The Wilson Deception

by David O. Stewart

  They loaded three into the car, starting with Heinzelmann and the gunman with the chest wound, then adding Keller’s pilot. Foster stood on the running board as the Peugeot turned in a wide arc and headed back down the road.

  Fraser found Cook seated on the ground, leaning back against the shed and holding his injured arm. His son sat next to him. Four pistols lay on the ground before them. The wagon driver had come back from the field. He was talking softly to his trembling horse.

  “We let the Germans go, the ones who could still walk,” Joshua said, looking up. “We don’t need to talk to any more gendarmes.”

  “Where’d they go?” Fraser asked.

  “Out that way.” Joshua waved at the field before them. “Don’t much care.”

  Fraser turned to Cook. “We should probably rig up a sling for your arm, hold your shoulder stable.”

  Cook nodded. “Just a damned invalid, getting in the way, being looked after by my betters.” He smiled and glanced over at Joshua.

  “That,” Fraser nodded to the milk wagon, “may be our best way out of here. Let me have a word with the proprietor.” He walked off.

  After a moment, Cook said to his son, “You shot that German.”

  “Not my first.” Joshua looked out at the spreading rays of dawn. “Nearly bashed the other one’s head in.”

  Cook shook his head. “I’m sorry, son. I shouldn’t have put it on you, the army and all. It wasn’t my place.” His voice gave out and he shook his head.

  Joshua looked over, then back to the horizon. “Don’t take it on yourself, Daddy. I made up my own mind.” One corner of his mouth curled up. “I would’ve been drafted anyway.”

  Cook drew a ragged breath. “Still, you could have gone into one of those support units, building roads or hauling stuff. Not the killing part.” He picked up a stone with his free hand and jiggled it in his hand. “That would’ve been the smart play.”

  “The smart play? Nobody raised me to settle for the smart play.”

  Cook nodded, jiggling the stone.

  “I need to do some thinking,” Joshua started, then stopped.

  Cook looked over.

  “Some thinking about being home.”

  They both looked again at the horizon, now beginning to glow.

  “That’s good,” his father said.

  Chapter 35

  Monday morning, June 23, 1919

  “Mr. Dulles.” The president stood behind his desk as Allen Dulles entered his library. Wilson kept his hands clasped behind him.

  “Mr. President,” Dulles stopped halfway into the room. “Allow me to congratulate you on the new German government. We’ve been advised that they accept the treaty terms and will sign next Saturday.”

  “Mr. Dulles. It is splendid, yes. As the Duke of Wellington said, ‘it was a near run thing.’ I can’t imagine what those German politicians were thinking. They complained that the treaty blames Germany for causing the war in the first place, so to vindicate themselves, they threatened to provoke a second war. To prove they hadn’t caused a war, they proposed to start a war.” He shook his head and gestured for Dulles to sit in a leather wingback chair that faced his desk. “For a race that prides itself on its rationality, the Germans can be most irrational.”

  “We can hope that Herr Bauer, who took over from Schneiderman on Saturday, will be different. His acceptance of the treaty was his very first act as the new Reichsminister-president.”

  Wilson came around his desk and sat in the other armchair that faced his desk. He gazed out the window, a small smile on his face. “I wonder if it’s as simple as the language they speak. Such gigantic words the Germans produce: Reichsminister-president. It seems a desperate effort to establish gravitas and importance, but comes off a bit ridiculous, like an army uniform with too much gold braid and too many medals.” His skin looked gray and his eye twitch was back. He stopped it with his left forefinger. “We’re fortunate they’ve come to their senses, even at the last minute. What do we know about how Herr Bauer came to power? Your uncle Lansing has claimed not to know much about it.”

  “I’m in the dark, as well, Mr. President. It’s internal German politics, you know. Perhaps my brother can explain it.”

  “Of course. Of course.” Wilson pursed his lips. The Dulles brothers had proved so very useful, unlike their scold of an uncle. Wilson knew he didn’t have to like the men who were useful to him, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that the Dulles family had hearts unlike his heart. At least this one didn’t patronize him.

