by Peter Albano
The timbre of the president’s voice became grave and slightly hushed. He nodded at Smith. “Ensign Smith’s part in the sinking is secret and must remain so—you understand me. Lieutenant Higgins?”
“Yes, sir.”
The president emptied his glass and refilled it from the pitcher. Speaking through a cloud of smoke, he continued, “You know that Bismarck vanished after sinking Hood. The Royal Navy lost her completely.”
“Yes, sir. We were headed away from her toward the Iceland-Faeroes Gap when she made a radio transmission and a PBY (Consolidated Catalina flying boat) picked her up.”
Roosevelt smiled broadly and nodded at Ensign Smith. “Meet the pilot.”
Rodney was stunned. An American naval officer flying for the British. It was illegal, violated the Neutrality Acts and a half-dozen other laws and regulations. He stared at Smith who had his eyes fixed on the president.
“Now, you understand why Ensign Smith’s part in the battle must be kept secret. Congress would roast me and Hitler would have a field day.” Chuckling, he took another sip. “Actually, Lieutenant Higgins, we have seventeen of our navy pilots flying as ‘advisers.’“ He gestured at Smith with his glass. “Ensign Smith provided the British with some of the best advice of the war.” He laughed boisterously at the jest. Again, the officers laughed politely. Both officers leaned toward each other and grasped hands. “Good work—good work. Ensign,” Rodney said.
“You did all right yourself, Lieutenant,’’ Smith said.
The president beamed. “Now you know why I wanted you two to meet. But keep in mind. Lieutenant Higgins. Top secret.”
“What I hear here, remains here,” Rodney said.
“Excellent.” Roosevelt drank and refilled his glass. He gestured and Rodney brought his glass to the desk. Roosevelt refilled it. However, Smith emptied his and tabled it.
“With your permission, Mr. President,” he said, rising. “I’ll leave.” He glanced at his watch. “I’m due at the Pentagon in an hour.”
“Of course.”
Ensign Leonard Smith shook hands with both men and walked to the door. “Nice seeing you. Lieutenant,” Roosevelt said.
Smith froze with the door half open. “Lieutenant?” he said with surprise.
Roosevelt laughed. “Remember, I’m your commander-in-chief. I just promoted you.”
“Thank you, sir.’’ The young flyer closed the door behind him.
Obviously feeling his drinks, the president was in an expansive mood. He recharged both their glasses and lit another cigarette. “I have a fine staff,” he said, staring at Rodney. “Secretary of the Navy Frank Knox and Secretary of War Henry Stimson are two of the best.” He smiled broadly as if what he had said was loaded with subtle humor. But Rodney missed the humor completely and stared quizzically. “They’re both Republicans,” Roosevelt explained. “Broadens my base—helps pull some of Congress’s teeth.” Rodney chuckled appropriately. Roosevelt continued, “My chief of staff. General George C. Marshall, is a fine soldier. And I have others, all hand-picked. Harry Hopkins, my special envoy—he’s in Moscow at this moment conferring with Stalin.”
“Yes, sir. Fine men, Mr. President.”
“You wonder why I bring them up?”
Rodney stared back silently, wondering if this could really be happening. A casual and apparently intimate conversation with the President of the United States? A president who was obviously feeling his drinks? A president who was obviously lonely. The whole incredible dream gave Rodney a queer twinge, almost of conscience, to see the obvious pleasure his commander-in-chief was finding in his presence. It was odd to know that he, a junior officer, was respected and his opinions sought after by the most powerful man on earth.
Roosevelt answered his own question, “Because there is one thing they all lack.” He drank and stared over his glass at Rodney. “They haven’t been there—they don’t hear shots fired in anger, and even if we were in this, and God forbid that, they would not.” He stabbed his cigarette at Rodney. “Leonard Smith’s been there. You’ve been there. You’ve heard the shells fly over. You’ve heard them explode.” He hunched forward. “You saw a naval battle—a great ship destroyed and you did it voluntarily.”
“I was curious, Mr. President.”
Roosevelt laughed. “You know what curiosity did to the cat.” Rodney chuckled and emptied his glass. The president recharged it and the lieutenant sagged back into his chair.
