“The car’s outside.”
“But it’s one block,” Hopkins said without thinking.
“Get in the car!” Smithers commanded.
The two men exchanged glances—for a milksop like Smithers to speak like this, well, it was clearly urgent.
Normally, they met the President alone in the Oval Office, but not today. Every minute, someone entered the Oval Office. As usual, Roosevelt was in his hated wheel chair.
It was Stimson who spoke,
“Our Isthmus Canal has been blockaded at both ends by warships of the Imperial Japanese Navy. So, all our ships in the Atlantic will need to go the long way to the Pacific.”
It took Hopkins and Tugwell a second to realize he was talking about the Panama Canal.
Tugwell, with his professor’s quick mind, asked Admiral King,
“Admiral, and this is the worst time of the year for the southern oceans around the Horn, isn’t it?”
King answered unemotionally,
“Well, we’re past the very worst time, which is the October and November period, but this is the Horn, and the weather in the southern oceans in the Forties and Fifties and Sixties is nasty year round—really, there is no ‘worst time’ down there. And ice is always a problem, year round. But the seas are not the only problem. The other problem is the distance—to West Coast through the Canal is 5,000 miles, but around the Horn is 13,000 miles, and this means we need oilers and the thought of fragile oilers in the Southern Ocean at any time of the year is a frightening prospect. And we have no coaling stations, I mean oil tank farms, in South America.”
The phone rang.
“Henry, get that, will you please,” Roosevelt said.
Stimson picked up the instrument. Listening, he frowned.
Roosevelt looked at him.
“Are you sure?” Stimson said, emphasizing the last word.
Stimson put the phone down. His face had not changed composure.
Stimson announced to the room with neither shock nor surprise in his voice,
“The Imperial Japanese Navy is currently attacking our naval base at Pearl Harbor in the Hawaiian Islands possessions.”
Roosevelt nodded from his wheelchair, and theatrically said,
“What? What did you say?”
At this moment, King’s assistant burst through the door. Forgetting all protocol, he said,
“Admiral, sir, the Japanese are attacking Pearl Harbor, the Arizona has capsized, and other of our battleships are burning out of control. All of the oil farm has been destroyed.”
No one spoke for the simple reason that no one knew what to say.
King was the first to regain his composure,
“This is very, very bad. One of these two situations we could deal with. But losing both the Canal and the Hawaiian Islands’ oil, this is going to make things extremely, extremely difficult.”
Again, silence descended.
The old war horse, Stimson, was the first to speak.
“Young man, take my car to the War Department and bring us the latest Scapa Flow deployment please.”
King looked at Stimson and nodded, “I was thinking the same.”
The two young men of Roosevelt’s much-vaunted Brains Trust realized how out of their depth they—and their President—were. While the two Brain Trusters were distilled almost to jelly out of fear, the two experienced men were actually thinking rationally.
King’s assistant ran from the room.
Stimson asked King, “Are Repulse and Prince of Wales in Singapore?”
“Yes, they arrived there last Tuesday.”
King said, “We might just get away with this, but it’s going to be damn, damn close.”
Stimson sat down on one of the yellow damask sofas. In normal times, the long-established protocol was to sit only after the President invited you to do so, but these were now no longer normal times.
The phone rang; Roosevelt lifted the receiver. There was a pause as Roosevelt listened for a great while to the instrument; finally he said,
“Yes, thank you. Thank you very much, Winston.”
The President covered the mouthpiece and quietly said to the room, “He’s very, very drunk and extremely happy.”
On the sofa, Stimson looked up; King quietly sighed and said, “Shit.”
Roosevelt dismissed the meeting. He requested Stimson stay behind.
After the others had left the room, the President said,
“Well, Henry, I think a little celebratory tipple is in order, don’t you?” Roosevelt smiled his famous broad smile that he normally reserved just for his favorite press photographers.
Stimson poured two martinis, and as was customary, he took a long look—but just a look—at the bottle of vermouth.
“I was a little surprised it took so long, Henry.”
Roosevelt opened the drawer to his desk and withdrew an envelope. From inside the envelope, he withdrew four typed sheets of paper at the top of the first sheet of paper in the upper left corner was typed: “DRAFT No. 1.”
“I penned these words back in January, a frigid Tuesday morning, right here in the Oval. At some stages this year, I thought I would never be able to use this glorious fiction.”
The President laughed but Stimson remained unchanged.