  “It takes a kind of courage,” Wilson said, “to sign a surrender. Losing a war is no easy thing. I grew up in a country that had recently lost a disastrous war. It leaves scars that don’t ever really heal. There’s a lot of blaming.”

  Dulles was puzzled for a moment, then realized that Wilson meant his boyhood in the South after the Civil War.

  The president rose and walked over to stare out his window, hands again gathered behind his back. Dulles judged that he shouldn’t intrude on the presidential reverie.

  After perhaps two minutes, Wilson turned. “Shall we review the logistics of the signing at Versailles? The ceremony must be seamless. We cannot abide any last minute surprises, anything that might give the Germans an excuse for not signing.”

  “Yes, sir, but there is one thing, if I might.” Dulles stood and pulled a single sheet from the portfolio he held. He handed it to Wilson, who placed it on the desk and leaned over it.

  “This paper is rather thin on details about this, ah, Sergeant Cook, is it? Can you enlighten me?”

  Dulles gave a small shrug. “I really can’t, Mr. President. In this instance, I am but the messenger for senior army officials. I’m told the initial verdict acquitting the sergeant—Cook, you said?—was a just one. There’s speculation that General Parkman must have misread the file when he reversed it. But only presidential action can right this particular wrong.”

  Wilson reread the paper. “This says the good sergeant was in the 369th Infantry. Wasn’t that one of our Negro units?”

  Dulles’ internal alert system began to sound. “I’m not sure, sir. I can never keep all those numbers straight.”

  Wilson stared at his young aide for just a moment. Based on close observation over the last six months, he knew there was very little that Dulles couldn’t keep straight. “You know,” the president straightened, “we’ve just had a riot in Charleston. The darkies were dissatisfied over something. And now we’re sending home a great many of their sons and brothers after training them in the use of weapons. I don’t wish to do anything that might stir them up even more.”

  “Naturally not, sir.” Dulles shifted in his chair.

  Wilson pursed his lips again. “Why is it you who is presenting this, Mr. Dulles? You’re not part of the military. I have had that right all these months?”

  “Certainly not, sir. But, well, sir, the army officers involved have left for Versailles or else they’re pursuing demobilization now that the Germans have finally come to their senses. I was just asked to bring it in as a routine matter.” He leaned forward for the paper. There had to be another way to skin this cat. Or else Sergeant Cook will just have to serve his sentence.

  Dulles disliked injustice, but he didn’t make a fetish about it. It’s never absent from human affairs. “The military people will be back in a few days. They can deal with it then.”

  Wilson had resumed his study of the paper. “This Sergeant Cook, is he in prison?”

  “He has, I understand, been denied his freedom.” Dulles cleared his throat. “Really, though, I’m sorry to have brought it up, knowing so little about the situation.”

  Still staring at the paper, Wilson asked, “Did he fight?”

  It was an opening Dulles decided to take. He did owe Sergeant Cook. “I know that, sir. He was in the front line for several months and fought at the Argonne Forest. I understand he was gassed. His military records show that he was a brave and capable soldier.”

&
nbsp; “Some things you know and others you don’t.” The president looked directly at his young aide. “You are mysterious, Mr. Dulles.”

  “Sir, my line sometimes involves mystery.”

  “Can you assure me I should sign this?”

  “I wouldn’t bring it here under any other circumstances.”

  Wilson sat down with a smile. “Thank you, Mr. Dulles. It’s always good to know what I don’t know. That way I can remember not to know it.” He picked up a pen, dipped it in an inkwell, and signed the paper. He handed it across the desk. “We must be sure that our brave men are treated fairly.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Wednesday evening, June 25, 1919

  “With the whole world preparing to rejoice,” Foster Dulles said as his brother approached, “and despite everything you and I have done to cheer him up, Uncle Bert has chosen this moment to become morose.”

