A Lion in the Grass

2-1

After his security clearance was confirmed and he signed up, Raymond discovered that Woolley had bent the truth somewhat. The Office of Strategic Services—the OSS, which was what he’d joined—was a freewheeling organization, and no matter what the plan was at any time, William Donovan, its head, could change it at will. OSS operations required agents with intellect and creativity. As a young man with knowledge of European geography and fluency in four languages, Raymond was a prize. He understood that the OSS would probably deploy him in Algiers. The Pacific story had been bait. But it was okay with him.

In June, he reported to a secret facility in Maryland where he undertook OSS basic training. Due to the dearth of intelligence professionals in their ranks, the OSS condensed the typical three-month military training into three weeks. That made the training insanely rigorous—the recruits were up before dawn and trained until late at night. Weekends were no different from weekdays. Several members of the class dropped out, but Raymond, already in good shape at the start, excelled both physically and mentally. Every night, his muscles aching, he fell asleep quickly, filled with the satisfaction that comes from achieving a milestone toward an aspiration, like passing the first mile marker in a footrace. At the end of the period, the instructors, including several OSS officers from Washington, who were actually psychologists from the Morale Operations Group, threw them a party, which actually turned out to be a final exam on their abilities to maintain secrecy and a sense of mission at times when ostensibly their guard was down. A few more recruits were eliminated the next day.

Specialized training occurred over the next six weeks, which included sabotage and celestial navigation. There were lessons in close combat from an older Englishman known as Fearless Dan, who spoke with perfect diction and rarely smiled. Raymond always volunteered to be the one on whom Fearless Dan demonstrated his moves. In the evenings he studied the precise location of the black-and-blue marks on his body as a way of committing those moves to memory.

After three weeks, Raymond and three others moved to another facility, where they engaged with Fearless Dan in more intense hand-to-hand combat training, including offensive and defensive moves that involved knives. Fearless Dan called this combat “gutter fighting,” in which there was no sense of fair play. “There is no sportsmanship involved in what you will face,” he told them. “Be a sportsman and you will die.” It was a strange premise, Raymond thought one evening after he’d finished a survey of his bruises. You gave no benefit of the doubt before you killed. And it’s perverted, he mused, that the ideal spy is one who kills without remorse. Can achievement of an ideal be iniquitous? The more accomplished he became with Fearless Dan the more he felt a darkness seeping into him. But he’d worry about it later, he decided.

And it’s pervertedthat the ideal spy is one who kills without remorseCan achievement of an ideal be iniquitousWhen the Fearless Dan exercises ended, Raymond was granted a five-day pass. He thought his training was going well and he didn’t particularly want a break. But he felt an obligation to visit his aunt and uncle with whom he had lived during his college years in Saint Paul.

* * *

In Saint Paul, Raymond walked the length of Summit Avenue. At the west end, he stood on a bluff overlooking the Mississippi River and gazed toward Minneapolis. At the other end, where Summit intersected Selby Avenue, he climbed the stairs in front of the Cathedral. From there he looked down at the city buildings clustered along the ninety-degree bend in the river. He imagined he was looking at the same segment of river water he had seen from the Minneapolis view, having kept pace with the flow of the river during his walk down Summit. It was silly, he thought, but it was comforting to think he could match the pace of the river. He believed the river’s greatest power came from its steadfastness, and it was exhilarating to think he could imitate it.

While sitting on the Cathedral steps, he considered walking back up Summit and over to the diner. But he decided he wouldn’t. He had changed dramatically on account of his training and he was afraid she, a pacifist, would see it and be disappointed. It wasn’t that he didn’t like the person he’d become. But the rules of secrecy imposed by OSS would make it impossible to answer the very sharp questions he knew she would ask. It would be awkward. He would write her a letter at some point.

When he got back to his aunt’s house on Summit, he saw his reflection in the glass on the door. His reflection bothered him because he appeared so conventional. They’d cut off his wavy brown hair. He hadn’t thought he was handsome, but he’d thought his general appearance was young and appealing. He knew he should get over it, that it was better for an officer to look older, particularly for one as young as he was. The ensign in the reflection was someone Raymond was supposed to be, and he was skeptical he could pull it off. Inside the house, his aunt was waiting for him to assure her he was going to be okay, that no harm could possibly come to him. He was going to lie to her, and he wasn’t happy about it. On account of what he’d learned so far at OSS, he feared it would be the first of a great many lies he would tell.

* * *

When Raymond returned to Washington on Sunday afternoon to pick up his gear, he found a marine waiting for him at his barracks.

“Your orders have changed,” the man told him. “Get your things and come with me.”

