Those Angry Days: Roosevelt, Lindbergh, and America's Fight Over World War II, 1939-1941

by Lynne Olson

  CHAPTER 18

  “WELL, BOYS, BRITAIN’S BROKE”

  At the moment Roosevelt was celebrating his election victory at Hyde Park, Luftwaffe bombers were returning to their bases in France after their fiftieth night of bombing London. Since the Blitz began, more than thirty thousand Britons had been killed in German raids, at least half of them in the British capital. Millions of houses had been damaged or destroyed, along with a number of London’s most famous landmarks. Ten Downing Street, the Colonial Office, the Treasury, and the Horse Guards Building all had been battered by bombs. Hardly a pane of glass was left in the War Office, and Buckingham Palace had been hit several times.

  But the incessant bombing was far from the only peril facing Britain at the end of 1940. The country was encircled by a gauntlet of German submarines, ships, and aircraft, all waiting to feast on the merchant ships bringing vital supplies to the besieged island. “Not since the Spanish Armada swept north in 1588 has the maritime nation of Britain faced such a threat as now confronts it,” Life reported. “Compared with its present situation, World War I was a pleasure cruise. Then Germany was bottled in the Baltic. Now it has naval and air bases scattered along the coast of Europe from Norway to Spain.” In Washington, Admiral Harold Stark, the naval chief of staff, told Henry Stimson, Frank Knox, and General George Marshall that at its current rate of shipping losses, Britain could not hold out for more than six months.

  Since June, the exigencies of the U.S. presidential campaign had taken precedence over the desperate needs of Britain; thus far, the only substantial aid it had received from America was several dozen bombers and the fifty old destroyers. Surely, with the election over, British officials thought, they could look to the White House for swift and decisive action.

  Winston Churchill and many in his government had awaited the fifth of November like children anticipating Christmas; they had convinced themselves that if Roosevelt were reelected, he would finally fulfill his promises of aid and perhaps even enter the war. The day after the president’s victory, an exultant Churchill sent a congratulatory cable, noting that during the campaign he had had to refrain from publicly supporting FDR’s reelection but “now, I feel you will not mind my saying that I prayed for your success and that I am truly grateful for it.”

  Not only did Britain require considerably more assistance, it was in urgent need of a new way to finance it. Its purchases of armaments and other supplies from America—which, under the revised Neutrality Act, had to be paid for in dollars—had drained Britain of most of its dollar and gold reserves. To continue those shipments, the British Treasury had been forced to borrow from the gold reserves of the Belgian government in exile, now based in London.

  Using sympathetic American correspondents in London as its conduits, the British government tried to convey to the American people how dire the country’s situation really was. Drew Middleton of the Associated Press wrote a story outlining Britain’s “staggering shipping losses” and noting that the nation was “reaching the end of her financial tether.” According to The New York Times, “the British would like to convince the United States that its aid up to now has been insufficient and spasmodic. Negotiations, it is said here, have been mistaken for orders in the public mind, and orders have been mistaken for deliveries.”

  THE BRITISH, HOWEVER, WAITED in vain. Churchill received no answer from FDR to his exuberant cable—a silence that “rather chilled” the prime minister, he told his war cabinet. Roosevelt also kept mum about the possibility of new plans for aid. And there certainly was no sign that America was about to enter the war.

  To those around him, the president’s lassitude was extremely perplexing. Like the British, they, too, had expected him to come up with bold new measures to meet the crisis in the Atlantic now that he was free, in Admiral Stark’s words, from “the political preoccupations which had necessarily influenced him” in the last few months. Lord Lothian reported to London that Roosevelt seemed unusually tired and depressed after the election, an assessment shared by a number of FDR’s associates. What could the reason be? The relative closeness of his victory, compared to his two previous triumphs? Or was it his explicit promise that he would not send American boys to war? Did he feel that as a result of that pledge, he had no mandate to propose actions that might propel the country into the conflict?