  Foster and Lansing stood on the balcony of the Crillon suite. A sturdy breeze bowed the heavy drapes over the French doors. In their suit coats, with brandy snifters in their hands, the men didn’t feel the chill that seeped in with the approach of night. Allen walked past them to a side table where a decanter stood amid several empty glasses.

  “My mood,” Lansing said, “has nothing to do with that excellent piece of business that both of you achieved.” He lifted his brandy in tribute.

  His nephews reciprocated.

  “Your achievements, though, involved merely preventing a bad situation from becoming a catastrophe. I am afraid it remains a bad situation.”

  “We’ll have peace,” Allen said, joining the others. “The borders of Europe have been drawn in a more intelligent way than before.”

  “Really, Allen,” his uncle broke in. “You believe that?”

  “I didn’t say they were intelligent, only that they will be more intelligent. Haven’t you always lectured us that nothing built by man will ever be perfect?”

  Lansing shook his head. “I fear I find the new arrangements only different, not even an improvement. The blunders are frightful. We have the Italians staggering over to the wrong side of the Adriatic, the Greeks pretending to be in Asia Minor again, the Poles in charge of Germans and poor Hungary wondering who has made off with the rest of it. Don’t get me started on the lunacy of having French control of the Saar Valley. Under the old system, you couldn’t seize land in Europe unless you actually conquered it. This is a new system, where you needn’t conquer land so long as you say you are taking it just for a little while.” He shook his head. “We’ve sowed the seeds for a dozen conflicts, and that’s just in Europe!” He held his glass up. “Shall we salute the blunders?”

  “Why not?” said Foster. He drained his glass, then took it and his brother’s into the sink for refills.

  “Do you have no hopes,” Allen asked his uncle, “that the League of Nations will succeed, that the silly quarrels over this border and that one can’t be smoothed over peaceably?”

  Lansing finished his drink and joined Foster at the brandy decanter to receive his own refill. Allen followed. “Very little hope, though the League is the only one of our employer’s Fourteen Points to be even partly realized.” Lansing sighed. “You know how discouraging the word from home is. The Senate’s in an uproar. I doubt America will even be part of the League.” He dropped into one of the four large chairs before the empty fireplace.

  Foster and Allen sat across from him.

  “Even the president admits that ratification will be difficult. Devilishly difficult.”

  The men sat in silence awhile, sipping brandy.

  “I suppose,” Foster said slowly, “that Mr. Wilson might claim two victories here.” He did not respond to his uncle’s derisive snort. “He may have abandoned thirteen and one-half of his Fourteen Points, but he has changed the words we use to talk about the fate of nations. Clemenceau certainly won the battles over what he wanted right now, but Wilson’s words may never go away. They may ultimately change everything.”

  “I hope,” Lansing said, “that his second triumph was more tangible.”

  “Indeed, Uncle Bert. It will be a huge triumph if the treaty and the League actually succeed in stopping the spread of Bolshevism. That was really the only goal that all of the Allies agreed on. The rest of the last six months was just squabbling over spoils.”

  “Well,” Lansing stirred himself, “be that as it may with the fate of nations, I have spent some time thinking of the fate of my nephews.”

  “Good old Uncle Bert,” said Allen.

  “I suspect that the final two years of Mr. Wilson’s administration will offer few opportunities for advancement. The heady days, I’m afraid, are quite over.”

  “I agree,” Foster said, “as does Mr. Cromwell. He’s offered to take me back to the firm.”

  “As his partner?”

  Foster looked uncomfortable. “He has dangled that before me rather crudely without actually committing to it. If he doesn’t come through with it, I will go elsewhere. But I am very much inclined to accept for now.”

  “I applaud the move. I understand your misgiving, Foster, but it’s an excellent opportunity. You’ll have plenty of international work with him but won’t have to carry the burdens of the peace conference’s mistakes.” Lansing turned to Allen. “I do have a notion for you, sir.”

  Allen looked at him inquiringly.

  “You’ve demonstrated a flair for working with the Germans. How about Berlin?”

  “Ah. And I would be in Berlin as . . . ?”

