by Ward Wagher
“I believe I understand, Sir,” the captain said. “As the ship’s commander, I have to make the critical decisions. It is very important that the crew be convinced that I know what I am doing.”
“Exactly, exactly. I am fortunate to have a lot of good people working in the White House and the government, and they generally give good advice. Nevertheless, as our vice president is fond of pointing out, the buck stops at my desk. The trick is to make decisions, accept the responsibility and then move on. I always have the Press around to second guess me, so I don’t need to worry about it myself.”
“If you will permit me to be so bold, Sir,” the captain said, “I think you have made a lot of very good decisions so far, and under far more pressure than I am subjected to.”
“Thank you, Dick. Obviously, you do understand command and decision-making. How about if you and I trade places?”
“Not on your life, Mr. President,” the skipper laughed. “No offense, but I much prefer being a naval officer to a politician.”
Wallace turned to the skipper. “Now, be honest, Captain. I should think that to achieve a rank that requires the advice and consent of the Senate of the United States would naturally involve no small political skill.”
“Touché, Mr. President. Perhaps it because I have become part of the culture of the navy that I am comfortable with it. Trying to survive in Washington frankly frightens me.”
“I worried about that when I left Pioneer to be active in politics. I discovered that politics is the same in government as it is business. I believe you would find it the same.”
The skipper nodded, Wallace could see the white hat nodding in the dark. “Perhaps you are right, Sir. However, I will likely have to wait the better part of a decade to find out, if we have been told about the war is true.”
Now it was the president’s turn to nod. “I am told by armed forces leadership that this war with Japan could easily last until 1953 or 54. Our job is to do anything humanly possible to bring the war to a conclusion sooner.”
The captain studied Wallace for a few moments. “The British fleet,” he said, simply.
“Correct Captain. I made a mistake in my harsh treatment of Churchill back in the spring. We badly need their help. And I expect to anger the prime minister once again by forcing him to sign a treaty with the Germans.”
“There is something to be said for pragmatism,” the skipper said.
“That’s right. Sometimes you have to step outside of the flow of history and dispassionately force events that will benefit your country in the decades ahead, and help the world as well.”
“What would have happened if the Germans had declared war on us after Pearl Harbor?”
“You are not a fool, Captain. You tell me.”
“Oh, I think we would eventually have beat the Germans. Just like the eventual outcome of the war with Japan is not really in doubt. We’re going to cover the Japs in steel.”
“I agree,” the president said. “However, the Japanese have done better than anyone would have expected. We have a long row to hoe.”
“And there is the pilot boat,” the skipper said.
“Captain,” Wallace said, “thank you for the conversation. I enjoyed it. If you will permit me to get out of your way, I believe you have to dock the ship.”
The two men shook hands. “Mr. President, the honor was mine.”
President Wallace returned to the cabin he had occupied during the trip. Since they were docking sometime after midnight, he planned to sleep aboard the Savannah and travel to the meeting the next morning. Captain Nixon moved onto the bridge to double check the executive officer’s arrangements for receiving the harbor pilot.
§ § §
September 20, 1942; 11 PM
Waterfront
Lisbon, Portugal
Colin Axelrod grabbed the sea bags as the men tossed them from the decrepit fishing boat to the wharf. He swung them around to Otto Kuttner, who stacked them on a hand truck. Axelrod stopped and stared out over the water. After a moment Kuttner moved over next to him.
“What is it, lad?”
“See the warship coming into the harbor over there?” he pointed.
“What of it?”
“That’s an American cruiser, I’d bet my morning kippers. Likely the American president is aboard.”
“So, it is,” Axelrod said.
“Anything we have to worry about, Guv?”
“No, Lad. That will be somebody else’s problem. I hope.”
Now that Kuttner had called attention to the ship, Axelrod continued to stare. His worry was that when their civilian masters tried to help plan the party, things got over-complicated. This operation was a full cat’s cradle of tangled skeins. Projects of the like invariably came to a very bad end. But, as he told his lieutenant, he hoped it was somebody else’s problem.
They finished unloading from the trawler, and it eased away from the wharf. They had chartered the boat for this part of the operation, and its captain’s job was now to lose himself in the harbor traffic and count his generous stipend for the evening’s work.
One of the men slipped away from the group and made his way one of the warehouses. Outside sat a Citroën Type 23 closed lorry, with the key under the seat. It started instantly at the touch of the starter, and the driver brought it over to the gang plank. They quickly loaded the baggage and left the wharf. The team member who was driving had spent years in Lisbon prior to the war and knew it well.
The driver took them on a roundabout route into the Bairro Alto. Moving along the Rua Nova do Loureio they slowed to where a gate opened along the street. They were expected. The driver pulled the truck through the gate and the gate watcher rapidly closed it behind them.
Axelrod climbed out of the cab of the truck and walked over to his welcoming committee.
“Everything go well?” Lourenco Ribeiro asked.
“No problems,” Axelrod replied. “How are things on this end?”
“We are clean, so far,” Ribeiro replied. “Our contact with the PVDE says they are unaware of our activities.”
