The Irregulars

by Jennet Conant

  Marsh was convinced that Dahl had the makings of a serious writer and that he should begin planning bigger projects and forging the relationships that could help his career after the war. He thought Dahl would benefit from talking to someone in the business, and since there was nothing he could not fix with a phone call, he contacted the New York publisher Curtice Hitchcock and invited him to Longlea. Marsh had come to know Hitchcock through Henry Wallace, as Hitchcock and his partner, Russell Lord, were in the process of publishing a collection of the vice president’s speeches. Hitchcock and Dahl spent the weekend deep in conversation, and shortly thereafter Marsh received a letter from the publisher thanking him for his hospitality and adding, “I was greatly taken with your young Dahl and I think I have some ideas based on his stuff which might result in a good book.”

  Dahl sought to repay Marsh’s kindness by helping him reestablish his personal relationship with the president and to return in the capacity as a confidential adviser, something he knew his American benefactor desired but seemed strangely unable or unwilling to initiate. They had discussed the matter at length that August while vacationing together at Marsh’s cottage in Cape Cod, and Marsh had worried aloud about his close association with Wallace and had theorized that perhaps that was one reason for Roosevelt’s apparent ambivalence toward him. After Charles returned to Washington on business, Dahl sent him a long letter analyzing his situation and advising him on the best recipe for “a return ticket.” In a role reversal of sorts, he provided a list of pointers that might help Marsh get his foot in the door. He counseled the publishing tycoon that “the Great White Indian Chief” thought of him only “as a man who owns a few newspapers,” that FDR had even said as much to Dahl during his visit to Hyde Park, and that it was up to Marsh, by force of his personality and ideas, to persuade the president that he could be a useful member of his brain trust. He cautioned Marsh that when he got in to to see the president he should make every effort to modify his usual loud, overbearing style, to take a more “gentle” approach, and after making a brief presentation to “just stop talking and listen to what he has to say.”

  Dahl recommended that Marsh try one of two approaches. The easiest would be to simply ask his friend Sumner Welles, Hull’s deputy at the State Department, if as a favor he would broker a meeting with FDR. If Welles seemed at all reluctant, however, Marsh should tell him not to bother, because if he only went through the motions, nothing would ever come of it. The alternative was to write directly to the president himself, preferably not more than a line or two, saying only that he would like to see him personally on an important matter. This second approach, Dahl concluded, was preferable, as it had the virtue of being quick and direct and could be done the next day should he so choose: “It is neat and fast, not clumsy or blundering, but it requires a little courage. I don’t know whether you have it. You might like to find out.” On August 17 Marsh, seldom a man of few words, sent Dahl a brief note saying that he would be in touch in a day or two, adding, “Considering your age, your wisdom passeth all understanding.” Weeks went by, however, and Dahl heard no more on the subject. Marsh’s courage failed him, and no letter to FDR was ever sent.

  Taking a page from his own playbook, Dahl had also done his best to ingratiate himself with Halifax, even filling in as one of his tennis four on the embassy court. Despite his bad back, Dahl was still a very strong player, and his reach was so long it was hard to get the ball by him. He hoped that in helping Halifax to crush the opposition, he might score a few points for himself. As the ambassador had one bad arm—he was born with an atrophied limb and no left hand—this was easier said than done. He had developed a method of serving that involved gripping the ball and racket in his one good hand, with which he would then toss and hit the ball in a swiftly executed series of motions. As this move required precision timing, it was less than reliable and resulted in a great many double faults. A devout Anglo-Catholic, Halifax disapproved of any form of swearing and instead would let out a low groan of disgust every time he missed his serve. Dahl often had to struggle to keep his composure at these strangled outbursts and, harder still, had to remember to stifle the stream of four-letter words that rose to his own lips when he netted the ball. It was because of Halifax’s piety at least as much as his love of hunting that Churchill had reportedly nicknamed him “the Holy Fox.” Dahl thought he could not have come up with a better moniker himself and made free use of it when alone with Marsh.

