The Irregulars

by Jennet Conant

  A week before the election Stephenson sent London a telegram containing his latest electoral predictions and told Cuneo that the forecast would forever brand him “either an idiot or a genius”:

  MY ESTIMATES HAVE CONSISTENTLY CONFLICTED MARKEDLY WITH THOSE OF GALLUP AND OTHER POLLSTERS AND POLITICAL PUNDITS…AND NOW SHOW EVEN GREATER DIVERGENCE FROM LARGELY ACCEPTED VIEW THAN PREVIOUSLY….

  MY CURRENT ANALYSES INDICATE VICTORY FOR FDR IN MINIMUM REPEAT MINIMUM OF 32 STATES WITH 370 ELECTORAL VOTES AND MAXIMUM OF 40 WITH 487 ELECTORAL VOTES….

  DEWEY MINIMUM COMPRISES NORTH DAKOTA, SOUTH DAKOTA, NEBRASKA, COLORADO, KANSAS, WYOMING, VERMONT AND IOWA…. MAXIMUM INCLUDES FORGOING PLUS MAINE, IDAHO, WISCONSIN, INDIANA, MICHIGAN, OHIO, MINNESOTA, AND ILLINOIS…. LAST FOUR ARE DEWEY’S MOST DOUBTFUL ONES AND NOT IMPROBABLE RESULT ANTICIPATES HIS LOSING THREE OR ALL FOUR.

  Stephenson’s election prophecies were right on the mark. Roosevelt carried thirty-six states, and Dewey the eight states listed in his forecast as his minimum, as well as four of the questionable ones. In the Electoral College vote, Roosevelt won 432 to Dewey’s 99, nothing less than a landslide. His popular vote edge was significantly reduced, however, the majority being only 3.5 million. The party gained twenty-two seats in the House and lost one in the Senate, too small a change to alter the political course of the country. Roosevelt could continue to be his own man during the fourth term. In the end, the professional polls were nowhere near as accurate a guide as the BSC’s private tally. Gallup ended up with only 51.5 percent voting for Roosevelt, where in fact—with the soldiers’ ballots still waiting to be counted—more than 53 percent had. The results, as Isaiah Berlin observed in his November 11 dispatch, “although undeniably within Gallup’s admitted margin of error (of 3–4 per cent), does not serve to strengthen the faith of the unconverted in the complete dependability of his polls. Perhaps his alleged Republican sympathies led him to underestimate the size of the total vote on which the percentages were based.”*

  In any event, Ogilvy had served them well. Stephenson regarded him as a superior talent in the field of covert warfare and later praised his performance in Washington, singling out his “keen analytical powers and special aptitude for handling problems of extreme delicacy…not only a good intelligence officer, but a brilliant one.”

  Dahl spent election night at Mrs. McLean’s traditional gala. The crowd of Washington leaders, legislators, diplomats, and notables were more raucous than usual, arguing and debating noisily among themselves, falling silent only long enough to hear the latest report on the radio. People’s appetites were either ruined or improved depending on the voting trends, though most had only an absentminded regard for the food. Dahl stayed well into the night listening to the reactions as the final returns poured in over the airwaves. The next day he sat down and wrote Eleanor Roosevelt a congratulatory letter telling her how pleased he was that the president was the winner and confessing that he gave “a sigh of unofficial relief” when he heard the news. He went on to explain that he had been back in Washington for some time and was happy to hear that the First Lady was feeling well and was in good spirits. He sent his regards to Tommy, signing the letter “Wing Commander Roald Dahl.” He typed the brief note on his new British Security Coordination letterhead, with the official crest on the top, crossing out the BSC’s address at Sixteenth Street and typing in the new office address at 1106 Connecticut Avenue. Eleanor promptly replied, thanking Dahl for his letter, adding, “I deeply appreciate your writing and the very kind things you say. Now that you are back here I shall hope to see you soon.” A few days later he was invited to dine with her at the White House.