“I certainly hope that is the case,” Axelrod said. “Our previous activities in this town didn’t exactly cover the home team in glory.”
“That wasn’t us, Colin,” Ribeiro said. “Those clowns from Six do not have the sense to come in out of the rain.”
“I understand. Just so we all recognize how badly things can go wrong. The plan is overly complicated as is. We do not need anyone performing extemporaneously.”
Ribeiro folded his hands and bowed slightly. “That is my fervent wish. You will have my complete cooperation on that score.”
“Have we been in contact with Mimir?”
“Only that things were going according to plan.”
“At least they seem to know what they’re doing,” Axelrod commented.
“And that makes me nervous, Lourenco. Someone exhibiting that level of competence doesn’t need us.”
“The boss seems to trust them.”
Axelrod shrugged, as though he did not believe it. “Nevertheless, let’s get the lads unloaded, fed and bedded. I suspect things will begin to get very busy after daybreak today.”
“Indeed, my friend. At any rate, I am delighted you have arrived safely.”
“Let’s hope we are as happy at the conclusion of this project.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
September 21, 1942; 8 AM
American Embassy
Lisbon, Portugal
Everything about the embassy seemed second rate to Misty Simpson. The building itself was old and smelled musty. The guest room she was assigned was dusty, and the linens were dirty. The breakfast table, where she sat, presented only a mediocre meal. The eggs were cold, the bacon was soggy, and the toast slightly lighter than charcoal. Only the coffee was decent.
“May I join you this morning, Miss Simpson?”
She looked up at Ralph Fennes, who had quietly slipped into the small dining
room. The small, thin man wore his black hair slicked back and looked older than his twenty-five years.
“Sure, Ralphie, pull up a chair.”
He frowned at the nickname but said nothing as he pulled out the chair across from her and sat down. The steward slid a plate in front of him, and he grimaced at the food.
“I wish the ambassador would practice a little MBWA here. This food is barely edible.”
She was forced to agree. “I was a little unimpressed by the quality. And, where is the ambassador, by the way?”
“Oh, he spends his days sitting in the easy chair in his apartments. In my conversations with him, he seems to know what he’s doing, but he lacks any sense of urgency.”
“That sounds like a contradiction.”
Fennes took a bite of the eggs and shuddered. “Oh, hell. Looks like a coffee breakfast. Again. Yes, the ambassador seems to know what’s going on and gives good directives. But, nobody ever sees him.”
She cocked her head as she studied the embassy official. “What is MBWA?”
“Management By Walking Around. He never looks at anything, and most of the staff do not care about doing a good job.”
“Are you certain you can do better?” she asked.
He swore again. “No. I’m the second secretary, and I got delegated to represent the embassy at the peace conference. I am so far out of my depth I cannot see the surface of the water. On top of that, there are people in DC who have their knives out for Director Donovan, and they are poking around concerning operations here in Lisbon.”
“So, you are the OSS Station Chief here?” she asked.
He stared at her in shock. “The marine sergeant here, who knows everything, told me you were the Berlin Station Chief. I suppose I have now really gone and stuck myself into a wall socket.”
She decided that for a young man, he sure swore a lot. She also concluded that she rather liked him.
“May I assume you are the Lisbon Station Chief?”
“Yes,” he said disgustedly. “I somehow have never learned how to keep my mouth shut. And the other embassy personnel don’t help much.”
“I have much the same problem in Berlin,” she said. “The new ambassador is a complete idiot, but always seems to land right-side up, every time. It’s terrifying.”
“I can take it you are the Berlin Station Chief?”
She nodded, her eyes laughing. “Director Donovan told me to meet with you after my arrival.”
He looked relieved. “Thank God I didn’t screw that one up. Okay, I am required to be at the meetings. Is that case for you as well?”
She nodded. “For whatever the reasons, Ambassador Smoke could not attend, so he sent me. I really did not mind, since it was an opportunity to get out of Berlin for a while.”
“You may live to regret that,” he said with an evil smile. “You haven’t helped out at one of these events before, have you?”
“No, I have not,” she said. “Tell me what I am missing.”
“If you have eaten all of that you can manage, we should leave now for the hotel. There’s a coffee shop on the way that makes a decent breakfast.”
“Deal.” She stood up. “Let me go get my things.”
She nodded to the marine guards as they walked out of the embassy. “The Marines are what keep these places functioning,”
“Don’t I know it,” he replied, as they stepped around the Lisboetas, going about their Monday morning business. “Sergeant Clowny has pulled my chestnuts from the fire any number of times.”
“I sometimes wonder about the loyalty of most of the diplomatic staff,” she commented.
“Oh, I don’t wonder at all. Their own skin has first priority, and the State Department comes a distant second. Somewhere in there, if they happen to think about it, is the United States of America.”
“And we know which flag the Marines salute.”
He laughed. “That is the truth. If you don’t think so, get up early and go watch them put the flag up in the morning. Old Glory is front and center in their hearts. Even jaded as I am, it brings tears to my eyes.”
