by Lee Jackson
Then he gestured toward his aide. “With that film’s wide distribution, it ought to make its way to the führer and get his goat. He’s the target audience.”
“He’s already riled up,” Donovan observed. “This should be the finishing touch, Mr. President. I’m betting that we get our further postponement of Barbarossa.”
Roosevelt gazed studiously at Donovan. “All right, Big Bill, let’s get this done. You know the press is not fond of you lately. They won’t like the elevation of your image that comes from my high praise and being seen on the stage with me.”
Donovan laughed. “Are you kidding, sir? They love me. They just think I’m a clown.”
The Blue Room, on the first floor of the White House, site of the only wedding of a president ever held there when Grover Cleveland married Frances Folsom in 1886, was oval-shaped and usually decorated in blues and whites. Customarily, it functioned as a room for receptions and receiving lines or occasional small dinners for state visitors or special guests of the White House.
A platform and podium had been erected at the end of the room near the windows with a ramp to accommodate the president’s wheelchair. Most people knew of his affliction with polio, but the press treated news coverage of the three-term president such that the sight of him being pushed around did not dominate public reports.
Paul had entered the White House with some sense of wonder at its history and current position on the world stage, recalling Donovan’s remarks about the British having burned it down. He watched as Roosevelt wheeled himself in, and then an aide pushed him into position behind the podium. Special shades, reflectors, and lights had been set up to cast the president and Donovan at their best.
Then, crew members took their positions, a director gave instructions, cameras whirred, and the president spoke. After introductory remarks, he said, “I sent my communications coordinator, General William Donovan, to the battlefront to review for me the state of the war and the attitudes and capabilities of Britain and her great people to weather this dark storm that settled on them. I wanted to know if they could turn it and emerge from it intact. He traveled the battlefronts, visited defensive positions, consulted with foreign leaders, and reported back to me. Concerning his odyssey, I am most happy to share remarks from my good friend, the Prime Minister of Great Britain.” He held up a sheet of paper and read, ‘Thank you for the magnificent work done by Donovan in the Balkans.’”
The president put the paper down and looked into the camera. “It was dangerous work, sensitive work, and work that was necessary if the United States is to proceed with wisdom during this time that the world is consumed in conflict. I asked him to share his perceptions with the American people, and so he will now report to you what he revealed to me. After he speaks, I’ll deliver some remaining comments.”
As the president was wheeled to a position behind the cameras where he could watch, Donovan took to the podium and waited for the director to signal him to speak. Paul and Stephenson watched from one side.
“I have been given an opportunity to study at first hand,” the general began, “these great battles going on in the Atlantic, and in the Mediterranean, in Africa, in Greece, and in Albania. I have been able to form my conclusions on the basis of full information. These conclusions I will submit to my country for its use in furtherance of our national defense, an essential part of which is our policy of aid to Great Britain.
“We have no choice as to whether or not we will be attacked. That choice is Hitler’s, and he has already made it, not for Europe alone, but for Africa, Asia, and the world. Our only choice is to decide whether or not we will resist it. And to choose in time, while resistance is still possible, while others are still able to stand with us.
“Let us keep this in mind—Germany is a formidable, a resourceful, and a ruthless foe. Do not underrate her. If we do—we deceive ourselves. Her victories have brought her new military and industrial strength. She got the jump at the start of the war and has kept it; but not yet has she made a full test. And until this test comes, it is better not to overrate her. But her greatest gains have been made through fear. Fear of the might of her war machine. So, she has played upon that fear, and her recent diplomatic victories are the product.
“But we must remember that there is a moral force in wars, that in the long run is stronger than any machine. And I say to you, my fellow citizens, all that Mr. Churchill has told you on the resolution and determination and valor and confidence of his people is true.”
Paul listened, awestruck at Donovan’s presence, and at the same words he had read the previous evening and discounted, which now in this setting seemed profound. He sensed for the first time that his own place in the great struggle might have significance. Only weeks ago in a royal palace, this same general had feigned public drunkenness as a means of advancing US national security interests; the results, some of which remained to be seen, were astoundingly successful.
The attack on their Humber along the coast road in Greece came to mind, when Paul had helped down from the overturned vehicle this same man who had just hurled a message that at once defied a tyrant and cast hope to a war-weary world. And he had struck terror in the heart of Prince Regent Paul so gently and smoothly.
As he descended from the podium, Donovan saw Paul eyeing him. “What? Did I mess up?” he whispered as they watched the president wheeled once more to the podium.
“No, sir,” Paul replied, keeping his sense of wonder under tight control. “But may I say what a privilege it is to work with you.”
Donovan grinned at him. “Don’t go brown-nosin’ me now that I’m a film star. You already chewed me out once.” He tapped his head. “And I’ve got a long memory.” He pointed toward the podium. “The president is ready to speak again.”
