Westbrook smoked and recalled the national events he covered. The World Series usually came to mind, a spectacle that put even a presidential convention to shame. A convention was different than the Fall Classic, as it involved a group of outsiders in a city; strangers who lacked any connection to the hometown folk, who also had little at stake in the outcome, unlike a baseball series where life and death hung on every pitch. Westbrook chuckled with the knowledge. Philadelphians had limited experience celebrating baseball victories, even with the illustrious Conny Mack as owner/manager.
Taking long, slow drags on his cigarette, he walked in the general direction of Convention Hall: the fifty year old meeting place which had seen its share of political conventions. Pegler was in no hurry. He knew the first day of a convention was the slowest. Stepping around the cracks in the sidewalk he went in search of somewhere to quench his growing thirst. Political reporters enjoyed larger expense accounts than sports reporters. Politicians were the few among the species who could out drink ball players – unless it was the Protestant ministers Westbrook knew who prayed hard for Prohibition until it was enacted then prayed more fervently for it to be lifted.
Peddlers’ Tavern was ahead, a joint with a reputation as a center of political gossip. Only a brief trek from the convention center, it would be a center of activity as delegates packed it during the convention’s interminable speeches.
Pegler expected the Republicans to be in a drinking mood. Roosevelt had handed them an issue on a silver platter when he announced his grab for a third term. Through the early days of 1940 Roosevelt neither confirmed nor denied the third term movement. It was an old American fallacy that the best presidential candidate was the one who didn’t want the job. Pegler preferred men who wore their ambition publicly. Those who lied about wanting the job were planning evil things once they attained power.
The Republicans did not conceal their ambition, and attacked each other with the fervor of a party destined for victory after eight long years in the wilderness. The most recent elections in 1938 had been a Democrat disaster, and a sign the Roosevelt mystique had faded as the depression continued.
The tavern was bulging with people when Pegler entered, the smoke and chatter putting the old sportswriter at ease. He had been nervous about changing from sport to a serious subject until realizing sports fans were much more fanatical in their prejudices. He would prefer to stand between a Republican and Democrat arguing than between a Giants’ fan and a Dodgers’ fan claiming the superiority of their team.
All of the Republican factions were at the tavern: New Yorkers for Dewey, Ohioans for Taft, Michiganders for Vandenberg, dead enders for Hoover and a rare Democrat turned Republican for Willkie. The last name intrigued Pegler. Willkie the former Democrat had suffered a political conversion on his road to Damascus, specifically TVA headquarters, where the demise of the private utilities industry was plotted. As a lawyer for the Commonwealth and Southern company which suddenly faced government competition, Willkie battled the TVA and his losing fight earned him the respect of anti-New Deal types. A newspaper article ghost written for Willkie sparked a boom for the lawyer, much of it financed by the Luces and their Time/Life media empire. The campaign for the utilities’ lawyer was so strong it convinced the Democrat Willkie to become a Republican and run for the presidency. However, even an old sports guy like Pegler knew the GOP was not desperate enough to nominate a Democrat to run against old man Roosevelt.
Pegler spotted an empty stool next to Reilly Bennet, an old political hand from the Pulitzer World. Bennet was in his late fifties, but decades of trying to outdrink politicians in an effort to squeeze information from them, followed by long nights with easy girls added years to an already craggy face. Yet Bennet enjoyed the sizable Pulitzer expense account that allowed him to wine and dine those with information. Unfortunately for Pegler, Scripps Howard was much less generous.
Bennet was enjoying a beer, not a politician’s drink as it provided less buzz and drove one to the bathroom, where the political talk was always kept to a minimum. He nodded at Pegler, the sign of a good political reporter, who always received information before divulging his secrets.
“Who you got in the pool?”
Bennet sucked at his beer. In the train ride from Washington to Philadelphia the national reporters formed betting pools on which of the Republicans would win. “Put twenty on Taft,” Bennet murmured as he eyed the cigarette in Pegler’s mouth. The Pulitzer man was a notorious smokes hog. “What you got?”
Pegler leaned forward as if revealing a carefully hidden secret. “Dewey.”
“Too young,” Bennet said. “Roosevelt’s running on a war preparedness platform. Dewey got Lucky Luciano and Luciano ain’t no Hitler.” He motioned to his mouth.
Pegler offered him a cigarette and had it snatched from between his fingers. “Roosevelt cannot run on war. He will lose all of those farmers. Old Gerald Nye stirred them up good about the Great War.”
Senator Nye, North Dakota Republican, had used his committee to denounce Woodrow Wilson and the armament companies, who supposedly conspired to get the country into the Great War.
Bennet sucked deeply on his cigarette. “You don’t know Roosevelt. He could sell a noose to a nigger, so he can sell war with the Nazis to the farmers.”
Pegler grimaced. He had never been completely convinced by the man Mencken called Roosevelt Minor. With the Nazis tearing up the communists and marching on Moscow, he doubted the old cripple could sell killing American boys in order to save bolshevism.
“Taft is the one. Republicans love that name. His old man was a fat fool but beating Teddy Roosevelt in twelve made the old hard shell conservative hearts beat a little faster.”
Robert Taft, son of the former president and chief justice, had the largest contingent in Philly and the most delegates in hand after winning a few primaries.
“Too dull,” Pegler pronounced judgment. He had finally caught the bartender’s eye and was soon enjoying a gin and tonic. “Roosevelt would cut him up. Dewey is young and exciting.”
“Too young,” Bennet repeated as he squinted past Pegler’s shoulder, then raised his hand in greeting. “Old Shea, he can tell you about the Tafts, was at the twelve convention.”
Pegler suspected Dwyer Shea was old enough to be at the 1860 convention that nominated Lincoln. Writing as a special commentator for UPI, Shea was becoming more incomprehensible with each column. Pegler read them only to improve his spirits as he realized his column could never be as bad.
Shea’s large stogie nearly made his scarecrow frame tip over from the weight. Watery eyes, trembling hands, blue veined face all spoke of a man, who might be visiting his last political convention. He stood, grasping Bennet’s shoulder with a claw like hand, false teeth sitting loosely in this mouth, the occasional clicking sound marking slippage.
“We were talking about the pool,” Bennet said.
“Pool?” The old man cocked his head to let Bennet speak into his good ear.
“Who is going to win the nomination?”
“Hoover,” Shea croaked.
Pegler blinked, suddenly wondering if Shea’s mind had drift back to 1928 while his body remained in 1940.
“Deadlock,” Shea murmured, dentures turning the “l” into a “w.” “Just like twenty. Too many pygmies and no giants. They will get tired, and Hoover will step in to correct the mistake of thirty two.”
Pegler thought the old man was being sarcastic, then realized Shea did not have an insincere bone in his body. Hoover was in Philadelphia, but Pegler suspected he was there as a kingmaker, shifting his bloc of delegates to whoever he wanted to win. Running a campaign to “reelect” Hoover seemed suicidal, Americans repudiating him like no other president.
Shea released Bennet. “You fellows enjoy yourselves? There is nothing more exciting than a convention.”
Pegler could think of several: game seven of the World Series, a no hitter, a Ruthian home run, but kept his tongue quiet. Shea to
ddled off and Bennet chuckled. “Old man knows his stuff, but Hoover winning sounds like he has slipped a little.”
“At least if he wins the pool he won’t have to split the money with anyone.”
Bennet laughed stubbing out his cigarette - technically Pegler’s. The two reporters were cornered by an overeager Dewey delegate, who demanded a positive story for his candidate before crying about the prospect of losing. He passed and cornered other unfortunates on the far side of the bar.
“The real action starts in tomorrow,” Bennet revealed. “Tonight we get speeches, audience applause tells us a lot. A couple of votes, mostly favorite sons wanting attention for their own reelection then the deal making begins, second, third, fourth ballot. If nobody breaks out of the pack it could be a long convention.”
Pegler did not mind. The convention was a distraction from the world. It was all bad news: the Nazis at the gates of Leningrad, sweeping up the Russians in giant encirclements, and the Red Army in full retreat. The British were howling for the Americans to join them in war, the Japs were killing Chinese by the millions and making threatening noises toward the Philippines. Some in Congress were pushing a peace time draft and a war the American people did not want.