He started reading with his fountain pen at the ready, “Yesterday,” he paused,
“OK, time to finally add the date, ‘December Seventh,’ ” he handwrote the date.
He continued,
“A date that will live in world history, the United States of America was simultaneously and deliberately attacked by naval and air forces of the Empire of Japan in the Philippines and Hawaii. Should I add ‘without warning’ Henry?”
Stimson shrugged, “Can if you like, Mr. President.”
The President completed reading and replaced the four sheets in their envelope in the drawer.
After finishing their first of five celebratory rounds, Stimson said,
“Well, I think we’ve successfully ‘crossed the T.’ You’re an old naval man, Franklin. And damn tough it was. It was harder than I thought it would be. You know in August when that fucking Konoe suggested a meeting on our possessions of Hawaii or Alaska, I feared we were in real trouble. It is very clear there are strong forces in Japan—even up to the Prime Minister—that really wanted to avoid war with us, regardless of how we tormented and provoked them. And we know Minister Kishi was also trying to maintain peace as well. We faced the delicate question of the diplomatic fencing to be done so as to be sure Japan was put into the wrong and made the first bad move—an overt move. The question was how we should maneuver them into the position of firing the first shot. Thank God we’ve been able to trick them into doing just that. I mean, realistically, with our rather rude closing of the Canal to them and blocking all their oil, what else could they have done?”
“Yes, I agree Henry, it was close. But finally the Goddess of Fortune has wafted by and we’ve been able to grasp her skirt. And just in the nick of time, I should say. Any longer and that peace faction in Tokyo may have succeeded. Of course, this war is huge benefit as it will give the U.S. economy a real boost, as young Rex—and even Hopkins, from time to time—have been suggesting. These peripatetic work projects are all well and good—but how the fuck do we make money by planting trees and creating national parks? Tell me that. We need to be constantly at war to keep our economy humming; it’s a sad truth, but it is the truth—that’s how the U.S. economy works. Fortunately, the Japanese are so innocent we’ve finally been able to force them to fire the first shot. Christ, it took enough time.”
Stimson nodded enthusiastically and added,
“Yes. Absolutely. This war is a godsend. It’s just what we need. We need to revitalize the core industries of the country—factories, foundries, mills, not these Namby Pamby projects—fucking writers group, oh my God. We must expand the West and get new ships built and men doing proper work. And most important of all, take complete control
of the Pacific. As we have often discussed, we need to completely destroy Japan—once and for all. Dominate it. Invade it. Pacify it. And most important of all, control it. Long-term, the Japs are far more of a threat than the ragged and decrepit British, and their so-called ‘Empire.’ We must control the Pacific and the trade routes to China. And we need to starve the Japs into total and complete submission. Ideally, we could make them a colony, like the Philippines or the Hawaiian Islands, but that is probably too much to ask for. Nevertheless, we need to destroy Japan, as they really are our one true rival in the world—they have the brains and discipline and leadership to take over the Pacific, and with control of the Pacific, the Japs could control much of the world’s commerce. The Japanese have a pure culture—look at what we’ve got—a bunch of mongrels straight off Ellis Island. And the Japanese think long-term; they plan; and they execute flawlessly.”
Stimson paused and thought for a moment.
“Of course, the Brits will be a problem. But you can deal with the Lisper, Franklin.”
While a classic Anglophile—weak kneed where it came to anything English—Stimson detested Churchill, who he saw as having extremely poor judgment, as being a lush, and with an unjustified air of superiority. Hadn’t Churchill had the gall to correct the President’s grammar at the Placentia Bay meeting, like a short, fat, condescending school master? And Stimson knew the real Churchill, the true Churchill. Not the one portrayed as the valiant bulldog, the smiling and warm father. No. Stimson knew—and hated—the real one: bitter, vindictive, too often drunk, bullying and self-centered.
“There’s little to deal with. In contrast to you, I can tolerate Winston, at least in small doses. He is short, and fat, and can be entertaining at times. Of course, he does a very good job of projecting the image of the pugnacious, determined-but-friendly father figure, with his “V” for Victory signs and all that crap he goes on with. Few plain people know what a bitter and sarcastic drunk he really is. I thank my lucky stars that I can hold my liquor because it is hilarious to watch him caper nimbly around the room when he is drunk, pontificating on his many new dream projects—the Cape-to-Cairo railroad line, the overland rail link to India (‘and, of course, we will allow one or two first-class American companies to offer bids, Franklin’), and adopting a common currency to replace our dollar. Combine the greenback with their so-called ‘sterling’—the man must be mad.”