“Thank you, General Donovan,” Roosevelt said into his microphone while making eye contact with the general, “that was an excellent report.” He turned to look into the camera. “As we can see, America, we face a dangerous situation, and we cannot much longer simply remain on the sidelines and hope. Our own security is imperiled. Therefore, I have also ordered that US Navy warships will protect British supply ships sailing into the European theater from Greenland, Newfoundland, and the West Indies, and of course along the American coasts. I further proclaim that the Red Sea and the Persian Gulf are no longer combat zones from which American ships can be excluded under our Neutrality Act. Having taken those decisions and issued those orders, let me emphasize that we seek war with no one. These new measures are defensive, but the nations of the world should take note that America will defend itself and its assets from any danger.”
After the president had finished speaking and descended from the dais, he wheeled himself to Donovan and Paul accompanied by Stephenson. “That was a statesman’s delivery,” he remarked with enthusiasm to Donovan.
“I think America’s enemies will take note of your strong action,” the general replied, “and our friends will take heart.”
Roosevelt turned to Stephenson. “And we have you to thank for suggesting that I take those actions. I had our legal beagles check out their lawfulness, and they assured me that under the Neutrality Act and given the circumstances, they are perfectly legal.” He thrust an unlit cigar in his mouth and fumbled for his lighter. Then he grinned at Stephenson. “And what with all that’s going on in Yugoslavia and Greece, the timing to announce our actions could not have been better.” He lit his cigar and looked at Stephenson again with a querying expression. “What say you? How soon do you think Herr Adolf will see our film?”
“Why sir,” Stephenson replied, the corners of his mouth turning up slightly, “I believe he’ll be watching it by this time tomorrow.”
47
March 27, 1941
Bletchley Park, England
“Sir, you asked me to expedite reports of significant events.”
Commander Denniston removed his glasses as Claire proceeded into his office and took her seat. “Yes, Mi
ss Littlefield. What is it?”
“Major things are happening in Belgrade,” she began. “Five days ago, as you must know, Hitler pointed out to Prince Regent Paul that Hungary, Bulgaria, and Romania had already aligned with his Axis powers under the Tripartite Pact, and he issued an ultimatum. Essentially, the regent was told to surrender his army, or Germany would invade. The regent set up conferences to meet Hitler’s demands. Several high-level air force officers objected to capitulation. They’ve just staged a coup under the leadership of Yugoslav Air Force chief, General Dusan Simovic. They intend to declare that King Peter II has reached legal age and install him as the national leader today.”
Denniston nodded. “That was done with British help. I’m glad you’re tracking. I’ll get word up that the coup has taken place, although that might already have been reported through operational channels. Have you heard any reaction from Berlin?”
Claire arched her eyebrows. “We’re hearing volumes. Hitler is throwing temper tantrums. He’s also very upset about Britain’s expedition into Greece on the east coast.”
“As well he should, seeing his plans unravel. Anything from the Bulgarians?”
“The Wehrmacht is moving its 12th Army along the Greco-Bulgarian border in the Thrace region where it meets with Turkey’s boundary. Hitler warned the Turks that he’ll invade their country if it interferes with his plans in Greece.”
Claire suddenly chuckled. “Stop me, sir, if I’m telling you things you already know.”
“Of course, but too often what I get are reports with bare facts, and even analysis that doesn’t pull the pieces together in a coherent picture. You’re doing a great job. Are you seeing any signs that Hitler will invade Greece? Surely by now, he must’ve figured out that he’ll only weaken his own forces allocated to go into the Soviet Union.”
“He seems to be acting out of pure rage now. He takes what’s going on in Yugoslavia as a personal affront, that he’s being defied, but he hasn’t yet seen British fingerprints on events there.
“Of course, he’s already angry with us in the Greece-Bulgaria situation, but our part there is overt with our expeditionary force to reinforce the Greeks.” She chuckled again. “On a personal note, sir, it’s nice to imagine him raging because things are not going his way for a change.”
Denniston laughed. “Yes, it is. All right, Miss Littlefield. Good report. I’ll take your perspective higher.” He rose from his seat and crossed the room to a radio. “Let’s see if the BBC has picked up on the coup in Belgrade.”
The radio squealed and squawked as it warmed up. Then music played, commercial announcements ran, and an anchorman reported the news. “To repeat an earlier story,” he said, “Prince Regent Paul of Yugoslavia was removed from office today by air force officers staging a coup. BBC was informed that this action comes in the aftermath of an ultimatum delivered to the regent by Chancellor Adolf Hitler of Germany, demanding that the Yugoslavian army surrender to him or face invasion. Only two days ago, the now deposed Prince Regent Paul signed the Axis Pact’s Tripartite Treaty. At the time, Alexander Cadogan, Britain’s Permanent Under-Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, stated, ‘Yugoslavs seem to have sold their souls to the Devil.’ Considering these new developments, Prime Minister Churchill issued a statement, as follows: ‘Yugoslavia has found its soul.’”
Denniston clicked off the radio. “So, there you have it. Yugoslavia shifts into our sphere. That’s enough to turn any Hun tyrant’s face red. Thank you for coming, Miss Littlefield. Now the things to watch for are Hitler’s military and political responses.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Claire said as she headed through the door.
48
April 6, 1941
Rockefeller Center, Manhattan, New York
Bill Stephenson appeared in the doorway of his office across from Paul’s desk and spoke urgently. “Come listen to this. It’s the BBC. They’re reporting live from Belgrade.”
