‘‘Christ, is that all you ever think about?’’ Bitter snapped.
Something was bothering Bitter, Canidy knew. It was probably that Naval Academy graduates who wished to become admirals did not leave the Navy. Commander Porter’s icy disdain had given weight to his fears.
‘‘Let’s go get out of our uniforms,’’ Canidy said, ‘‘and then treat ourselves to a good dinner. And maybe a movie.’’
Bitter gave him a weak smile.
When they returned to the Transient Officers’ Quarters at Anacostia, a tall, handsome Army Air Corps second lieutenant was waiting for them. He was wearing a green blouse, to which were pinned silver pilot’s wings. There was a glossy Sam Browne belt. He wore pink riding breeches, and rested his glistening riding boots on the low table in front of him. His uniform cap, perched on the rear of his head, exposed light blond hair. The stiffener had been removed from the crown of the cap, and the cap itself looked as if it had been driven over by a coal truck. The crushed hat was the mark of the fighter pilot.
The handsome young officer was Jim Whittaker, who displayed a lot of white teeth and a warm smile when he saw Canidy, but he did not get up.
‘‘What the hell are you doing here, Jim?’’ Canidy asked, smiling broadly. He went to him and shook his hand.
‘‘I came to save you from this nautical squalor,’’ the young aviator said, gesturing around the almost elegantly furnished foyer. ‘‘But the question is, what the hell are you doing here? And I don’t mean ‘why aren’t you at the house?’ ’’
‘‘Eddie,’’ Canidy said, ‘‘this is Jim Whittaker. Jim, Ed Bitter.’’
Bitter smiled, but not warmly. He had, he was sure, just come across yet another Canidy, that is, someone who would embarrass him somehow within the hour.
They shook hands.
‘‘Are you involved in what he’s done?’’ Whittaker asked. ‘‘Or are you his guard?’’
‘‘We’re together.’’ Bitter smiled uneasily.
‘‘How the hell did you find me here?’’ Canidy asked.
‘‘When I called Pensacola,’’ Whittaker said, ‘‘and got a mysterious runaround about you, I called back and led them to believe I was an aide-de-camp to an unspecified general officer who absolutely had to get in touch with you. After some hesitation, they
said you could be found here. I came straight from the airport. What the hell is going on?’’
‘‘We’re going to China,’’ Canidy said.
‘‘Dick,’’ Bitter protested.
‘‘China?’’ Whittaker said thoughtfully. ‘‘I don’t think you can get to China from here. I think you have to go to San Francisco and take the Southern Pacific and Yangtze River.’’
Canidy laughed. ‘‘What are you doing here? Better late than never?’’
‘‘I’m sorry about that,’’ Whittaker said. ‘‘The Air Corps was being beastly to me. Does the Navy use the phrase ‘exigencies of the service’?’’
‘‘All the time,’’ Canidy said.
‘‘In the Air Corps, it means, ‘Fuck you, you’re Reserve second lieutenant, you don’t get no leave,’ ’’ Whittaker said.
Canidy laughed.
Ed Bitter cringed as three officers, the most senior of them a full commander, sitting at a table across the foyer glanced their way in disapproval.
‘‘Tell me about China,’’ Whittaker said.
‘‘I probably know less about China than you do,’’ Canidy said. ‘‘But I’ll have a go at it. What exactly would you like to know?’’
‘‘Why are you going there, wiseass?’’
‘‘For a discharge from the Navy, and six hundred bucks a month,’’ Canidy said.
‘‘The American Volunteer Group,’’ Whittaker said. ‘‘They were recruiting at Randolph Field, too.’’