The Last Heroes (Men at War 1)

Donovan’s eyebrows went up.

‘‘Young Roosevelt just told me that by the time I get to La Guardia, there will be an Army Air Corps plane waiting for me.’’

‘‘Ooohooo,’’ Chesty breathed.

‘‘If you still want to go to Washington, Chesty,’’ Donovan said, ‘‘come with me.’’

‘‘How would I get back?’’

‘‘I presume that for the immediate future there will be no restrictions on travel,’’ Donovan said. ‘‘It will take them time to set something like that up.’’

Chesty Whittaker made two quick decisions. He would go to Washington. For some reason (and he didn’t think it was just Cynthia, but he acknowledged that she was part of his decision) it was important that he go. And there was no car in Washington.

‘‘Edward,’’ he said. ‘‘I’m going to Washington with Colonel Donovan. After you drop us at La Guardia, I want you to drive the Packard down there. Take it to the house on Q Street. If I’m not there, I’ll leave word what you’re to do next.’’

‘‘Is something wrong, Mr. Whittaker?’’

Chesty looked at Bill Donovan, who nodded before he replied.

‘‘The Japanese have bombed Pearl Harbor, Hawaii, Edward. It looks as if we’re at war.’’

Rangoon, Burma 0930 Hours 8 December 1941

When Dick Canidy went down to breakfast in the villa in Kemmendine, the houseboy first gave him a cup of coffee and then extended a tray on which sat a small packet of waxed paper tied with a string.

‘‘It came this morning, sair,’’ he said.

Canidy nodded, picked up a knife, and cut the string around the package. Inside was mail: a four-inch stack for Ed Bitter, and a half-inch stack for Canidy.

‘‘A couple of eggs, up,’’ Canidy said. ‘‘Juice, toast. Is there any ham?’’

‘‘No, sair, but small steak.’’

‘‘Please,’’ Canidy said, and then, handing him Bitter’s mail, added: ‘‘This is for Mr. Bitter. Go wake him up with it.’’

‘‘Yes, sair.’’

Five of Canidy’s nine pieces of mail were bills. There were three letters from his father, and one which surprised him. It bore the return address of Ann Chambers, at Bryn Mawr College.

He tore it open and thought, aloud: ‘‘Christ, it took long enough to get here.’’

P.O. Box 235

College Station

Bryn Mawr, Pa.

Sept. 4, 1941

Dear Lonely Boy, Far From Home & Loved Ones:

I call you that because a Red Cross Volunteer—a lady dressed in so splendiferous a uniform I was truly disappointed to learn she was not a field marshal—told me that’s what guys like you are. She also said that it was clearly my patriotic duty to become your pen pal.

And she told us (we were in church at the time) that Far From Home & Loved Ones (I think she had in mind such remote places as Fort Dix, N.J., and San Diego, Cal., rather than wherever this finds you, if it ever finds you) there are Lonely Boys yearning for a demonstration of concern from Young Ladies At Home while they are off defending All That We Hold Dear.

By a pleasant coincidence, she just happened to have a list of addresses of such Lonely, etc., Boys, which she would be happy to dispense, no more than two to a customer. While I am as interested as anyone in keeping the barbarians out of Bryn Mawr, I draw the line at writing letters to complete strangers. Hence, this. I got the address from my father, who sends his best regards and asks that you keep your eye on my idiot cousin.

If you are where you said you were going, and write back, I can probably win the prize for writing the Lonely Boy Furthest From Home, etc. I will also get a gold star on my report card to show my mommy.