by Jeff Shaara
He ran his gaze over the desk, stacked high with folders, papers, all manner of documents. So, is this what age has to done to you? You push papers? Not much charm to that.
He glanced at his watch, saw it was nearly two P.M. He tried to clear a space on the desk, thinking he should appear organized. He heard one of his assistants pounding on a typewriter, and Hull glanced at his watch again, thought, Will he be late? Not like a navy man. Or perhaps it is. The only navy man I can predict is the president, and I’m awful at that.
He heard a voice, the clack of the typewriter quiet. Hull tried to look busy, saw the young man now at the door of his office.
“Excuse me, Mr. Secretary. The chief of naval operations is here, Admiral Stark.”
“Send him in.”
Stark was there quickly, standing at attention with his usual smile. He wore the dress blue uniform, unusual in the summer’s heat, offering Hull the impression that this meeting was some kind of singular honor for Stark. Hull felt he should stand, not sure why, and he pointed to the plush leather chair to the left of his desk.
“By all means, Admiral, let’s not make this a dress ball. They put these soft chairs in here for a reason.”
“Thank you, Mr. Secretary. This is the first time I’ve been in this office. Extremely impressive. Your view across the Mall is enviable. I rather admire President Jackson, and your portrait of him is a wonderful likeness. Magnificent fireplace too. I imagine in the winter, this becomes a most inviting place to be.”
“I hope not. Shorter conferences are generally the best kind.”
Stark kept the smile, and Hull tried to read him, admired the shock of wavy white hair over wire-rim glasses: a man who looked less like an admiral and more like a friendly bank president. Hull guessed him to be about sixty. He still wore the odd smile, but Stark’s silent pleasantness was becoming tedious.
“So, Admiral, you asked to see me. What might we discuss?”
Stark raised a hand. “Ah, yes. Mr. Secretary, I am not sure if you are aware, but you and I have been on the same side of an argument that we seem to have lost. I refer of course to the transfer of a portion of our fleet from Hawaii to the Atlantic theater. I know that you made significant arguments to the president, as did Secretary Stimson. The secretary had assumed I would cast my vote with him, so to speak, but after considerable thought, I concluded that the fleet should remain strong right where it is. Or, was.”
Hull had endured these discussions, knew that Stimson’s aggressiveness would almost always prevail with Roosevelt. “I was not aware that the decision had been made. I am not usually briefed on matters within the War Department. I was also not aware of your position on the matter, Admiral.”
Stark lost the smile for a moment. “Are you acquainted with Admiral Kimmel?”
“Only in passing.”
“Mr. Secretary, the admiral is a good friend of mine. He is also a great believer in the strength of our navy, which is one reason the president chose him to be commander in chief, Pacific Fleet. He and I have had considerable correspondence about the reduction of his fleet, and the implications of that action.”
“So, how badly have they weakened the Pacific fleet?”
“Blunt. Good—no need to waltz around the matter. Three battleships, one carrier, four light cruisers, seventeen destroyers, and assorted noncombat vessels.”
Hull absorbed the numbers, said, “That sounds like a fleet all by itself.”
“Well put.”
There was a pause between them, and Hull said, “Why exactly are you bringing this to me, Admiral? This is your area, and you answer to Secretary Knox and Secretary Stimson. I suppose you know that.”
“Sir, you are more familiar with the Japanese mind than anyone in this city. You speak to their principals directly, you are privy to their press releases, you directly supervise Ambassador Grew. Do you believe the Japanese are sincere in what they say? Can they be trusted?”
It was an odd question, and Hull said, “Is it not your job, sir, along with Admiral Kimmel and everyone else in that uniform, to be prepared in any event? My job is to reach agreements, to breach differences, to find a common solution to a problem. Your job is to provide the security that allows me to do all of that. When I meet with diplomats from any of the Axis countries, they appear to be looking me in the eye. But in fact, I know them to be looking over my shoulder at the strength of our armed forces. My bargaining position, if I can use that term, comes directly from the strength that you command.
