The BBC announcer did not read message number 9. For there was an insert mark between number 8 and number 9. The message he read next had been given to him less than thirty minutes before. And a notation at the bottom of the sheet of paper instructed him to read the message each night for ten nights.
“Gisella thanks Eric for the radio,” he read very carefully, and then again, “Gisella thanks Eric for the radio.” Then he returned to his original sheet, “Bruno sends greetings to Uncle Hans. Bruno sends greetings to Uncle Hans.” [FIVE] Whilby Roune Kill, EDGLASD 8 January 1943 Somewhat chagrined to be wakened by a sergeant with the message that if he wanted breakfast, hexd better shag ass, It. Commander
W.
Bitter dressed quickly and went looking for the mess. When they arrived the night before, he had been led to a room by another sergeant, and he had been sleepy and a little drunk. So when he went into the corridor now, he didn’t remember which way to go to return to the main hall.
Whitbey House reminded him of a museum. He would not have been astonished to see uniformed guards standing around, or a group of schoolchildren being given a tour down the wide corridors.
He turned the wrong way and had to retrace his steps after finding himself at a dead end. When he finally found the main hall, he felt like a fool. It was equipped with a direction sign. Lettered arrows had been nailed to the pole. Two of them pointed to
“Washington” and “Berlin.” And near the bottom was one with
“Mess” lettered on it.
As he got close, he heard the murmur of voices and could smell coffee and bacon. At the entrance to a long, high-ceilinged room a PFC sat at a table and collected thirty-five cents for the meal.
He saw that the mess at Whitbey House served both enlisted and commissioned personnel, and there were far more people than Bitter had expected. He made a quick guess of one hundred fifty, including twenty-five or thirty uniformed women. He wondered at first if this was yet another manifestation of Canidy’s disdain for those customs of the service that decreed separation by rank.
But then he saw subtle differences, Although there were officers and men (of both sexes) sitting together at the eight-chair tables, the enlisted personnel were going through a serving line, while the officers were served by waiters. And there were separate tables for both enlisted and commissioned instructors. And one table at the far end of the room was separate from all the others. This one was reserved for the commanding officer and his staff, which was to say Canidy, Whittaker, Jamison, and Captain the Duchess Stanfield, WRAC.
Canidy saw Bitter standing in the door and motioned him to the head table. As he started across the room, someone greeted him.
“Good morning, Commander,” Sergeant Agnes Draper said.
She was at a table with several other enlisted women, American WACS and British.
“Good morning, Sergeant,” Bitter said.
Sergeant Draper, Bitter noticed, was not wearing a tunic, just a khaki uniform shirt and knit khaki necktie. Her breasts stretched the khaki noticeably.
“I have known Commander Don Winslow,” Canidy greeted him, “since @ X Christ was an apprentice seaman, and this is the first time I’ve ever seen him needing a shave.”
“Sit down, Commander,” the duchess said.
“Ignore him. He’s in one of his rotten moods.”
“Overslept, did you?
” Canidy pursued.
“I guess I did,” Bitter said as a GI waiter handed him a mimeographed menu. He was impressed with the array of food offered.
“Very impressive menu,” he said.
“A well-fed sailor is a happy sailor,” Canidy said piously.
“Thank Jamison for the food. He is a first-class scrounger.”
“So I see, “Bitter said. He ordered poached eggs and roast beef hash, then poured himself a cup of coffee from a silver pitcher.
“We have a reputation to maintain here, Commander,” Canidy said.
“Your commanding officer expects you to be shaved and shined and in every way to measure up to our well-known spiffy sartorial standards.” Bitter looked at him. Canidy was wearing an open-collared khaki shirt with no insignia of rank, and over that an olive-drab sleeveless sweater with the neck and arm holes bound in leather. It was, Bitter decided, British rather than American issue.