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  “You’re Cochrane?” the sergeant asked.

  “Yes, Sergeant.”

  “Colonel Sawyer wants to see you. Now! On the double.”

  “The colonel?”

  “The colonel! Headquarters! Get your ass moving!”

  “What’s this about?” asked Cochrane, who was slow to move.

  The Sergeant unleashed a stream of profanities in the manner that only a career non-commissioned officer could. Then, “How the hell would I know? Think the colonel and I have tea at four each day at the fucking Ritz? He’s waiting! Double time! Go!”

  “Thank you, Sergeant!”

  Cochrane, a man in his mid-thirties but as physically fit as the younger men in combat training, started a quick jog out onto the paths that wound their way past the drill fields and to the operational headquarters of the US Army Signal Corps training site.

  The sun was setting. The afternoon had been warm, especially with all the gear each recruit had been packing. But now a chilling wind was setting in.

  After the United States of America entered the Second World War, the Signal Corps became one of the technical services of the American Armed Services. Its components served both the Army ground forces and the Army air forces. The single training site was Fort Monmouth, New Jersey.

  William Thomas Cochrane, formerly of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, had enlisted in the army a month after Pearl Harbor with the intention of being commissioned as an officer in a combat division. In actuality, he was re-enlisting, having served previously as an ordnance officer for two years. This time, after special wartime basic training, or re-training, he had once again taken the Officer’s Candidate School option. If all went well, he would be re-instated to his old rank, a captain, or possibly with a promotion.

  One thing had led to another and, with his background of fluently speaking French and German, plus some experience in counterintelligence work, he had had landed at Fort Monmouth for communications/intelligence training. The military complex consisted of a school for officers, an officer candidate school, an enlisted school and a basic training center at sub post Camp Wood, where future communications officers were trained.

  Cochrane crossed the courtyard and entered the headquarters building. A sergeant at a desk directed him along a hallway until he came to the office of Colonel Isaac Sawyer, a no-nonsense charmingly profane South Carolinian who had been the commander of the base for the last seven months. Cochrane presented himself to the colonel’s doorway.

  “Come in, Cochrane,” Sawyer said from behind a desk.

  Cochrane entered and stood at attention. The moment had its awkwardness. Cochrane, at age thirty-six, was less than half a decade younger than his commanding officer.

  “Yes, sir!” Cochrane answered.

  “At ease, soldier.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  On the colonel’s desk was a correspondence. Cochrane couldn’t tell what it was or what it said. He reasoned that he would find out soon enough.

  “I get all sorts of commands and requests these days with a war going on,” the colonel said. “Some are crazy, some aren’t. Some I understand, some I don’t.”

  Colonel Sawyer leaned back in his chair and stared at the man in front of him. “You signed on to go to basic training, then took the OCS option. Isn’t that right?”

  “That’s correct, sir.”

  “But you’ve been in the army before?”

  “Correct, sir.”

  “What if I told you, you’ve been wasting your time. And ours.”

  A moment passed as Cochrane wondered where the conversation was going. “I’d be disappointed, sir.”

  “Why the hell is that?”

  “I wish to serve my country in wartime,” Cochrane said.

  “Well, hot damn! Every decent red-blooded American male does,” the colonel said.

  Sawyer thought about the soldier in front of him for a moment, then continued. “You went through basic combat, the bag drill, weapons orientation, core values. Exemplary results across the board. You were in the top ten percent of officer candidates in every category. Not bad.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Except two.”

  “Two, sir?”

  “Yes. Language. You were among the top fifteen soldiers out of twenty-four hundred in linguistic skills. According to your file, your aptitude in French and German are close to a native speaker’s in each language. How did that happen?”

  “I studied French in university,” Cochrane said. “Then I had the occasion to travel between the wars. As for German, I worked in Germany for more than a year. So I had on the spot practical training.”

  “When you were employed by the FBI?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And this was during Hitler’s ascent?”

  “After he became chancellor, sir. When he was in power.”

