy were the best choices to be sent to Bethpage because of their flying skill, and that Canidy’s attitude, though leaving a good deal to be desired, was more than compensated for by his other qualifications.

  With secrecy Canidy thought it would have been appropriate had a surprise attack on Toronto or Montreal been in the works. He and Bitter (who, because rooms had been assigned alphabetically, was his Bachelor Officers’ Quarters roommate) had been summoned to the office of the deputy commandant at Pensacola, introduced to Commander Hawes, and informed that they had been selected from their peers for an important mission that involved flying the F4F-3.

  They had gone to Bethpage, been checked out in F4F-3s fresh from the assembly line, and then practiced low-level aerobatics just out of sight of land over the Atlantic.

  Canidy, as an engineer, was very impressed with the Wildcat. As a pilot, he had been very impressed with the airplane as an airplane. Privately, Dick Canidy thought the last three weeks had been enough proof, if one was needed, that insanity and childishness were no bar to promotion in the United States Navy.

  He was not sorry he had volunteered for the hush-hush childishness. For one thing, it had taken him out of the backseat of a Kaydet, the 90-mph biplane in which he taught basic flying techniques to fledgling naval birdmen. For another, it had given him the chance to fly the F4F-3. This would add to his general fund of knowledge, and when he took off the sailor suit, it just might result in a larger pay-check. He had taken pains at Bethpage to subtly let Grumman officials know that while he was looking forward to working for Boeing, he had not actually committed himself to going to Seattle.

  When Canidy touched down at Anacostia he felt a mild tinge of regret that this was the last chance he would have to fly the F4F-3 for a while. Finishing the landing roll, he taxied to the end of the runway where Hawes and Bitter were lined up behind a Follow Me, a Ford pickup truck painted in a black-and-white checkerboard pattern.

  The aerodrome officer was waiting for them, smiling broadly, and handed Commander Hawes a telephone message form. Hawes read it, smiled happily, and showed it to Lieutenants Bitter and Canidy.

  Pass to Commander Hawes Well Done. Derr, Vice Admiral

  ‘‘Well, gentlemen,’’ Commander Hawes said, ‘‘we pulled it off.’’

  ‘‘Yes, sir,’’ Lieutenant Bitter said.

  ‘‘There’s going to be a little dinner tonight at the Army-Navy Club,’’ Commander Hawes said. ‘‘You’re of course invited.’’

  ‘‘Sir?’’ Canidy said.

  ‘‘Yes?’’

  ‘‘Is it a command performance, sir? The reason I ask is that I have a friend in Washington I’d hoped to see.’’

  ‘‘A friend?’’

  ‘‘Yes, sir.’’

  ‘‘No,’’ Commander Hawes said, somewhat taken aback but making an effort to be pleasant. ‘‘Of course it’s not a command performance. Go see your friend.’’

  When he had been a young lieutenant, it would not have entered his mind to turn down an invitation to dinner from a superior, particularly when he would have an opportunity to bask in Vice Admiral Derr’s approval. Although his performance of duty could not be faulted, Canidy did not have quite the proper attitude for a junior officer.

  ‘‘If my absence would in some way be awkward, sir . . .’’

  ‘‘Not at all. Go see your friend.’’

  ‘‘Thank you, sir.’’

  Bitter waited until they were alone in the BOQ before he told him he thought he had made a mistake to decline the invitation.

  ‘‘Eddie, you want to be an admiral. You go to the dinner. My sole ambition at the moment is to get laid, and I don’t think I’d have much chance to do that at the Army-Navy Club.’’

  ‘‘You are coming back here tonight?’’

  ‘‘I devoutly hope not,’’ Canidy said.

  ‘‘In case I have to get in touch with you, where will you be?’’

  ‘‘At the house of a friend of mine on Q Street, NW. It’s in the book under Whittaker.’’

  Eddie Bitter wrote the name down in a notebook.

  Thirty minutes later, a taxi left Dick Canidy standing on the sidewalk in the Embassy District of Washington near Rock Creek, outside a ten-foot brick wall. He had changed into a jacket and slacks and was carrying only a small overnight bag with a change of linen. He didn’t think he would need other clothing, since what he looked forward to was a couple of sets of tennis, and then some girl chasing.

  A bell button was mounted in the brick wall. Canidy pushed it and waited
for the buzz that would open the lock. Then he pushed the door and went through it. There were trees and paths, and even Central Park-type benches between the wall and the house itself.

  The house was a turn-of-the-century mansion, stately in its ugliness. The building was faced with sandstone. Gargoyles at the roofline spouted rain from the slate roof. A widow’s watch crowned the peak of the building and two snarling stone lions guarded the massive double front door. There was a marble veranda twenty feet wide across the entire front of the house, and four sets of cast-iron tables, each with four cast-iron chairs. Canidy had been coming to the house on Q Street since he was a fifteen-year-old, gangly second former at St. Mark’s School, and he had never seen anyone sit on one of the cast-iron chairs.

