by Peter Albano
“You’re here to buy aircraft?” Ellen said quickly.
“In a way. You see, there’s a new fighter being built on the West Coast by the North American Company called the P-Fifty-one, Mustang Mark One. It’s powered with an Allison engine. I test-flew one in England.”
“Isn’t this secret?” Betty asked.
Randolph laughed. “You can buy any one of a half-dozen aircraft magazines on any news kiosk in the United States for a dime and find schematics of not only the P-Fifty-one, but also your Lockheed P-Thirty-eight Lightning, the Curtis P-Forty, the Bell. . .” He slapped his forehead. “The German and Japanese general staffs subscribe to all of them. Your magazines provide them with some of their best intelligence.”
“I can’t believe that,” Ellen said.
The pilot shrugged. “It’s true. Buy one.”
Rodney said to Randolph, “How does the P-Fifty-one compare to your Spitfire?”
Randolph shook his head. “Not too well. However, I had the lads put a new Rolls Royce Merlin Forty-five engine in one and that made a fighter of it. With the Rolls, it could be the best fighter in the world.”
“So you’re going out to California to persuade?” Brenda said.
Randolph smiled. “The engines are already there. I’m to advise and perhaps test-fly.”
“Then you’ll leave here in a few hours and we won’t see you again?” Brenda said thickly, eyes moist. She took his hand in both of hers.
The Englishman smiled down at Brenda, “I’ll be back, sister-in-law. There’s a new fighter in development here on the East Coast called the Republic XP-Forty-seven.”
“Why the Republic plant is on Long Island,” Brenda said. “At Farmingdale.” And then joyously, “You’ll be nearby.”
“Quite right. And I’m to test-fly a prototype at Mitchell Field that is very close to the plant. The XP-Forty-seven is a big, rugged machine with a huge Pratt and Whitney engine. I hear it’s very much like the new, powerful German fighter called the Focke-Wulf One-ninety. If you wish to learn more of the project, just drop by the nearest news kiosk and pick up a magazine.”
“Then we’ll see you again?” Brenda said.
“Perhaps in only a fortnight or so—if you’re unlucky.” Everyone chuckled except Hamilton.
Rodney nodded to a row of ribbons Randolph was wearing on his tunic just below his white-drab silk wings. “You’ve added a DFM to your DSO.”
Before Randolph could answer, Betty asked in confusion, “What? I don’t understand.”
Rodney nodded at the ribbons that were centered directly under the RAF monogram and silk crown of the wings. “The Distinguished Flying Medal and the Distinguished Service Order.”
Awed, Betty eyed the decorations. She blurted, “How many Germans have you killed?”
“Betty!” Brenda said reproachfully.
Silence crept through the room and Rodney’s aunt flushed. “Sorry,” she said humbly.
“Nonsense,” Randolph said, smiling broadly at the embarrassed little woman and saving the situation gracefully. “I had thirty-six confirmed in the first one and fourteen in this war.”
“Fifty kills,” Hamilton Babcock said with disbelief. “You’ve probably killed a hundred men?”
A silence as cold as an Arctic gale chilled everyone. There was a long silence.
Randolph broke the silence. “I’ve spent more time in this business than any other man on earth. I have a fine squadron—fly with the finest lads in the world. We fly machines and destroy machines.” He stared hard at Hamilton who stared back. “The Crown pays me for my work and I do it. I don’t collect scalps.”
“See here,” Hamilton said, eyes wide, face flushed. “That wasn’t necessary.”
Everyone stared at the two men who glared at each other. Rodney sensed the argument was not over flying at all, but over Brenda.
Randolph continued, “It was necessary. When the Jerries try to destroy your country, you do your bit to stop them.” The timbre of his voice became sarcastic, “This is not a cricket match. Sometimes, people are injured, even killed.’’
Brenda raced in to salvage the situation, “Of course we understand.” She glared at Hamilton. He turned away sullenly and then stood.
“Got to be going,” he said, moving toward the door.
“So early?” Brenda said.