  Whatever the reason, FDR’s lethargy was causing great frustration, not only in the British government but also among the American interventionist groups that had lobbied so hard for the destroyer transfer and other aid programs for Britain. “It really appalls me to think how little real leadership the country has had from the President from the beginning of the campaign right up to date,” the Century Group’s Geoffrey Parsons wrote to William Allen White in early December. In his reply, the usually genial White used unusually acerbic language that revealed his own exasperation. Calling Roosevelt “the Great White Bottleneck,” the Kansas editor said that FDR was “taking this crisis too easily.” Someone, White added, “should jolt him out of his complacence and make his hair stand on end.”

  Like the British, the interventionist organizations worried that as a result of the administration’s silence, the American people had no idea of the seriousness of Britain’s situation or what more they themselves could do to help. “Like a leaderless army, [Americans] waited, as they had been waiting for a full month since election day, to be given their marching orders, to be told clearly what the sacrifices are which all of them must make,” Life observed.

  In the meantime, Americans threw themselves with gusto into the approaching Christmas season, spending more lavishly than in any year since 1929. With the economy on the rebound, stores reported record holiday purchases. Big-ticket items like cars and refrigerators sold especially well; in November alone, more than four hundred thousand new cars found customers.

  In all this consumer frenzy, there was a tip of the hat to patriotism and the distant war. Throughout the country, lavish benefit dances, parties, and concerts were staged to raise money for war victims in Britain and other nations attacked by Germany. At the Star-Spangled Ball, sponsored by the White Committee in New York, Gypsy Rose Lee stripped for Britain, allowing the guests, most of them from the city’s affluent café society, to snip off the glittering stars covering strategic parts of her costume in return for significant donations. In Seattle, socialites hosted a gambling party to raise money for new British Spitfire fighter planes. “War relief has become a big business,” one journalist noted. “But little by little it has assumed also the characteristics of show business, seeking support from those who care less for the quality of mercy than for self indulgence and personal fame.… Some people have begun to wonder how many dollars were left when all the bills for ballrooms and champagne had been paid.”

  Not all U.S. relief efforts were frivolous, however; many did in fact provide meaningful help for European war victims. A number of organizations raised enough money to send ambulances and other medical aid to Britain. Harvard University established a hospital there and financed its operation for the rest of the war. More than half a million American women—members of a nationwide group called Bundles for Britain—donated and raised money for clothing and other personal items to send to Britons who had lost their homes and belongings in bombing raids.

  But as important as private assistance was, it was not the kind of help Britain needed in order to survive. That could only come from the deep pockets of the U.S. government. The British official who best understood the workings of that government—Lord Lothian—now stepped onto the stage to make the most important contribution of his diplomatic career.

  UNLIKE HIS GOVERNMENT COLLEAGUES in London, the British ambassador never regarded November 5 as a “magic date”; in his opinion, neither Roosevelt nor the country was remotely ready to enter the war. The importance of America’s election day, he believed, lay in the fact that Britain was now free to renew its pressure on both the Roosevelt administration and the public.
And, he decided, he would be his country’s agent in doing so.

  As Lothian was well aware, what Britain needed from America was a comprehensive, far-reaching program of aid, rather than the patchwork of handouts—the old destroyers, planes, rifles, and other weapons—previously sent to Britain. Returning to London for a few weeks in late October, the ambassador devised a plan to put an end to American inertia and spark creation of such a program.

  His first step was to persuade Churchill to write a letter to Roosevelt, outlining in the frankest terms possible the full extent of Britain’s desperate situation, both strategically and financially. In his postwar memoirs, Churchill noted that this letter was “one of the most important I ever wrote,” but at the time, he strongly resisted the idea of passing on to the president such “a ruthless exposé of the strategic dangers,” as Lothian described it. The prime minister believed that the revelations, if they ever leaked, would cause harm to British morale and would be of great benefit to Germany. He preferred to wait, as he put it, on “the force of events” and on the response of “our best friend,” Roosevelt.