  It was the tradition at St. Mark’s School to assign first formers (freshmen) to share rooms with upperclassmen, the notion apparently being that the older boys could look out for, and set an example for, younger ones. An exception was made for fourth formers (seniors), who could, if they wished, room with other fourth formers. But first formers, without exception, were assigned to second formers. The new students were called hacks, and Jim Whittaker had been his.

  St. Mark’s semisacred customs had made little impression on Dick Canidy, who had been born and raised in a midwestern copy of St. Mark’s, St. Paul’s, of which his father, the Reverend George Crater Canidy, D.D., Ph.D., was headmaster. Though second formers were supposed to hold themselves aloof from first formers, he had liked Jim Whittaker more than he liked the other two boys who shared their two-bedroom, one-bath apartment. And they had become friends.

  Jim had asked him to visit that year for the Thanksgiving holiday—holding out the bait that his uncle Chesty had tickets for the Army-Navy game—and he had accepted.

  On his arrival Canidy paid the ritual compliment to Jim’s uncle and aunt, ‘‘Lovely home you have,’’ but their astonishing reply was that the compliment properly belonged to Jim.

  ‘‘The house is his,’’ Chesley Haywood ‘‘Chesty’’ Whittaker, Jim’s childless uncle, said. ‘‘It was his father’s.’’

  Seeing the confusion on Canidy’s face, Chesty Whittaker had explained: ‘‘After Jim’s father died, the idea was that once the house was known to be available, an embassy or an ambassador would snatch it up at an outrageous price. In the meantime, just for a couple of months, of course, Barbara and I would use it when we were in Washington. That was ten years ago, and we’ve yet to get that first outrageous offer.’’

  Canidy had liked Uncle Chesty from the first. For one thing, Chesty Whittaker had not concluded that because Dick was a priest’s son, he was therefore a good moral influence on Jim, and neither did he spare him dirty jokes or keep him from anything smacking of sin. And later Jim’s uncle had been responsible, Canidy was sure, both for his acceptance at MIT and for the Navy scholarship without which MIT would have been out of the question. Jim had shown him copies of the letters his uncle had written to the secretary of the Navy on Canidy’s behalf. The first, addressed ‘‘Dear Mr. Secretary,’’ had painted Canidy out to be a paragon of virtue and academic prowess whose services the Navy could ill afford to pass up. The second, addressed ‘‘Dear Slats,’’ said: ‘‘I mean everything I said in the attached letter, and if the Navy doesn’t see fit to give Dick a scholarship, you had better be prepared to explain to me why not.’’

  Over the years, Canidy had come to think of the house on Q Street as almost a second home and of the Whittakers as a second family. And Canidy had spent happy summer weeks at Whittaker’s home on the New Jersey coast, where Jim’s aunt had been as kind to him as her husband was.

  A silver-haired black man in a gray cotton jacket, whom Canidy had never seen before, opened the door.

  ‘‘Yes, sir?’’

  ‘‘Mr. Whittaker, please,’’ Canidy said. ‘‘Either, but preferably both.’’

  ‘‘Neither Mr. Whittaker is at home, sir.’’

  ‘‘My name is Canidy,’’ Dick said.

  ‘‘Oh yes, sir, we’ve been expecting you,’’ the butler said. ‘‘Won’t you come in?’’

  ‘‘Is Mr. Whittaker here? Jim?’’

  ‘‘Lieutenant Whittaker called, sir,’’ the butler said. ‘‘He asked me to tell you that he can’t get away from the Air Corps. And he told me, sir, to make you as comfortable as I possibly can.’’

  Damn, Canidy thought. When he’d called Jim, who was an Air Corps reserve second lieutenant at Randolph Field in Texas, Jim had thought he’d be able to make it up for a night on the town. With Jim around, the house on Q Street was a great place to be. Without him, it was about as exciting as a library. There was still plenty of time to return to Anacostia and the dinner at the Army-Navy Club.

  ‘‘What I think I’ll do,’’ Canidy said, ‘‘is say hello to Mrs. Harris, and then call a cab.’’ Mrs. Harris was the house-keeper.

  ‘‘Mrs. Harris has retired, sir. I have, in a sense, taken her place,’’ the butler said as he opened the door wider. ‘‘There is a telephone in the sitting room, sir.’’

  Canidy was looking in the telephone book for a cab company number when he heard a female voice asking about him.

  ‘‘It’s Mr. Canidy, miss,’’ the butler said. ‘‘He asked to use the telephone.’’

