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 having created the tiger but thank him for not having given it wings."

– Rabbi Amos Stein

 

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

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

“We stand on the eve of the most momentous, crucial sea invasion the world has ever known. And no matter where I assign 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 in Detroit.”

“How many years ago was that murder, Lt. Stein? But let Major Blaine be assigned to his command, and this mess happens.”

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

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

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

“Unwise.”

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

“Leave it be, Major! I will not go against Eisenhower’s direct orders and assign rescue craft to go on tonight’s mission.”

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

“What are you talking about?”

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

“What idiot allowed that to happen?”

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

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

“No one on tonight’s exercise besides 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 off their craft and ordered back to their barracks. Tomorrow, they will be scattered over this base, no two being in the same squad. And you, Major Blaine, will be arrested.”

“On what charge?” exclaimed the rabbi.

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

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

“I didn’t do ….”

He angrily waved me off. “I know it was that French Quarter Hoodoo that followed you from New Orleans. I didn’t believe that malarkey then or now.”

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

“That’s Ike’s handwriting. I’d know it anywhere.”

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

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

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

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

There was the truth that would get me committed to an insane asylum and the truth that he might believe. It wasn’t a hard choice.

“I heal fast, sir.”

“I’ve seen that.”

He sighed, seemingly from the soles of his feet.  “Go to your barracks with 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 on his desk rang louder than seemed normal.

He answered it reluctantly. He stiffened as he listened. His jaw dropped.

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

The rabbi looked haunted at me as Bradley growled, “Blaine’s customized Higgins craft is now at the docks? You there? 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 and placed it to my ear. “Yes, sir?”

“You, Blaine?”

“Yes, sir.”

His Cajun accent was heavy, but I had 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 those blueprints, but I didn’t want to keep a padded cell warm and kept quiet as he went on, “Tanks to ya, I got me own Swiss Bank account. I looks at my little black book from time ta time just to feel important. Gotta go, now. Bye.”

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

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

He squeezed the bridge of his nose and groaned, “Of course, 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 a war.”

– Sun Tzu