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Next Commander Korman called the duty officer at Naval Aviation Element, SHAEF, identified himself, and said he was coming right over and would be grateful if the file of Lieutenant Commander Bitter, Edwin H., had been pulled by the time he got there.

When he arrived, he was informed that the only thing they had on Lieutenant Commander Bitter, Edwin H., was that he had only a few days before he arrived in Europe; that his service records were not to be found; that the only thing they knew about him was that he was involved in some Top Secret project; and that the only person who knew anything about that was Rear Admiral G. G. Foster.

Thirty minutes later, Commander Korman found himself standing at attention in the Connaught Hotel suite of Admiral Foster. Upon hearing Korman’s recitation of the facts, Foster turned white. A moment later he informed him that while he admitted he knew nothing about public relations, he could see at least a half dozen ways that Commander Korman had fucked this up.

“Goddamn it, Korman, Bitter is a naval officer! His exploits should reflect on the Navy, not the goddamed Army Air Corps! That Air Corps public relations officer played you like a goddamned violin!”

“Sir,” Commander Korman began.

“You just stand there, Commander,” the vice admiral said, shutting him off,“and keep your ears open while I try to salvage what I can from the mess you’ve created.”

The admiral made several telephone calls, including one to General Walter Bedell Smith, whom he addressed as “Beetle,” and finally turned to Commander Korman.

“Now, here’s what you’re going to do, Commander,” he said. “And listen carefully, because I don’t want to repeat myself. You’re going to get in a car, and you’re going to drive to Fersfield, and you are quietly going to locate Commander Bitter. You are going to tell him

that I personally sent you for him. And nothing else. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Korman said.

“In the Navy, Korman, when a subordinate wishes to signify that he understands an order and is prepared to carry it out, he says ‘Aye, aye, sir.’”

“Yes, sir. Aye, aye, sir.”

“You will bring Commander Bitter to London. You will see that he is in a blue uniform and wearing all of his decorations, including in particular his Flying Tiger wings…”

“Sir?”

“What?”

“What kind of wings, sir?”

“Flying Tiger,” Admiral Foster said impatiently. “You did know, Commander, did you not, that Commander Bitter was a Flying Tiger?”

“No, sir, I did not,” Commander Korman confessed.

“Well, I can’t say that surprises me,” the admiral said, coldly sarcastic. “But from a layman’s point of view, Commander, correct me if I’m wrong, it would seem to me that would be just the sort of thing they call ‘human interest. ’ Something that would suggest that a naval aviator is really something special. That a naval aviator who has nine Japanese kills as a Flying Tiger can easily shift gears and take over the controls of a badly damaged Army Air Corps B-17.”

“I take the admiral’s point, sir,” Commander Korman replied. He wondered how the admiral knew that Commander Bitter had nine kills. The Air Corps PIO guy hadn’t mentioned that. Had he known? Had he planned somehow to use that fascinating piece of information to sandbag the Navy?

“General Smith is going to try to see if he can fit Commander Bitter’s award of the DFC into General Eisenhower’s schedule tomorrow. If he can’t, he’ll arrange for Bitter to get it from General Eaker, or give it to him himself. I will be there, of course. Now, can you handle this, Commander, or would you like me to send one of my aides with you?”

“I’ll check in with you just as soon as I have Commander Bitter in London, Admiral.”

Chapter SEVEN

London Station Office

of Strategic Services

0800 Hours 11 January 1943

“I’m almost afraid to ask why you’re dressed like that, Dick,” Chief of Station David Bruce said to Richard Canidy.

Bruce was a tall and handsome man, silver-haired, expensively tailored. Whittaker had told Canidy of a remark Chesley Haywood Whittaker had once made about Bruce:“I always feel like backing out of his presence.” The remark had stuck in Canidy’s mind because Bruce was indeed more than a little regal.

Lt. Colonel Edmund T. Stevens chuckled.

Canidy looked like a page from the Army Regulations dealing with prescribed attire for commissioned officers. He wore a green blouse and pink trousers. The shoes were regulation brown oxfords, suitably polished. The cap he had placed on the conference table in the chief of station’s office was a regulation overseas cap. And the proper insignia of rank and qualification were affixed to the blouse in the proper places.