The Wilson Deception

by David O. Stewart

  Fraser, not a particularly social animal, volunteered to represent the Medical Corps at the American Embassy’s party to welcome the president. He craved a closer look at Wilson. Grayson, supposedly a man of science, had described Wilson in terms suitable to a messiah, if not a supernatural being. On the Place de la Concorde, Fraser had responded ecstatically to the president’s arrival. Somehow events had placed Wilson at the center of the world’s hopes. It was impossible not to be curious about him.

  Entering the main reception hall, Fraser didn’t experience the vague disquiet and awkwardness that most formal affairs brought on for him. His army uniform was entirely acceptable, even without a riot of medals on his chest or a shiny sash of office. He accepted a glass of champagne from a waiter and enjoyed its fizzy amiability.

  He exchanged small nods with other military men in the room. None of them, he assumed, had faced enemy gunfire or gone over the top in one of the mad rushes on German positions. They were the old men who sent young men to die. What, he wondered, if officers could know which soldiers would die before they sent them off? Would that change their decisions? Fraser felt no guilt about his own role. The front lines were no place for men in their mid-fifties. Or men who had recently been in their mid-fifties. In any event, during the flu epidemic he had faced death every day. Hundreds of doctors and nurses died from the disease.

  These thoughts were dragging down his mood. Each passing minute offered fresh evidence that he knew no one in the room. Shying from striking up a word with the august personages swirling around him, he pretended to study the paintings on the wall. They were largely nymphs and satyrs and mythical creatures. He found none to be of the slightest interest.

  “Major Fraser?” A younger man with close-cropped hair bowed slightly. Fraser missed his name as it flew by. “Colonel Siegel said you’d be coming. He asked that we look after you.”

  “Very kind of you, but I don’t think I need looking after.”

  “Perhaps you’d like to meet Mr. Lansing, my boss?” The young man indicated a small group underneath a precise rendering of nude figures gamboling in pastel woods.

  From news photos, Fraser recognized Robert Lansing—erect, slender, white hair and mustache. He looked like Fraser’s idea of a banker and Princeton man. After living in New York for almost twenty years, Fraser had an idea of what bankers educated at Princeton looked like. He followed his nameless guide.

  “Major,” Lansing said after the introductions, “what’s the spirit of our wounded men?”

  “Well, I suppose it varies from man to man, based to some considerable extent upon how badly hurt they are.”

  “Eager to get home, are they?”

  “All of us, sir. We hope the peace will come quickly and will be a just one.”

  Lansing’s face slid into a fish-eyed stare. The pause was awkward.

  “I’ll drink to that!” The cheerful voice came from a young man on Fraser’s right. He had been introduced as Lansing’s nephew, but Fraser had missed his name, too.

  Fraser felt hopeless. He tapped glasses with the nephew, who looked a younger, less constipated version of his powerful uncle. The same lanky build, even features and trim mustache. The younger man had an appealing ease and confidence. “Uncle Bert,” he called over, “won’t you drink to a speedy and honorable peace?”

  “Really, Allen,” Lansing said with a trace of irritation, “I pray for it with every breath I take.” He turned to Fraser. “If you will excuse me.” Lansing nodded toward the entrance to the room, filled now with President Wilson, his tall and sturdy wife, and their attendants. “Duty calls.”

  “You must overlook Uncle Bert’s manners,” young Allen said in a soft voice. “He finds it tedious to be a bit player at the Second Coming.”

  “Was the president in Paris on an earlier occasion?”

  Allen laughed with delight and turned to the enchanting brunette on his arm. “We’re in luck, Dorothy. Our doctor is a droll one.” Allen gathered their empty glasses and set off in search of a waiter with full ones.

  Dorothy, Fraser learned quickly, worked as a typist with the British delegation. The champagne began to make him animated. Good God, it was a tonic to talk with a pretty woman who was dressed for a party. She was a few years older than Violet, he guessed. Her perfume drew him closer. He leaned near to taste the damp aroma. It was more intoxicating than the champagne. He complimented her gown, a blue satin brocade with a square neck that stopped just short of daring.