“My one fear, which I expressed to the president, is that by reducing the fleet in Hawaii, we have sent a signal to the Japanese that we are not as prepared to meet their threats as we once were. The counterargument, which Secretary Stimson voiced so forcefully, is that beefing up our might in the Atlantic sends a strong message to the Germans that we are willing to commit ourselves to meet their threats.”
Stark smiled again. “You are indeed a diplomat, sir. You lay plain both sides of the argument.”
“Admiral, there is nothing ‘plain’ about what is going to happen in the Pacific. All we can say for certain is what the Japanese have already done, not what they are going to do.”
“Perhaps. To that end, I have summoned Admiral Kimmel to Washington. He is in transit, and will arrive here tomorrow. Naturally, reducing his fleet did not go down smoothly with the admiral’s command. You are aware, certainly, of what resulted when Admiral Richardson voiced his displeasure at the orders coming from my office and others. As I said, Admiral Kimmel is a friend. I’m hoping to calm his concerns, and perhaps have him meet with the president himself. Perhaps then the admiral will realize that reducing the Pacific fleet is in the best interests of us all.”
“Even though you don’t agree with that.”
Stark looked down. “It’s the president’s show, Mr. Secretary. I’m hoping that by bringing him here, Admiral Kimmel may be convinced of that. I do not wish to see him end up like his predecessor. As I said, sir, he is my friend.”
WASHINGTON, D.C.—SATURDAY, JUNE 21, 1941
Hull occasionally had brief morning meetings at the White House while the president was still in bed. He wasn’t sure how often Roosevelt allowed that kind of personal interaction, but Hull took it as a compliment. And, if Roosevelt nodded off in the midst of any discussion, Hull took no offense. The man was, after all, in bed.
“Admiral Kimmel’s a pistol. Not as abrasive as Richardson, but he speaks his mind.” Roosevelt paused, lit a cigarette. “I don’t think he cares a whole lot for me. He came here expecting me to disregard all the decisions that have already been made, and do everything his way. But he didn’t swear at me, like Richardson did. And when I told him it was done, that was that. He took his medicine, and is headed back to Hawaii.”
Hull pointed to the lit cigarette, resting now in an ashtray beside Roosevelt. “Is that the best idea?”
Roosevelt seemed to notice the cigarette for the first time. “You sound like Eleanor. She’ll give me hell for that. She gives me hell for most everything else. Things get a little touchy around here, I just pull the sheets up. Very convenient.”
Hull could feel Roosevelt’s mood, a strange buoyancy, as though all was right in his world. There had been a considerable outpouring of support for the president’s fireside chat on May 27, a lengthy dose of reality aimed at isolationists in Congress, who continued to resist the necessity of aid to Britain. Hull had participated in the authorship of the speech, and had received his fair share of praise. But Hull was keenly aware, even if few others paid attention, that the entire address was focused on Germany, emphasizing to the American people, and the world, the dangers that Hitler and his military portended for the western hemisphere. Japan had not been mentioned.
As Roosevelt snuffed out the cigarette, Hull said, “I wonder if you should prepare a fireside chat that addresses our problems and possible th
reats in the Pacific.”
“What threats?”
Hull wondered suddenly if he was on a fragile piece of ground. “The Japanese threat.”
Roosevelt waved at him. “Yes, yes, I’ve heard all of that. Admiral Kimmel made all kinds of pronouncements to me about the great threat we face in the Philippines. But will you please tell me just how anything out there compares to what we will face in the Atlantic if Hitler invades England? Ask Churchill, he’ll tell you straightaway. The Germans have run over every country they’ve attacked. No one has been able to fight them off. Hell, when France went, we should have realized just how much worse it would get. You look at the countries Hitler’s military has conquered, it looks like one of those old maps of the Roman Empire, for Christ’s sake. Except for one difference: He hasn’t taken England. You know damn well how important that is, how much is at stake.”
