Did that snob at the desk sense I was shanty Irish and belonged up here? Or were they just pressed for space with Americans pouring into London? Or had Major Harding made this very thoughtful arrangement for me? Screw it, I decided, a bed’s a bed. I unpacked my wrinkled khakis and shined my shoes. I found the bathroom down the hall and washed up. I wanted to sleep, but I was nervous about missing my date with Harding at eleven o’clock. Eleven hundred hours, I reminded myself. It was really a pain in the neck after noontime, but at least in the morning I didn’t have to count off on my fingers.

I was feeling good enough to be hungry and would’ve killed for a cup of coffee. I think it was still the middle of the night back home, but it was midmorning here and I didn’t have a clue where to get some grub. Then I realized I didn’t have any English money. Sitting in my little room, putting a final spit shine on my shoes, I felt forlorn. There had always been a relative or friend I could turn to when things got tough back in Boston. Here, I only knew a tight-assed American major and an even more tight-assed English hotel clerk. Oh, yeah, and Uncle Ike.

That cheered me up some, and I headed out to find Grosvenor Square. I asked my pal at the desk, and I guess he saw that I had worked hard at cleaning up, and so I was worth a civil answer.

“Go left out the main door, you’ll see South Audley Lane straightaway. Go left again and it’s a five-minute walk direct to Grosvenor Square. Are you looking for the American headquarters?”

“Yes, I am.”

“It will be directly across the square as you enter it. You can’t miss it-sandbags, American sentries, and all that.”