Raymond had heard a rumor that a new maritime base was being established in the Bahamas, and he guessed he was being sent there. As a foreign-service child who had been relocated frequently, he was accustomed to last-minute changes, and he thought this one a good thing because swimming in the Potomac had never sounded appealing. When the marine took the car over a bridge into downtown Washington, Raymond figured he would be put on a train for Florida.

“Train station,” he said, not really expecting a reply.

“No, sir.”

“Oh, of course. Then to a suite at the Hay-Adams.”

The marine glanced over at Raymond for a moment and said, “Headquarters, sir.”

After he arrived at a cluster of buildings on E Street, Raymond was ushered into a conference room where David Bruce and a tall, husky man were looking at a map. He saw that it was a map of the Adriatic, scaled to show the coasts of Italy and Yugoslavia. He had lived in Dubrovnik for a time and liked it.

Soon, General Donovan walked into the room, followed by another tall man. Raymond sprang to his feet and pushed back his shoulders. But before his arm started the arc to a salute, Donovan gestured that it was unnecessary.

“This is the OSS, young man. We dispense with that saluting nonsense.”

The other men had stood as well. One of the tall men greeted the other tall man, saying something that David laughed at but Raymond did not catch. Following Donovan’s lead, they all sat down.

“So, Ensign Hatcher, Colonel Bruce tells me you’re one very smart swimmer.”

“Sir?”

Raymond was confused for a moment. He had not yet done any swimming and in fact had forgotten about the questions months ago from Woolley and David. Donovan was quietly looking him over with no expression on his face.

“And it seems you spent some time with your family when you were younger in Dubrovnik and in Belgrade. And you have Croatian-language skills.”

“My father is a foreign-service officer and we were posted there for several years. I’m not sure about the language skills. There are many dialects in the region.” He didn’t want to boast, but he did have a knack for languages. After a couple of days in a country he could speak a language well enough to get around and order dinner. In a week he could have a conversation on the street with a resident. His mind took in idiomatic expressions the same way his lungs inhaled the air.

Donovan laughed. “Right. You don’t suspect that I know what he does in the foreign service?”

“He’s a foreign-service officer in the State Department. What exactly he does, sir, I couldn’t say.”

Raymond’s father, Leland Hatcher, began his career in 1904 as a young lawyer in Watertown, Connecticut, where he worked for Robert Lansing, specializing in international affairs. After the Germans sank the Lusitania, Lansing was appointed secretary of state and created the Bureau of Secret Intelligence, to which Leland was assigned. In 1918, Leland became a special aide to Lansing and lived in Versailles during the treaty negotiations.

LusitaniaDonovan took a moment to read some papers in a folder and then looked at Colonel David Bruce. “He’s had all his basic training, I see.”

“Yes,” Bruce answered. “He’s scheduled to start training with the Maritime Unit tomorrow. We have him slated for the Operational Swimmers Group.”

“We’re going to delay that,” Donovan said authoritatively, after perusing a few more papers.

He pulled another folder from the stack and began to look through it. Raymond thought the man bore no resemblance to the character called “Wild Bill Donovan” by so many. Dressed in a three-piece suit with a white handkerchief emerging like a pyramid from the chest pocket, he appeared to be reviewing papers for a banking transaction. His hair, combed neatly, was parted high up on the right side of his head and was almost white; he had turned sixty at the beginning of the year. He could have been on his way to a casting call for a movie involving Roman senators, although when his face was at rest his demeanor was inviting, and not stern.

Raymond sat tranquilly, wondering what would come next but feeling no impatience. He thought about the river flowing by Saint Paul. It had been a good trip. After a minute, Donovan looked around the table. His gaze stopped at Raymond.

“You’ve been introduced?”

“No, sir.”

“These two gentlemen on either side of me are army types. Major Farish on my left and Lieutenant Colonel Seitz on my right. And you already know Colonel Bruce.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Next week, we’re going to drop Farish and Seitz into Yugoslavia,” Donovan stated. “We’ll give them each a parachute to make it easier.” Donovan kept his deadpan expression. Farish and Seitz grimaced.

“General, if we sent you, you could just walk across the Adriatic from Italy,” Bruce said.

Donovan smiled at that. “Farish is going to see Tito right up here.” He stabbed his finger at an area of the map near Jajce. Then he moved his hand across to the mountainous region of Ravna Gora, south of Belgrade. “Seitz will jump here. Of course, they’ll be accompanied by our English cousins.”

Raymond knew Yugoslavia’s geography. He guessed that was why he was at the table. The terrain would make the mission perilous, he knew.

“I’ve had jump training,” he said.

“Oh yes,” Donovan said, leaning back in his chair. “But you won’t be needing that. You know your way around a sailboat, I understand.”