Washington, June 1940
Lieutenant Commander Phillip LaPorte left his office in the Navy Department a little earlier than usual and walked along Constitution Avenue through the Ellipse, past drab New Deal temps and on up to F Street. LaPorte had worked up a sweat. Even in early June, humidity had begun to settle in on Washington, and the summer of 1940 was starting out to be a real stinker.
Nestled in the theater district was an Irish pub with secluded booths and good whiskey. LaPorte often brought women to Fogarty’s for those very reasons, but this time he was there to seduce an old Annapolis classmate, Harry Fitch.
He wanted a drink and some time to gather his thoughts before Harry arrived. It had not been a good day.
LaPorte found a booth toward the back, and sat facing the door. The meeting with Harry was important, but his mind was on more elemental matters. “Goddamn navy,” he muttered to his tumbler of Jack Daniel’s.
“Still fighting with the navy, French?”
LaPorte looked up to see a smiling Harry Fitch standing over him. “Harry, you old son of a bitch, how did you sneak in here?” LaPorte stood and grabbed his hand.
“You’re not in trouble again, are you?” Harry slid into the booth across from LaPorte.
“Sure I’m in trouble. You know me, I’m always in trouble. How was I supposed to know this steno I had my eye on is humping the deputy chief of ONC? That got my boss, Stubby, all exercised. He loves it when he has a chance to act like the boss. One of these days I’m going to pick the little twerp up and toss him and his Napoleon complex through the window. But you should see her, Harry, brunette and built? I’m telling you.”
“I don’t know of anyone in the navy who has survived more scrapes with women than you. Now tell me about your voyage through the Pacific with Roosevelt’s buddy, Vincent Astor.”
“How the hell did you learn about that?”
Harry rubbed his hands together and said in a sinister tone, “I have my sources.”
“Did your sources tell you this Astor thing was a joke? I was in charge of procuring women for the cruise. If you recall, the LaPortes of New Orleans are experienced in this line of work.”
“I do recall.” Harry’s eyes sparkled. “Well, French, looks like you’ve found your calling in the navy.”
LaPorte took a drag on his cigarette. “There’s a little more to it. During my free time I got a peek at the Japanese mandates in the Marshall Islands, the ones they’re not allowed by treaty to fortify.”
Harry threw up his hands in feigned surprise. “Don’t tell me, they’re building bases in the islands.”
“I told the brass we should send a survey ship to chart the offshore waters around those islands and do a little snooping on the side. By the way, what does a well-healed businessman drink these days?”
“I’m buying. Let’s celebrate with some more Jack.”
After their drinks arrived, LaPorte said, “I’ll get to the point. When I heard you were back in the States, the wheels started turning. How would you like to work with ONI?”
“Climb back into uniform? No thanks. You of all people recruiting for the navy.”
“No uniform. We can’t afford you. The Far East section has a grand total of two commissioned officers, so we recruit former navy men, civilians, even women to do the work. In other words we’re beggars.”
“And beggars can’t be choosers.”
“It’s not like that Harry. You have something money can’t buy – a couple of years in the Dutch East Indies.”
“I was selling drilling equipment for my uncle for God’s sake.”
“Salesman turned spy. Sounds like a natural.”
“Let’s say I got very drunk tonight and said yes, what would I have to do?”
LaPorte answered with a grin. “Later Harry, you’re not drunk enough.”
Harry responded by up-ending his tumbler of whiskey. He wiped his mouth and said, “Look French, I can guess what you want me to do, and it’s high time. The Dutch colonial government is still reeling from the fall of Holland. The Japanese are sure to take advantage of the situation, and you need your top agent over there, right?”
“You read my mind, Harry. Well, here’s the deal. You will spend four weeks with army MID, military intelligence division, training to be a spy. Think your uncle will give you the time off?”
“I just got back home. I have a couple of months coming. This wasn’t what I had in mind for a vacation. I was thinking more in terms of a little fishing up in Michigan.”
“Com’n Harry, you need a little excitement in your life. By the way, you’ll have to meet Stubby Whittle, boss of the foreign intelligence section.”
“The guy you want to toss out the window? Well I guess no sacrifice is too great in the service of one’s country.”
* * * *
Without a knock, Commander Clayton Whittle 3rd, a stocky round faced man, nondescript except for an unseasonally deep tan, entered LaPorte’s office. His eyes immediately locked on Harry.
“I’m quite busy today, Lieutenant Fitch.” He offered a limp hand to Harry. “We’re sending you on a tough and sensitive mission.”
“Harry’s not a lieutenant.” LaPorte’s sharp tone brought an annoyed glance from Whittle.
“Of course, you’re no longer on active duty.” Whittle’s nose turned up in a sneer. “Well, I must be off. French can handle everything for you.” Looking at LaPorte, he said, “Remember, I’m approving this on your say so French.”
“Aren’t you late for a meeting?”
Whittle glanced at his watch. “By God I am.” Without another word he walked out of the office.
“Stubby’s a real charmer.” LaPorte said.
“Did he really have a meeting?”
“Hell, I don’t know. I just wanted him out of here.”
“He left before I could ask where he got that tan.”
“He winters at mommy and daddy’s Palm Beach home. He never lets us forget how rich he is. He’s harmless, just another snotty rich kid. Navy’s full of ‘em.”
“I have to remind myself I don’t have to take that crap anymore. By the way, I never congratulated you on your half stripe?”
“Yeah, thanks. It’s only a couple of years late. You know how they hate to promote people they can’t control.” LaPorte leaned back and lit a cigarette. “You know most of the smart ones, like you, got out of the navy during the hard times leaving the idiots in charge. Now we’ll probably have to fight a war on both oceans and they know they’ll need smart asses like you and me. So they tolerate us, but they don’t like us.”
LaPorte scrutinized Harry who appeared to be deep in thought. Protruding ears attached to a large, otherwise featureless face perched on a small body had invited taunts from classmates at the naval academy, which Harry learned to deflect by becoming the court jester of the class of ’31. Harry was gregarious among friends, but withdrawn, almost shy otherwise.
“French, this assignment is bigger than you let on. Stubby’s right about one thing, you need more than some part-time amateur over there.”
“Relax Harry and enjoy yourself. You’ll be on your own. Last year when I was in Mexico City rooting out foreign agents, I grew a mustache. I looked damn good in a mustache. Bastards made me shave it when I climbed back into uniform. God, did I have fun on the navy’s nickel. I was the romantic, the adventurer, just another rich, irresponsible playboy.”
“Com’n French, can you see me as a playboy?”
“Well you got me there, Harry, but you have the perfect cover. Who would expect a boring oil tool salesman to be a secret agent?”
Harry didn’t reply right away, and LaPorte feared he may be losing him.
“You know why I came to the academy, French? It was so I wouldn’t have to work for my uncle. He’s nice enough, but I wanted my independence. Tell me French, do you regret joining the navy?”
“Sometimes, but I entertain myself by chasing girls and having a few adventures along the way.”
With a trace of bitterness in his voice, Harry said, “All I got were jabs from my folks about what a fool I was for staying in and how much money I could make selling oil tools. Now after all those years of trying like hell to land an interesting job, the navy drops this in my lap, two years too late.”
“Com’n, grab your hat. I’ll introduce you to the guys at MID.” LaPorte closed the office door behind him. “This way Harry,” LaPorte said pointing down the hall. I’ll give you the scenic tour. Among other attractions is a teletype room staffed by some of the finest looking women in Washington.”
“And you’re sending me off to the East Indies. You just pulled a fast one on me didn’t you French?”
LaPorte clapped him on the back. “Welcome back Harry.”