Hull rubbed his chin, nodded slowly. “I know. But the Japanese are sure to occupy all of Indo-China, all of the Dutch East Indies, and they’ll likely hit us in the Philippines along the way. I’m no military strategist, but I’m fairly sure they won’t let our people there just sit on their flank.”
Roosevelt smiled. “Oh, you strategize just fine. But I’m ahead of you. Sometime next month, we’re appointing a new commander in the Philippines, Doug MacArthur. General Marshall has already planned to transfer a flock of B-17s out that way as well. The Japanese won’t dare come near us.”
Hull looked down, both hands on his knees, thought of Admiral Stark. Not everyone agrees.
Roosevelt said, “Look. I know there’s bitching about the fleet in Hawaii. I heard it straight from Admiral Kimmel, and half the other admirals around here. But the fact is, we have to stand up tall in the Atlantic. It’s not like I stripped Hawaii bare. They’ve got eight battleships still, and I promised Kimmel he’d get the next two off the line, the North Carolina and the Washington. They should be seaworthy in a few months. You just keep doing what you’re doing. I’ve pretty well handed you most of the responsibility for any dealings we have with Japan. We’ve got a lot more eyes on Europe. It just has to be that way.”
THE CARLTON HOTEL, WASHINGTON, D.C.—FRIDAY, JUNE 27, 1941
He unbuttoned the white shirt, saw the stain before she did. But there was no place to hide.
“You did it again, didn’t you? How many times? How many shirts are you going to ruin?”
He looked at the red blotch on the shirt pocket. “It usually washes out, doesn’t it?”
She looked at him with arms crossed, her head tilted slightly. “It never comes out. We just buy you new shirts. We should get them by the crate, instead of wasting so much money at the Men’s Shop.”
Hull stared at the stain. “Might be a good idea. I’d go through a pile of them before you noticed.”
It was the usual scolding, what they both were used to. Hull could never break the habit of sliding red grease pencils into his shirt pocket. The pencils were his own affectation, what he used to edit the documents that came across his desk.
“You know, at least they’re not pens. That would be worse. I think.”
“Yes, then you’d ruin your jackets too. Honestly. Give me the shirt. I’ll try yet again to get it out. I assume you still have shirts to wear.”
He smiled, handed her the shirt. “I have plenty. I wouldn’t dare run out.”
He heard a knock at the door in the next room. Frances said, “Who on earth could that be?”
“Somebody who needs to see me, no doubt. I sent everybody home too early.”
He moved into the front room, pulled open the door. The man was young, wide-eyed, obviously surprised that the secretary of state would open his own door.
“Sir. Oh. Sir, I have a message for you from the White House. I was told it was most urgent.”
He took the sealed envelope from the young man, who seemed relieved to have completed his mission.
“Thank you, young man. You may leave.”
The man moved down the hallway with quick steps, and Hull saw the presidential seal on the envelope, nothing else. Frances was waiting for him in the office, said, “The president?”
Hull turned the envelope over in his hand. “Yes, I assume. Unusual. There’s no Eyes Only mark. Maybe they were in a hurry to get this over here.”
“Well, open it. I have things to do, like cleaning your shirt.”
He pulled a letter opener from a drawer on the desk, slid it through the flap. He saw several paragraphs, read slowly. His hand began to shake just slightly, a slow boil of anger. She waited a few seconds, then said, “What has happened? Is it the president? Is he all right?”
He knew Frances could read him well, but this time she was wrong. He shook his head. “The president is fine. The White House is passing along a bulletin from the United Press in Berlin. It’s the Germans.” He paused, tried to take a breath. “They have invaded Russia.”
“Cordell, I’m not sure what this means.”
He looked at her, then moved closer, put his hands on her shoulders. “It means, my love, that everything has changed. The entire world has just become a different place, and perhaps, a much more dangerous one.”