“Yes. I start inventory tomorrow.’’ Randolph did not stand and no handshakes were exchanged. Hamilton left.
With Hamilton gone, a relaxed ambiance settled on the room. Brenda moved her eyes back to Randolph and narrowed her lids as she stared at the faint red line tracing down from his temple to his cheek. She ran a finger over it. “You’ve been wounded?” She let her finger linger on his cheek and moved closer.
“Just a scratch. Got into a devilishly awkward situation when my Spit shed a wing and most of its tail. Can’t fly half an aircraft, you know. Almost bought the farm. Made a clumsy botch of it when I bailed out of the old bird and tore up some poor girl’s potato patch when I landed.” The smile vanished and a strange, distant look crossed his face fleetingly and he stared over everyone at the far wall. The smile returned just as suddenly. He looked at Brenda. “Nicked my face on the way out. Nothing at all, Brenda.”
Brenda shuddered. Rodney felt a sudden chill. Despite the laughs, the boisterous company, the spirit of love and family, death was in the room, permeating everyone and everything. He took a big gulp of Scotch.
They talked for hours of family, the war, the future, hopes and ambitions. Rodney told Randolph of his hopes to get battleship duty. “And your second choice?” the pilot asked.
“Submarines. I did six months on an old S-boat when I was first commissioned. Only got out of Long Island Sound twice, but I enjoyed the duty. It’s a different world.”
“Quite so. The Germans have been teaching us,” Randolph said bitterly. He glanced at his watch. “Got to get on my horse. Sorry and all that. Two of my lads are waiting for me at Grand Central. At least, I hope they are. They’ve spent the last few hours in a nearby pub.” He turned to Brenda. “Please have the butler call a cab, sister-in-law.”
“Nonsense,” Rodney said, rising. “I’ll take you.”
“No need, old chap.”
“Of course we’ll take you. And I’ll go, too,” Brenda said, coming to her feet.
“We’ll all go,” Ellen said as she and Betty rose.
Nicole followed the laughing, talking group to the door. She stood behind some heavy drapes when the group exited. Randolph never saw her.
The next morning at breakfast, Rodney got the phone call. Travers answered the ring and casually announced, “The President would like to speak with you, Mr. Higgins.”
Rodney looked up from his coffee. Betty, Ellen, and Brenda exchanged a confused look. Rodney asked, “The president of what?”
“The President of the United States, sir,” Travers insisted.
Rodney laughed, convinced some of his old friends had learned he was in town and were pulling a prank. He looked at his mother and aunt and pronounced gravely, “Must have some staggering international problems he can’t solve. Just take a few seconds and I’ll set the world right.” He rose and walked to the phone. Taking the instrument and covering the mouthpiece, he asked the butler, “You said he claimed he was the president?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And it wasn’t his secretary?”
“No, sir. The gentleman announced himself as President Roosevelt.”
Rodney wondered how the butler could keep such a straight face when the call was such an obvious farce. Smiling, he brought the phone to his lips and spoke with mock reverence, “Lieutenant Rodney Higgins here, Mr. President. I’m ready to solve any and all international problems too difficult for you and your staff.” The women laughed gleefully.
The familiar, cultured voice
that filled Rodney’s ear was a marvelous imitation of the voice he had heard on the radio numerous times during the famous fireside chats. “Is your Grandmother Ellen Ashcroft there?”
“Why, yes?”
“Ask her if she can remember the summer of ‘twenty-eight when Eleanor and I met her and your Grandfather John Ashcroft at Martha’s Vineyard.”
Smiling, Rodney asked Ellen the question and his grandmother nodded her remembrance. “She says ‘yes,’ “Rodney said into the mouthpiece. The women all hunched forward. There was no more laughter.
“We had dinner at the Bayside Inn. Joe and Rose Kennedy were there and so was Al Smith. Your grandparents were the only Republicans in the bunch.” He chuckled.
With new seriousness, Rodney relayed the information. Ellen nodded and came to her feet. “I remember—I remember quite clearly. The Kennedys, Al Smith. He was in his wheelchair and Eleanor. . .”