Paul bolted from his chair and hurried into Stephenson’s office. The newsman had already begun his report:
“The bombing started early this morning, and the Nazis showed no mercy. Calling their action ‘Operation Retribution,’ their fighters strafed the streets, and their bombers dropped their deadly cargoes remorselessly. In a flash, centuries-old historic buildings were destroyed, including the royal palace. The National Library of Serbia is in flames, destroying hundreds of years of Serbian heritage. And when the raid was over, thousands lay dead in Belgrade’s city center—mothers, fathers, children, toddlers, babies.” The journalist’s voice caught. “The bullets see no one. They strike indiscriminately, and now grandparents lie dead next to each other, never having seen the danger that killed them.
“This is a dark day for Belgrade, for Yugoslavia, that will be remembered long into the country’s future. It will change the face of the city and the nature of the national culture that resulted because Yugoslavia dared to defy the man in Berlin. Time will tell how his gamble will be rewarded, but I know the Slavic people, and that population will not accept this savage slaughter of their families, friends, and neighbors without answering in full. Yugoslavia’s defiance in the face of overwhelming military might well spread a glow across those countries the German war machine devoured. No longer will the Nazis be perceived as all-powerful and indestructible. Adolf Hitler has sown the wind. He will reap the whirlwind.”
Stephenson clicked off the radio. Neither he nor Paul spoke at first, and then Stephenson said quietly, “The president has his Coventry.”
49
May 11, 1941
Bletchley Park, England
Claire stared at the note she had just received from Commander Denniston. It read, “Ms. Littlefield, please meet me in Hut 8 immediately. Urgent.”
She re-read it several times, and then, excusing herself from the team that handled analysis of decoded Wehrmacht and Luftwaffe messages in Hut 3, she hurried to meet with the commander. Barely four months had passed since she had joined the analysis group, and in the intervening weeks, she had seen little of him.
Hut 8, under the direction of a brilliant mathematician, Alan Turing, was where other cryptologists had spent months trying to break German naval codes, but the last Claire had heard, their best efforts had produced no breakthroughs. The group’s consensus was that an additional security element had been added to the sending and receiving ends of the Kriegsmarine’s Enigmas.
She entered the hut with some trepidation since Bletchley employees adhered to operational security by not visiting areas in which they were not specifically authorized, and she had never been cleared for the naval part of the facility. Gripping the note firmly in her hand, she entered the hut, a non-descript, rectangular, single-story building with a tin roof among a row of such buildings built at one side of the Bletchley mansion. Inside, wide tables filled the length of the hut with young people, mostly women, seated around them and engrossed in marking up papers piled before them or keying at decoding machines that looked much like typewriters.
The scene was virtually the same as in Hut 6 where Claire had, prior to her promotion, decoded Wehrmacht and Luftwaffe radio traffic, the main difference being that the effort in Hut 6 had produced much actionable intelligence, often of high value, and was labeled as “Ultra.” In Hut 8, although she observed the same level of diligence, what seemed to be missing was an air of confidence resulting from success. Yet as the door closed behind Claire and she looked across the studious heads, she noticed several women glancing at the far end of the room with expressions of anticipation, their bright eyes focused on a group of officials conferring there. Among them was Commander Denniston.
He spotted Claire and waved to her to join them. “We’ve had an intelligence coup,” he said after making introductions. “What I’m getting ready to tell you was classified by the Admiralty as top secret. Only those in this room and of course our higher-ups know it.
“One of our ships, the HMS Bulldog, captured an enemy submarine tw
o days ago, the U110. The German crew set scuttling charges that failed to detonate. So, the Bulldog sent over a boarding party, which brought back every document they could find. That was rather nervy considering that the explosives could have gone off at any time. But the Admiralty had sent out a letter instructing all ships to attempt to capture the encryption machine if the opportunity presented itself. And—”
His eyes went wide with excitement in his very gentlemanly British manner. “They succeeded. The crew of the Bulldog brought back an Enigma machine configured for Germany’s navy. It’s the missing link, so to speak, and now we have it.” Denniston almost emerged from professional reserve into glee. “They would have brought the U-boat in as well, but high waves flooded the vessel and sank it, so they had to cut the towing cable.”
Claire stared at him. “Are you saying that we can now decode and translate their navy’s intercepted messages as easily as we can the Wehrmacht’s and the Luftwaffe’s? That’s remarkable.”
“I think that’s the case, but the entire treasure trove is still on its way here. The ship will stop in Iceland. We’ve instructed them to photograph everything, and we’re sending up a team to bring back the whole lot including the machine. Here’s the thing—”
He interrupted himself and turned to the small group he had been conversing with. “You’re all up to snuff,” he told them. “Give me a few minutes to brief Miss Littlefield.”
He took her elbow and guided her to a corner of the room. “Something is brewing in the North Sea. The Norwegian Resistance and the Swedes both sent reports of sightings of the Bismarck skirting their coasts, and communications in the area have grown in volume. If that battleship is on the move, it must be heading to Bergen in Norway for provisioning, and then it’ll be setting out to the Atlantic.”
