Tides of Valor

by Peter Albano

  Knox came to the aid of his chief. Slipping on a pair of glasses, he glanced at a document. “Our divers report from frame sixty-two forward to frame ten the ship’s sides were blown out almost to a horizontal position and from the base of the funnel to the first barbette the decks collapsed all the way down to the armor belts. The structural material that was not blown away was smashed and buried in the mud.”

  Roosevelt halted Knox with a raised hand and picked up the argument, “The destruction is so complete, we’ll never raise her, never be able to accurately assess what happened.” He stabbed his cigarette at Rodney. “I can understand how you feel. You’re convinced the lives of your shipmates were thrown away and you want the truth to be known. Well I want the truth to be known, too. But not now—not if it further demoralizes a shocked nation. Why torture fathers, mothers, wives, sweethearts with conflicting stories? We must stand united in our nation’s greatest peril. We need heroes, gallantry, victories, not charges of inefficiency, recriminations that will split us, damage our war effort—our very chances for survival.”

  Rodney tapped his glass and stared over the rim at the president. The arcane aura of authority, the supreme confidence of his president, had been torn away. It gave Rodney a queer twinge of conscience to see Roosevelt reduced to a pleading old man, unable to move from behind his own desk, unable to cope with the terrible truths and responsibilities that had struck him with one hammer blow after another. The illusion of the brilliant statesman with the quick decisive mind that could pierce the clouds of the most complex problems and come up with quick solutions was gone. He actually felt sorry for the man. But he knew his president needed help. “You want me to hold my tongue?”

  “Don’t you think that would be wise?”

  The young lieutenant sipped his drink while three pairs of eyes stared. “All right. No one will believe me, anyway.”

  “Good. Good,” Roosevelt said. “It’s the patriotic, the military thing to do. Lieutenant.” Roosevelt smiled; ‘the broad, satisfied, complacent smile he reserved for victories.

  Rodney was not finished. He could not, would not be that easy. He spoke boldly, “Two conditions.”

  The smile vanished and Roosevelt raised an eyebrow. Frank Knox hunched forward. Rodney continued, “First, I will not be called to testify before any board of inquiry, and second, when this is over, I’m free to tell my story as I feel it should be told. The truth as I know it.”

  Roosevelt and Knox both nodded in agreement and relief was on their faces. “Of course, agreed. Lieutenant,” the president said.

  Frank Knox said, “You’re a good man. Lieutenant.” He glanced at his watch. “With your permission, Mr. President, I’ll excuse myself. I have a meeting with the chief of staff.”

  Roosevelt nodded and the secretary of the navy left. He turned to his secretary, “Missy, you may leave. Please type up your notes and place them on my nightstand.”

  “Yes, sir.” She left, eyeing the lieutenant with curiosity and wonder. Rodney began to rise.

  “Please remain. Lieutenant,” Roosevelt said. “I would like to chat for a few minutes. You’re a very interesting young man.” He held up a bottle and Rodney walked to the desk. Roosevelt recharged the glass and the lieutenant returned to his chair.

  Roosevelt lit another cigarette and slumped back, sipping his martini. He held the cigarette up, adjusted his pince-nez, and stared at the glowing end of the Camel thoughtfully as if he were gazing at a beacon in the fog. He seemed to be having trouble holding the cigarette steadily. He was feeling his drinks and Rodney, too, could feel the warming, comforting effects of the Scotch spreading and relaxing his body at last. The enfolding leather of the chair suddenly felt as comfortable as satin and the young officer sagged back.

  Roosevelt tapped some ashes into an ashtray and spoke words that jarred Rodney erect, “I’m to blame. I’m responsible for all of it.” He waved the cigarette in a wide arc. “I killed them all—your shipmates, all of them.”

  “That’s not true, Mr. President.”

  The big head shook negatively. “I’m the commander-in-chief. I bear the responsibility. It goes with the job.”

  Rodney hunched forward, “We had war warning after war warning, Mr. President. You couldn’t be expected to. . .”

  Roosevelt interrupted, “I should have pressed for more alertness everywhere.”

