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The fifth man—who was brawny but still labored under his load—stood waiting with an Italian Olivetti Model M40 under one arm and a hefty Standard Model 16, made by the Remington Typewriter Co., New York, U.S.A., under the other. The men who had just put down the twin Hermes took these from him and put them on the table.
As they did so, the last man put down the heavy cardboard box on the floor beneath the Olivers. It made a loud thud, and the big man looked up at Montagu, his face apologetic.
“That’s fine,” Montagu said to him, then added to the others, “Thank you, gentlemen.”
“That,” Ustinov announced loudly as he shook his arms in a manner suggesting great relief, “was almost as exhausting as when we moved that canister down to the basement. Wasn’t it, men?”
They looked at him, not knowing what to say.
“Of course it was,” Ustinov answered for them. He looked at Niven. “Permission to retire for an hour’s recuperation, sir?”
They now understood and smiled.
“Permission denied,” Niven said. “You can take your bloody nap later.”
Ustinov looked at the men in the uniform of the British Motor Transport Corps and shrugged.
“Sorry, I tried,” he said.
“What makes me think you weren’t doing that precisely for their benefit?” Niven said.
“‘He that sees his men well rested ensures a loyal soldier,’” Ustinov quoted. “Shakespeare said that.”
Niven looked at him a moment in disbelief, then said, “Are you sure? And, regardless, what is it that you mean?”
Ustinov shrugged. “I’m fairly sure he did. If not, he should have.” He paused and there was a mischievous look in his eyes. “Just trying to keep my men satisfied, SAH! I hear that’s the mark of a good superior.”
There were chuckles.
“If it’s all right with everyone,” Jamison then said, “I really need to tend to some tasks involving my regular duties. If I don’t get at least the requisition paperwork filled out and signed, we may all very well find ourselves starving.”
Commander Fleming suddenly held out his right arm stiffly and pointed to the door.
“Leave!” he said with great drama. “I for one will not be responsible for you not being able to fulfill your duties—or, more important, my stomach!”
Lieutenant Colonel Ed Stevens laughed appreciatively.
“Do what you must, Bob,” Stevens said. “Join us when—if—you can. I have a feeling we’re going to be at this for some time.”
“Thank you, sir,” Jamison said. “I’m sorry, all.”
“No apology necessary,” First Lieutenant Charity Hoche said, suddenly hoping her tone did not make her sound as if she were pulling rank on him as Deputy Director (Acting) OSS Whitbey House Station.
“Thank you,” Jamison said, not seeming to have taken it in that manner. “Believe me, I would rather be involved in this.”
Jamison then turned to the men in the uniform of the British Motor Transport Corps.
“If you gentlemen have no other plans, I could use some help,” he said.
The brawny one looked to Montagu and said, “Commander, would that be permissible with you? We’ve all about gone mad waiting for something to do.” He looked at Ustinov and added, “With respect, bringing these machines up from the basement was a welcome diversion.”
“That’s it,” Ustinov said. “Ruin it for me! Dig deeper mine grave!”
There were chuckles.
“Very well,” Montagu said and looked at Jamison. “They’re all yours.”
“Don’t wear them out, Bob,” Ustinov put in. “I don’t plan to move that massive metal box by myself!”