  Throughout the summer, the war news had steadily improved. Allied forces were beginning to take the offensive, and July saw the fall of Mussolini and the capitulation of Italy. U.S. ships had scored a major victory in the Battle of Midway in the year before and had inflicted heavy losses on the Japanese fleet at Guadalcanal. Dahl was most interested in the air war: the British had made a series of massive raids on Hamburg over four nights, and by August 2 the bombers had killed an estimated 50,000 civilians and created firestorms that reduced whole sections of the city to charred ruins. Churchill and Roosevelt had met in Quebec, and it was impossible not to feel heartened by reports that the fighting in Italy would intensify to overcome the last of the German resistance. Victory finally seemed at hand. Dahl had gone about his spying chores diligently, collecting rumors and scraps for the intelligence reports, but without fretting too much about his future or the world’s. To his friend Creekmore Fath, who was unaware of his intelligence connections, it seemed like Dahl was taking a well-deserved break from the war. “I think he was glad to be carefree. He had done his bit and that was it. He didn’t feel he owed any more to his country. He was having fun.”

  THE WAR IN WASHINGTON

  In those days it was the fashion for diplomats to regard intelligence officers as unprincipled ruffians. We returned the compliment by regarding the diplomats as ceremonial and gutless.

  —DAVID OGILVY, Blood, Brains and Beer

  BY THE FALL of 1943, Dahl was in serious trouble. The loudest complaints came from British air chief marshal Welch, who called him on the carpet, roaring that it had come to his attention that the airman’s “outside activities were irregular.” Dahl was warned “not to stick his nose out of the embassy,” and that unless he took immediate notice, he would be leaving Washington. The air chief marshal proceeded to take up the matter with Halifax, reportedly expressing his view that Dahl was “a very intelligent young man” but in need of “military discipline.” He recommended that Dahl be transferred abroad, the sooner the better for all concerned. Making matters worse, as Dahl later framed his predicament for Marsh, this particular air chief marshal, who occupied a large suite at the Shoreham Hotel in Washington, was unusually well connected in civilian life and, as he put it, consorted with “big people.” Marsh was sympathetic, as always, and offered his help. He immediately placed a number of calls to friends with influence with the American authorities, but he reported back that there was a general reluctance to intervene in internal embassy affairs. If the ambassador agreed that Dahl should go, there was little anyone could do. It was all rather disheartening.

  The British Embassy was considered a plum assignment, and the staff was composed of future “diplomatic stars,” according to Peter Smithers, who served as assistant naval attaché from 1941 to 1943 and was a close friend of Ian Fleming’s. “Washington was the key to the future of Britain. If at the end of a couple of weeks a new member of the Embassy team seemed not to ‘get on’ with the Americans, he would find himself unceremoniously bundled onto the next transport back to Britain.” Ironically, Dahl’s problem was not that he had run afoul of his American hosts; rather he was not a good team player and had failed to get on with his own crowd, or as he told it, “mainly [the] Air Chief Marshall.” While the situation was not without its absurdities, it had dire consequences for him. “I fell far, as one is bound to, of the diplomatic people,” Dahl recalled. “And I got kicked out of the embassy.”

  Faced with this new censure and given his spotty record, Dahl fore-saw a grim future. Resigne
d to his fate, he scrambled to find a new post and unofficially took service as a British-Greek liaison in Cairo. Before beginning his new job, he was granted permission to take a quick trip to England to see his mother and sisters. He was still making final arrangements and packing his bags prior to leaving when a message came down from BSC headquarters in New York. “When Bill heard I was going to be kicked out, as he always heard, he had ears everywhere, you see, through all these people,” recalled Dahl, “he sent word to me: ‘Go home. You’ll be contacted and you’ll come back immediately for me.’”

