Henry laughed politely. "Yes, that's the one."
"Well, good luck."
A brisk wind was tumbling and scattering the fog in the twilit anchorage, and the choppy water tossed the slow-moving gig so that the bell clanged randomly and Henry had to brace himself on the dank leather seat. After a dull rocky ride the Augusta loomed ahead through the mist, a long dark unlit shape. The cruiser was not even showing anchor lights, a serious and strange peacetime violation. In the breaking fog, the President's yacht and the dunes of Martha's Vineyard were barely visible. As Captain Henry mounted the cruiser's ladder, a faint pink glow was appeanng in the east. The cleanliness of the old vessel, the fresh smooth paint, the pale gleam of brightwork, the tense quiet gait of sailors in spotless uniforms, marked it as King's flagship. Peculiar long ramps on the decks, and freshly welded handrails, were obvious special fittings for the crippled President.
Admiral King in starchy whites, lean legs crossed, sat in his high bridge chair querying the captain of the Augusta about arrangements for Roosevelt. He took no notice whatever of Henry's arrival. The captain , a classmate of Pug, was answering up like a midshipman at an examination. When King dismissed him, he ventured a subdued "Hi, Pug," before leaving his bridge.
"Henry, the President will want a word with you when he comes aboard." Fitting a cigarette into a black filter holder, King turned cold eyes on Pug. "I just learned that, hence this transfer. We'll be under way before you can get back to the Tuscaloosa. I trust you're prepared with any reports or information he may desire."
"I have my work papers here, Admiral." Pug touched the dispatch case which, in the transit between cruisers, had not left his hand.
King, with chin high, looked down at Victor Henry through halfclosed eyes, puffing at the cigarette. "As I told you last week, the President asked to have you along on this exercise. He didn't mention that he wanted you at his beck and call, however. Are you by any chance a distant relative or an old family friend of Mr.
Roosevelt?"
"No, Admiral."
"Well-you might remember, when occasion offers, that you work for the United States Navy."
'Aye aye, sir."
Virtually nobody saw the crippled man hoisted aboard. The ship's company in dress whites was mustered on the long forecastle at attention under the main battery guns. No band played, no guns saluted. The yacht Potomac came along the port side, out of sight of Martha's Vineyard.
Sharp commands rang out, a boatswain's pipe squealed, the Potontac churned away, and the President appeared in his wheelchair, pushed by a Navy captain, with an impressive following of civilians, admirals, and Army generals. As on a theatrical cue, the sun at that moment came out and sunlight shafted down the decks, illuminating the grinning, waving President. The white suit and floppy white hat, the high-spirited gestures, the cigarette holder cocked upward in the massive bespectacled face, were almost too Rooseveltian to be real. An actor would have come on so, and Pug thought FDR actually was putting on a little show for the crew, perhaps responding to the burst of sunshine.
The wheelchair and its entourage passed across the forecastle and went out of sight.
At once the two cruisers weighed anchor and steamed out to sea, with a destroyer division screening ahead of them. The morning sun disappeared behind the clouds. In dreary gray North Atlantic weather, the formation plunged northeast at twenty-two knots, cutting across main ship lanes. Victor Henry walked the main deck for hours relishing the sea wind, the tall black waves, and the slow roll of iron plates under his feet.
No summons came from the President. That scarcely surprised him.
His chief in the War Plans Division was aboard the Tuscaloosa; they had intended to do a lot of work enroute. Now when the two cruisers reached the rendezvous, they would need an all-night conference. The separation was probably pointless, but the President's whim had to be endured.
He was finishing bacon and eggs next morning in the flag mess, when a steward's mate handed him a sealed note on yellow scratch paper: If you're not standing watch, old man, you might look in about ten or so.
The Skipper He folded the note carefully away in his pocket. Pug was preserving all these communications, trivial or not, for his grandchildren. At the stroke of ten he went to flag quarters. A rugged frozen-eyed marine came to robot attention outside the President's suite.
'Hello there, Pug! just in time for the news!" Roosevelt sat alone in an armchair at a green baize-covered table, on which a small portable radio was gobbling a corrunerdal. Dark fatigue pockets under Roosevelt's eyes showed through the pince-nez glasses, but the open shirt collar outside an old gray sweater gave him a relaxed look. He had cut himself shaving; a gash clotted with blood marred the big chin.
His color was good, and he was snuffing with relish the wind that blew in through a scoop and mussed his thin gray hair.
He shook his head sadly at a Moscow admission that the Germans had driven far past Smolensk. Then the announcer said that President Roosevelt's whereabouts were no longer a secret, and he perked up. FDR was vacationing aboard the Potomac, the announcer went on. Reporters had seen him on the afterdeck of the yacht at eight o'clock last evening, passing through the Cape Cod Canal. Roosevelt's eyes darted cunningly at Captain Henry. His smile curved up, self-satisfied and wise. "Ha ha.
And here I was at eight o'clock, out on the high seas. How do you suppose I worked that one, Pug?"
"Pretty good deception, sir. Somebody in disguise on the yacht?"
'Dam right! Tom Wilson, the engineer. We got him a white suit and white hat. Well, that's just grand. It worked!" He tuned down another commercial. 'We didn't want U-boats out gunning for Churchill and me. But I admit I get a kick out of giving the press the slip, Pug. They do make my life a misery." Roosevelt was searching through piles of paper on the desk. "Ah. Here we are. Look this over, old fellow." The typewritten document was headed "For The President-Top Secret, Two Copies Only."
Turning up the radio again, the President slumped in his chair, and the mobile face went weary and grave as the announcer described a newspaper poll of the House of Representatives on the extension of the draft, predicting defeat of the bill by six to eight votes. "That is wrong," the President interjected, his heavy black-ringed eyes on the radio, as though arguing with the announcer. In the next item, the German propaganda ministry ridiculed an accusation by world Jewish leaders of massacres of Jews taking place in German-held parts of the Soviet Union. The Jews were spreading Allied atrocity propaganda, the ministry said, and the Red Cross was free to come in at any time to verify the facts. "There's another lie," the President said, turning off the radio with a disgusted gesture. "Those Nazis are the most outrageous liars, really. The Red Cross can't get in there at all. I think, and I certainly hope, those stories are terribly exaggerated.
Our intelligence says they are. Still, where there's smoke-" He took off his pince-nez, and rubbed his eyes hard with thumb and forefinger.
"Pug, did your daughter-in-law ever get home with her uncle?"
"I understand they're on their way, sir."
"Good. Very good." Roosevelt puffed out a long breath. "Quite a lad, that submariner of yours." "A presumptuous pup, I'm afraid."
Victor Henry was trying to read the document, which was explosive, while chatting with Roosevelt. It was hard because the pages were full of figures.
"I also have a son who's an ensign, Pug. He's aboard, and I want you to meet him."
"My pleasure, sir."
Roosevelt lit a cigarette, coughing. "I received a copy of that Jewish statement. A delegation of some old good friends brought it to me. The way the Jews stick together is remarkable, Pug. But what's one to do? Scolding the Germans is so humiliating, and so futile.
I've exhausted that line long ago. We've tried to get around the immigration laws, with this device and that, and we've had some luck, actually. But when I've got a Congress that's ready to disband the Army, can you imagine my going to them with a bill to admit m
ore Jews?
I think we'll beat them on the draft, but it'll be close at best."
While he was saying this, Franklin Roosevelt cleared a space on the table, took up two decks of cards, and meticulously laid out a complex solitaire game. He moved cards around in silence for a while, then said in a new cheerful tone, as the ship took a long roll, "By George, Pug, doesn't it feel wonderful to be at sea again?"
"It sure does, Mr. President." "Many's the time I've sailed in these waters. I could navigate this ship for them, honor bright!" He observed Pug turning over the last page.
"Well? What do you think?"
"This is something for my chief, Mr. President."
"Yes, but Kelly Turner's over on the Tuscaloosa. Anyway, another squabble between the service heads is just what I don't want." The President smiled at him with flattering warmth. "Pug, you have a feeling for facts, and when you talk I understand you. Those are two uncommon 2. r virtues. So let's have it. Take your time."
"Yes, Mr. President."
Pug flipped through the document again, making quick notes on a pad. The President, chain-lighting a cigarette, carefully put down card on card.
Nothing in the document surprised Henry. He had heard it all before, in arguments with Army war planners. But here the Army was taking its case to the President, either through Marshall, or by some devious route which the President in his usual fashion kept open. The document was a scorcher indeed; if it leaked to isolationist senators, it might well end Lend-Lease, kill Selective Service, and even start an impeachment drive.
Hence he was taken aback to see that it existed at all.
Roosevelt had called for the preparation of a "Victory Program," a fresh start to unlock the paralysis of Lend-Lease and war production.
Half a dozen agencies had tangled themselves and the big industries into impotence-the Army and Navy Munitions Board, the War Resources Board, the Office of Emergency Management, the National Defense Advisory Commission, the Office of Production Management.
Their heads were jockeying for presidential favor; all Washington was bewildered by the flood of new initials; shortages and bottlenecks were mounting; and actual munitions were being produced in a feeble trickle.
To break this up, Roosevelt had ordered the armed forces to list everything they needed to win a global war, and to work out new priorities from this master list.
For weeks planners like Victor Henry had been calculating possible American invasions of France, Africa, Germany, Italy, China, and Honshu, air strikes against industrial cities, and joint operations with the British and even the Russians. The Army and the Navy, not particularly trusting each other, we liar c redly communicating about the program. Each had prepared a draft, and each had of course called for the greatest possible share of manpower and industrial output.
They had been at the greatest pains to keep the Victory Program secret and the papers few. The document now in Victor Henry's hands was a sharp critique by the Army of the Navy's demands.
"How about some orange juice?" the President said, as a steward entered with a pitcher on a tray. "Wouldn't you like that? Felipe squeezes it fresh. He's gotten hold of some glorious oranges."
"Thank you, sir." Pug sipped at a glass of foaming juice. "This thing needs a paper just as long in reply, Mr. President.
