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“Admiral,” Bitter said, “do you know what the OSS does to people they suspect can’t be trusted to keep what classified information they have been made privy to?”
“No, I don’t,” the admiral said. “And for God’s sake, Commander, we’re talking about the United States Navy.”
“In the States, they send them to St. Elizabeth’s Hospital for psychiatric evaluation.”
“Excuse me?”
“And over here, they have a similar facility in Richodan, Scotland.” Admiral Foster looked at him incredulously.
“Apparently, sir, the principle of habeas corpus does not apply to persons undergoing psychiatric examination,” Bitter said.
“Commander, I don’t know where you heard that, but I wouldn’t pay much attention to it. For one thing, it’s illegal. Let me put it another way: If you should wind up in a psychiatric hospital, in possession of your faculties, the Navy will get you out. Do I make my point?”
“Yes, sir,” Bitter said. “That’s encouraging to hear, sir.”
It was Canidy who had told Bitter about St. Elizabeth’s hospital and the Richodan, Scotland, facility. And Bitter knew that Canidy had not been pulling his leg about either place.
All his good feeling about his assignment now vanished. For political reasons having nothing to do with the prosecution of the war, he had been asked by a two-star admiral to spy on the OSS. He knew that he could not do that, even though his failure to do so would be regarded by the Navy as disloyalty.
He suddenly understood that the OSS could have been given its extraordinary authority only by someone of extraordinary authority within the government. And that would not have happened if there was not some extraordinary reason for it. A reason that transcended matters as unimportant as the Navy looking foolish or like poor relations.
When Stanley Fine gave him OSS identification, he had thought it a bit amusing, a touch of schoolboy melodrama. It no longer seemed that way. The truth was that without realizing it, he had just left the Navy again, just as he had left it when he went off to the Flying Tigers.
Well, not quite. I volunteered for
the Flying Tigers, and I damned sure didn’t volunteer for this.
Chapter TWO
At Headquarters, Eighth Air Force, at High Wycombe, they paid the ritual courtesy call on the senior officer present. The lieutenant general was formally correct, managing to convey the impression—without, of course, ever openly stating it—that giving the sub-pen-busting mission to the OSS was a lousy idea, but that, as a dutiful soldier, he would comply with his orders to cooperate fully.
Then they went to meet Admiral Foster’s friend, the Eighth Air Force officer charged specifically with supporting the project. Kenneth Lorimer turned out to be a very youthful brigadier general, who was wearing the same spectacular all-pink uniform Whittaker had been wearing at Croydon.
Foster introduced Bitter as the Navy man who would be dealing with Project Aphrodite on a day-to-day basis. He did not fail to mention that Bitter was Annapolis, ’38.
It was pretty clear that Foster was suggesting to Lorimer that the ring knockers, the graduates of the service academies, join ranks to repel the temporary warriors who were intruding in the real business of warfare.
General Lorimer looked a little uncomfortable.
“G.G.,” he said,“I’m sort of on a spot with you.”
“I don’t understand,” Admiral Foster said.
“I hate to say I’m pressed for time, but I am,” Lorimer said. “And, as embarrassing as it is for me to say this to you, G.G., you don’t have the need-to-know what Commander Bitter and I are going to talk about.”
“For Christ’s sake, Ken, I’m the Chief, Naval Aviation Element, SHAEF.”
“But you’re not on Canidy’s list, I’m sorry to say.”
“What the hell is that?”
“It’s the list of those people authorized access to Project Aphrodite operational information,” General Lorimer said." ’Canidy’s List,’ because Canidy drew it up.”
“We’re in a pretty fucked-up condition when a rear admiral is told to butt out,” the admiral flared,“by a major.”
General Lorimer shrugged his shoulders helplessly.
Admiral Foster checked his temper.
