W E B Griffin - Men at War 1 - The Last Heroes Read online

  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 housekeeper.

  "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 understandin 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 Pm., 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.

  He went to a bank of house phones and asked to be connected with Mrs. Mark Chambers. The phone rang four times before a soft Southern voice answered it. "Yest "Mrs. Chambers, I'm Dick Canidy. Anytime you're ready, I'm in the lobby."

  "I'll be down in just a minute," she said. "How will I recognize you?"

  "I look like a waiter," he quipped, and immediately regretted it. "I'll recognize you. Mr. Whittaker said you were a tall and lovely blonde."

  "Oh my," she said, and hung up. Canidy thought he shouldn't have said that either.

  Chesty Whittaker had in fact not described her as a "tall and lovely blonde" but somewhat less kindly as "your typical Southern magnolia blossom, Dick. I'm sure you know the type. Blond and helpless. "Po'fil ol'me."Too afraid of the big city to get in a cab and come out here by herself. Hence the limousine. But I promised her husband that I would watch over her, so you're elected to fetch her and take her home."

  "My pleasure," Dick had said.

  "No, not your pleasure, I'm afraid. But I will owe you."

  "My pleasure to be of service, then," Canidy said.

  Chesty Whittaker had squeezed his arm then in gratitude and friendship.

  Three minutes later, Mrs. Mark Chambers got off the elevator. She did look Southern. He was sure it was her even before he walked up and asked, "Mrs. Chambers?"

  "Sue-Ellen," she said, giving him her hand. She looked right into his eyes, and he found that disconcerting. "Mr. Canidy?"

  "Dick," he said.

  "It was so nice of you to come all the way here and get me."

  "My pleasure."

  And she was tall and lovely, he thought. Probably thirty or so.

  "I hate to be a burden on Mr. Whittaker," she said, taking his arm. Innocently, he believed, she pressed her breast against his arm as they made their way across the lobby and down the stairs.

  "Mr. Whittaker is looking forward to having you in the house," Canidy said, and thought: You have all the makings of a gigolo, Canidy. Charm oozes from your every pore.

  "My husband was delayed on business in New York," she said.

  "So Mr. Whittaker told me."

  He got into the old Rolls beside her. In the closed car, her rich perfume became powerfully evident. It was surprisingly wicked perfume for "your typical Southern 'po' Fil ol' me"' magnolia to wear.

  At the house there were cocktails, and then dinner was announced. Chesley Haywood Whittaker sat at one end of the table, and at the other was a New York lawyer named Donovan. Sue-Ellen Chambers as guest of honor sat beside Whittaker, and Canidy sat beside Sueellen. Cythia Chenowith sat on the other side between the other guests, who were British and Canadian. One of the Englishmen, on hearing that Canidy was in the Navy, introduced himself as a sailor himself, Commander, Royal Navy Reserve, Ian Fleming.

  Canidy liked Donovan, a fascinating man, full of sparkle and energy and a longtime Whittaker buddy. He had met Donovan a dozen times before in New Jersey. Donovan was called Colonel Donovan, even though he had long ago taken off his colonel's uniform, which was adorned with the blue, silver-starred ribbon of the Medal of Honor, won while he was commanding the "Fighting 69th" Infantry Regiment in the American Expeditionary Force in France.

  He was a stocky, white-haired, charming, yet intense man, the only man Canidy knew who had won the Medal of Honor. As a result of his Navy experience Canidy had come to understand something of what command was all about. Canidy could see instantly that this man Donovan was one hell of a commanding officer. He possessed that rare talent that caused other men to eagerly carry out orders they would not accept from someone else. It wasn't just that he was persuasive. It was a much, much rarer talent than that (FDR had it): Donovan was a man you just couldn't say no to.

  Canidy could also tell-from some of the amused but admiring glances he from time to time shot at the colonel-that Commander Fleming held opinions about Donovan similar to his own. When Canidy made a comment to that effect to the commander, Fleming laughed. "Oh yes, Lieutenant," he said, pronouncing it Leftenant, "I know exactly what you mean. I've had considerable dealings of late with Colonel Wild Bill Donovan."

  "I'd like to hear about those," Canidy said.

  "I'm afraid I can't tell you very much, Leftenant," he said mysteriously. "It's all rather behind closed shutters."

  Canidy shrugged acceptance. He was not surprised that Donovan was up to something secret.

  Before long, the reason for the dinner came out. Whittaker Construction was building maritime fuel transfer facilities in Nova Scotia. Canidy knew a little about this. And what he did not know, Colonel Donovan quickly made clear.

  American petroleum products were to be shipped in American bottoms from the Gulf Coast. So long as they were in American waters, they would be safe from attack from German submarines. The British and Canadian navies would then provide protection for the tankers during the short voyage from the Canadian-American border to a port in Nova Scotia, where the petroleum would be pumped into English ships for the trip across the Atlantic. If the petroleum had been loaded into the English ships on the Gulf Coast, the ships would have been fair game for German submarines the moment they were fourteen miles at sea. Since the British had neither enough tankers to ship their fuel directly from Texas and Louisiana, nor enough naval vessels to protect them, other arrangements had to be made.

  Sue-Ellen Chambers's husband owned a shipyard in Mobile to which Whittaker Construction had subcontracted the manufacture of the fuel-handling barges and other equipment that would be used in Canada. This yard was not only building tankers, but was about to hand over fuel-handling equipment to the Canadians. 01' Magnolia Blossom's husband was a subcontractor, making the equipment for Whittaker Construction, who had the prime contract.

  From what Canidy had been taught about the rules of warfare, what the Americans were doing was undeniably a violation of the laws governing neutral countries during a war; but he was a lieutenant junior grade, Reserve, and no one had asked for his opinion.

  Cynthia Chenowith, however, did not share Canidy's reluctance to speak out. "What all this amounts to," she said to Donovan, "is that America is going to be in the war on Britain's side, only not officially. Neutrality doesn't count anymore, then, does it?"

  "I think, Miss Chenowith, that you've made a more or less reasonable interpretation," Donovan said.

  "I don't like it Cynthia said. "I don't like going into war through the back door."

  "You realize, miss," said Commander Fleming, "that America will be in this war officially-and sooner rather than later."

  Cynthia paused a moment in order to take hold of that. Then, with a not quite nice smile, she said to Fleming,
"Is this why you've come to Washington, Commander, to help make that happen sooner rather than later?"

  "Something like that," Fleming agreed, grinning, liking her directness.

  "Ian is very good at doing things through the back door," Donovan said in a loud, stagy whisper.

  "What kind of things?" Canidy asked innocently.

  Donovan took a long, thoughtful sip from his goblet, weighing what he could reveal. "Wars were fought, once upon a time's he said after draining the goblet, "by tribes who came at one another with clubs and stones. Each tribe beat on the other until only one tribe was left standing. All wars, until recently, have been conducted pretty much the same way... Oh, there've been a few changes. We have airplanes now, which, in effect, let us throw stones farther than our grandparents could. But otherwise, one side continues to bash at the other until only one is left standing. What has changed from what our grandfathers did is that much of the battle now is fought-long before the armies, navies, and air fleets clash-in the minds of the opposing forces. That may even be the decisive part of the battle... Which means that we need to know the mind of an enemy before he commits his forces-what he can do to us and what he intends to do to us-so that we can prevent the moves that could harm us or at least counter them. And we need to conceal from our enemy what we can do to him and what we intend to do to him. Of course, we want him to believe that we are extremely powerful. That, too, is part of the war of the mind."