The Last Heroes (Men at War 1)

‘‘Regular little Charley Chan, aren’t you?’’ Canidy said.

‘‘Chesty and Bill Donovan were in Texas, is how I found out,’’ Whittaker said. ‘‘The firm’s got the contract for expanding the place, and for satellite airfields. Anyway, they had me to dinner at the Main Club. Chesty, Donovan, the base commander, and me. My squadron now treats me with a lot more respect.’’

Bitter laughed.

‘‘So I asked what the volunteering was all about, and Donovan told me.’’

‘‘What did he tell you?’’

‘‘That patriotic, courageous, highly skilled, and ergo not too bright pilots were being recruited to go to China and pretend they’re the Chinese Air Corps until Roosevelt can get us in the war. He didn’t put it in quite those words, but stripped of the bullshit, that was what he meant.’’

Canidy chuckled.

‘‘Not that I was asked,’’ Whittaker went on, ‘‘but I wouldn’t touch the AVG with a ten-foot pole. What did you do, go crazy?’’

‘‘I told you, it got me out of the Navy,’’ Canidy said. ‘‘I figured if I stayed until my four years was up, there’d be a war on and I’d never get out.’’

‘‘From what Donovan told me,’’ Whittaker said, ‘‘the American Volunteer Group is a euphemism for ‘throw some Christians to the Japanese lions.’ ’’

‘‘We should not be having this conversation in a public place,’’ Bitter said. ‘‘If we should be having it at all. I don’t want to sound stuffy, but that’s—’’

‘‘I always try to be kind to naval aviators,’’ Whittaker said. ‘‘But this ring-knocker sidekick of yours is trying my patience. Does he always interrupt serious conversations this way?’’

‘‘He means well,’’ Canidy said. ‘‘And he’s probably right. Let’s go to our room, so we can get out of these uniforms.’’

‘‘So you can pack,’’ Whittaker said. ‘‘You’re not going to spend the night here. Either of you.’’ He saw the look of confusion on Bitter’s face, and explained. ‘‘I’ve got a house here. Plenty of room for everybody. It will be easier all around.’’

‘‘Not only that, it’s free,’’ Canidy said. ‘‘Say ‘Thank you, Jim,’ Eddie.’’

‘‘Thank you,’’ Bitter said.

He had decided that prudence dictated he join them. For he did not wish to have to tell Commander Porter, at 0800 the next morning, that he had no idea where Lieutenant Canidy was. Since Whittaker and Canidy were two of a kind, together they were liable to do anything.

As they walked up the wide stairway, Whittaker touched Bitter’s arm. ‘‘No offense about the ring-knocker remark?’’

‘‘Not at all,’’ Bitter said. ‘‘We ring-knockers always make an allowance for civilians in uniform.’’

‘‘It does have a sense of humor,’’ Whittaker said. ‘‘I think I like it.’’

‘‘Screw you,’’ Bitter said. He had to laugh. The word to describe Whittaker, he thought, was ‘‘effervescent.’’ It was impossible to take offense at anything he said.

‘‘And you have my sympathy, Sour,’’ Whittaker said. ‘‘I have trod where you are treading.’’

‘‘Bitter,’’ Bitter corrected him, before he realized his leg was being pulled. ‘‘Trod where, Whitefish?’’

‘‘Sleeping with Canidy,’’ Whittaker said. ‘‘It isn’t so much the snores as it is the smell.’’

‘‘Well, we do have something in common, then, don’t we?’’ Bitter said.

‘‘Dick and I go back a long way,’’ Whittaker said. ‘‘I was his hack at school.’’

‘‘I was at Phillips Exeter,’’ Bitter said.

‘‘Small world, ain’t it?’’ Canidy said dryly. Then he thought of something. ‘‘Jim, do you remember Fulmar?’’

‘‘Monica Carlisle’s shameful secret? Yeah, sure. How could I forget the charming prick?’’

‘‘I was just out to see my father,’’ Canidy said. ‘‘He told me Fulmar’s in Morocco.’’