The voice continued, “Now do you believe me?”
Still not completely convinced, Rodney asked, “Why do you call me personally? Why not a secretary? Why the president?”
“Because I’m here in my office, unable to move from my chair, and the phones are at my right hand. Why not?”
Rodney sighed and looked at the women who stared back in amazement. Somehow, he believed the voice. “What can I do for you, Mr. President?”
“I want to see you tomorrow afternoon at sixteen hundred hours in the Oval Office. Can you make it? I can send a car from the Brooklyn Navy Yard and have you driven.”
“I’m awaiting my orders.”
“I’ll send to the Navy Department and Knox will have them on my desk when you arrive. Will you need the car?”
“I’ll take the express this morning, if that’s all right with you.” Knox. Frank Knox, ran through Rodney’s mind. The secretary of the navy personally delivering his orders to the President of the United States? Ludicrous! Unbelievable, but apparently true.
“Fine.”
“May I ask what this is all about?”
“You were present at the sinking of the Bismarck.”
“Yes, sir. I submitted a written report.”
“I know. It’s on my desk. I want to discuss it with you face-to-face—much more can be learned that way. I’ll have time tomorrow afternoon after a meeting with my cabinet. I’d appreciate it if you’d come.” And then cautiously, “Another American had an experience similar to yours. I want you to meet him.”
“I’ll be there, sir, at sixteen hundred hours.”
He hung up and faced the women. They stared back silently. “It was no prank,” he said and walked to his room.
Lieutenant Rodney Higgins, splendid in his dress blues, was led to the second floor of the White House by a marine guard. Sucking in his stomach and holding his breath, Rodney was ushered into the Oval Office. The president was seated behind a ponderous, handsomely carved desk.
Even seated, Franklin Delano Roosevelt appeared to be a big man. Just as his pictures had shown over the years, he was extremely handsome. His hair was sandy with gray and white strands shining in the overhead light, his forehead broad and deep and showing permanent lines of worry. Framed by his pince-nez, the eyes were large, intelligent, and seemed to measure Rodney the moment he entered the room. The long, straight nose complemented the strength and determination of a chin and jaw that were square-cut and obstinate. Rodney imagined the face when young had probably appeared chopped from oak by an artisan using a hatchet. But now, fifty-nine years and strain had softened the lines and newly formed sags and wrinkles were beginning to erode the near-classic features. It seemed incongruous that the noble head, broad shoulders, and deep chest were supported by withered, useless legs that were kept hidden.
There were two other people in the room. A middle-aged woman with a pad and pencil sat behind a small revolving desk next to the president while across the room, a short, young ensign sat in a large easy chair. He wore flyer’s wings on his blue coat. The ensign appeared ill at ease. In fact, Rodney could see tiny beads of perspiration on the young man’s face.
Beaming, the president spoke, “Lieutenant Rodney Higgins?”
“Aye, aye, sir. Reporting as per your orders, Mr. President.”
“Pardon me if I don’t rise,” Roosevelt said. “I have a small problem, you know.” He gestured to the ensign who had risen. “This is Ensign Leonard B. Smith—the other American I mentioned on the phone.” He glanced at the woman and Rodney sensed there was information here that was not to be shared—not even by a personal secretary.
Rodney took Smith’s hand and found the grasp strong and assured despite the young man’s obvious nervousness.
“Ensign Smith must leave in a moment but I wanted you two to meet. You share an experience no other Americans can claim.” He turned to the woman. “This is my secretary, Marguerite LeHand.”
The secretary stood and extended her hand. About fifty, she still showed traces of a beauty long faded. She smiled sweetly and said, “How do you do.”
Rodney responded appropriately and following the president’s gesture sat in a large chair next to the ensign.
Roosevelt turned to his secretary, “That will be all for now, Missy. Please type up the memoranda for Knox and King and have them on my desk in the morning.”
“In your office in the west wing or here?” she asked, rising.
“West wing, please.”
“Yes, Mr. President.” The woman left.