  “On the local command level—bases, ships? Sir, as CIC, that’s just not your job and everyone knows it. Your subordinates were expected to do that job and the commanders were warned that the Nips were on the move, were expected to attack. I was briefed, too.”

  The big head nodded, and a slow smile broke the lines of wrinkles. “Thank you. Lieutenant. You are very knowledgeable about naval matters, have an uncanny knowledge of ordnance, but you don’t understand the jungle of politics.’’ He drew on his cigarette and sipped his drink. “Someday—mark this—my enemies will contend that I deliberately provoked the attack to plunge us into the war.”

  Rodney stared wide-eyed. Obviously, the president had had too much to drink. He was not even rational. “That doesn’t make sense, sir.”

  “It doesn’t have to. Not with my enemies.” He stabbed the cigarette at Rodney like a dagger. “They’ll come around to even saying I knew the Jap carriers were coming, perhaps, even had some kind of communications with the Jap High Command. It’s already being whispered on Capitol Hill.”

  “But, sir, where is the logic? Provoking a war with Japan was the last way to lead this country into the war. Why, Japan wasn’t involved in the European war. Officially, she wasn’t at war with anyone—not even China. The Tripartite Pact is not a true mutual aid agreement or she would have declared war on Russia last year. If Hitler and Mussolini hadn’t declared war on us, we wouldn’t be involved in the European war.” Rodney drank while Roosevelt stared at him with a slight smile curling the corners of his mouth. Rodney continued, “And another thing, sir, American public opinion screams for revenge—to kill the cowardly Jap. There is no way you could change that, guide us into a war with Germany, if, as your enemies say, that’s what you wanted.”

  The tiny smile broadened to a grin. “I take back what I said about your lack of political acumen. You’re a very astute observer. Lieutenant.” He stubbed out the cigarette and did not immediately reach for another one. “But you must understand, Lieutenant, logic, intelligence, and reason are not to be found in a large part of my opposition, in American politics, for that matter.” He chuckled unexpectedly. “But you know. Lieutenant Higgins, I believe a man’s stature, his achievements, can be measured by the venom, the thunder of his enemies.” He laughed. “It can almost, be measured in decibels.”

  Rodney chuckled, emptied his glass, and the president refilled it. Walking back to his chair, his step was slightly unsteady. He was happy to be off his feet again and took only a tiny sip of his drink. Roosevelt reached for his cigarettes and lighted a fresh Camel. He stared at Rodney for a long moment. “Lieutenant,” he said. “After you recover”—he pointed the cigarette at Rodney’s wound—”I’ll see to it you get a new battleship. A brand-new ship of the North Carolina class or the Indiana class, if that’s what you’d like.”

  Rodney shook his head. “Thank you, sir. The day of the battleship is over.”

  The president arched an eyebrow in surprise. “Because a few of our older ships were caught by surprise, sunk in peacetime?”

  Rodney set his jaw. “Isn’t that proof enough, sir?”

  Roosevelt sighed. “We still need a balanced force of capital ships—big-gunned ships and carriers. That’s what we’re building.” His face fell into a crisscrossing pattern of tired lines. “But it’ll take time—so much time. Two years at least before our building program is felt.’’ He drew on his cigarette. “You’d like a carrier?”

  “I’m applying for submarine duty, sir.”

  “Submarines
?”

  “Yes. I had duty on an old S-boat when I first got out of the Academy. I think our subs will sweep the Nips from the sea. And they can start doing it now, not two years from now.”

  Roosevelt laughed, and a new spark showed in his eyes. “I like your attitude, Lieutenant. If we had a million of you, this war would be over in a month.”

  It was Rodney’s turn to laugh. “Thank you, sir. You are very kind.”

  “You’ll get your boat,” the president said. He gestured at the wound again. “But not until navy doctors clear you. Not until March or April of next year, I would guess.”

  “Maybe February.”

  Roosevelt laughed again. “We’ll see.” He became suddenly serious and stared at the bric-a-brac that cluttered his desk, picked up a ceramic pig, and examined it. “The last time I saw you, you asked about Warsaw, rumors of atrocities. You told me you have a sister in Warsaw?”

  Rodney felt his stomach drop. “Yes, sir. Regina. She married a Jew.”

