The Last Heroes (Men at War 1)

‘‘That was Douglass’s suggestion,’’ Crookshanks said. ‘‘I was going to make Canidy a flight commander, and planned to combine that announcement with the story of his kills and the medal.’’

Baker nodded.

He’s thinking profound thoughts, Canidy thought; you can almost smell the wood burning.

‘‘I have a somewhat unpleasant suggestion,’’ Baker said a moment later. ‘‘I think it necessary for Canidy to leave China in disgrace. People are less apt to talk about cowards than heroes. Thus we’ll have to alter the past a little. The word will therefore be spread that Canidy turned tail yesterday and fled, and that you consequently relieved him and sent him home.’’

‘‘A hero’s life is a short one,’’ Canidy said.

‘‘I don’t think Douglass would go along with that,’’ Crookshanks said stiffly.

‘‘I also have a letter with me from Douglass’s father,’’ Baker said. ‘‘It asks him to do whatever I ask.’’

‘‘His father’s a Navy commander, isn’t he?’’ Chennault asked.

‘‘Captain,’’ Baker said.

‘‘And he’s involved with you?’’ Canidy asked.

Baker ignored the question. ‘‘If we did this,’’ he said thoughtfully, ‘‘it would obviate the necessity of Canidy saying anything at all to anyone. He would simply walk out there on the airplane and be gone. Afterward, Douglass could reluctantly say that he didn’t know what happened. I think he could manage that.’’

‘‘Is this really necessary?’’ Chennault asked.

Baker ignored him, too.

"It’s up to you, Canidy,’’ Baker said. ‘‘I am open to other suggestions."

It was a moment before Canidy replied.

‘‘I don’t much give a damn what people think of me,’’ he said.

‘‘Mr. Crookshanks,’’ Baker said, ‘‘would you send someone for Douglass, please?’’

Ksar es Souk, Morocco December 22, 1941

Eric Fulmar, el Ferruch was surprised to see, was not at all unhappy at the palace at Ksar es Souk. He had expected him to almost immediately grow bored with life in the middle of the desert and to promptly start wheedling to be taken to Rabat and put safely into the hands of American diplomatic personnel.

He had to be watched around the clock, of course, in case it should enter his mind to take his chances and make for Rabat on his own. That would involve stealing a car, as well as breaking his word, and el Ferruch thought that was unlikely. But he was a prudent man, and it was not difficult to have Eric watched by the Berbers, discreetly, ‘‘for his own protection.’’

Since they had not been able to walk out of the Hôtel d’Anfa carrying suitcases, the only Western clothing Eric had with him was what he had worn under his burnoose. Once in the palace at Ksar es Souk, he had no choice but to dress in Moroccan clothing, and from the third day, not by intention, he had grown a beard. With his modern American safety razor in Casablanca with his clothing, he had borrowed el Ferruch’s English straight razor. One slice in his cheek was enough to encourage him to let his beard grow.

But before long his golden-blond beard pleased him, so he didn’t shave it off when his things finally arrived from Casablanca. And because that amused him too, he continued to wear Moroccan clothing.

They rose early in the morning, when it was still quite cool, mounted horses, and hunted (quail, with shotguns and dogs, and peccary—a type of wild pig—with machine pistols borrowed from the guards) until the sun sent the temperature up. Then they returned to the palace and spent the rest of the day deep inside, where the thick stone-and-mud walls kept the temperature comfortable.

One afternoon Fulmar came across a book by T. E. Lawrence in the small collection of European-language books el Ferruch had inherited from his father. There was a faded photo of Lawrence at the front wearing Arab garb and sitting cockily astride a horse.

‘‘You will henceforth refer to me as Lawrence the Second, ’’ Fulmar said, showing the book to el Ferruch, ‘‘and treat me with the appropriate respect.’’

‘‘When the Turks caught Lawrence,’’ el Ferruch said, ‘‘they buggered him.’’

‘‘You’re kidding,’’ Fulmar said, disgusted.

‘‘No,’’ el Ferruch said. ‘‘And he finally killed himself riding a motorcycle drunk.’’

‘‘Forget I brought it up.’’ Fulmar laughed.

El Ferruch thought—but did not say—that astride a stallion, in flowing robes and burnoose, carrying a machine pistol and bandoliers of ammunition, Eric looked more capable of taking on the Turkish Army than Lawrence, who had been a small, slight, sickly faggot.