  Lothian strenuously disagreed, insisting that FDR would do nothing unless pushed to do so. He saw the letter as a kind of insurance policy for presidential action, believing that “its existence, and the knowledge that some day it might be published, would act as a continual spur in meeting our requirements for fear it should be said in years to come, ‘He knew, he was warned, and he didn’t take the necessary steps.’ ”

  Lothian wrote a first draft of the letter for Churchill, but the prime minister continued to procrastinate. With the help of Lord Halifax and Alexander Cadogan, the Foreign Office permanent undersecretary, the ambassador kept the pressure on. He told Churchill that Roosevelt was about to embark on a Caribbean cruise and that it was vital that he have the letter to ponder during his trip. Though still reluctant, Churchill finally agreed.

  Lothian returned to the United States in late November, with the letter still unfinished but with the prime minister’s promise it soon would be on its way. On the ambassador’s arrival in New York, he unveiled another important part of his plan. He knew from experience that Churchill’s letter, vital as it was, probably would not be sufficient to goad Roosevelt into action; FDR would also require the force of American public opinion behind him. From the moment he landed at La Guardia Airport, Lothian set out to mobilize that opinion.

  He was met, as he knew he would be, by a horde of reporters and cameramen. There are varying reports of what he said in response to the cacophony of questions shouted at him. John Wheeler-Bennett, who was there to greet Lothian, wrote that the ambassador’s statement to the newsmen, “one of the most momentous … in the history of war,” was short and extremely blunt: “Well, boys, Britain’s broke. It’s your money we want.”

  Contemporary news reports of the press conference don’t mention this colorful remark. But the articles made clear, in perhaps more elegant language, exactly what Lothian meant: if Britain was to survive and keep fighting, it would need massive amounts of American aid—and as swiftly as possible.

  Lothian’s frank message came as a bombshell. Wheeler-Bennett and Aubrey Morgan, who was also at the airport, “could scarcely believe our ears,” Wheeler-Bennett recalled. Lothian’s two colleagues asked him if he really meant what he said. “Oh, yes,” he replied. “It’s the truth, and they might as well know it.” As Wheeler-Bennett noted, “Never was an indiscretion more calculated. It was Philip Lothian at his best.”

  Roosevelt and Churchill, however, didn’t share that opinion. Furious at this obvious attempt to force his hand, the president also worried about the effect of Lothian’s candid remarks on Congress. Churchill, for his part, feared that the ambassador’s statement would so anger FDR that he would reject the contents of the prime minister’s forthcoming letter. “I do not think it was wise to touch on very serious matters to reporters,” Churchill gently chided Lothian. “It is safer to utter a few heartening generalities and leave graver matters to be raised formally with the President.”

  Yet it soon became clear, even to the prime minister, that Lothian’s direct approach had produced exactly the reaction he sought. His decidedly undiplomatic remarks, featured on virtually every newspaper front page in the country, came as a shock to the American people and sparked an intense national debate about Britain’s calamitous financial condition. “By revealing to Congress and the public another aspect of Britain’s plight, hitherto known only to a few government officials,” the historians William Langer and S. Everett Gleason wrote, “Lord Lothian was bringing the President to accept the conclusion which his own advisers had been urging on him—that he had no recourse but to go to Congress and the people for a fresh and unequivocal mandate on the program of assistance to Britain.”

  In fact, Roosevelt had already come to believe that Britain was indeed running out of money. But Lothian’s statement jarred him into action, forcing him and Treasury Secretary Henry Morgenthau to “deal with the cash problem immediately,” as Morgenthau put it. The ambassador’s remarks also laid the groundwork for Churchill’s letter to Roosevelt, which, after many drafts by the prime minister and Foreign Office, was finally sent to Lothian for review on December 2, just as the president left on his Caribbean trip. Following more consultations with 10 Downing Street and Whitehall, Lothian handed the letter in its final form to State Department officials on December 7, to be delivered to the president by seaplane.

  Although exhilarated by the early success of his efforts, Lothian was also exhausted. He’d been working nonstop since his appointment as ambassador, and his associates had been worried for some time about his health. He had started to fall asleep at inopportune times—at luncheons and dinner parties, for example, or while dictating correspondence to his secretary. Wheeler-Bennett begged him to get more rest, but Lothian said he couldn’t: there was far too much to do.

  Once Churchill’s letter was on its way to Roosevelt, Lothian began work on a major speech he was to deliver four days later in Baltimore. It was to be his first public address in nearly five months, and he reportedly considered it the most important of his career. After staying up virtually all night to finish it, he collapsed and was confined to bed.

  Too weak to deliver the speech, he dispatched Nevile Butler, his second in command at the embassy, to Baltimore to read it for him. Lothian’s “powerful statement,” as Time described it, reviewed Britain’s steadfast resistance and belief in ultimate victory and concluded with a heartfelt appeal to the American people. “It is for you to decide whether you share our hopes and what support you will give us in realizing them,” he declared. “We are, I believe, doing all we can. Since May, there is no challenge we have evaded, no challenge we have refused. If you back us, you won’t be backing a quitter. The issue now depends largely on what you decide to do.”

  It was, Wheeler-Bennett wrote, the ambassador’s “valedictory to America, to Britain, and to the world.” As Butler finished reading the speech that night, Philip Lothian, in the care of a Christian Science practitioner, died at the British embassy in Washington. His illness, which had caused his frequent bouts of drowsiness, was later diagnosed as uremia, a buildup of toxic waste products in the blood resulting from kidney failure.

  Lothian’s unexpected death came as a stunning blow to both America and Britain. Roosevelt, who was still at sea, conveyed to George VI his sorrow and shock “beyond measure” at the passing of a man he called “my old friend.” Lothian’s last public message to America—that Britain was confident of victory, but only if it received unstinted U.S. aid—echoed the theme of Churchill’s letter, which Roosevelt was now studying.

  After outlining his requests, which included more warships and other matériel, as well as U.S. protection of British merchant shipping, Churchill wrote to Roosevelt: “The moment approaches when we shall no longer be able to pay cash for shipping and other supplies. I believe you will agree that it would be wrong in principle and mutually disadvantag
eous if … after the victory was won with our blood, civilisation saved, and the time gained for the United States to be fully armed against all eventualities, we should stand stripped to the bone.”

  Freed from the daily stresses of the presidency during his two-week cruise, Roosevelt had plenty of time to reflect on Churchill’s letter, Lothian’s speech and death, and his own response. As it happened, he had been thinking for some time about new policy initiatives to help the British. Two months earlier, he had mused to an acquaintance: “Might it not be possible for the United States to build cargo vessels and lease them to Great Britain?” Near the end of the voyage, FDR outlined to Harry Hopkins the ingeniously bold and groundbreaking scheme he had devised—a comprehensive program that would allow the government to lend or lease war matériel to any nation the president considered vital to the defense of the United States.

  As FDR worked on his plan, the British peer who had helped spark the creation of Lend-Lease was mourned in Washington and throughout the country he considered his second home. “He had arrived in the United States five days before the war began, at a moment when the U.S. was doubly suspicious of all foreign—especially all British—propaganda,” Time wrote. “At his death a major U.S. concern was how aid to Britain could be increased. Though no historian would credit that great shift wholly to the Ambassador, there is no doubt that he had been an integral part of it.”

  In New York, a taxi driver told a passenger: “I didn’t think Americans would ever be keen about an Englishman, but I swear every customer I have had today feels terribly bad about that Lord Lothian’s death.” About the ambassador, one radio commentator noted: “He was a marquess, but he made you forget it. He was a Britisher, but he made you forget that, too.”