OPERATION TIGER

 

Richard Blaine and the Rabbi Stein find themselves out of the frying pan and into the fire.

OPERATION TIGER

"Do not blame God for havingcreated the tiger but thank him for not having given it wings."

– Rabbi Amos Stein

 

Ever since walking into GeneralBradley’s office, Lt. Stein and I had been studiously ignored as the man wrotein bold, hard strokes on page after page. We stood patiently at attention. Idon’t know about the rabbi, but I was sure anything the general had to say tous would not be anything we wanted to hear.

He finally rose his head, hisdark eyes boring into us like twin gun barrels.

“We stand on the eve of the mostmomentous, crucial sea invasion the world has ever known. And no matter where Iassign you, Blaine, you cause an incident.”

Rabbi Stein protested, “That is hardly fair, General.Captain Sturges brought this fiasco on himself by murdering that poor girl inDetroit.”

“How many years ago was thatmurder, Lt. Stein? But let Major Blaine be assigned to his command, and thismess happens.”

As the general punctuated hissentence with a fist pounded on his desktop, Lt. Stein said low, “Raise yourwords, not your voice, sir. It is rain that grows flowers, not thunder.”

Lightning flashed in the general’seyes to go with his thunder as he growled, “Are you lecturing me, lieutenant?”

I said, “He’s a rabbi, sir. It comesnaturally to him. Besides, he’s just trying to draw fire from me to him.”

“Unwise.”

“As unwise… ,” I began to say butwas cut off.

“Leave it be, Major! I will notgo against Eisenhower’s direct orders and assign rescue craft to go on tonight’smission.”

“I was going to ask you to atleast coordinate the radio frequencies of both parties.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The LSTs and British navalheadquarters are operating on different frequencies, sir.”

“What idiot allowed that to happen?”

“The dead one, sir,” replied Lt.Stein.

The general massaged the bridgeof his nose. “Any other idiocy that moron perpetrated?”

“No one on tonight’s exercisebesides my Spartans know how to operate their life vests.”

He groaned, then sighed, “And, Major,your Spartans aren’t going tonight.”

“What”

“Eisenhower had them pulled offtheir craft and ordered back to their barracks. Tomorrow, they will bescattered over this base, no two being in the same squad. And you, Major Blaine,will be arrested.”

“On what charge?” exclaimed therabbi.

“Charges, son. Long list of themthat devolved into rambling, disjointed nonsense on the phone.”

He glared at me. “Eisenhower wasa good, no, a great man before you showed up with those letters and photographsof him and his driver.”

“I didn’t do ….”

He angrily waved me off. “I knowit was that French Quarter Hoodoo that followed you from New Orleans. I didn’tbelieve that malarkey then or now.”

A leather-bound journal appeared afoot above the general’s desk to slam down hard on its surface. The pages flippedopen to a blood-stained pair of pages. General Bradley stiffened.

“That’s Ike’s handwriting. I’d knowit anywhere.”

He tried to turn his eyes awaybut seemed compelled to read. I would have been, too. But then, I suspectedwhat the diary entry would say. Living it once was enough.

More than enough. The rabbicouldn’t resist and read along with the general.  Bradley looked up at me.

“Son, did … did this reallyhappen? No, of course it did! It explains that terrible wound on the back ofhis right hand. He left you dying on your feet.”

Bradley frowned, “But you seem sostrong now. How?”

There was the truth that wouldget me committed to an insane asylum and the truth that he might believe. It wasn’ta hard choice.

“I heal fast, sir.”

“I’ve seen that.”

He sighed, seemingly from thesoles of his feet.  “Go to your barrackswith your men, son. I’ll figure something out. Just what I don’t know.”

He locked tormented eyes on mine.“He’s losing it, Richard. Losing it. What am I going to do?”

I had no answers when the phone onhis desk rang louder than seemed normal.

He answered it reluctantly. He stiffenedas he listened. His jaw dropped.

“Higgins? Andrew Jackson Higgins?How in blazes did you get this number? The who gave it to you? The DarkPassenger?”

The rabbi looked haunted at me asBradley growled, “Blaine’s customized Higgins craft is now at the docks? Youthere? No, of course not. Your men called you when they arrived just now.”

He thrust out the phone. “Mr.Higgins wants to talk to you.”

I took the receiver gingerly andplaced it to my ear. “Yes, sir?”

“You, Blaine?”

“Yes, sir.”

His Cajun accent was heavy, but Ihad been born in New Orleans. “I followed ya blueprints to the confusin’letter, but, mon, you made me rich with dis commission. So, what else am I goin’ta do, right?”

I knew who really drew up thoseblueprints, but I didn’t want to keep a padded cell warm and kept quiet as hewent on, “Tanks to ya, I got me own Swiss Bank account. I looks at my little blackbook from time ta time just to feel important. Gotta go, now. Bye.”

Bradley glared at me. “You boughtyour own Higgins landing craft?”

I shrugged. “In Sicily, I lost myrifle, and the Army charged me thirty-five dollars. Suddenly, I realized whycaptains went down with their ships. So, I skipped to the chase and bought the Rocinante.”

He squeezed the bridge of his nose and groaned, “Ofcourse, you would name your ship after Don Quixote’s horse. Oh, get out of here,Blaine, while I still have some sanity left myself.”

I left.

“Every thought is a battle, and every breath is awar.”

– Sun Tzu