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“What’s the trouble, Sergeant?” Canidy said, his voice unnaturally high-pitched.
“Passengers only in the waiting room, sir,” the MP said.
Canidy reached into the pocket of his tunic and came out with a small leather wallet. He showed it to the sergeant.
“It’ll be all right for the captain to go into the waiting room,” he said.
The MP sergeant had been shown samples of OSS credentials, but he had never actually seen the real thing. He was impressed, but not enough.
“I’m sorry, Major,” he said, “but that won’t pass you or the captain past here.”
“Well, then, goddammit, Sergeant, you just take your pistol out and shoot us in the back. We’re going in there,” Canidy said, taking the Duchess’s arm and pushing past the sergeant.
The sergeant’s face flushed with anger. He didn’t draw his pistol, nor try to physically restrain either the major with the OSS credentials or the English woman captain. He trotted across the room to find the terminal officer to tell him what had happened.
The two of them walked quickly into the room where the departing passengers milled around while the passenger manifest was typed. That was the last step before the aircraft would be loaded, the final sorting of priorities to determine who would go and who would have to wait for the next flight.
When the terminal officer found them, the OSS major and the English woman captain were standing with an Air Corps captain and two RAF officers, one of them an air vice marshal, and a group commander. The terminal officer laid a hand on the MP sergeant’s arm. An air vice marshal was the British equivalent of a lieutenant general. It was better not to make waves when three stars were involved.
“Forgive me, Your Grace,” the air vice marshal said, “but I flatter myself to think of the Duke as an old friend. Has there been word?”
“No,” Captain the Duchess Stanfield said, “not a thing, I’m sorry to say.”
“He’ll turn up,” the air vice marshal said. “You’ll see. Stout fellow, the Duke. Resourceful.”
“Yes,” Captain the Duchess Stanfield said, looking at Captain James M. B. Whittaker.
The subject of a husband missing in action was a bit awkward. The air vice marshal changed the subject.
“I gather you’re not going with us, Major?” he said to Canidy.
“No,” Canidy said, somewhat curtly.
“And how far are you going, Captain—Whittaker, was it?”
“All the way to Brisbane,” Whittaker said.
“Well, we’ll be with you as far as New Delhi,” the air vice marshal said.
“That’ll be nice,” Whittaker said, looking into the Duchess’s eyes. “Maybe we can play cards or something.”
“Let me have your attention, please,” the clerk at the manifest desk said into a public address system microphone. “We are about to load the aircraft. The way the manifest is made up is by priority, not by rank, so pay attention, please. When I call your name, call out, pick up your hand luggage, go to the door, check the manifest to see that we’ve got the name, rank, and serial number right, and then go get on the aircraft.”
“It would seem,” the air vice marshal said,“that we are, in that charming American p
hrase, about to ‘get the show on the road.’”
“Whittaker, James M. B., Captain, Army Air Corps,” the public address speaker boomed.
“Yo!” Whittaker called out.
He looked at Canidy and then at Captain the Duchess Stanfield.
“God go with you, Captain Whittaker,” Captain the Duchess Stanfield said, offering her hand.
“Thank you for seeing me off,” Captain Whittaker said as he shook her hand.
“Don’t be silly, Captain,” the Duchess Stanfield said. “And let us hear from you.”