  Dahl was pinning his hopes on Stephenson. He knew he had made a first-class muddle of things at the embassy. It would take someone with a lot of pull to put things right. As much as he wanted to believe it, however, he feared that not even the Big Chief himself would be able to get him a reprieve. “I thought, well, if he can do that, he must be a bloody magician, because there are very important people sending me home.”

  He left Washington under a dark cloud. It was an ignominious end to his diplomatic career. Then there was the dreary, crowded transatlantic air crossing, with everyone squeezed into uncomfortable bucket seats. Although he was excited at the prospect of seeing his family again, as he neared England and Mother, doubts about his future left him feeling fidgety and anxious. Fortunately, he did not have to wallow in uncertainty for long. The BSC made contact almost as soon as he touched ground in London, and after some backstairs machinations that he hardly dared speculate about, he returned to his job at the British Embassy, with a promotion to boot. “I went home a squadron leader,” he recalled, “and I was back in a week as a Wing Commander.”*

  To outsiders, it probably appeared that he had received a well-deserved promotion, as he returned with the higher rank. Perhaps that was the impression the BSC intended to create. Dahl, for one, certainly enjoyed the impression it made on the air chief marshal who was responsible for giving him the sack. His first night back in Washington, Dahl attended a diplomatic function and spotted his old nemesis among the crowd. As soon as the air chief marshal saw Dahl, his face turned crimson, and he strode across the room and confronted the airman: “What the hell are you doing here?” Dahl said: “I’m afraid you’ll have to ask Sir William Stephenson.” At the mention of the BSC chief’s name, the air chief marshal went even darker purple and walked away. “That shows the power of the man,” recalled Dahl, relishing the moment. “The Air Chief Marshall was struck absolutely dumb. Couldn’t say a word, and as a matter fact, wasn’t able to do anything about it.”

  On his return to Washington, Dahl worked primarily for Bill Stephenson. He had looked forward to meeting the spy chief, if only to thank him in person for bringing him back to the United States, but he had yet to be honored with an invitation to the BSC headquarters. In fact, in all this time, despite everything that had transpired, he had never once had any direct contact with the elusive intelligence chief. For that matter, he had never been given any precise instructions as to how he was supposed to proceed in his new capacity as “one of theirs.” Stephenson was confident that his boys were clever and would work it out. “He never outlined any role to anyone,” recalled Dahl. “When he hired you he expected you to know what to think, what your role was going to be.” It was more or less understood that he would carry on in his ostensible role as assistant air attaché at the British Embassy and use his official post to continue his “discreet indiscreet conversations” with his principal sources. On one issue, however, he was quite clear: no small part of these conversations would deal with the postwar air policies of the two countries, and he would henceforth be coordinating his efforts with Lord Beaverbrook.

  While Dahl was cooling his heels in London, awaiting word on his future, Stephenson had arranged for him to meet with his friend Lord Beaverbrook with the idea that the two men might be of help to each other. Beaverbrook was another small, tenacious Canadian tycoon and had risen to become England’s wealthiest newspaper publisher and a powerful politician with ambitions to becoming the next prime minister. When Churchill ascended, he had to satisfy himself with playing second fiddle, agreeing to become minister of aircraft production (MAP) and take on the urgent task of rebuilding the country’s beleaguered air force. The sixty-year-old Fleet Street dynamo rose to the challenge, overnight turning his ornate London mansion, Stornoway House, into the MAP headquarters and moving quickly to repair damaged aircraft and engines, turning around a desperate state of affairs in six weeks. Beaverbrook drove his senior staff with the same demonic energy he had once applied to his editors, sharing Stephenson’s frustration at Whitehall’s plodding pace and crippling departmentalism, which were impeding the war effort. As a result of his successful campaign—promoted endlessly in his own newspapers—Beaverbrook became a hero to weary Battle of Britain pilots (of which his son was one) and the factory workers who built their machines, who recognized that his contribution could be measured in lives saved. Stephenson, a former fighter pilot, was an unabashed admirer of his achievement: “But for the tremendous pressure that Beaverbrook exerted in his dynamic way, who could say whether the pitifully few aircraft that were flyable at the end of the battle in the air might not have been a minus zero force?”