“What did you think of Bismarck?”
Rodney described the battle and the difficulty the British had in sinking the German battleship.
“Do you think they scuttled her?”
“No, sir. She took dozens of fourteen-inch and sixteen-inch hits. She was not returning fire and she was well down by the stem before Dorsetshire put two torpedoes into her. The Royal Navy didn’t need any help from the Nazis.”
The president patted some papers on his desk. “You want battleship duty?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You have it. Your orders are already cut. You will report aboard USS Arizona as assistant gunnery officer by twenty September. Report to the naval base in Long Beach, California in one week and you will be provided with transportation to Pearl Harbor on the first available transport.” He nodded at the half stripe beneath the full gold stripe on Rodney’s sleeve. “And make that half stripe a full one as of right now.”
“Thank you, Mr. President.”
The president thumped the desk thoughtfully. “You have had an experience few men can boast and you are very intelligent, Lieutenant. I want your opinion on several matters.” He rummaged through some papers. Rodney wondered how anyone could run the country in such a mess. After muttering a few oaths, Roosevelt gestured at a half-open door beyond the fireplace. “I must have left my notes in my bedroom on my nightstand. Would you get them, please? Your name is at the top of the list.”
“Of course, sir.” Rodney rose and a slight movement of the floor told him he had had perhaps one drink too many. He shrugged and managed to walk a straight line into the president’s bedroom. Although the bed had been neatly made, the room was as littered and cluttered as the president’s desk. There was a heavy wardrobe—there were no closets in the White House—two rocking chairs and a pair of nightstands flanking the bed. Jumbled together on one was a Bible, a novel by Pearl S. Buck, pencils, aspirin, nose drops, cough syrup, an ashtray, and an unopened pack of Camels. The other nightstand held a pitcher of water with a glass, pads, pencils, stacks of documents, and a prayer book. On a marble mantel above the fireplace were a small collection of ceramic pigs, horses, and dogs with family snapshots propped behind them. A tail of a horse was prominently displayed over the fireplace.
Rodney walked to the nightstand holding the pads and found one with a list of questions. At the top he found his name. He returned to the Oval Office and handed the pad to the president. The president handed Rodney another full drink. Holding the glass, the lieutenant returned to his chair. He stared at his president. He had heard men of power—men in high places—were lonely men. President Franklin Delano Roosevelt was starved for conversation. He was convinced he was looking at the loneliest man in the world.
The president sipped his martini and grinned slyly. “You’re wondering about the horse’s tail?”
“A little odd, sir,” Rodney conceded. And then with a tongue loosened by liquor, “I half expected to see Hitler’s face under it.”
Roosevelt laughed until he gasped. He finally managed, “You have a wonderful sense of humor, Lieutenant. I’ve got to remember that one. Maybe I’ll put Adolph’s picture there. It would certainly be appropriate.” He smiled slyly. “But again, I might insult the horse’s anatomy.’’ Both men laughed uproariously. Finally, Roosevelt raised a hand and explained through the chuckles, “My father raced trotting horses. That’s the tail of Gloucester, his most famous horse. We all
loved the animal.”
Finally regaining his composure, Rodney gestured to a painting of Eleanor Roosevelt hanging over the door. It had been obviously painted when she had been very young. Curling naturally, her long fair hair shimmered in the light, eyes shone a dark blue, skin fine and creamy. Her waist was small, flaring gracefully to full, womanly hips. To Rodney’s surprise, she actually looked sexy and only remotely resembled the dowdy, plain, middle-aged woman the nation now knew. “Lovely picture of your wife, sir.”
Looking up from the pad, Roosevelt said, “Oh, yes, Eleanor. She was an attractive girl. I miss her. She’s in Sacramento meeting with some Democratic women’s club.” He thumped the pad thoughtfully and returned to his favorite subject, “What do you think of the Royal Navy’s fighting ability, Lieutenant?”
“They’re tenacious, courageous, and consummate professionals,” Rodney answered. And then he added, “They showed little interest in taking prisoners after Bismarck sank.”
“There were reports of U-boats around, you know.”
“I know, Mr. President.”
He glanced at the pad, “Do you think the battleship can fight off attacking aircraft, Lieutenant?”
“Yes, sir. Too much firepower. They’d never get through a battleship’s barrage.”
“You’ve heard of Taranto?”
“Of course, sir. It’s an Italian naval base. The British attacked it last year.”
Roosevelt nodded. “According to G-Two and Naval Intelligence, the Italians lost three battleships to just twelve Fairey Swordfish torpedo planes.”
Rodney sipped his Scotch. “But they were taken by surprise and they were Italians. Everyone knows they can’t fight.”
Roosevelt laughed. “True.” There were more questions about Bismarck’s ability to absorb punishment, effectiveness of armor, damage control, and turret fires that damned the British and destroyed four battle cruisers in two wars. Roosevelt spoke casually of the new Iowa class of battleships. Revealed how he personally had participated in the design that separated each turret into three separate compartments surrounding each breech with the powder hoist in each sealed off in its own narrow room. “Like a tiny, sealed closet that opens a panel just long enough to discharge powder bags into the loading tray and then springs snap it shut,” the president said proudly. He waved at a bronze of a tiny vessel on the corner of his desk. “That was my idea, too.”
“The subchaser?”
“Right, Lieutenant. I was assistant secretary of the navy during the war and I insisted on the small, wooden, cheap escort vessel.”
“And the North Sea mine barrage?”
The president nodded. “I pushed for that, too.” He shuffled some papers on his desk. Took Rodney by surprise, “What do you think of the Japanese?”
Sipping his drink, Rodney pondered for a moment. “Tough, treacherous fighters. Knocked the Russians around in 1905. Sank most of their fleet in the Korean Straits.”
The president sucked on his cigarette. “And they started the war by taking the Russians by surprise at Port Arthur.”
“They’re samurai—that’s their way, sir. According to the code of Bushido, the samurai should try to destroy his enemy with a single, quick fatal stroke. That explains the sneak attack on Port Arthur.”
“You’re very knowledgeable, Lieutenant.”
“Thank you, Mr. President. We have a fine Naval Academy.” He took a tiny sip of Scotch. “Sir, may I ask if you think they might deliver a quick stroke in our direction?”
“Only if they’re mad. Lieutenant.”
Rodney hunched forward. “But the Japanese mind can seem irrational to us. He’ll do the unexpected—that’s what we can expect. And their rear—Manchuria—is secure. After all, they did sign a neutrality agreement with Stalin.”
The president nodded grimly. “Yes. Stalin turned Hitler loose with his nonaggression pact in ‘thirty-nine and now, you think, he might be doing the same thing with the Japanese?”
Rodney nodded. “Looks that way, sir.”
The president’s face was set in a hard line. “Several of my staff have expressed the same concern. In fact, my chief-of-staff has written a paper on that very problem.’’ He drummed the desk restlessly before continuing. “We know the Japanese are dangerous empire builders, Lieutenant.” Rodney remained silent while Roosevelt showed his knowledge of the Japanese by reviewing Japanese expansionism that began in the nineteenth century with the acquisition of the Kurile, Bonin, Ryukyu, and Volcano islands. Quickly he sketched her war with Russia where she won control of Korea and the southern half of Sakhalin. A cheap commitment to the Allied effort in the Great War won her the Marianas, Caroline, and Marshall islands with the exception of Guam. Then Roosevelt described the thirties when Japan invaded Manchuria and annexed it as the puppet state of Manchukuo. “Now they have their Tripartite Pact with Germany and Italy, their nonaggression pact with Stalin.” He slapped the desk angrily. “And that gutless Vichy government is actually inviting them to move into French Indochina, threatening the Burma Road. The Japanese have a consistent, inexorable policy of conquest that has never changed with emperors or governments. There, your samurais have been consistent and predictable.”
Rodney was not shocked by the information that was well known to him. However, the president’s grasp of the consistent, unified drive for territory and power over the decades was startling, showing his incisive, penetrating intelligence. He gave old history a new look. The eyes of the handsome face with its almost fixed expression of good humor gleamed incongruously with emotion and just as incongruously seemed to be searching Rodney’s eyes for approval.
“But, sir, the Konoye government has tried to be conciliatory.”
Roosevelt shook his head grimly. “Prince Konoye—Emperor Hirohito—don’t really rule.” He looked up. “You’ve heard of General Hideki Tojo?”
“Yes. A real hothead.”
Roosevelt nodded. “Konoye is finished. Tojo will be taking over within a month. He leads a band of army fanatics who believe Japan is destined to rule in Asia with what they call ‘The Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere.’ They will be satisfied with nothing less than complete conquest of China. And keep in mind, we’ve embargoed oil and scrap iron and the Kwangtung Army still persists in its war in China regardless of what the politicians in Tokyo try to do about it.”
“The generals answer to no one.”
“Correct, Lieutenant. They’re a bunch of Caesars. They crossed their Rubicon in China and I intend to freeze their assets here, over one hundred fifty million dollars of it, and see how Tojo likes that. The British and Dutch will cooperate in any sanctions we impose.” He looked up suddenly. “Do you think we could goad them into a war?”
Rodney was shocked. The President of the United States was asking him if America should go to war. Maybe he was drunk. He gulped his drink. “They’re samurai.” He shrugged and turned up both palms in a gesture of futility. “Who knows? Is that what you want, sir?”
Roosevelt shook his head. “It’s the last thing. It would be the wrong war with the wrong country—if there could be a right war. But we can’t let Chiang Kai-shek down. China is the only power in the Far East that can stand up to the Japanese.” He tapped his desk, his quick mind moving to another problem. “You’re a navy man. You know the Nazis pose the greatest threat to this nation, not the Japanese.’’
Rodney walked to the desk and the president refilled his glass. He returned to his chair and, strangely, despite the drinks, the loose, giddy feeling of drunkenness had abated. Instead, he felt pleasantly relaxed and alert. “You are worried about the Royal Navy?”
“Of course. If the Fascists take over the Royal Navy and the French Fleet at Toulon, we would be hopelessly outnumbered, and of course, the Japanese would not remain neutral. They’d all jump on us.”
“A year ago, sir, that was a grim possibility.
But, now, the British are growing in strength and Hitler must defeat the Russians.”
The president pulled a document from a disorderly stack. Drank and smoked in silence for a few moments. His voice was grim. “Today, Lieutenant, the Wehrmacht overran the Minsk pocket and Vitebsk. According to British Intelligence and the OSS (Office of Strategic Services), almost three hundred thousand Russians were captured, twenty-five hundred tanks, and fifteen hundred artillery pieces lost.” He took another drink. “How long do you think the Russians can hold out? They’re losing whole armies.”
“It’ll be a long war, sir.”
“A long war?”
Rodney nodded. “Geography, weather, and numbers, sir. All against Hitler.”
Roosevelt shook his head. “I hope you’re right. Lieutenant. But I’m afraid the Russians will be finished within two months or less.’’ He punched his desk angrily. “And I warned him!”
“Warned who, sir?”
“Stalin! I sent my Under Secretary of State Sumner Welles to see the Russian ambassador, Constantine Oumansky, last March and Welles warned him that we had information that a German attack was imminent. Of course, those idiots in the Kremlin wouldn’t listen.” And then sarcastically, “After all, Hitler had signed a nonaggression pact with them.” He pulled on his cigarette.
Rodney was stunned. “But how, sir. How did you know?” Roosevelt smiled but there was no humor on his face or in his voice. Instead, a warning, “I’m afraid, Lieutenant Higgins, that information might be dangerous for you to know.”
“I understand, sir.”
Roosevelt moved on. “When Russia falls, England will be in grave trouble and we’re the next domino.”
“We’re the ‘Arsenal of Democracy,’ sir.”
Roosevelt laughed at the quote of his own words. “True. And with Lend-Lease we have no problem with British credits. But we must see that our cargoes reach the British—that they continue to fight the good fight, our fight.”
“Escorts?”
“Yes. I’m ordering our navy to escort American cargoes as far as Iceland.”
