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“So you’re lucky to have the Seraph,” Stevens said. “Lieutenant Jewell is not afraid to be unorthodox.”
“Lucky indeed,” Montagu said. “Let us hope it continues.”
[TWO]
Port of Algiers Algiers, Algeria 1745 31 March 1943
A half dozen crewmen on the deck of the Free French Forces submarine Casabianca were systematically carrying the last of the provisions toward the loading hatch. A low wooden rack next to the hatch held two new, glistening torpedoes. The crew would secure the fish below, remove the rack to shore, then, with everything else onloaded, secure the hatch.
Near the gangplank, two of the four 6 × 6 GMC trucks, their cargo areas all now empty, were being fired up. The driver of the first truck engaged its granny gear with a torturous grinding of metal and began rolling away.
Free French Forces Navy Commander Jean L’Herminier was making an inspection of the boat, stem to stern. Major Richard M. Canidy walked with him, then saw a U.S. Army jeep pulling through the gates. Canidy recognized First Lieutenant Hank Darmstadter at the wheel.
“That would appear to be our man, Jean,” Canidy said to L’Herminier. “With Frank Nola already belowdecks, we can go once this guy’s aboard.”
“Then you take care of that, Dick, and I’ll finish up here.”
At the OSS station that morning, Stan Fine had taken Dick Canidy upstairs to the commo room at the villa. There, they looked over the five operators on duty and spoke with them one by one. Two were women. When Canidy got to the last—a tall, intense fellow of maybe twenty-four, with somewhat-shaggy blond hair and unmistakable all-American facial features—he was about to blow his cork from frustration.
Canidy looked at the radio operator, then at Fine, and whispered, “I really do need someone who looks even remotely Italian or Sicilian.”
Fine nodded agreeably.
The young man sensed someone was talking about him and glanced over his shoulder. When he saw that it was Captain Fine standing there with some stranger, he immediately removed his earphones and stood up from the radio.
“Sir,” he said respectfully.
Fine nodded. “What’s your name, son?”
“Jim Fuller,” he said. “But call me Tubes, sir. Everyone does.”
“Because of the radio?” Canidy put in, curious. “Those tubes?”
Tubes looked at Canidy and said, “It’s become that in part. But I got the name from home.”
“And home is?”
“California. I got the nickname surfing. When I was ten. Some like to ride on top of a wave, but I love to go under them”—he grinned broadly—“in the tube.”
Canidy nodded. “Well…Tubes…inasmuch as I’d like to continue this, if you will excuse me….”
“Yes, sir,” Tubes said, sounding somewhat dejected. He started to sit back before his radio set.
“Out of curiosity…” Canidy said suddenly.
“Yes, sir?” Tubes said, standing upright again.
“There’s one man at the Sandbox I’m interested in as a radio operator. I don’t know the name he’s using, but maybe you’ve worked with him on the air.”
Tubes looked at Fine.
“Tell him whatever you know, son,” Fine said.
Tubes nodded. “I’ll try.”
Canidy went on: “This is rough, but it’s all I’ve got right now. It’s my impression that he was in some sales job in the States.”
“Sales?” Tubes said. “Well, there may be someone else out there who fits that. But Carmine—oh, man, that’s all he talks about. And he has the worst skills of any radioman I’ve ever heard. It’s like he’s working the key with a booted foot.”