  “The French, you know,” she said, holding the skirt to the side and letting it fall. “They understand how to dress in a way that we British never will.”

  “I’ve had little opportunity to observe that, given our hospital schedule. But it would do wonders for my patients’ morale if the nurses wore such lovely frocks.”

  A look of slight concern crossed her face.

  His smile felt foolish. Was he playing the aged lecher? He straightened and asked about Allen’s connection to the peace conference.

  “Oh, you don’t know?”

  Fraser shook his head.

  In an exaggerated whisper, she said, “He’s a spy.”

  “Shouldn’t that be a secret?”

  She smiled. “Not if I know it.”

  On cue, Allen’s good humor burst upon them. His hands wedged three full champagne glasses in a precarious triangle. “Fetching drinks effectively is a low skill, but a useful one.”

  After a few minutes of banter, Fraser, emboldened by alcohol, mentioned that he had thought of inviting the president to visit the American soldiers at Neuilly Hospital. There were more than a thousand there, and nothing would be better for their spirits.

  “Why, you clever chap!” Allen took Fraser’s arm. “We must go at once so you can extend your invitation. Dorothy, you sweet girl, come with us. Your presence increases my social appeal immeasurably.”

  Her smile made clear that Allen’s brand of lechery caused her no dismay at all.

  Aware of being light-headed, Fraser lagged behind them, steering carefully around the obstacle-strewn room. Grande dames swished, men in white tie and tails swerved unpredictably, the thirsty pursued waiters, and furniture reared up from the floor at unpredictable locations. The champagne worked more quickly than the bourbon he was used to. He arrived at Wilson’s side a full minute behind Allen and Dorothy.

  Lansing stood on the president’s other side with a look of escalating indigestion.

  “Mr. President,” Allen cried out, “Allow me to present Major James Fraser of the medical corps, who has an intriguing proposition to make.”

  With a mild smile, Wilson extended his hand. His grip was firm. He looked straight into Fraser’s face.

  Based on news photos that highlighted the president’s rigid posture and pursed-lips grimaces, Fraser expected a pompous prig. But Wilson didn’t seem pompous or priggish. With a champagne-lubricated tongue, Fraser said his piece.

  The president listened with bowed head. “Yes. Yes, of course. Mr. Dulles”—he turned to Allen—“can you arrange this with Colonel House? We should have some time in the next few days. I would like to do this very much. Mrs. Wilson, too.” The president dismissed Fraser with a nod and a quick thank you.

  As Fraser and the others retreated from the president’s party, a fierce-looking man with dark hair accosted them. “Sir, we must speak,” he said to Allen, intensity radiating from his deep-set eyes. His strong jaw seemed to bite off his words.

  “Ah, Rabbi Wise, allow me to introduce you to my friends.” Imperturbable smile in place, Allen Dulles—that was his name—showered social niceties on the rabbi.

  “See here, Dulles.” The rabbi was not much impressed by good manners. “We must discuss Palestine. I’ve been talking with Colonel Lawrence. We’re in agreement that the president has an opportunity to bring real peace to the Arabs, but that he must be very strong in doing so.”

  “I’m so grateful, Rabbi, that you and Colonel Lawrence have been willing to resolve this pro
blem for us. That will make our lives much easier.” Dulles smiled at Fraser. “You’re familiar with the challenge that Rabbi Wise and his British friend have resolved for us?”

  “I fear not,” Fraser said, his mind still replaying his successful conversation with Wilson. The president’s voice had been pleasant to the ear, a resonant tenor that carried well in the noisy hall, yet seemed to involve little effort to project.

  Dulles grinned broadly and gripped the winsome Dorothy’s hand as it rested on his arm. “The British, it turns out,” he said to Fraser, “have done something naughty, really very naughty.”

