Douglass nodded and motioned for the driver to continue.
Canidy walked into the revetment. The crew chief, a young technical sergeant, threw him a casual salute.
“Good morning, Major,” he said.
“Morning,” Canidy said.
“You’ve wound both rubber bands, I presume?”
“Yes, Sir,” the crew chief said.
Canidy, with the crew chief trailing him, walked around the airplane, making the preflight check. He found nothing wrong and nodded his approval of the aircraft’s condition.
They walked back to the nose of the aircraft, where the crew chief held out a sheepskin flying jacket to Canidy, and then when Canidy had put his arms into it, steadied him as he pulled sheepskin trousers over his uniform trousers.
Canidy started to climb the ladder to the cockpit, which sat between the twin engines. And for the first time he saw what was painted on the nose. The Flying Tiger’s shark’s jaw, and “Dick Canidy,” in flowing script, and beneath it five meatballs.
“That was very nice of you, Sergeant,” Canidy said.
“Thank you very much.”
“The Colonel thought you’d like it. Major,” the crew chief said.
“He was your squadron CO in the Flying Tigers, wasn’t he?”
“Right,” Canidy said. It was not the time for historical accuracy.
He climbed into the cockpit. The crew chief climbed the ladder after him, carrying sheepskin boots. Canidy, not without difficulty, put them on, and then the crew chief helped him with the parachute straps, and finally handed him the leather helmet and oxygen mask, with its built-in microphone.
“Go get a couple, Major,” the crew chief said.
“God go with you.”
Canidy smiled and nodded.
The crew chief climbed down the ladder, then removed it from where it hooked on the cockpit. Another crew member, as Canidy ran the controls through their limits, rolled up a fire extinguisher. Then he and the crew chief looked up at the cockpit, waiting for Canidy’s next order.
Canidy looked down and saw they were ready for him.
This is not the smartest thing I have ever done, Canidy thought. I know better. Only a goddamn fool goes off voluntarily into the wild blue yonder, from which he stands a good chance indeed of dying inflames.
The alternative was sitting around Whithey House going nuts. Christ only knew what Donovan had in mind for Jimmy Whittaker. And at this moment, Eric Fulmar was somewhere in Germany wearing the uniform of an SSObersturmfuhrer (first lieutenant). If the SS caught him in that, they would be inspired to see that his death was preceded by their most imaginative interrogation techniques.
It was either this–which by stretching a point could be considered flying a reconnaissance mission himself that otherwise the Air Corps would have to make–or drink. Or go nuts.
He flipped the Main Power Buss on, then adjusted the richness control of the left engine. He looked down from the cockpit.
“Clear! “he called.
“Clear, Sir,” the crew chief called back.
Canidy leaned forward and held the engine start left toggle switch against the pressure of its spring.
The left engine began to grind, and the prop began to turn, very slowly.
Then the engine caught for a moment, bucked, and spit. The prop became a silver blur.
There had been time to think. He was just along for the ride. He was riding Douglass’s wing, throttled back at 25,000 feet so as not to outrun the bomber stream ofB-17Es at 23,000 feet. Douglass had the responsibility for the flock of sheep. All Canidy had to do was maintain his position relative to Doug.
The first thing he thought was that this was where he really belonged. He was a pilot, and a good one, a combat-experienced pilot. And also an aeronautical engineer. He knew what he was doing here. He should have fought this war as a pilot.
But other thoughts intruded. Experience was relative to somebody else’s experience. Relatively speaking, he was an old-timer in the intelligence business, not because he’d done so much but because hardly anybody else had done anything at all. The Americans, as the British were so fond of pointing out whenever they found the opportunity, were virgins in the intelligence business.
There had been a cartoon one time on the bulletin board at MIT in Cambridge: