Even a task as simple as getting dressed required enormous effort. At 11:00 a.m., valet Arthur Prettyman entered FDR’s bedroom and began the laborious task of dressing the president for his trip to the Capitol. While laying FDR flat in bed, Prettyman would remove the president’s pajamas and slip his legs into the heavy metal braces, which weighed roughly five pounds each. The braces had a hinge at the knee that could be locked into place, along with three straps: One went below FDR’s knee, another across his thigh, and a third was positioned at the top of the brace just below the hip. When pulled tight, the straps would keep his legs rigid. FDR’s black dress shoes were attached to the bottom of the braces through a hole drilled into the heel. The most difficult part of the process for Prettyman was trying to fit the lifeless feet into the shoes.10 Once the braces were strapped on and the shoes secured, Prettyman proceeded to dress the president. FDR chose formal morning clothes—black cutaway coat, striped trousers, and a gray and white tie. Roosevelt insisted on an added feature: a black armband he wore in memory of his mother. With the president still lying flat on the bed, his assistant would rock FDR to the right and then the left, gradually working his trousers over the shoes and braces and up his legs. Once the pants were on, Prettyman lifted the president to a sitting position on the bed and helped him put on his shirt, tie, and jacket. Once Roosevelt was dressed, Prettyman hoisted him into his wheelchair for the trip to the Capitol. The whole process took about forty-five minutes.11
Before leaving the White House, however, FDR made another brief visit to his physician’s office. He arrived at 11:55 a.m. and stayed for ten minutes. McIntire probably sprayed FDR’s nose to clear up any congestion and probably applied an ointment on his throat and mouth to keep his vocal cords moist.
After his brief stopover with McIntire, Roosevelt was wheeled to the north portico of the White House. As he emerged into the open air, Roosevelt would have seen ten highly polished black limousines bearing the seal of the president. Up ahead, and reaching nearly to the west gate, stood a dozen escorting police on motorcycles. Never before had a president been so well protected. There were more Secret Service agents and police gathered around him than at any other time in his presidency, including his three inaugurals. Many agents carried sawed-off shotguns. Despite the cold weather, they had decided not to wear topcoats because they feared the extra clothing would hamper their ability to draw their .38-caliber service revolvers.12
Roosevelt must have been surprised to see a new, shiny limousine waiting to transport him to the Capitol. Since government rules prevented spending more than $750 for a single automobile, the president did not have an armored car. “We could pay a million and a half dollars for a cannon if we thought that would protect the President,” Mike Reilly observed, “but the book said $750 for a car, and when the book says anything in the government that’s it.” Although the car was billed as bulletproof, in reality, only the windows were able to stop bullets.13
As Roosevelt approached the car, he said to Reilly, “What’s that thing, Mike?”
“Mr. President, I’ve taken the liberty of getting a new car. It’s armored, I’m afraid it’s a little uncomfortable, and I know it has a dubious reputation.”
“Dubious reputation?” FDR asked inquisitively.
“Yes, sir. It belonged to Al Capone. The Treasury Department had a little trouble with Al, you know, and they got it from him in the subsequent legal complications. I got it from treasury.”
Roosevelt seemed amused. “I hope Mr. Capone doesn’t mind,” he said.14
Reilly and Roosevelt’s son James, dressed in his Marine Corps officer uniform, then lifted FDR to a standing position and maneuvered him into the car for the short ride. Eleanor, wearing a black hat, black suit, and a silver-fox fur, stood by his side, watching his every step. James jumped in with his father, while Eleanor took a backup car.
Although FDR rode in a closed, bulletproof car, a Secret Service man stood on the running board to shield him from a potential assassin. Both sides of his car were flanked by an open Secret Service car with three men on each of the running boards armed with .38-caliber service revolvers. Four more agents were huddled inside with sawed-off riot guns at the ready. Another Secret Service car followed FDR. In front of the president’s auto was a car the Secret Service dubbed “Big Bertha” or “the Queen Mary,” because it held a rolling arsenal of firepower. “If ever a President rode in a mechanized division it was Roosevelt today,” observed journalist Felix Belair Jr.15
The president’s route along Pennsylvania Avenue to the Capitol was lined with soldiers and heavily armed policemen. “We turned out every policeman in Washington, and we virtually soaked the halls of Congress with Secret Service operatives summoned from New York, Philadelphia, and other Eastern cities,” recalled Reilly. The Secret Service took other unprecedented steps to protect the presidential motorcade: Street intersections were blocked off so that the motorcade could maintain a constant thirty-mile-an-hour speed. According to Wilson, all “manholes on the route were inspected for hidden bombs, and then sealed.”16
In 1917, President Woodrow Wilson had traveled the same route to deliver his message. Large and enthusiastic crowds, which embraced Wilson’s idealistic crusade to make the world safe for democracy, greeted him along the way. On this day, the crowds were small, somber, and silent. Roosevelt occasionally waved and smiled at the crowds, although, as one reporter noted, “the hand waving was a little less vigorous and the smile was not from ear to ear.”17
Roosevelt arrived at a Capitol swarming with police, Secret Service agents, and soldiers. More than two hundred Secret Service men guarded the Capitol. Another four hundred police officers were stationed in and around the building. Marines with fixed bayonets guarded each entrance. Everyone was on edge. When a reporter absentmindedly walked into the Capitol with a rolled-up newspaper in his hands, police snatched it away. A Secret Service agent forcefully pushed back another journalist who was trying to get into the press gallery without a pass.18
Roosevelt’s car pulled up to the ground-floor entrance under the south entrance of the Capitol. It was a secure area, away from public view. The Secret Service took his wheelchair from the trunk before helping FDR out of the car. James stood by his side, while Mrs. Roosevelt left her husband and was escorted to the elevator to the Executive Gallery, where she would watch the speech. It was there that she met her invited guest: Mrs. Woodrow Wilson.19
Roosevelt entered the building using the same ramp that he originally used for his first inaugural in March 1933. Since FDR became president in 1933, the Secret Service had installed wooden ramps at all the key buildings in Washington that Roosevelt routinely visited. James trailed a few feet behind, carrying his father’s speech. The Secret Service pushed him to the Speaker’s Room, a chamber just off the House floor. There he waited to give one of the most important speeches ever delivered by an American president.
While FDR waited in the Speaker’s Room, members of Congress and the press crowded into the House chamber. With the exception of the first few rows of seats, which were reserved for the Senate, the Supreme Court, members of the cabinet, and the leaders of the armed forces, every inch of the ornate hall was filled to capacity. People were jammed into doorways, standing on chairs, and leaning on the narrow ledge of the panels on the wall. The 86 seats available in the press gallery could not begin to cover the accredited corps of 590 correspondents who had turned out to hear the speech.20
At 12:15 Speaker Sam Rayburn gaveled the House to order. Most members of Congress were already in their seats. About a dozen members had brought their children onto the floor with them to witness the historic occasion. Doorkeeper Joe Sinnott announced a message had been received from the Senate. It was passage of House Concurrent Resolution 61, agreeing that a joint session of Congress be convened.
A few minutes later, members of the Senate filed into the House chamber. Vice President Henry Wallace led the delegation, escorting octogenarian Carter Glass of Vi
rginia. He was followed by a delegation of Democratic and Republican leaders. As a demonstration of solidarity, isolationist Republican Hiram Johnson of California linked arms with silver-haired Elmer Thomas, a Democrat from Oklahoma.21
The cabinet followed, led by the white-headed Cordell Hull. “He looked almost like a ghost risen for the occasion,” observed one reporter. “Tall, slightly stooped, he seemed almost exhausted. His face was deeply lined, sad. His white hair was neatly brushed, set off by his blue suit, black tie and white soft-collar shirt.” Admiral Stark and General Marshall followed in full uniform. Next in line were the members of the Supreme Court, in their long black robes. “There was no laughter, and none of the boisterous horseplay which customarily accompanies the preliminary stages of such gatherings,” noted a reporter. “There was only a subdued hum of conversation.”22
At 12:29 a voice cried out, “The President of the United States.” There was a moment of silence before FDR appeared in the back of the center aisle. His presence in the hall produced a burst of thunderous applause. For the first time in years, Republicans stood and applauded Franklin Roosevelt. The president stood, propped up on the arm of his son James. A House and Senate delegation of six members surrounded them. Their presence underscored the bipartisan nature of Roosevelt’s message, but it also helped to disguise FDR’s awkward movement to the podium before the full glare of the world’s media.23
A reporter noted that FDR appeared oblivious to the ovation that greeted him. The president, he observed, “appeared to be lost in deep thought.” He assumed that Roosevelt was “thinking of the gravity of the pronouncement he was about to make, a statement which, however inevitable it was, nevertheless was something to make any man think seriously.”24
While Roosevelt no doubt appreciated the gravity of the moment, James believed that his father was far more focused on the difficult task of appearing to walk down the aisle and then force his way up the wooden ramp that led to the rostrum. “His uppermost thought,” James later wrote, “was that he get one braced foot after the other in the right position; that he hold his balance over his hips and pelvis just so; that he shift his great shoulders forward, left, and right just so; that he not fall down. This concentration caused him to break out into a sweat as, indeed, it always did.”25
As James helped his father to the rostrum, the outburst of applause grew louder, joined by cheers and rebel yells, until Speaker Rayburn stilled the demonstration and presented the president. Once at the podium, the president grasped the firm sides of the platform. He adjusted his glasses and took a long, steady look at the assembled leaders of government that stood before him. He gazed almost directly into a battery of floodlights that had been set up for photographers.
If he could see past the lights, Roosevelt would have noticed how much Washington had changed since he first stood before Congress in 1933. Seeing the members of the Supreme Court sitting to his left would have reminded him both of the partisan legal wrangling of his presidency and of the remarkable impact he had on the judiciary. The average age of the Court he had inherited in 1933 was seventy-one, and it was then dominated by conservatives who did not share his faith in activist government. After it invalidated key New Deal programs, FDR announced an ill-conceived plan to reform the Supreme Court. The plan went down in defeat, but he still managed to transform the Court over the next few years, as many older, more conservative members resigned. He could take note that he had appointed seven of the nine members sitting before him and that the average age was now in the midforties, making it the youngest Court since the Civil War.26
Behind the cabinet sat the senators and members of the House. There were more Republicans in the seats than earlier, and many of the Democrats were from southern states that were unsympathetic to his liberal agenda. Gone were the massive majorities of 1937, when Democrats commanded margins of 331 to 89 in the House and 76 to 16 in the Senate. The margins on December 8 were 267 to 162 in the House, and 66 to 28 in the Senate.
After scanning the audience, Roosevelt looked down and flipped open his black leather loose-leaf notebook holding his speech, which was typed on special paper that would not rustle as he turned the pages. Reporters noted how a year earlier, while giving his State of the Union address, Roosevelt had seemed tired and worn. His hands had trembled, and he had almost dropped his glasses as he prepared to read his speech. It was a different story today. “Today, that tremor was gone,” noted an observer. “His hand was firm, its muscles bulging as he gripped the desk.” His voice was “steely, brittle with determination.”27
As he began to read his speech, the gallery fell silent. “Yesterday,” he said in a strong resonant voice, “December 7th, 1941—a date which will live in infamy—the United States of America was suddenly and deliberately attacked by naval and air forces of the Empire of Japan.” His tone became indignant as he outlined the dishonesty of a Japanese government that launched attacks even as it negotiated for peace. “The United States was at peace with that nation and, at the solicitation of Japan, was still in conversation with its government and its emperor looking toward the maintenance of peace in the Pacific.” He told the nation how “one hour after Japanese air squadrons had commenced bombing in the American island of Oahu,” the Japanese ambassador had given the secretary of state a message that “contained no threat or hint of war or of armed attack.” The only conclusion to draw was that “the Japanese government has deliberately sought to deceive the United States by false statements and expressions of hope for continued peace.”
Roosevelt made only a brief, vague reference to the damage at Pearl Harbor. The attack, he said, “has caused severe damage to American naval and military forces. I regret to tell you that very many American lives have been lost.” Then he moved quickly into cataloging the list of Japanese targets in the past twenty-four hours:American ships have been reported torpedoed on the high seas between San Francisco and Honolulu.
Yesterday, the Japanese government also launched an attack against Malaya.
Last night, Japanese forces attacked Hong Kong.
Last night, Japanese forces attacked Guam.
Last night, Japanese forces attacked the Philippine Islands.
Last night, the Japanese attacked Wake Island.
And this morning, the Japanese attacked Midway Island.
There was little applause during this early part of his speech. The first sustained outburst came when he declared that no matter how long it might take, the United States would win through “to absolute victory.” As he proceeded, and the applause broke in, he appeared anxious to curtail the demonstrations. This was not a political campaign speech; it was about the grim business of war, although the line that Hopkins added was clearly designed to produce applause. “With confidence in our armed forces—with the unbounding determination of our people—we will gain the inevitable triumph—so help us God.” The line brought the chamber to its feet. Even the ordinarily restrained members of the Supreme Court stood to applaud. 28
As Roosevelt’s war message culminated, Congress once again rose and gave him a standing ovation. “I ask that the Congress declare that since the unprovoked and dastardly attack by Japan on Sunday, December 7, a state of war has existed between the United States and the Japanese Empire.” Only two members remained sitting: Republicans Jeanette Rankin of Montana and Clare Hoffman from Michigan.
Roosevelt appeared oblivious to the demonstration. He had sat in the same chamber as an assistant secretary of the navy and recalled the wild cheering that had greeted Wilson’s declaration of war. He remembered how the harsh reality of war ultimately quieted the cheers and how disillusion with the postwar settlement had endured for a generation. More than anyone in the chamber that day, FDR was in a position to understand the challenges that lay ahead. Unlike the applauding members of Congress, he knew the full extent of the devastation in Hawaii. With a tight-lipped smile, FDR waved his right hand in acknowledgment and turned swiftly to leave the rostrum.29
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sp; Eleanor Roosevelt, who had been seated behind a construction beam in one of the worst seats of the House, stood applauding with everyone else. But she had mixed feelings that evening. “I was living through it again, it seemed to me, the day that President Wilson addressed Congress to announce our entry into World War I. Now the president of the United States was my husband, and for the second time in my life I heard a president tell the Congress that this nation was engaged in a war. I was deeply unhappy. I remembered my anxieties about my husband and brother when World War I began; now I had four sons of military age.”30
Roosevelt had spoken for only six minutes and thirty seconds. The speech attracted the largest audience in the history of radio. The response was overwhelmingly positive. The New York Times reported that Roosevelt “spoke concisely, clearly and to the point to an already convinced audience already stirred to belligerency by the wantonness of the Japanese attack.” Columnist Ernest Lindley observed that FDR “delivered his address soberly and unfalteringly.” The Philadelphia Inquirer described Roosevelt as “serious and tired looking. His face was lined and his eyes were somber. But his voice had all of the resonance and confidence that has thrilled millions of Americans over the last nine years. There was no hint of hesitation in his manner; only cold, grim determination.”31
In all of the coverage of events that day, not a single journalist made mention of FDR’s disability. Even when describing his “walk” down the aisle, reporters noted only that he leaned on the arm of his son. Later they said he “slowly” made his way out of the hall. In its live radio broadcast of the speech, the CBS announcers described the scene as Roosevelt was “walking up to the battery of microphones” on the Speaker’s platform. No one mentioned the cane that he gripped with his right hand or the effort that he seemed to expend to make it up and down the aisle.32
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