Essentially, the Navy and the Army are just using two different crystal balls. That's inevitable.
The Armyy's the big service, and it's ultimately responsible for the security of the United States. No argument there. They figure they may have to fight the Axis single-handed, after Russia and England fold. That's why they demand so much. They arrive at the army of nine million men b'y working backward from the total manpower of the United States. It's the biggest force our country can field."
'And we may well need it," said the President.
"Yes, sir. It's mainly on Lend-Lease that we see the thing differently The Army says we want to give away too many arms and machines which the Germans may capture and use against us. But our contention is that even if the Soviet Union does go down soon, and the British too, a hell of a lot of Germans will have to die first to lick them. And every German who dies is one less German who'll be shooting at us one day."
"I agree," the President said, very flatly.
"Well, then, Mr. President, shouldn't we at any cost strengthen these people who are killing Germans right now? We can rebuild and replace lost materiel pretty fast, but it takes twenty years to raise a live Boche to replace a dead one."
The President observed with a slight grin, "Well said. But LendLease isn't the only bone of contention here. I notice the Navy wants a pretty hefty share of our total steel production." 'Mr.
President"-Pug leaned forward, elbows on knees, hands outstretched, talking as forcefully as he could-"Hitler didn't beat England last year because he couldn't land the strongest army in the world on a coast a few miles away. He had all the ships he needed to carry them across.
But he couldn't dock them on the other side. Assault from the sea is a tough battle problem, Mr. President. They don't come much tougher, it's easy to put your men ashore, one place or another, but then how do you keep the defenders from wiping you out? Your men are stranded.
The defenders have all the mobility, the numerical superiority, and the firepower. They can concentrate and crush you." As Pug talked, the President was nodding, cigarette holder drooping between his teeth, eyes piercingly attentive. "Well, sir, the answer is special craft that can hit an open beach in large numbers. You throw a large force ashore, and keep it supplied and reinforced until it captures a harbor.
Then you can pile in with your regular transports, your luxury liners too-if you've got 'em-and your invasion's on. But those landing craft, you need swarms of them, sir, of many different designs. This analysis has been assigned to me. It looks as though we're going to have to manufacture something like a hundred thousand, all told."
"A hundred thousand!" The President tossed his big head. "Why, all the shipyards in the United States couldn't do that in ten years, Pug even if they stopped doing everything else. You're talking sheer nonsense.
Everybody exaggerates his little specialty." But Roosevelt was smiling in an excited way and his eyes were lighting up. He spoke of landing boats the Navy had used in the last war, when he was Assistant Secretary, and of the disastrous British landing at Gallipoli. Victor Henry took from his briefcase pictures of German invasion craft and of new British models, and some designs for American boats. The President scanned these with zest. Different craft would perform different missions, Pug said, from a big landing ship to cross the ocean with a great load of tanks and trucks in its belly, to little amphibious tanks that could crawl out on land, chug back into the water, and maybe even submerge. Roosevelt obviously loved all this. Under the spread of pictures and sketches lay his solitaire game, scattered and forgotten.
"Say, have you fellows ever thought of this?" The President seized a yellow ruled pad and sketched with crude black pencil strokes as he talked.
"It's an idea I had back in 1917, studying the Gallipoli reports.
I sent it to BuShips, sketches and all, and never heard another word.
I still say it has merit, though it hadn't crossed my mind again until this minute. Look here, Pug."
The drawing showed an oblong, flat-bottomed craft. Amidships on an arching frame, over the heads of crouched soldiers, an airplane engine whirled its big propeller in a screened housing. "I know there's a stability question, with all that weight so high, but with a broad enough beam, and if you used aluminum-you see that boat could go right up on the beach, Pug, through marshes, anywhere. Underwater obstacles would be meaningless." The President grinned down at his handiwork with approval, then scrawled at the bottom, FDR on board USS Augusta, en row tote meet Churchill, 7 August 1941- "Here. Don't bury it the way BuShips did!
Look into it. Maybe it's just a wild notion, but- Well! Will you look at Old Man Sunshine, pouring through that p
orthole at last!" The President put on the white and smoothly slid into his wheeled kitchen chair, pressing his hands on the table with almost simian strength to lift and move himself. Victor Henry opened a door to the sun deck.
Roosevelt wheeled himself brisuy across the gray-painted wooden ramps over the coaming. 'Ah! Doesn't this feel sweill Warm sun and ocean air. Just what the doctor ordered - Give me a hand, Pug." The President eased himself into a blue leather reclining chair, in an angle of the deck structure sheltered from the wind. They were looking aft at the long gray guns and the foaming wake of the gently pitching cruiser. 'I still say you'll never find the shipyard or Navy Yard space for those landing craft, Pug.
There are the merchant ships to build, the destroyer escorts, the carriers.
You're going to have to use factories wherever you can find them-on rivers and inland waterways-hundreds of little factories."
President Roosevelt cocked his head, staring out at the sea. "You know? This program could be a godsend to small business. Congress has given us all kinds of trouble about that. There's a real thought.
Herman Wouk - The Winds Of War Page 90