  Wise began to speak, but Dulles held up a finger to stop him. “Ah, a man of the cloth like yourself cannot condone the duplicity of perfidious Albion.” He spoke like a schoolboy gleefully correcting the teacher. “There are many portions of the map to be rearranged due to the collapse of the late, unlamented Turkish Empire. Our English-speaking cousins have been very busy. They promised the lands of Syria and the Trans-Jordan to their brave Arab allies and our Jewish friends, to share in perpetuity and monotheistic brotherhood. But”—his finger went up again—“they also promised much of the selfsame lands to the French, to enjoy in perhaps slightly less than perpetuity. Both promises, of course, involved the British retaining a delicious slice of that territory for themselves. Actually, the British slice might even have deposits of petroleum which would fuel the Royal Navy for generations. A most definite moral quandary, don’t you agree, Rabbi?”

  “Not at all,” Wise said. “As a moral matter, you merely look at the strength of the claim of each party. The French would be mere colonialists on those lands, while the Arabs and the Jews have occupied the lands for millennia.”

  “Millennia, Rabbi? I thought the Emperor Hadrian dismantled Judea in the second century after the death of our Lord. The Jews have been a bit thin on the ground there ever since.” Dulles’ expression turned less playful. “And as for your Colonel Lawrence, as an officer of King George’s army he would be well advised to concentrate on assisting his own government in choosing which of its solemn promises it will honor, rather than providing advice to the American government.”

  Rabbi Wise was unimpressed. “We are riding the tide of history, a tide that President Wilson is at the very crest of. You cannot resist this, Dulles. That tide will ensure these precious biblical lands should be shared by the Jews and the Arabs.”

  “You misunderstand me.” Dulles seemed again relaxed and happy. “I resist nothing. I merely anticipate that the president will very much value hearing what the British intend. Perhaps his majesty’s government would also benefit from your moral vision. You might share it with them.”

  As they walked away from Rabbi Wise, Dulles apologized for the intrusion. “He’s a tiresome windbag, of course. Really, the Hebrews have been insufferable since Jeremiah. With them, self-righteousness never goes out of fashion. It’s their great misfortune, and thus is ours.”

  “That’s not been my experience,” Fraser said, unable to keep the stiffness out of his voice. “Several excellent Jewish doctors gave their lives while treating our soldiers here in France.”

  “Yes, very commendable, I’m sure.” Dulles flashed a smile that made Fraser feel patronized by a man thirty years younger. “Dorothy and I must be off. She insists that we dance to that orchestra at the British hotel, and I am powerless to resist. I will be in touch about the president’s visit. That was a brilliant stroke, Major.”

  Fraser patted his jacket pockets. “I have no business card with me. Let me write out my address and telephone.”

  “Not to worry,” Dulles said. “I’ll find you.”

  Outside the embassy, Fraser paused at the stand of taxis and limousines, then decided to walk to the hospital through the chilly air. He set off at a brisk pace down Boulevard Victor Hugo, elated by the evening. The street lights sparkled. The stone buildings lining the road seemed eternal, unassailable. Droning motorcars impatiently steered around horse-drawn wagons. Paris was shedding the leathery hide of war and mourning and fear. He wondered about New York, whether it had grown the same sort of hide so far from the battlefields of France. He hadn’t thought about New York for months. His family was there—a wife who had run short on love, a daughter whose social ambitions made him feel an alien in his own home.

  Fraser slowed his pace. He felt a headache coming on. He looked for a taxi, but there were none.

  Sunday, December 22, 1918

  “Hello, son.” The president paused at the foot of a bed in the ward for gas victims.

  The sixty beds usually hummed with conversation and movement, but today all attention was focused on the man in a formal suit buttoned to his collarbone, both hands holding his hat by the brim. Those patients who could walk were clustered around him. Some wore uniforms for the first time in weeks or months. Others were in standard-issue pajamas and robe. Those who had sight guided those who were blind.

  “Where are you from, soldier?”

  The man on the bed moved his head, then moved his lips, but nothing came out.

  “Bobby can only whisper,” said one of the hangers-on.

  Wilson stepped around to the side of the bed, shifting his hat to a single hand that dropped by his side. The blanket over the soldier was rough gray wool, clean and pulled taut, tucked in on both sides. The president leaned over and said something to the soldier, patting his arm. The man nodded. Wilson straightened and looked back at Fraser, who gestured toward the door.