  Marsh was vastly amused when shortly after the election someone—Dahl claimed to be the culprit—painted the balls of the giant bronze bison by the Q Street bridge bright red. It was quite a shocking sight. The ornamental statue, which was near Dahl’s house, now stood out more than ever, its “prominent personal organs” in bold relief for all to see. To commemorate this historic event, Marsh penned one of his fake letters for Dahl’s amusement, this time addressing it to Cissie Patterson. He demanded that she take a bucket and brush and “do a job on the balls of the bison,” but not before satisfying herself that what had been done was not unnatural: “Have you, my dear Cissie, ever in your long and variegated experience, observed a bison, or even an ordinary man, with a gray or gray-green scrotum?” He went on to implore her to take pity on “the small man” who must walk to work each morning over the Q Street bridge, and back again at night, faced with this rude sight. After all, despite running “a scandal sheet,” he continued, “I realize that the purpose of your life has been for the public welfare and nothing has been too small or too large for you to observe.” The bull became Marsh and Dahl’s de facto mascot, a favorite joke between them, and an emblem of all they been through in that awful campaign.

  With the election over, Dahl could relax. His superiors were overjoyed by Roosevelt’s thumping victory over Dewey and no doubt congratulated themselves that they had had a hand in seeing that he got in. The embassy was buzzing with rumors that the war in Europe was nearing an end and might be over by Christmas. Soon they would all be going home. The British were not alone in feeling cheered. The whole of voteless Washington, which had swelled to massive proportions during Roosevelt’s incumbency, seemed in a mood to celebrate. The long months of uncertainty were over, government employees could stop worrying if their jobs were safe, and administration loyalists would be rewarded. Even the campaign-weary press corps was glad it was finally finished and done with and toasted FDR in their customary fashion, three deep at the Mayflower bar.

  On December 7 the aviation conference finally adjourned. In light of all that had preceded it, a surprisingly simple document was drawn up. A uniform set of rules for air navigation had been established, as well as a permanent international authority to promote the development of air transport. But both sides had been forced to concede key points, and the result was an uneasy compromise. Neither London nor Washington was happy. Addressing the convention for the last time, Berle tried to affirm the new spirit of cooperation and seized on the symbolism of the third anniversary of Pearl Harbor. “We met in an era of diplomatic intrigue and private and monopolistic privilege,” he told the restless crowd. “We close in an era of open covenants and equal opportunity and status.” Dahl doubted anyone believed him.

  Dahl took advantage of his free time to see more of his new love interest, a French actress known as Annabella, née Suzanne Georgette Charpentier. Dahl had first met her in February, at the opening night dinner in honor of Franz Werfel’s and S. N. Behrman’s comedy Jacobowsky and the Colonel, which was playing in Washington for several weeks during its break-in tour. Delighted to find himself seated next to the glamorous blonde, who was married to the matinee idol Tyrone Power, he did his best to impress her with his literary flair, spinning a macabre tale about a stranger who bets his Cadillac that a young man can’t coax a flame from his cigarette lighter ten times in a row. The catch was that should he win the bet, the loser would have to surrender the little finger of his left hand. Accustomed to cowing listeners with his arrogance and barbed wit, Dahl was somewhat taken aback when the petite actress eyed him coolly and asked, “What happened next?” He saw her back to her suite that night and the next day returned for lunch in the hotel’s dining room, tipping the maitre d’ to make sure that he was placed across from her regular table.

  Dahl made fast work of their courtship, but then he had plenty of encouragement. Annabella was an adventuresome spirit and was at the time estranged from her husband, who had enlisted as a private in the Marine Corps and was away at a combat training camp. Several years older than Dahl, she was beautiful, intelligent, and endowed with enormous charm. She was warm and down to earth and had no interest in associating with big Hollywood stars, preferring to surround herself with a lively mixture of American and European creative people, including playwrights, screenwriters, and theatrical directo
rs. For Dahl, Annabella was more than just another wartime fling—she became his confidante and close friend. She was worldly in ways he was not, and as always, he was irresistibly drawn to fame and sophistication.