As the woman closed the door behind her, Rodney’s eyes scanned the room. It was not as impressive as he had imagined the office would be where the most powerful man on earth worked. In addition to the two desks and the occupied chairs, there were four more leather chairs and four side tables with ashtrays. Glass-doored bookcases lined one wall. There was a large fireplace with models of cruisers and destroyers on the mantel. The nautical motif was carried further by marine paintings and prints covering the walls. Rodney recognized one painting, the famous “The Return of the Mayflower,” depicting the arrival of the first American warships in European waters in 1917. Rodney remembered Roosevelt had been assistant secretary of the navy at that time.
The president’s desk was incredibly cluttered. There were stacks of reports, two pen and pencil sets, a clock, a half-dozen writing pads, a small bust of John Paul Jones, packs of cigarettes, family pictures, two ashtrays both half-filled with cigarette butts, a lamp, and two miniature pigs. Pencils were scattered throughout the litter.
Roosevelt waved. “You like my décor, Lieutenant? Nautical enough for you?” He chuckled.
“Yes, sir. I would say a friend of the navy lives here.”
Roosevelt laughed and the ensign smiled. The president reached to a side table next to his desk. On it Rodney saw rows of bottles: bourbons with Old Taylor, Mammoth Cave, Old Crow, Old Fitzgerald, Seagram’s Seven Crown, and Seagram’s VO labels; Scotches with the fine Haig and Haig, Johnnie Walker, Chivas Regal, Teacher’s, White Horse logos and many more. There were gins, cognac, vermouth, olives, onions, even a small bottle of grenadine next to a bowl of sliced lemons. “Have a drink with me, gentlemen?” the president asked, pulling a pitcher of martinis from the table and placing it in front of himself. Then, Rodney spotted the empty cocktail glass. The president had already had a drink. Roosevelt filled his glass, speared an olive with a toothpick, and dropped it into the cocktail.
Smith rose and brought an empty glass to the president. Pouring bourbon into the ensign’s glass and topping it with a bubbly squirt of seltzer, Roosevelt looked up at Rodney, “You have a little catching up to do, Lieutenant.”
Rodney smiled. “A little of that Johnnie Walker Black Label, straight, and I’ll go right by you, sir, like Jesse Owens past Hitler’s supermen.”
The allusion to the black American’s embarrassing victories over German athletes in the Berlin Olympics in 1936 caused Roosevelt’s bi
g laugh to fill the room. It took him a moment to compose himself. Then, after handing the ensign his drink, he half filled a glass with Scotch and gave it to Rodney who had walked to the desk. Both officers seated themselves.
The president became serious, “To England and the brave stand of the British people,” he said, holding his glass high.
“Hear! Hear!” the officers chorused. They all drank.
Eyeing both young men, the president took a pack of Camels from his desk and offered them to the officers. Both refused. Carefully, he took a cigarette from the pack, gently twisted it into an elaborate holder, placed it in his mouth, and lighted it with a gold-plated lighter. Sagging back and tilting the holder at a jaunty angle, he took a deep drag and exhaled an enormous cloud of blue smoke. Staring upward at the smoke, he said, “Two packs a day—forty nails in my coffin.” Both officers chuckled politely. “I wanted both of you here because of your contributions to the sinking of Bismarck.” Rodney stared at Smith with a puzzled look. He had not only never seen the young officer before, he had never even heard of him. But, obviously, he had done something important. Roosevelt continued, “I have already told Ensign Smith of your sighting of Bismarck from the bridge of King George Fifth.” Smith nodded and smiled.
“Thank you, Mr. President. But there were a few other men involved. I didn’t sink her single-handedly,” Rodney said, sipping his drink.
Roosevelt roared with laughter. “Yes, but I have been informed you picked her out of the mist even when radar was having problems. It’s not in the ship’s log because you were present as a neutral observer and technically not a member of the crew. However, I know you were posted on the bridge as a lookout—got it directly from Whitehall.”
“Thank you, sir,” Rodney said modestly.
