The Last Heroes (Men at War 1)

‘‘You go ahead if you want to,’’ Bitter said. ‘‘I’m going to stick by the radio.’’

‘‘Suit yourself,’’ Canidy said. ‘‘When the Japs start climbing over the rose garden wall, give me a yell, and I’ll come help repel them.’’

When Canidy came down from his room at half past three, Bitter was sitting in the front seat of the Studebaker. Canidy said nothing about his change of mind. It did seem a little incongruous that with the Pacific Fleet on the bottom of Pearl Harbor, he was going out to get laid.

Gravelly Point Airport Washington, D.C. 4:45 P.M., December 7, 1941

The Douglass C-47 airplane waiting for Colonel William Donovan at La Guardia Field was painted the dull olive green of the Army Air Corps. It also bore the Army Air Corps insignia, a red circle in a white star, and it was flown by men in Air Corps uniforms. But when Donovan and Chesley Haywood Whittaker got inside, the interior was civilian. There was even a brochure in a pouch on the back of the seat in front of Chesty Whittaker. In it was a picture of Captain Eddie Rickenbacker welcoming travelers aboard a flagship of Eastern Airlines’ Great Silver Fleet.

There was no stewardess, but ten minutes after they broke ground and the white beaches of the Atlantic Coast of New Jersey sped by under the left wing, a young officer with pilot’s wings on his tunic came out of the cockpit with a thermos of coffee and two china mugs and told them they should be on the ground in about ninety minutes.

‘‘I see the airplane was just drafted,’’ Donovan said as he took the coffee.

‘‘Yes, sir.’’ The young officer chuckled. ‘‘We just took it away from Eastern. Tomorrow . . . we’re adding insult to injury by making them do the work . . . they were going to strip the interior. I don’t know what will happen now.’’

‘‘I think we can safely presume that they’ll go ahead and strip it,’’ Donovan said. ‘‘The military cannot stand creature comforts.’’

‘‘If you gentlemen need anything, just come forward,’’ the young pilot said. ‘‘I better go help steer.’’

When he had gone, Chesty Whittaker asked the question on his mind:

‘‘Are they going to requisition all civilian airplanes?’’

‘‘They’re going to requisition what they need right away,’’ Donovan replied, ‘‘and then replace them as soon as they can from production. Don Douglas’s purchase order is going to make him rich: ‘Make as many airplanes as you can as quick as you can, on cost plus ten percent.’ ’’

‘‘It couldn’t happen to a nicer fellow,’’ Chesty Whittaker said.

‘‘Speaking of requisitioning, Chesty,’’ Donovan said. "How attached are you to the house on Q Street?"

‘‘I don’t think I’m going to like this,’’ Chesty said.

‘‘I’m going to need a place like that,’’ Donovan said.

‘‘I thought you had an apartment in the Hotel Washington, ’’ Whittaker said, ‘‘as well as the place in Georgetown.’’

‘‘I don’t mean me, personally,’’ Donovan said carefully. ‘‘The organization I’m setting up is going to need a place where I can bring people together, put them up overnight— or for a couple of weeks, maybe—a place where they won’t be seen or attract attention. A place, bluntly, to hide people, where they can be protected. A place with a wall around it; a place with a good kitchen and half a dozen bedrooms. A place just like Jimmy’s house on Q Street, Chesty."

‘‘What, exactly, Bill, are you up to?’’ Whittaker asked, then quoted, ‘‘ ‘A place to hide people’?’’

‘‘I can’t tell you, exactly, Chesty, what I’m doing,’’ Donovan replied.

‘‘No, I suppose not,’’ Whittaker said after a moment. "Jimmy, obviously, won’t be using the Q Street house for a while,’’ he went on. ‘‘If the government really has a need for it, Bill, of course you can have it.’’

‘‘I’ll have somebody get in touch,’’ Donovan said. ‘‘Work out the details. I’ll fix it, of course, so that there will always . . . or almost always . . . be a room for you and Barbara.’’

‘‘How good of you,’’ Chesty said dryly. ‘‘There’s one thing, Bill. Someone lives in the garage apartment.’’

‘‘He’ll have to move, I’m afraid,’’ Donovan said.

‘‘It’s a she,’’ Chesty said.

‘‘Oh?’’ Donovan asked, smiling. ‘‘How much are you paying her?’’

‘‘It’s Tom Chenowith’s daughter, you foulmouthed Irish-man, ’’ Chesty said.

‘‘Cynthia?’’ Donovan asked. ‘‘I thought she was at Harvard. ’’

‘‘She’s through law school and working for the State Department. ’’