  Annabella had begun her career as a dancer and at sixteen was cast as Violine Fleuri in the French director Abel Gance’s silent classic Napoléon. She rose to become a star of French cinema, appearing in three classics: the René Clair films Le Million and Quatorze Juillet and Marcel Carné’s Hôtel du Nord. When she came to Hollywood in 1938, she was twenty-nine and had already been married twice—to the French writer Albert Sorre, who died, and to the much older French actor Jean Murat, with whom she had a daughter. Later that year the volatile actress made news with her divorce and snapped at an interviewer: “It is not always good to be a film star in America…they want to know what I eat, what I think, they even want to know whom I love—and that I tell no one.”

  She had met Tyrone Power on Twentieth Century–Fox’s back lot shortly after arriving in America. Annabella had just appeared opposite Henry Fonda in Wings of the Morning, Britain’s first full-length color film, in which she wore her blond hair cropped short and masqueraded as a bewitching young boy. After seeing her at a screening of the film, the bisexual Power was smitten. Hoping to turn her into the next Greta Garbo, Darryl Zanuck, the head of Twentieth Century–Fox, cast her in Suez, a big-budget quasi-historical drama that was designed to be a vehicle for Power. Much to his dismay, however, the two fell in love during the production. Power was then one of Fox’s most bankable stars, and Annabella—a foreigner, a divorcée, and several years senior to the twenty-five-year-old Power—was a far cry from the all-American sweetheart the studio had in mind for their golden boy. After communicating his disapproval to the pair, Zanuck attempted to get rid of Annabella by shipping her to London to work on a picture. Annabella refused to go and wed Power in April 1939 in the garden of her friend and compatriot, Charles Boyer. Zanuck was incensed. Studio chiefs thought nothing of rearranging the lives of their contract stars to conform to Hollywood press releases—ordering abortions and ending affairs—and her defiance cost her countless roles.

  By the time Power reported to boot camp in January 1943, he was trying to escape a stalled career and rocky marriage, strained by his more than passing interest in male companionship. In an effort to protect the image of their valuable star and avoid potentially ruinous gossip, the studio pressured them to keep up the facade of a happy couple. The continental Annabella quickly accommodated herself to the arrangement. While Power continued his protracted training—after officer’s training school at Quantico, Virginia, he did a stint at a command school, then received advanced flight training before finally being shipped to the Pacific more than eighteen months later—Annabella became a U.S. citizen and threw herself into a war-bond-selling tour. She gave rousing speeches in cities across the country, entertaining small crowds at post offices, factories, and insurance buildings. She also starred in a series of propaganda films, including The French Underground and Tonight We Raid Calais. Both pursued a succession of outside relationships: Power, between men, fell madly in love with Judy Garland; Annabella, in retaliation, took up with a well-known British actor, a writer, and a wealthy scion of an old New York family. Dahl knew he was by no means her only paramour and vice versa. As this was an arrangement that suited them both, they carried on a clandestine love affair.

  Jacobowsky and the Colonel opened on Broadway in March 1944 to rave reviews and went on to a hugely successful six-month run. Dahl often took the train up to New York to be with her and waited for her backstage at the Martin Beck Theater, and afterward they would go to dinner. One night, not long after his return from England, he and Annabella ran into Marsh’s daughter, Antoinette, and her husband at the Plaza Hotel. “I went to the Oak Room after the theater and ran into them,” recalled Antoinette. “She was very pretty, and Roald looked pleased as punch.” On the night of August 22, after being told in the wings that the radio had just announced the news that Paris had been liberated, Annabella took to the stage alone and, tears streaming down her face, announced to the audience that her native city had been freed. The whole audience got to its feet and joined her in singing “La Marseillaise.”