  The president took a breath and shook his head. He turned to the next bed. “Hello, son,” he said, leaning over this time.

  They had been at it for three hours. When he arrived, Wilson said he was going to see them all, except for those with infectious diseases. Admiral Grayson had barred him from seeing anyone who might be contagious. A bit past halfway, Wilson had seen much of the hospital’s horrors. Men with bullet wounds. Men peppered with shrapnel. Men with parts blown off by cannon shells or rotted off by trench foot. Men without ears or noses.

  After another fifteen minutes in the gas ward, they retired to the corridor where Wilson’s two aides loitered. Mrs. Wilson had already departed for another soldiers’ hospital.

  “Would you like a break?” Fraser asked the president.

  “No. I should keep going. Dare I ask how much more?”

  “There are the shell-shock wards. Some of those men will always need to be in a hospital. They can be . . . difficult, trouble-some—”

  “I’ll go there, Major.”

  “And four more general wards.”

  Wilson nodded.

  “President Wilson!” The voice came from an approaching wheelchair occupied by a red-haired man whose legs ended at the knees. He held his hand out. “I’m from Georgia, outside Augusta.”

  “Well, sir, Augusta was my home, too, though I was only a boy there.” Wilson flashed his smile as the two shook hands.

  “I know it, sir. That’s why I wanted to tell you, so’s you’d know that at one of the hospitals I was at over here, they mixed the colored and white troops together.”

  Wilson turned to Fraser. “Is this true, Major?”

  “I can’t say, sir. Close to the front, when men are wounded and dying . . .”

  “Not this hospital, of course,” said the soldier in the wheelchair. “There’s no colored here. But I thought you should know.”

  “Thanks, soldier. I’ll look into it,” Wilson said. “Perhaps you can tell me something. Why do there seem to be so many soldiers with leg wounds in this hospital?”

  The man in the wheelchair gave the president a searching look, then shrugged. “Well, sir, the boys who got wounded higher, not many of them got this far.”

  “Of course,” Wilson said. He bowed slightly. “Thank you for stopping to see me.”

  As the wheelchair rolled away, the hinge of Wilson’s jaw bulged with tension. “I sent these men to war, Major. These are my fellows. They’ve made terrible sacrifices. I must use all the moral force I can summ
on to give meaning to their sacrifices, though it means remaking the world. I will see it through. You may rely upon that.”

  Chapter 3

  Monday, December 23, 1918

  In the hesitant morning light, Joshua’s eyes traced the cracks in the ceiling plaster of what had once been the dining room. The cracks formed a spider web of decay and fatigue. Some were wide enough for a fingertip. After four years of occupation by the French Army, then by the American Expeditionary Force, the chateau’s owners soon would recover a husk of what was once a sumptuous home. Their decision to settle close to the border with Germany had been a mistake. Some of the trenches were no more than twenty miles away.

  The guards from the Negro soldiers’ lockup—a glorified tent enclosure—had brought Joshua in early. His trial would end that day in the makeshift courtroom. His defense lawyer wanted to talk with him about what to expect. Not so much a conversation, Joshua figured, as a warning.

  One of the guards at the door cried out, “Attention!”

  Captain Chadsworth Nash waved for Joshua to remain seated, then extended his hand. He turned a chair to face Joshua and sat with a groan. For an officer and a lawyer, he wasn’t so bad. For a soldier, he was short and stout.

  Skipping social niceties, Nash reviewed the day’s schedule, beginning with the closing arguments. He nodded toward the table that served as the judge’s bench. “I know they look stuffy up there, but three of the five were combat officers. They’ll appreciate that you’re an educated man, a college graduate, and your record as a platoon leader. They know that you and the Ninety-third were in bad places and that you fought well. We’ve got testimony on that.”

  “You mean we took a lot of German lives.”

  “Yes, that, but also that the men followed you, you led them well.” Nash was giving Joshua his earnest look, the one he used on the judges.

  Joshua was tired of it, tired of being on trial for desertion. “I was thinking about that last night, taking lives,” he said. “One minute they had their lives. Then we took them. What did we do with them? We had no use for them.”