Page 91

Jive in THE SECRET WARRIORS 0 asl the safe house in Deal, New Jersey, it is probable that the other three officers are Captain James M. B.

Whittaker, an intimate of President Roosevelt; Lieutenant C. Holds worth Martin III, formerly a French resident and a 1939 graduate of the Rcole Poly technique in Paris; and Eric Fulmar, a German-American last known to be in Morocco. (There is a rather extensive dossier on Fulmar. In Morocco, he was intimately associated with Sidi Has san el Ferruch, the pasha of Ksar es Souk. Although there is no intelligence previously connecting him with Vice-Admiral de Verbey, it seems logical to conclude that he is a longtime American agent.)

The dossier of C. Holds worth Martin, Jr." reveals that he is married to a French national and was general manager of Lefreque, &A." the engineering firm, before the war. He and his wife have a long-standing personal relationship with Vice-Admiral de Verbb@ Now residing in New York City, he is known to be associated with Colonel William Donovan of the CS&

At 0810 8 August 1942, Canidy, Whittaker, Martin, and Fulmar left the Dorchester Hotel in an OSS automobile and were driven to the British SOE Station IX. At 1420, Canidy and Whittaker, in a vehicle assigned to SOE, were driven to Whitby House, Kent, which is the seat of the duchy of Stan field, where they remained until 1915 hours 11 August 1942, when they returned to the Dorchester Hotel.

The estate has been turned into an OSS installation. A double barbed-wire fence has been erected by American troops, a battalion of which (Infantry, Lieutenant Colonel Innes) has been encamped on the estate since 3 August.

At 0615 hours 12 August, the naval personage and his immediate staff departed the Dorchester Hotel in the Austin Princess limousine of the OSS and were driven to Whitby House. An attempt is presently under way to penetrate Whitby House, or in some other manner confirm the identity of the naval personage.

"The possibility exists, mon G,@n&al, that they wish us to believe that it is Admiral de Verbey. That, perhaps, the man is a double."

"Of course it's de Verbey, you idiot!" le Gimiral fumed. "In that case, it would seem, mon GM&al," the deputy chief of the cc Deuxi&me Bureau said, that Bedell Smith has lied to you." De Gaulle fixed him with an icy glare. "Find out for me," he said finally, "why that Navy airplane is being held in reserve. Find out where it's going."

THREE I Newark Airport 1130 Hours August 13,1942

Three of the four men in the 1941 Ford wooden-bodied station wagon were wearing the uniforms of Pan American World Airways' air crews. The two middle-aged Air Transport Command captains had in fact been Pan American Airways pilots before volunteering for the Air Corps. They had taken Pan American uniforms-including one for Stanley S. Fine out of mothballs for the African flight. The C-46 now had painted on the fuselage the insignia of CAT, the Chinese Airline, and Chinese registration numbers.

Pan American's experienced pilots were routinely hired by aircraft manufacturers to deliver aircraft to foreign airlines. All departing transatlantic flights, military and civilian, were controlled by the Air Corps. The great majority of these flights left from Newark. The C-46 had consequently been flown from Lakehurst to Newark three days before; the more routine their flight appeared, the better. From all outward appearances, theirs was just one more routine ferry flight. As the station wagon approached the airfield, with the skyscrapers of New York City visible beyond the ironwork of the Pulaski Skyway, a B17E passed over them, flaps and wheels lowered, and touched down. "Pretty, isn't it?" Fine said dryly.

"Four engines, too."

"Oh ye of little faith!" Homer Wilson, the older of the two ex-PAA pilots, chuckled.

Once they had shown their papers to the guard and been passed inside the fence, they drove past long rows of B-17Es sitting on parking ramps.

Sometimes as many as a hundred B-17s left Newark every day for ngland.

The details of these ferry flights had been explained during one E of their briefings-an operation Fine thought remarkably casual. They simply formed up flights of twenty or twenty-five aircraft. Two of the planes in each flight had pilots and navigators familiar with the route qualified people who did nothing but fly back and forth across the Atlantic. The rest of the flight just followed the leaders. The trip was in two legs, first to Gander Field, in Newfoundland, and then across the Atlantic to Prest wick Field, Scotland. They drove to a Quonset hut with a "Transient Flight Crews Report Here" sign nailed above its door.

The hut was jammed with Air Corps fliers, officers and enlisted men, almost all of them carrying Val-Pa ks and duffel bags, Some of them, Fine thought, were behaving like a high-school football team en route to a game. A few others, the brighter ones-or perhaps those who weren't so new to this sot of thing-sat quietly and thoughtfully, as if they knew what they were getting into and were considering their chances of living through it. There were a harassed-looking captain and several sergeants behind a small counter The officer spotted the civilians. "You're the CAT guys?" he asked. "Right," Fine said. The captain flipped through sheets of paper on a clipboard and pulled one loose and handed it to Fine. "They took it out of the hangar," he said.

"It's on the parking ramp, way down at the end. You got wheels?" Fine nodded." When you've checked it over, come back here," the captain said, and we'll see about getting you off."

The C-46, surprisingly, looked larger than the B-17E parked next to it.

It was in fact a larger airplane, even though it had only two engines to the B-17E's four.

As they were walking around it, starting the preflight check, a B-17E on its landing approach came over them at fifty feet, the noise of its throttled-back engines deafening.

They found a work stand, manhandled it into place, and removed the inspection plates on the port engine while the B- 17E taxied up the ramp, turned, and parked beside them.

"I am lo sing my mind," Homer Wilson said.

"If the kid in the left seat of that thing is a day older than sixteen, I'm Eddie Rickenbacker. Fine looked up but couldn't see anything. By the time they finished inspecting the engine and were pushing the platform around the nose to the other engine, the B-17E crew had shut the airplane down, done the paperwork, and climbed out. They were standing by the nose, waiting for a ride down the parking ramp.

"You're right," Fine said incredulously, "that's a boy. They're both boys! " "No,

I'm not," one of the B-17E pilots said to him, shaking her head.

Her hair, which she had had pinned up, came loose and fell across her shoulders. "We're WASPS."

"I'm afraid to ask what that is," Homer Wilson said. "Women Auxiliary Service Pilots," she said.

"We ferry these from the factory." She nodded at the C-46.

"I thought they were flying these over from the West Coast."