  “How do you feel about Mr. Hitler? Be honest.”

  “To be very clear, sir, I despise the man, his associates, his supporters, his philosophy and his political party. Sir.”

  “That doesn’t leave much, does it?”

  “No, sir.” A pause, and just before Sawyer spoke again, Cochrane saw fit to ask, “May I nuance my response a bit more, sir?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “I hate the man’s fucking guts, sir. I will do anything in my power large or small to defeat him, his criminal regime and all those who are on his side.”

  “I see. Commendable. Very commendable.”

  For a moment the colonel drummed his fingers on his desk.

  “Then there was the other category here in Fort Monmouth where you are not in the top ten percent,” the colonel said. “The intelligence test.”

  “Sir?” Cochrane asked in surprise.

  “You were among the top two soldiers in our entire complex.”

  Cochrane remained silent.

  Abruptly, Colonel Sawyer opened a manila file in front of him. Cochrane reasoned it was his service record. He kept his eyes straight ahead. He further reasoned that the colonel had already looked through it.

  “Close the damned door, Cochrane,” Colonel Sawyer said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Cochrane took three steps to his left and closed the door to the office. He returned to where he had stood and resumed the at-ease stance.

  “I just looked through your personnel file,” Sawyer said, his tone going down a notch. “You worked for the FBI in civilian life for several years?”

  “Yes, sir. That is correct.”

  “And how exactly did you land here at the Signal Corps?”

  “I re-enlisted in the army after Pearl Harbor but my induction was deferred till September, even at my old rank, so that I could complete cases that were in progress.”

  “Banking fraud, it says.” There was a pause. “Maybe a lot of something extra, also?”

  A pause, then, “As I’m sure the colonel read in my file, I was assigned to a case that had a bearing on the safety of President Roosevelt. The threat was real. But with good fortune and with the assist of many others from the Bureau, the case was resolved in 1940 with no harm to the President.”

  “You were the principal agent on it.”

  “There were several men and women working as part of a team.”

  “But you were the principal.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then what?”

  “Subsequently, I returned to banking and financial fraud on behalf of the Bureau. My focus was on European banking and financial systems as they affected the security of the United States.”

  “Fascinating. Germany again?”

  “Yes, sir. Germany, Italy. France. Soviet Russia, which attempted to flood the United States and world markets with counterfeit US currency. There was also one case involving Spain.”

  “You speak Spanish, also?”

  “Some. Not as well as French or German.”

  “Your file says you were in Cuba for a while.�
��

  “That’s correct. After the President’s third inauguration the FBI wasn’t sure where to assign me. As it happened, they assigned me to a case on which I had to be in Havana for three months. This was earlier this year. Late winter, early spring.”

  “Did you enjoy Havana? Never been there.”

  “It was a mixed blessing.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “It’s complicated, sir.”

  “You’re good with language from what I read here. Paint me a pretty picture with some words. What did you observe, what did you do?

  “Havana was a city of flourishing brothels and unchecked corruption,” Cochrane began. “Major industries grew around the sex trade. Government officials received bribes and cops on the beat collected protection money. Every night prostitutes were in doorways, trolling the streets, or baring their breasts in windows and doorways. I think one Bureau report estimated that fifteen thousand of them worked their trade in Havana, sir. In addition, drugs, be it marijuana or heroin or cocaine, were so plentiful at the time that they were no more difficult to obtain in Cuba than a shot of first class rum. The island was enchanting but hopelessly corrupt. A Mafia playground and a bordello, high class and low class side by side, for Americans and other foreigners. In any case, I used the occasion to acquire some Spanish.”

  The colonel hunched his shoulders. “Say something about Cuba in Spanish.”

  “La Habana sigue siendo una amante del placer, una diosa exuberante y opulenta de la corrupción y delicias ilegales.”

  Sawyer laughed. “Beyond the pay grade of my high school Spanish, Cochrane, you overeducated fuckhead. Listen up. Have you ever heard of something named the OSS?” the colonel asked. “The Office of Strategic Services?”