  When he heard footsteps behind him, Canidy turned around. It was Cynthia Chenowith. She was a few years older than he was, a disadvantage he was perfectly willing to ignore; for she was well set up, with nice breasts and rich dark brown hair. But she also had a distant, off-putting look that left you not knowing where you stood with her or if indeed you had anywhere to stand. Canidy had a hunch that there was heat and passion beneath all that. But very deep down. Very. She was ‘‘a friend of the family,’’ and he had known her, not well, for a long time.

  ‘‘Hello, Canidy,’’ she said. ‘‘What brings you here?’’

  ‘‘Hello, Cynthia,’’ he said. ‘‘You make a lovely consolation prize.’’

  ‘‘In lieu of what?’’ she asked, her voice level.

  ‘‘I was supposed to meet Jim here.’’

  ‘‘Then he didn’t get in touch with you? He said he would try."

  ‘‘No,’’ Canidy said.

  ‘‘Is there something I can do for you?’’ she asked, clearly hoping there wasn’t.

  ‘‘I was about to call a cab,’’ he said.

  ‘‘You’re perfectly welcome to stay here, of course,’’ she said.

  ‘‘That’s very kind of you, Cynthia,’’ he said, slightly sarcastic.

  She caught his tone. ‘‘I’m living here now. In the garage apartment. I sort of keep an eye on things. Mrs. Harris has retired, you know.’’

  ‘‘Oh,’’ he said.

  Canidy knew from Jimmy that Cynthia’s father, who had dropped dead on the twelfth-hole fairway of Winged Foot, the New York Athletic Club’s golf course, had not left his widow and only child enough money to pay for his funeral. Chesty Whittaker, who had been Thomas Chenowith’s Harvard classmate and an usher at his wedding, had consequently fulfilled his obligation as a gentleman and a friend. He had ‘‘found’’ some interest-bearing municipal bonds, which had escaped the Chenowith financial debacle, enough of them to ensure Tom Chenowith’s widow and child a comfortable existence. He had further ‘‘arranged’’ for scholarships to be provided for Cynthia from the Emma Willard School and later Vassar and still later Harvard Law. It was thus not surprising that the garage apartment had suddenly become available—rent-free—to Cynthia.

  ‘‘Where are you going—in the cab, I mean?’’

  ‘‘Back to Anacostia,’’ Canidy said.

  There was the muted ring of a telephone somewhere else in the house. Cynthia Chenowith, smelling of something interesting and expensive, stepped past Canidy and picked up the telephone he had been about to use. She listened a moment.

  ‘‘Mr. Whittaker, I’m on the extension,’’ she said. ‘‘Dick Canidy is here.’’ Then, a moment later, she handed him
the telephone.

  ‘‘Dick? Jim couldn’t get away. He tried to call you.’’

  ‘‘Yes, sir. So I have just found out.’’

  ‘‘You do plan to spend the night?’’

  ‘‘I was about to go back to Anacostia.’’

  ‘‘Could I talk you into filling in at dinner? Or is whoever is waiting for you at Anacostia a goddess defying description? ’’

  ‘‘He could hardly be called a goddess,’’ Canidy said.

  Chesty Whittaker laughed. ‘‘Have Cynthia make you a drink. You’re going to take her and another young lovely to dinner tonight.’’

  ‘‘Splendid,’’ Canidy said. ‘‘If you’re not just being kind. I don’t want to intrude.’’

  ‘‘Don’t be an ass,’’ Chesty Whittaker said. ‘‘Actually, I consider you a gift from heaven. I’ll be there in an hour or so.’’

  He hung up.

  Canidy put the phone into its cradle.

  ‘‘We are going to be dinner partners tonight,’’ he said.

  ‘‘Paul?’’ she called, raising her voice.

  The butler appeared.

  ‘‘Yes, miss?’’

  ‘‘Mr. Canidy will be staying. Would you put his bag in Jimmy’s room, please, and then see what he will have to drink?’’

  Not quite understanding why, Canidy was suddenly annoyed. Cynthia’s housemotherish ‘‘I’m in charge of the young people’’ attitude irritated him.

  ‘‘Put my bag in the room across from Jimmy’s,’’ he ordered. ‘‘That’s my room. And I know where to find the whiskey.’’

  He got an annoyed, angry look from Cynthia Chenowith, but she didn’t countermand his order. She nodded her head at him and walked out of the sitting room.

  She had a very nice walk, he thought.

  The Willard Hotel Washington, D.C. 7:40 P.M., June 4, 1941

  Richard Canidy got out of the limousine and walked up the stairs to the lobby of the Willard. He was wearing one of Jim Whittaker’s dinner jackets and one of Jim’s stiff shirts; because it was about a size too small at the neck, he was sure it would leave his skin irritated and sore by the time he could get rid of it.