  When Dahl was in New York, he usually stayed at Marsh’s town house, on 92nd Street just off Fifth Avenue. Antoinette and her husband had an apartment in the building and often invited Dahl to parties: “Roald would bring Annabella to dinner—he’d come whenever he couldn’t get reservations.” Dahl also stayed at Annabella’s hotel suite. On one occasion, when Dahl was in town on BSC business, he had a plainclothes assignment and asked if he could leave his uniform at her place until his return. He told her not to press him for any explanation because he had already told her more than he should. Annabella was greatly amused at the idea that Dahl could go anywhere incognito. “He was so tall and good-looking,” she recalled. “You had to look at him!”

  As much as she enjoyed her liaison with Dahl, Annabella had not entirely given up on her marriage with Power, whom she later described as “the one great love of her life.” They saw each other for brief, intense visits during a few days’ leave, while he waited—and wondered if the marines would ever send a movie star into battle—for his orders. Despite everything that had happened, there was still something between them. The war had broken up a great many marriages, and Annabella knew their future together was doubtful at best, but she was willing to give it another go when his tour of duty was over. She was old enough to know that Dahl was not the kind of man you marry, in the end summing him up as “kind of impossible.” They clicked, physically and emotionally, and that was enough. She always regarded Dahl as a genuine hero but knew in her heart that “the crazy thing” with the handsome British pilot was not going to last. At all times, things were clear between them. “We had a complete understanding,” she said, “and he trusted me.”

  Annabella was one of the few women Dahl did not quickly tire of and discard. They continued their friendship and their on-again-off-again sexual relationship. It was the rare exception to a pattern of short, tempestuous affairs that even his closest friends at the time, like the happily married Antoinette, found distressing. Dahl could be incredibly insensitive where women were concerned, to the point of utter heartlessness. She could recall being shocked by the occasional callousness of his conversation and by the sight of his intended victim across the table, white and shaken. “He could be mean, just awful,” she recalled. “When he got bored, he could lay into them, and be very, very sarcastic.” To Ogilvy, he appeared to pursue women more for the sake of sexual conquest than from any real interest, and “when they fell in love with him, as a lot did, I don’t think he was nice to them.”

  The last few weeks of 1944 were chaotic and filled with uncertainty. Cordell Hull fell ill and tendered his resignation. Roosevelt failed to offer his job to Wallace and instead, without so much as a hint about what he was up to, completely reorganized the State Department and nominated Undersecretary of State Edward Stettinius Jr. to succeed Hull. He promoted Will Clayton, the assistant secretary of commerce, to be his number two. In effect, this meant that Berle was out of a job. Dahl and his BSC colleagues were happy to see the back of him, and delighted in the Time story announcing the resignation of the “gnome-like, greying Boy Prodigy.” There were rumors that Berle would be awarded the ambassadorship to Brazil, but at least they would be free of his watchful presence in Washington.

  Marsh, however, was infuriated by FDR’s calculated ambivalence toward Wallace, whose future was still uncertain. Roosevelt had departed for Warm Springs without a word, leaving the vice president in an embarrassing limbo. There was only the vague promise of the commerce job, which Roosevelt appeared reluctant to formalize. Eleanor Roosevelt told Wallace she regarded him as “the outstanding symbol of liberalism in the United States” and put in a plea for him to lead a greatly expanded liberal political action committee. Dahl heard the British were pushing for Wal
lace to be appointed to the UN, as head of the Food and Agriculture Organization, which would effectively keep him out of government for three years. Others within the administration, like Sidney Hillman, were trying to relegate Wallace to the less important post of labor secretary and were adamant that he should not be given the commerce job.

  Marsh and Wallace spent hours holed up in his study plotting their next move, fearing that if they did nothing the opposition would use the situation to their advantage and try to oust him from the cabinet altogether. On the morning of December 5, Marsh gave Wallace a lengthy strategy memo to read before meeting with Ickes about his going to bat for him with the president. Marsh interpreted the news that the president was returning to Washington as “favorable” and predicted that the next ten days would see “very fast action with Roosevelt on the job.” He cautioned Wallace not to trust Ickes, that he was merely “fishing,” and that anything he told him would be passed up the food chain—to Baruch, Hopkins, and the president—“within the hour.”