  Roosevelt placed the pig carefully back on the desk and kept his eyes on it. “I have bad news for you. We have reports of atrocities.”

  “Killings?”

  “Yes. And this is top secret.” Rodney nodded. “We got it from British Intelligence that has been gathering information from the Polish underground. Jews, Poles, and Russians have been shot.”

  “No!”

  “Several thousand. In Latvia, Estonia, Lithuania, Poland, and Russia.”

  “Organized exterminations?”

  “We don’t know. It seems to be random, depending on the German units involved. In fact, seems to be the SS in most of the cases.”

  “And Warsaw?”

  The president looked away. “There have been thousands of deaths from hunger and disease and some have been shot.’’

  Rodney downed the contents of his glass despite an empty, sick feeling. “Oh, Lord. Lord, no.”

  “I’m sorry, Lieutenant. But I knew you were concerned and I owe you this.”

  “I appreciate the information, sir.”

  Roosevelt slapped the desk in his first display of anger. “And damn it, Lieutenant. There’s nothing we can do.”

  “But there is, sir.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes, Mr. President. Win this goddamned war just as fast as we can.”

  Roosevelt drank and smiled. “Be sure to phone me at the end of your first patrol. You’re a fountainhead of information, Lieutenant, and I like talking with you.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Rodney sipped his drink, stared into the shadows behind the president’s desk. The liquor had relaxed him but at the same time had played tricks with his brain. Weird things were happening. He was seeing things in the shadows. Then they came into focus. Just a glimpse like images flashed in a millisecond from a projector in a recognition class, yet very clear. They were standing behind the president. Stud Horse Colburn, Dick Jordan, Paul Stolz, Martin Lebow, Jay Mendel, Marvin Bollenbach, Bill Farris, Fred Bagsby, Kenneth Nemhart. All of them in bloody whites, eyes fixed on him like coals in a hot fire, and then they were gone. Rodney stared at the president with eyes that glowed balefully like the eyes of a wolf lying in dark ambush. Anger and grief had carved his handsome face into an ugly mask—all hard, deep, down-slashing lines. “Kill those fuckin’ Nips. Kill them all,” he spat.

  The smile vanished from Roosevelt’s face. He stared back silently in confusion and wonder.

  XII

  The Warsaw Ghetto

  February 1, 1942

  It had been a harsh winter in the ghetto. Deaths averaged nearly five thousand a month. The survivors became hardened to the skeletal figures with yellow swollen faces and bloated abdomens that sat propped up against the walls of buildings. Eyes puffed and slitted, they reached out with hands like bent roots to indifferent passersby for food. Others, already dead, lay rigidly on the curbs awaiting the death squads to haul them off to the mass graves. Children too weak to walk crawled on all fours like tattered crabs, snatching food from pedestrians, swallowing as much as possible before they were caught and struck. When a “snatcher,” or khapper as he was called in Yiddish, dropped a jar of broth, soup, milk—any liquid food—there was a mad scramble of tiny skeletons and a horde of khappers lapped up the food, mud, particles of glass, and all while the screaming owner kicked them. There were even rumors of cannibalism.

  Yet, to the Nazis’ rage and frustration, the bulk of the Jewish population found ways to survive. The smuggling grew and proliferated, became highly organized and efficient. Refuse collectors left with garbage and trash in their wagons and returned with food. Cows and goats were herded over the walls on especially constructed mobile ramps. Chickens were passed over the wall or through cracks. A pipe running from the roof of a building on the Aryan side to a building in the ghetto was used as a funnel for milk. Workers, especially women who passed to the Aryan side to their jobs, reentered the ghetto with food hidden on their bodies. Children darted through small openings in the wall to buy or beg food. Many were shot, but the practice grew.

  Clandestine industries expanded, providing goods for sale on the Aryan side. Raw materials were smuggled in to supplement the tons of wastes collected on the inside. Trousers, shirts, dresses, and sweaters were fashioned from rags and smuggled bolts of cloth. Slippers were manufactured from woven cardboard, paper, and wood fibers. Brooms and brushes were made from hair, feathers, and recycled bristles. Shoes, wallets, and handbags were created from the leather covers of old ledgers and books.