THE CARLTON HOTEL, WASHINGTON, D.C.—SATURDAY, JUNE 28, 1941
Hull was in the worst foul mood he had experienced in a very long time. He sat across from Ambassador Nomura, avoided looking at him, fought to control the anger he couldn’t ignore. Nomura had been escorted into Hull’s comfortable space, but Hull made no effort to rise, offered no handshake, indulged in none of the pleasant formalities of diplomats. Nomura had made his customary bow, had waited for the invitation to sit, Hull responding by pointing to the sofa, no other sound. There was silence for a long minute, and he could sense Nomura fidgeting. He looked at him now, a cold stare, fought to keep his voice low.
“I am not inclined to offer platitudes, nor am I interested in any pleasant discussions about world events. Yesterday, Germany sent one hundred fifty army divisions—approximately three million men—and thousands of armored vehicles, and crossed the border into the Soviet Union. Three million men. A military operation this size would have been planned over a period of months. Japan has an alliance with Germany. You are partners, friends. Exactly how do you expect the United States government to react to this, to Japan’s certain involvement in this outrage against the Russian people?”
He had run out of breath, waited for a response, could see that Nomura was actually sweating. Nomura avoided his eyes and kept his head down. He said, “Mr. Secretary, please accept my most solemn promise that I had no knowledge of the German action until last night, when I heard it on the radio news. If my government is a participant in this action by the Germans, I was not made aware.”
“ ‘Action’? That’s how you are describing this? It is an invasion. As we speak, men are dying as they try to defend their country.”
Nomura looked down again, nodded. “Yes. Invasion. But I know of no one in my government who had a hand in this…invasion. We have no other desire in our hemisphere than to promote peace. We have no aggressive goals toward the United States.”
Hull focused on Nomura’s demeanor, what seemed to be genuine sadness. The thought burst into his mind, Good God, he believes he’s telling the truth.
Hull said, “Well, then, Mr. Ambassador, what will you do now, in the name of peace? Will you talk to your foreign minister in Tokyo, ask a few questions? Will you come back to me with some sort of meaningless apology? Will you describe what the Germans are doing the way you describe what you are doing in China? And, since your ally has now chosen to make war with the Russians, will you do the same? Is Vladivostok your next target? Surely, that would please Hitler. You can roll Russia up between you, share the spoils. Is that not the game being played here?”
Nomura let out a breath, seemed willing to accept Hull’s anger. “Sir, I will speak
with my foreign minister, and I will carry out his instructions. That is my job, is it not?”
Hull couldn’t keep up his anger toward Nomura. All he saw now was a man with wounded honor. He is a decent man, Hull thought, working for an indecent government. But he will do what he must. He will do his job, while his government tells him only what it wishes him to know. And I must pretend that I believe him.
FIFTEEN
Yamamoto
YOKOSUKA HARBOR, TOKYO, JAPAN—WEDNESDAY, JUNE 25, 1941
He had thought of inviting Hori onboard the Nagato, his friend visiting often when the ship berthed close to Tokyo. Yamamoto was nursing a boiling fury, and couldn’t just sit in his wardroom, couldn’t abide the confines of his quarters. At first, he had paced the wide teak decks, the crew knowing to keep their distance, the scowl on his face telling them just how much space they should give him. Now, Yamamoto felt only like leaving the ship, taking a walk on grass, and screaming out loud at his friend, a man who would understand his temper.
The launch had deposited him on the pier, Yamamoto in civilian clothes. He did not look back at the great gray beast, ignored the low roar of the launch as it pulled away. He stepped up away from the water, saw the wide swath of green, a beautiful park where he had walked with Chiyoko many times. But she would not be here, not today. He did not want her to hear him so angry.
“Iso! Over here.”
He was relieved to hear Hori’s voice, saw him now, offering a cheerful wave. Yamamoto moved that way, enormously grateful to have a confidant, someone who would listen to his ranting without reporting him to those who would send him to prison.
“Thank you, my friend.”
“For what? You asked me to meet you. I’m here.”
“Let’s move farther away from the water.”
They walked silently, Hori waiting for whatever Yamamoto wanted to say. Yamamoto stopped now, turned to him, a glance past him, cautious of any listeners.