  “Allie,” Lansing said, “I can hardly make you ambassador. You are twenty-six years old. It will be a suitable position, you may be sure.”

  “Actually,” Foster said carefully, “Mr. Cromwell had some ideas for Allen, as well.”

  Lansing tried to conceal his annoyance. He waited for an explanation.

  Allen began. “Cromwell’s rather keen, as am I, on the Near East.”

  Lansing said nothing.

  “This oil business is going to be a huge factor in the world, and the Arabs, well, they’re children about such matters. There’s a vital role for Western nations to play there. And America must be part of that.”

  Lansing thought for a moment, then nodded his head. “Against my natural inclinations, I think that’s rather wise of your Mr. Cromwell. The whole Arab and Jewish business will remain an open question for some time since the peace conference didn’t resolve it.”

  “Exactly,” Foster said. “It’s only a matter of time until the French and British divide things up. Allen can be sure that the United States doesn’t miss out when the dividing is done.”

  Lansing tapped his lips with a forefinger. “I imagine I can help with that, exactly as you were hoping I could.”

  The brothers smiled at him.

  “Something should open up in Istanbul rather soon. I think Istanbul will continue as the place to be for that region. How does that sound?”

  “Very good, indeed,” Allen said. He looked down to form his next question. “What shall be done about Colonel Lawrence and his Prince Feisal, not to mention Rabbi Wise and Weizmann and so on?”

  Lansing smiled his first smile of the conversation. “There’s no need to do a blessed thing. It’s a British problem. They made the mess. They can clean it up.”

  “This Lawrence fellow,” Allen objected, “he seems pretty formidable.”

  Lansing retained his smile. “Oh, he’s an impassioned amateur. The British Foreign Office has long experience with making short work of such men. Lawrence’s day has passed, and I say Godspeed.” He raised his snifter in salute.

  Again, his nephews reciprocated.

  Chapter 36

  Saturday morning, June 28, 1919

  Even in late June, northern France was cool enough for the Frasers to wear coats. The three of them stood, arm in happy arm, before the royal palace of Versailles, the world’s fullest expression of royal self-celebration. Violet had just finished reading from a guidebook about the palace’
s astonishing dimensions. Its sandstone walls enclosed seven hundred rooms. Its roofs extended for twenty-six acres. Its stables could accommodate two thousand horses. Its grounds covered almost twenty thousand acres and were dotted with some fifty fountains.

  “It’s an odd place to sign the treaty,” Eliza said. “It’s so grand. So contrary to Mr. Wilson’s Fourteen Points.”

  “Ah, but where better to demonstrate France’s majesty and greatness?” Fraser asked.

  “I suppose,” Violet leaned across her father, who stood between the women, “it’s also calculated to irritate the Germans.”

  Eliza and Fraser exchanged a quick glance of pride. Violet had agreed that in the fall she would finish her studies at the Emma Willard School. She even said she was looking forward to it.

  “You also can be proud,” Eliza said, “that two of the men making peace are your patients.”

  “I can’t help but think of my patients who didn’t make it.”

  She squeezed his arm with her free hand. “But you made it. And we did.”

  The press of the huge crowd might have been frightening, but the day was too hopeful for that. Joshua stood on the other side of Violet, his Croix de Guerre pinned to his army topcoat, his infantryman’s cap at a rakish angle. His father came next, left arm in a sling.

  “Sergeant Cook,” Violet said to Joshua, “my father says you’ve been quite the hero. I hope to hear about your adventures on our passage back to America.”

  He lowered his head, but smiled, too. “They might not be all that much to hear about, Miss Violet. Anyway, I’ll be returning on a troopship with the other colored soldiers.”

  “Then I’ll have to hear about your adventures before the crossing or back home in New York.”

  Joshua added, with an eye to Fraser, “Perhaps not all of my adventures.”

  Violet tossed her head, causing her yellow hair to shimmer as prettily as when she practiced the gesture before the mirror. “I believe I’ve demonstrated that I can keep a secret, even very delicate ones.”