  Consequently, most people continued to survive causing consternation among their Nazi masters. The Yiddish theater continued to give performances and the symphony orchestra gave regular concerts. Schools, though forbidden, thrived, serving children and adults in attics, cellars, and in any place hidden from the eyes of the police.

  Despite the horrifying rumors of mass killings in Poland and Russia, most of the people felt a glimmer of hope, even of optimism that they would somehow survive. They even found reassurance in the news from the Russian front. Markus Lang’s wireless and a hundred others monitored reports from the fronts and supplied the news to a half-dozen underground newspapers. The Germans had been stopped outside Moscow and hurled back two hundred kilometers. Russian forces had recaptured Mozhaisk and Rostov, and Sevastopol and Leningrad were still holding out. “We’ll just hold out until the Red Army frees us,” they told each other.

  But Josef Lipiski, Jan Tyranowski, and many other young militant Jews believed none of it. Natan Kagan, the last Jew of Kutno, had died. But his story of annihilation had not. In fact, other refugees had brought reports of mass murders in other parts of Poland. The Kosciuskos had grown in strength and numbered almost a hundred men and a dozen women. The Pole, Bogdan Koz, had been contacted and a steady stream of small arms had been smuggled from his home on Bilowski Street—but not without loss. Early in February Solomon Katz was caught on the outside with a Luger under his coat. The SS hung him from a lamppost by his feet and emasculated him. “Circumcised right down to the crotch, balls, and all Jude,” a burly sergeant laughed. Then they cut his throat and let him bleed to death like a butchered animal.

  In January the Kosciuskos traded an emerald ring for their first machine gun. It was an old Italian Fiat-Revelli, Model 1935. It took three weeks to smuggle the forty-pound weapon and a thousand rounds of ammunition into the ghetto. It was hidden in the Kosciuskos’ meeting place in the cellar of the storehouse on Pawia Street with an arsenal that had grown to sixty-three rifles, twenty-seven pistols, and four boxes of German grenades. When Josef patted the cold steel of the breech of the Fiat-Revelli, he felt a strange feeling of power, of assurance. Regina thought he and the rest of the Kosciuskos were mad.

  Unknown to Josef and Jan, a new organization called the Jewish Fighting Organization (Zydowska Organhacja Bojowa) or ZOB was formed. Word filtered quickly through the packed ghetto and a meeting
was arranged. It was held in the apartment of Mordechai Anielewicz, the twenty-four-year-old leader of ZOB. Because Anielewicz was derived from the Polish word for angel (aniol), Mordechai was commonly called “Angel” by his followers. He radiated charisma and commanded great respect and loyalty from his followers. As head of the even more militant Kosciuskos, Jan Tyranowski and his chief lieutenant, Josef Lipiski, joined Anielewicz and two other men unknown to Josef in the tiny apartment at Zamenhof 32 in the central ghetto.

  Seating himself at a battered table next to Jan and across from Mordechai Anielewicz and the two strangers, Josef noticed Mordechai wore the new battle dress of ZOB: thread-worn gray jacket, knickers, and golf socks. The ZOB leader’s thin, dark face was cast in grim, down-turning lines like a bronze too long in the heat. His brown eyes moved first from Jan and then to Josef.

  “It is good that you are here. We must unite our efforts against the Germans,” Mordechai said. Josef could feel the force of the man’s personality. He and Jan nodded.

  “How many members do you have? Weapons? Are your people ready to fight to the death?” Josef asked.

  Mordechai held up a hand defensively. “Nearly two hundred members, all young, and, yes, all ready to fight to the death. We have twenty-two rifles and ten pistols.”

  “Machine guns?”

  “None. And you?”

  Jan explained their membership and described their arms. Mordechai nodded approval. “We must unite,” he said.

  Jan looked at Josef who nodded almost imperceptibly. “Agreed,” Jan said. “We must coordinate our efforts, but I insist on keeping command of my own.”

  Josef almost snickered. The two leaders sounded just like jealous generals arguing over authority. Mordechai Anielewicz yielded quickly. “Of course,” he said. “But we must conduct joint meetings, share information, and. . .”

  “But we don’t share weapons,” Jan said.