The Last Heroes (Men at War 1)

‘‘I wish you’d call me ‘Mr. President,’ ’’ Roosevelt said.

Donovan’s eyebrows went up, but he didn’t reply.

‘‘I have another remark I wish to make as President,’’ Roosevelt said. ‘‘I consider this atomic-bomb business the most important single thing we’re doing. If I have made that point, gentlemen, I think we can finally get down to the drinking part of the evening.’’

‘‘Yes, Mr. President,’’ Donovan said immediately.

Roosevelt looked at Hoover.

‘‘Mr. President,’’ Hoover said, ‘‘the FBI and I are absolutely at your disposal.’’

‘‘That’s very fine of you, Edgar,’’ Roosevelt said. ‘‘I expected nothing less.’’

He really didn’t know whether Roosevelt was being sarcastic or not, Donovan thought.

‘‘I think our first little snort,’’ the President said, ‘‘should be a toast to the newly promoted Captain Douglass.’’

Rangoon, Burma 16 September 1941

Ed Bitter had presumed the .50-caliber ammunition spilled into the hold at Pearl Harbor had been intended for the American Volunteer Group’s aircraft. The P40-B had two .50-caliber Brownings mounted in the nose, and two .30-caliber Brownings in the wings. But when the Jan Suvit stopped at Manila, the ammunition had been off-loaded.

After a day and a half in Manila, they steamed back out of the harbor, past the fortress of Corregidor, for Batavia, Indonesia. From

Batavia, there was another long leg of the journey, the last, into the Gulf of Martaban, and then twenty-odd miles up the Rangoon River to Rangoon itself. They had been almost ninety days en route from San Francisco.

A representative of the American Volunteer Group, another old birdman in the mold of Chennault, came aboard with the river pilot, and there was a military-type formation in which the 106 Americans aboard the Jan Suvit were divided into two groups. One group would consist of most of the pilots, Crookshanks told them, with a few maintenance and administrative personnel, and the other group would consist of the bulk of the maintenance personnel, a few administrative people, and two wingmen, Bitter and Canidy.

Canidy’s running warfare with Crookshanks had obviously resulted in his being left behind, as a wiseass, with the other guilty-by-association wiseass, while the rest went off to start their training.

Bitter kept his mouth shut until they were in an ancient Ford taxicab, en route to downtown Rangoon.

‘‘You realize, of course,’’ he said, ‘‘that you’re the reason I’m doing this with you.’’

‘‘Oh, that’s all right, Eddie,’’ Canidy mocked him. ‘‘You can put something extra in my stocking at Christmas.’’

‘‘The fuckups got left behind, as usual,’’ Ed said. ‘‘The trouble is that I’m not fucked up.’’

‘‘And you’re not too bright, either,’’ Canidy said. ‘‘The other guys are being loaded on a train for that place with an obscene-sounding name. They’re going to be put up in old, and I mean old, English Army barracks, and General Chennault is going to read them his book, aloud, until the planes get there.’’

‘‘And what are we going to be doing?’’

‘‘We’re going to lie in bed in a hotel, and with just a little bit of luck, not alone, until CAMCO gets the airplanes put together. And then we’re going to test-fly them. When they’re ready, we’ll fly them up to Fongoo—’’

‘‘Toungoo,’’ Bitter corrected him. He recognized ‘‘Fongoo’’ as some sort of Italian dialect obscenity.

‘‘Wherever the other dummies are,’’ Canidy went on, ‘‘and then come back for more. We’re going to have a lot more time in those airplanes than anybody else. I intend to test them very, very carefully.’’

He was right, Bitter realized.

‘‘How did you pull this off?’’

‘‘The chief went to Crookshanks and told him that he happened to know that you and I were damned good test pilots.’’

‘‘We’re not, for God’s sake!’’

"Nobody I met on the ship was any better,’’ Canidy said reasonably.

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