  A longer pause from Cochrane, then. “Yes, sir. Of course I have.”

  “I assume you know General Donovan, who heads the agency.”

  “We’ve met,” Cochrane said. “Professionally. More than once.”

  “And socially?”

  “With respect, more times than I can count. Sir.”

  “You travel in the same circles, do you?”

  “Different circles, but they’ve been known to intersect.”

  “Did you apply for OSS duty?”

  “I sent a letter after Pearl Harbor. But I never heard anything.”

  “Till now,” the colonel said.

  Colonel Sawyer produced a white business sized envelope from within the folder. He handed it to Cochrane.

  “This is an order that was not generated by normal channels, Cochrane,” Sawyer said. “It was generated by the Department of Defense, then signed off on personally by J. Edgar Hoover at the FBI as well as General William Donovan. The general seems to be heading this new agency out of a garage in some steamy section of Washington as well as an office building in New York City. He’s the only individual I personally know of who can be in two places at once. But I digress. You’ve been re-assigned out of this unit to the OSS. They have you in mind for some sort of special mission. Paperwork will follow giving you the commission of a major the US Army Signal Corps and an honorable discharge will also follow at the appropriate time. It’s possible that you’ll retain the rank of a major in case you ever become a prisoner of war, for which you might say a special prayer to Jesus H. Christ asking for that never to happen.”

  Cochrane was nonplussed. “I’m not following,” he said

  “Then I’ll spell it out. You leave here tonight with the rank of a major. You need to be in New York at General Donovan’s office tomorrow afternoon. Here’s the address. But you’re not going to be a soldier. From what I can see, you’re going to be a spy.”

  A much longer pause, then the colonel added, “May I close with a personal word?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m sorry I won’t have the pleasure of having a man like you actively in this unit. Whenever we get the top candidates, the best people, for the Signal Corps, those Ivy League bastards with General Donovan at the OSS steal them from us. But that’s to your credit. Good luck to you. You’re also under instructions not to talk to any of the other soldiers here before you leave. Questions?”

  “May I phone my wife?”

  “Against orders for now. Talk to General Donovan first. You’re married to both of them now and General Donovan takes priority.”

  Colonel Sawyer glanced at his watch.

  “It’s too late for a train or a bus,” he continued. “One of the MP’s will drive you to Manhattan tonight. I think it’ll be Santini. He’s a wop from Brooklyn so he won’t get lost. Be ready in an hour. There’s an officer’s installation, an apartment, in New York. I don’t know where but Santini will have the address. You’ll stay there overnight. That’s all.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Oh,” Sawyer said. “One more thing. Parting gift. You’ll need this.”

  Sawyer reached into a desk drawer and produced a metal flask, stainless steel and gleaming. He flipped it to Cochrane who snatched it out of the air with one hand.

  “Mississippi moonshine,” said Sawyer. “White lightning from the wettest dry state in America. You a drinking man?”

  “On occasion, sir.”

  “One of my sergeants gets it by the five gallon drum somewhere in Newark and runs it over here for the officers. Enjoy it and bring the flask back after the war.”

  “Thank you again, sir.”

  “Enjoy it in good health. Don’t get killed. Dismissed.”

  Cochrane saluted. Colonel Sawyer returned the gesture of respect.

  Chapter 7

  Fort Monmouth, N.J. to New York City

  November 1942

  Cochrane returned to his barracks. He packed two duffel bags, the second of which included the civilian clothes that had followed him from basic training. He ate dinner in a private mess hall and, observing the prohibition on communication with the men in his unit, did not have the occasion to say good-bye to friends. A guard from the Military Police stayed with him and ushered him to a canvas top US Army quarter ton truck, more colloquially known as a “Jeep,” at 8:15 PM. Daylight was long gone.

  The driver of the Jeep was a sergeant. Sergeants were everywhere these days. While some officers disdained them, Cochrane respected them. Whatever their faults, Cochrane knew the non-coms were the glue that held the army together, so why quibble over table manners?