Fennes continued at a brisk pace, and Misty had to almost trot to keep up with him. She noticed he seemed to bustle everywhere he went.
“You said something about a coffee shop?” she asked, somewhat breathlessly.
“Oh, yes. Between the meetings today and the reception tonight, we probably will not get to eat again until midnight. How’s your expense account?”
“Oh, when Smoke yells about something, I move it over to the black account. Or, I pay for it myself. I don’t have time to mess with the accountants.”
“Or the patience.”
“Or that,” she agreed.
He led her into a small cafe, and the proprietor plainly recognized Fennes. They jabbered at each other in Portuguese, and then he led them to a table in the back.
“I wish I knew how to talk here,” she said.
“Do you speak German?” he asked.
“I do pretty well in German. Being immersed in it helps. I’ve started dreaming in German.”
He chuckled. “They say that is when you are truly becoming bilingual you start dreaming in the language. My pop runs an import business in Baltimore, and I think I spent about half my summers here. He wouldn’t let me speak English when we were on this side of the pond. It forced me to learn the patois.”
“You didn’t seem to have any trouble when we came in here.”
“Oh, Fonsey and I used to play together when we were growing up.”
“Fonsey?” she repeated.
“Alphonse Hiebert. His pop owned this place and left it to him.”
“Is there a menu?” she asked.
“I just told him we wanted an early lunch. Normal breakfast here is just coffee and toast. We will need something heavier. It’ll be fine. You’ll see.”
Two cups of coffee materialized on the table, along with a plate of toast.
“Is he the cook, too?” she asked.
“Just in the mornings, usually,” Fennes replied. “Georg comes in for the lunch business and stays into the evening. Georg is the chef. He is Fonsey’s brother.”
“So, we won’t have time to eat during the day?” she asked.
“Oh, they’ll make sure to feed the dignitaries,” he said with a smile. “Nobody pays attention to the small fry like us. So, where are you from?”
And the conversation continued at the table. A little later, Fonsey slid a platter in front of each of them. It held a piece of grilled cod, rice and potatoes with cheese.
“I don’t know that I’ll be able to finish this,” she said.
“Eat as much as you can. You’ll be glad you did.”
“Thanks for the advice. Gordie Smoke seems to wait for me to fall on my face, so he can ridicule me.”
“Sounds like he is not a very nice man,” Fennes commented.
“To be honest, I probably bring out the worst in him. I can’t resist puncturing his self-importance.”
“People tend not to like that,” he said.
“For sure. And, tell me, what is your job today?”
Fennes rolled his eyes. “The ambassador told me to make sure President Wallace has everything he needs.”
“And the ambassador is not going be here himself?” she asked.
“It doesn’t sound like it.”
“That can’t help but make you look good,” she said.
“That is if I don’t step on the old crank,” he replied. “As I said, the knives are out in Washington for the OSS. I really do not want to do something that calls attention to my relative lack of talent.”
“How about if I issue you corrective instructions if I see you beginning to wander off course?” she offered.
“I think I might manage on my own,” he replied dryly. “Not that the offer isn’t appreciated.”
She worked her way through her breakfast, or early lunch.
“This is very good,” she said.
“Yes. Fonsey does a great job here. He told me that if I ever wanted to move here, he would offer me a job.”
“Could you picture yourself as a restauranteur?” she grinned.
“No, but I would never have pictured myself in the diplomatic world, either. Or whatever.”
“Right. What else can I expect today?”
“Oh, you and I will meet the president. As it happens, none of the American ambassadors will be here for the meeting.”
“Why is that, Ralph?” she asked.
He shook his head. “There seems to be a general disapproval of our president around Foggy Bottom. The ambassadors are quick to pick up cues from what happens in Washington.”
“So, Secretary Hull does not approve of the president?” Misty asked.
“I wouldn’t say that. Hull has taken pains to remain very loyal to President Wallace.”
“So why doesn’t the rest of State like him?”
He shook his head. “I think it’s mostly because he slid into office on Roosevelt’s coattails. He was a Republican when he was appointed to the cabinet. The Republicans have never forgiven him for that sort of turncoat activity. Then he naturally switched to the Democratic Party, I think at Roosevelt’s urging. He and Roosevelt were close. So, the Democrats did not like him because he was not one of us.” Fennes held up his fingers to simulate quote marks.
“Sort of not making anybody happy,” she commented.
“That’s it exactly. Personally, I think some heads are going to roll after this conference. One simply does not snub one’s president that way.”
“Seems a bit shortsighted to me.”
“Exactly,” he agreed. “Pop was a dyed in the wool Republican. I guess I’m that way, too. But, it never pays to show that kind of disrespect. Henry Wallace is our president for God’s sake. I’m excited about meeting him.”
“Now that you mention it, so am I.”
Fennes glanced at his watch. “We should probably make our way to the hotel. I have the feeling that I am going to have to pay close attention this morning. State is responsible for arranging this conference. If things go south, there will be hell to pay. Between you and me, I would like to come out of this looking like Cordell Hull’s fair-haired child.”