Amidst this Roosevelt had tried to ruin the Republican convention by picking two of their leaders for the cabinet and removing them from the campaign. The Democrat nominated Henry Stimson as War Secretary and Frank Knox for Navy Secretary. Stimson had been Hoover’s secretary of state and Knox the Republican vice presidential nominee in 1936. Pegler knew it was political theater. Roosevelt composing a script featuring a “bipartisan president” who put the best men in office without regard to their party. He prodded Republicans to overreact, which they always did.
“Are the Russians done?” Bennet asked, eying his companion’s nearly full pack.
Pegler smirked. “The Germans got them beat. I heard they will be in Moscow within a month.”
Bennet, a bit more respectful toward the Russians, shrugged. “Napoleon got there and it didn’t help him.”
“That was winter, this is June.” Pegler finished his drink and motioned for another. “Hitler might be nuts, but the Germans surprised the Russians and the Germans know how to fight.”
Bennet did not argue, respecting his friend’s world knowledge. During his Great War reportage Pegler was nearly deported from France by the old Black Jack Pershing who took umbrage at his less than glowing reports. Pershing was not the last to have his blood boil because of something Pegler wrote. Bennet suspected his friend had an extra sense about the Europeans, suspicious of all the faddish beliefs in fascism and communism.
“Tomorrow,” Pegler raised his glass. “And the end of Roosevelt minor.”
II
June 24, 1940
The Indians rushed forward, leaning forward on their horses with a mix of bows and rifles in their hands. Rudi was settled, confident Helga was hidden from the savages even as the Indian leader focused on him.
He reared back but it was too late, the branches and straw had fallen away from Helga, their panzer visible to the marauding Indians. The chief raised his arm, hand gripping a hatchet as he released a piercing scream. The other braves circled and joined in the chief’s war cry as they assembled barely 50 meters from Helga’s beleaguered crew.
Corporal Brauch poked his head up out of the driver’s hatch to witness the spectacle.
“Head down Adolf, button the hatches immediately!” cried Rudi.
“But Sergeant it is too hot to close the hatches.”
Another shrieking war cry echoed, the attackers kicked their horses’ flanks, their numbers spreading in a wide line two or three deep. The scene shifted, the Indians attacked across the Russian steppes, Rudi shuddering as they closed, forty, thirty, twenty meters, their faces striped with blood-red war paint, brightly colored feathers dangling from bows and rifles.
“Close the God Damn hatches,” bellowed Rudi. A nearby yell and Franz Werner toppled from the deck of Helga, arrow lodged in his chest.
“Should I use the MG 34?” Braun the gunner shouted.
“Nein, Braun, the Indians are not our enemy we have no quarrel with them.”
“But the savages killed Werner!”
“They are defending their land, we are the savages.”
Rudi’s words had no effect. Braun opened up with the coaxial machine guns and swung the turret in a wide arc. Kroening joined in with the hull MG 34, spraying everything in front of their PzKpfw III. Another switch, the attacking Indians transformed into Polish cavalry. The 7.92 mm rounds from Helga’s machine guns tore into the flesh of the unfortunate Poles.
“Stop firing. We are the aggressors.” begged Rudi. “It is their land. We don’t belong here.”
Rudi felt an arm grasp his elbow and shake him. It was an Indian; Rudi grabbing at it, he would have to fight to avoid being scalped. Without warning the Indian became a Pole. Rudi jerked, unable to see who held him, then he woke.
“Bad dream, Sergeant Kleime?” Rudi blinked at the sight of the middle aged man in a white coat, a stethoscope around his neck which proved he was neither an Indian nor a Polish cavalryman “No problem young man. Such things are normal after intense combat. “Do you need anything?”
“May I have some water?”
“Of course.” The doctor was close to the age of Rudi’s father. He guessed a veteran of the Great War returned to service during the recent campaign. “I am Major Bluent of the 342nd Field Hospital Regiment. I treated your wounds.”