  The sergeant’s name was Santini. He was an MP, as Colonel Sawyer had promised. He was in uniform and wore his pistol on his left side. Cochrane took it to be a Colt 45. Santini seemed wired and alert.

  Cochrane threw his two bags into the vehicle, gave the driver a thumbs up, jumped in and grabbed a seat in the back. Cochrane initiated a brief conversation.

  Santini was a New York guy from Brooklyn, just as Colonel Sawyer had also promised. Cochrane guessed he had drawn this assignment because he knew how to drive to New York from New Jersey without accidentally arriving in Ohio.

  The evening driving assignment was a bonus for Santini. The young man had parlayed it into two days of leave during which he could go home to Crown Heights and spend Thanksgiving Day and weekend with his family and fiancée. Sometimes things worked out neatly. Other times they didn’t. In 1939 President Roosevelt had moved the Thanksgiving holiday one week earlier than normal, hoping to bolster retail sales before Christmas. This led to much ridicule, causing some to deride the holiday as, “Franksgiving.” People still joked about it.

  The Jeep took him onto public streets, then onto a two lane road that led north. The trip to Manhattan would cover sixty miles through northern New Jersey and take around two hours. Cochrane had driven the route many times. Even at this hour, the trip would be stop and go, red light green light, passing through sleepy towns on the journey north.

  For the first quarter hour, Cochrane and Sergeant Santini engaged in small talk, some gossip about the base, chat about the war in Europe, and some baseball. Santini was a fan of the great DiMaggio, but who wasn�
��t? His whole family were Yankee fans, the Brooklyn connection notwithstanding. Santini said his dad had once met the great Tony Lazzari, the second baseman on Babe Ruth’s great teams, at a Knights of Columbus gathering in the Bronx. Lazzari had signed a scorecard for the sergeant’s father.

  “Dad still has it,” Sgt. Santini said. “Framed.”

  So it went. Then, after nonstop chatter, the driver fell silent, or mostly silent, chain smoking Camels. The nicotine fix and maybe something else, Cochrane suspected, kept him alert. The Jeep was drafty so the cigarette smoke didn’t bother Cochrane, who didn’t care for cigarettes but did enjoy an occasional cigar, an indulgence he had picked up in Havana.

  As the conversation ebbed, Cochrane noted the route the driver was taking. As they proceeded past Middletown, Santini navigated a network of dark, winding two-lane roads. The direction remained north. Cochrane could tell by the stars. Santini drove through a stretch of orchards and rambling old houses, and one long narrow deserted road for twelve minutes at twenty-five miles per hour. There was a sharp left turn past a picket fence. Three minutes followed on an unmarked two-lane road.

  No houses. No signs indicating a town, but Cochrane recognized buildings. Eventually, they were in Perth Amboy. Cochrane’s attention started to drift from outside the Jeep to the thoughts cascading through his head.

  General Donovan.

  Mentally, Cochrane reviewed what he personally knew.

  He had first me William Donovan in the autumn of 1940. Cochrane had been invited to a campaign event for Franklin Roosevelt, a nod to his work to foil a saboteur late in Roosevelt’s second term. The White House was still indebted to the FBI for its work on the case. Hoover wasn’t shy about showing off his best agents when they had attained a high profile success. Cochrane had spent a few minutes with the President before the event, at which Roosevelt personally thanked him for thwarting the plot against him and signed a photo. Cochrane had it in a frame on his desk in the Manhattan apartment he shared with his wife.

  The event had been at the Shoreham Hotel in Washington. Roosevelt had given a short speech. Mike Reilley, the head of FDR’s Secret Service detail, introduced Cochrane to Donovan, which seemed like a good idea for the future considering France, Belgium, Luxembourg, Norway, Denmark and the Netherlands had all fallen to Nazi aggression earlier that same year and Donovan was unofficially pulling together a spy agency. It was exactly the type of top secret stuff which everyone in the capital knew and chatted about openly at parties.