“It’s important, Sergeant,” the lieutenant said. “Would you please wake him?”
“He’s in there,” the sergeant said, pointing to a closed door and leaving unspoken what else he meant, If you want to wake him, you wake him.
Kennedy went to the door, knocked, got no response, and then pushed it open. Major Peter Douglass, Jr. , Army Air Corps, was in a curtained alcove of the office. He lay on his back in a homemade wooden bed, his legs spread, his mouth open. A uniform was hung somewhat crookedry over chair. The decorations on the tunic were a little unusual, A set of standard U. S. Army Air Corps pilot’s wings was where it was supposed to be.
But there was another set, which the young naval officer recognized after a moment as Chinese, over the other pocket. And under the Army Air Corps wings were the ribbons of two Distinguished Flying Crosses.
One of them was the striped ribbon of the BATISH DFC. The other was American.
Kennedy went to the cot and looked down at Douglass. He wondered how much truth there was to the story that Douglass had walked into the Plans and Training Division of Headquarters Eighth Air Force, politely asked the lieutenant colonel who had planned the disastrous P-38 raid on Saintlazare to stand up, and then cold cocked him.
Kennedy leaned down and shook Douglass’s shoulder. Douglass angrily snorted and rolled onto his side.
“Major Douglass,” Kennedy said.
There was no response.
Kennedy was about to shake him again when he heard voices in the outer office.
“Merry Christmas, Sergeant, we’re the Eighth Air Force Clap Squad,” a voice said. “Where do we find a character named Douglass?
He’s been infecting the sheep.” The charge of quarters laughed.
“He’s right in there, sir,” the sergeant said. “And Merry Christmas to you, too.” Two officers, a major and a captain, walked into the room. They looked at the sleeping Douglass, then at Kennedy, and then at each other.
They smiled and went to the bed, picked up one side of it, and rolled Major Douglass out onto the floor.
Kennedy was suddenly sure that these guys were the ones who had just flown the B-25 through the soup.
Major Douglass, now wide awake on the floor, was piqued.
“You sonsofbitches!” he declaimed angrily.
“Hark,” Captain James M. B. Whittaker said, “the herald angel sings!”
“You bastards,” Major Douglass said, but he was now smiling.
“Get dressed,” Canidy said. “We are going to spring you from durance vile.”
“You know, I suppose,” Douglass said, as he rose to his feet and quickly stripped to change his underwear, gthat now that you’re on the base, you’re restricted to it until 0600 tomorrow?”
“Only the gate is closed,” Canidy said.
“You’ve got an airplane? You’re not flying in this shit?”
“Oh, ye of little faith!” Whittaker said.
“But get dressed, Doug, it’s getting worse,” Canidy said.
Douglass looked at Kennedy as he pulled on clean Jockey shorts.
“You realize, of course, Lieutenant,” he said, That running around with these two is going to ruin your naval career?”
“I don’t know who these gentlemen are,” Kennedy said somewhat stiffly, but smiling.
“We thought he was a pal of yours,” Whittaker said.
“My name is Kennedy,” the j. g. said. “I came here from London’to tallk to you, Major Douglass.”
“Talk to me? About what?” “Saint-Lazare,” Kennedy said.
“You drove from London in the rain in that jeep?” Whittaker said incredulously.
“That’s right,” Kennedy said. “It’s really important.”
“I don’t want to talk about Saint-Lazare,” Douglass said coldly as he put his arms in the sleeves of a shirt.
“Your name is Joseph P. Kennedy, Jr. ,” Canidy said. “Right?”
“Yes, sir,” Kennedy said, visibly surprised that the major knew his name.
“I thought you said you didn’t know him?” Douglass asked.
“I know about him,” Canidy said.
“May I ask how?” Kennedy asked.
“I’m not sure you have the need to know,” Canidy said.
“I know him,” Whittaker said. “You went to school in Cambridge, right?” alf you mean Harvard, yes, I did.”
“Jim Whittaker,” Whittaker said, putting out his hand. a thirty-nine. I thought you looked familiar.” Kennedy shook the offered hand.