  Stephenson was so impressed with Beaverbrook that he even lobbied to have him replace Halifax as ambassador, but his efforts came to nothing. After a tempestuous year, having significantly boosted aircraft production, Beaverbrook resigned from the ministry for health reasons. He cited asthma as the cause, though his fifteen-hour days and fearful temper—he reportedly threatened to quit fourteen times in eleven months—may finally have gotten the better of him. He remained a member of Churchill’s War Cabinet and was named minister of state, a title invented specially for him that was as vague and ill-defined as his responsibilities. After Hitler’s attack on Russia June 22, 1941, and with America still dithering on the sidelines, Churchill called Beaverbrook back to action, this time making him minister of supply. He was soon working hand in hand with the American millionaire Averell Harriman, Roosevelt’s emissary to London, not only on creating a supply line between their two countries but doing everything in their power to keep Communist Russia afloat.

  In June 1943 Stephenson had asked Beaverbrook to help the BSC in its efforts “to neutralize” a particularly hostile American publisher named Roy Howard, who was president of the large chain of Scripps-Howard newspapers. The BSC’s previous attempts to “tame” the politically ambitious publisher had failed, and he remained as vigorously anti-British and isolationist as ever. Stephenson decided that its best course of action was to flatter Howard, whom he regarded as a vain, overdressed little man, and he suggested that Beaverbrook should extend him a personal invitation to visit England as his guest. Howard accepted, and he, Beaverbrook, Stephenson, Donovan, and Harriman flew to London in Lord Beaverbrook’s private plane. Apparently the visit went swimmingly, because shortly after his return to the United States, Howard sounded far more conciliatory and remarked to a BSC source that “most Americans, including myself, are now out of patience with criticism of British internal management.”

  By November 3, 1943, when Stephenson sent Dahl to see Beaverbrook in Whitehall at Gwydyr House, just a short walk from Downing Street, “the Beaver” was in fighting form. Churchill had made him Lord Privy Seal, charged with making sure that America, with its superior power and resources, did not corner the market in highly lucrative postwar air routes. Worried that the Americans were “grabbing the air traffic of the world,” Beaverbrook worked assiduously to curry favor with Adolf Berle, the State Department negotiator. At one point, under the mistaken assumption that Berle was Catholic, Beaverbrook sent him a rare first edition of Cardinal Newman’s Occasional Hymns. Berle responded sarcastically, replying that British intelligence had clearly goofed and that if he ever converted, “several generations of dissenting ancestors would turn in their graves.” The British government was so concerned about the deteriorating air talks that it decided to create the War Cabinet
Committee of Post-War Civil Air Transport, composed of leading members of the War Cabinet and chaired by Beaverbrook. It convened for the first time on November 11, 1943, and continued to meet on an almost weekly basis for the next fifteen months.

  As Dahl was well versed in the American position, his report met with great interest. His information whetted Beaverbrook’s appetite for more. Beaverbrook had a similarly low opinion of Lord Halifax’s performance as ambassador to the United States, and believing the air attaché could be a useful presence in Washington, he agreed to put in a word on his behalf. Dahl, on his return to his post, would do everything he could to advance Beaverbrook’s agenda with the Americans with an eye to reaching an agreement. Beaverbrook thought that national airlines should be allowed to fly any routes they wished, and that with proper regulation a workable compromise could be struck. While the old-empire types in the Air Ministry were affronted by the mere suggestion that America would have traffic rights on British routes, Beaverbrook was willing to be more flexible and was in favor of making “large concessions.” Any general navigation agreement would have to rest on agreement between the United States and the British and the Commonwealth of Nations; practically all other countries—with the possible exception of Russia—would then accede. British and U.S. aviation experts had already agreed that without such a general understanding in place, neither side would negotiate exclusive or discriminatory pacts against the other.