The major summoned an orderly and requested water. Rudi noticed the army uniform beneath the doctor’s white coat. His mind cleared of Indians and Poles as he recognized his surroundings. He was in a field hospital somewhere in Russia. He clenched his burning hand, suddenly fearful he had suffered an amputation. He relaxed upon locating it in its proper place, attached to his right arm.
“Do not worry, you suffered minor burns which should heal normally.”
“Dankeschon, Herr Doctor,” said Rudi. “I am in your debt for saving my hand.”
“No thanks necessary, I am working for the Fatherland.” The major nodded at his wound. “When your hand is mended, I will shake it. From what I have heard, the Fatherland will be thanking you for your bravery.”
“For what? My panzer was destroyed and my crew lost.”
“Ja, but you destroyed a Russian elefant tank by lighting it afire all while being shot at.”
Rudi turned away, unable to accept the compliment. His crew, the men who depended on him, were gone. He had failed in his mission to ensure they returned to Germany alive and whole. The orderly arrived with his water; Rudi drinking deeply, thirst quenched. “What day is it? What time is it? Why am I in a tent alone and when may I rejoin my regiment?”
Major Bluent held up his hand to slow Rudi’s questions. He made a show of counting off his responses on his fingers. “First, it is June 24. Second it is 0800. Third, you have been placed in this tent alone as a reward for your bravery. Finally, you may leave in a couple of days.” He paused to allow Rudi to take in the information. “I want to make sure you are healing without infection, but I think you have been transferred to another unit.”
Rudi considered the doctor’s answers while he rubbed his forehead with his good hand. “To the 7th Panzer Division?”
“I believe that is correct, Sergeant,” responded Bluent. “For now you will need to clean up and make yourself presentable.”
Rudi eyed the length of his tattered uniform. “Herr Major, this is all I have.”
Bluent pointed to a crisp new uniform hanging from a pole at the center of the tent. Rudy saw the unit insignia of the 7th Panzer Division. The Major placed his hand on Rudi’s shoulder and said, “You have an important visitor tomorrow at 0930.”
“May I ask who, Herr Major?”
Major Bluent laughed. “You may ask, Sergeant Kleime but I will not spoil the surprise.”
Rudi lacked the energy to ask any more questions and
tumbled into a deep sleep, his wounds and the exhaustion of battle taking their toll. He was awakened the next morning by the sound of utensils being smacked against metal breakfast trays. Rudi shook himself awake, squinting at his surroundings and trying to recall where he was and how he got there. The memories came rushing back as he slopped down the breakfast and noticed the uniform that had been waiting for him for an entire day. Once done with his meal, Rudi husbanded his strength, not wanting to meet his surprise visitor while lying in bed. Determined to be a soldier rather than an invalid he heaved to his feet and grabbed the uniform.
He struggled to remove his old and don the uniform of the 7th Panzer division. His hand balked at much movement but he eventually slid it through the sleeve then was left waiting for the “important visitor.” An hour passed, Rudi was calm with the expectation General Rommel, the 7th Panzer Division commander, would arrive to honor him for destroying the Soviet KV-1.
Rudi leaned back, eyes closed in thought. He did not want a medal, he wanted to return to his PzKpfw III. A smile crossed his lip as he recalled berating the crew for christening their panzer “Helga.” He would trade everything, his medal, his meeting Rommel, the 7th Panzer division to once again lead Helga with Adolf, Franz, Wolfgang Braun and Juergen. It would never be. He had survived, their deaths part of his record as much as the medal soon to decorate his tunic.
At 0930 a commotion outside of the tent drew Rudi to his feet to greet the general. Rudi would not forget their first meeting or the general’s unexpected invitation to join the 7th Panzer. Sergeant Kleime was determined to exceed his high expectations.
A chorus of exuberant “Heil Hitler!” rattled the tent along with Rudi who knew such salutes were ordinarily offered to an Army general in the field though without the unbridled enthusiasm that burned his ears. The tent flap was brushed aside, two SS body guards rushing inside and scurrying about, poking around the beds and corners.
French Betrayal (Reich Triumphant Book 1) Page 40
