Griffin W.E.B. - The Corps 08 - In Dangers Path

«I ask very few favors of Admiral Leahy,» Nimitz said. «He generally gives me what I ask for. And so far as Mr. Donovan is concerned, I wouldn't be at all surprised if Admiral Leahy brought the matter up with the President before he discussed your participation in it with Mr. Donovan. And the President, to my knowledge, has never refused Admiral Leahy anything he's asked for.»

«I'm back to repeating I wish I shared your confidence in me,» Pickering said.

«It should go without saying that CINCPAC will support you in any way we can,» Nimitz said. «Groscher has a magic clearance, so you can communicate with him using the Special Channel. And Admiral Wagam will coordinate things, and advise me of any problems.»

«Yes, sir,» Pickering said. «Sir, may I ask a question?»

«Of course.»

«For the sake of argument, suppose that I can—the OSS can—establish contact with these people. Then what? According to Captain Groscher, the odds are that they're nothing more than—what did you say, Groscher?—nomads.»

Nimitz acted as if the question—or perhaps Pickering's naivete—surprised him.

«Fleming, the situation is very much like what you just did with this Fertig fellow on Mindanao. Once you have sent people in to meet with these people and established reliable two-way radio communication with them, we will have a force—a

Naval force

—in position. Then the Navy can reinforce that force. I'm sure that I will be able to convince Admiral Leahy that reinforcing a force in being is a far more sound proposition than waiting for our Russian allies to permit the Air Corps to establish a weather station on their territory.»

«Yes, sir,» Pickering said.

Chapter Seven

note 26

Carlucci's Bar & Grill

South Fourth Street

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

1615 18 February 1943

«Why are we stopping here?» Janice asked dubiously.

Carlucci's Bar & Grill did not look like the sort of place one took young ladies for a romantic cocktail and supper.

«I have to go in here for a minute,» Weston said. «Would you like to wait in the car?»

Just over two hours previously, when Captain James B. Weston, USMCR, had taken possession of it, the interior of the 1941 dark green Buick Roadmaster convertible had reeked of tanned leather. It now smelled of whatever perfume Lieutenant (j.g.) Janice Hardison, NNC, had dabbed behind her ears—or in more intimate places—just before meeting him outside the gate of the Philadelphia U.S. Navy Hospital.

It was a significant improvement, although, pre-Janice, Weston had always had a soft place in his heart for the smell of leather in a convertible.

«You're going in there?» Janice asked. «Why?»

«It affects our future life together,» he said. «Beyond that, I'd rather not say. And I don't think you would want to know.»

«Jim, what are you up to?» she asked, half annoyed, half plaintive.

«It won't take me long,» he said, and stepped out of the car.

«Wait a minute,» she said. «You're not leaving me here alone.»

Carlucci's Bar & Grill smelled primarily of beer and cigarette and cigar smoke, although there was a more subtle odor both Janice and Jim associated with Italianrestaurants. most of the seats at the long bar were occupied by large males, who looked as if they worked in the naval shipyard, Janice thought, or possibly as stevedores on the Philadelphia waterfront. They found seats near the far end of the bar.

A very large, swarthy bartender who needed a shave put both hands on the bar and leaned toward them to inquire, «What'll it be?»

«Scotch, twice,» Weston said. «One light, one heavy.»

The drinks were served. Weston laid currency on the bar.

«Anything else I can do for you, pal?»

«I was hoping I could talk to Mario,» Weston said.

«You're a friend of Dominic's, right?»

«Right. You're Mario?»

The two men shook hands.

Mario turned to the cash register behind him, opened it, lifted an interior drawer, took an envelope from it, and handed it to Weston, who glanced quickly at what it contained, then put it into an inner pocket of his tunic.

«And you got something for me, right?» Mario asked.

Weston took a thick wad of bills from his pocket, peeled money from it, and laid it on the bar.

Mario picked the money up and put it in his trousers pocket.

«I can take care of your other problem, too, if you want,» Mario said.

«The sooner the better,» Jim said.

«Right now soon enough?»

«How long would that take?»

«Not longer than it would take you to have some pasta,» Mario said, nodding at four tables just beyond the extreme end of the bar. «If you don't gulp it down.»

«How do you feel about pasta, Janice?» Jim Weston inquired.

«We also got sausage, pepper, and onions,» Mario suggested helpfully.

«Fine!» Janice said, without much conviction.

Weston reached into his pocket and handed Mario the keys to the Buick. Mario walked down the bar, spoke softly to an equally large man sipping a beer, and handed him the keys. The man walked out of the bar.

Mario returned to Janice and Jim.

«If you don't like pasta,» he said to Janice, «the sausage and peppers is really nice.»

«Thank you,» Janice said.

«Are you going to tell me what's going on?» Janice asked, almost whispered, after their order had been taken by a very large middle-aged woman in a big white apron. «What's in that envelope that man gave you? Where is the other man going with your car?»

«You are an officer and gentlelady of the Naval Service,» Jim said. «You don't want to know. Besides, haven't you seen the poster? 'Loose Lips Sink Ships!'?»

«Jim, I want to know!» Janice said, in such a manner that Jim understood she really wanted to know.

He handed her the envelope. She looked into it, then quickly handed it back.

She looked at him, shaking her head in disbelief.

«That's dishonest!» she said. «I can't believe you did that!»

«It's

not

dishonest,» he said. «Dishonesty, by definition, means telling people lies. He had something I wanted, and I paid him what he wanted for it. Where's the dishonesty?»

«It's… it's unpatriotic!»

«There's a war on, right?»

«Yes, there is, and the armed forces need every gallon of gasoline they can get, and here you are—«

«The armed forces get all the gasoline they need,» Weston said. «The shortage is of rubber. The thinking is that the less people drive, the less they will wear out their tires. I can understand that.»

«But you're going to drive… My God, I don't know how many gasoline ration coupons were in that envelope!»

«There's supposed to be enough to buy a thousand gallons of gas,» Jim said. «I didn't count them. Mario, I thought, has an honest face.»

«But you're going to wear out your tires. Doesn't that bother you?»

«I'm going to contribute my already worn-out tires—the ones that came with the car—to the very next rubber-salvage campaign I come across. Unless, of course, Mario's friend takes care of that for me.»

She looked at him for just a moment until she took his meaning.

«Is that where he went with your car? To put new tires on it?»

«God, I hope they're new. But anything would be better than the tires that came with it. I'd never have made it out of Philadelphia on those tires, much less to the wilds of West Virginia. Much less back here to see you.»

«You're absolutely incredible!»

«Thank you!»

«I meant to say 'shameless,' « Janice said.

«Shamelessly in love with you,» he said. «What would you have preferred? That I die of a broken heart in Sulfuric Acid Springs, West Virginia?»