Roosevelt burst out laughing, “The man is a lunatic and a drunk, but surely you see his entertainment value, Henry.”
“If you say so, Franklin.”
26: Somme Redux
Washington
Monday, 8 December 1941
It has been said that the difference between politicians and actors is that actors are honest in their sleight of hand. If that is so, then that Monday, the President of the United States of America would have proven the adage correct as he moved to address a joint session of the Congress. Truculent and surly, he made his way into the chamber, his face as black as thunder.
On the drive over, Roosevelt made a few last minute changes to the four typed sheets that he had prepared back in January.
“Yesterday, Sunday, December 7, 1941, a date which will live in infamy,” he boomed and threatened into the microphones, as the real audience was not the Congress but rather the people glued to their radios. Roosevelt had a voice that was made for radio—a beautiful, deep baritone that was as soothing as it was sonorous; people could listen to it for hours; the gentler sex loved to listen to its glorious, strong tones projecting a virile and powerful man (if only they knew the truth). Only the little German propaganda minister could come close to matching Roosevelt but Goebbels’s radio voice was more theatrical and instilled fear rather than trust; Churchill’s radio voice was easily recognized and even more easily mimicked by every drunk in every pub is London; Roosevelt’s radio voice was one that a person could easily listen to for hours, it was so comforting. “If President Roosevelt said it on the radio, it must be true,” became the most terribly dangerous delusion of the times.
Returning to the White House, Roosevelt met with Stimson and Admiral King. The much vaulted Brains Trusters were nowhere to be seen. The three men discussed the situation and some unpleasant other developments that all seemed—at the time—to be unconnected.
Stimson read from his notes,
“Well, it seems that there is a Fifth Column operating in this country, and it’s proving to be quite effective.”
“Fifth Column?”
“Mr. President, saboteurs. The term “Fifth Column” is a new term from the recent war in Spain. There has been a mysterious explosion at the naval oil tanks in San Diego; there is a problem with the Northeast rail corridor—seems that the Canadian locomotives have been interfered with; both the Central Pacific and the Southern Pacific had trestle bridges destroyed out West and it could be months before they can be repaired—that means we have to depend on the Canadians, and they are not in the best of moods these days after the leaking of War Plan Red; worst of all, the fires last week in Ohio—we were desperately dependent on those stockpiles of rubber, and without them, well that rubber is worth its weight in gold.”
“OK, Ernie, now you can give me some good news,” the President said.
“Well, my news is not good—we lost the Saratoga yesterday, all hands I am afraid.”
The President looked up; the shock on his face this time was genuine.
“Fuck.”
Ever expedient, the President said, “Well, I will tell the British we need their help; that will please fat Winston no end.”
He pressed the intercom, “Grace, set up a call on the scrambler for 3 p.m. today to speak to Mr. Churchill, please.”
“Well, that is 15 minutes time. Ernie, plug the extensions in will you please?”
Admiral King walked over to the small bookcase in the Oval Office, opened the draw under the bookcase and extracted two earpieces that were originally part of B-25 radiomen’s headphones. Attached to each earpiece was a length of wire cable covered in khaki-colored cotton; at the other end of the cable was a large brass plug, the same as used by a telephonist as she connects a caller to an extension. King plugged the two extensions into the base of the modern, Bakelite telephone instrument.
A little after three in the afternoon in Washington, the scrambler telephone rang. On the other end was the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. Mr. Churchill started by expressing his regrets and the regrets of his country for the attack by the Japanese and promised to do all in his power to help. He went on to explain that he was in somewhat of a difficult position as the Japanese had not actually, formally declared war on the British Empire so he could not actually declare war on the Japanese without cause—“that would be a breach of international law.” (At this, Roosevelt looked up at the two men and slowly shook his head.)
Roosevelt listened politely; both Stimson and King were taking notes.
“Well, Winston, that is what we want to talk to you about. I have Ernie King and Henry Stimson with me; they’re on the extensions here in the Oval. Now, Winston, you have the Repulse and the Prince of Wales in Singapore, don’t you? Who is commander of that task fleet?”
The silence was precisely what Roosevelt was hoping to not hear.
“Yes, Franklin, both of these Royal Navy ships are in Singapore at present, and it is Tom who is in command,” came the unfriendly answer.
King rolled his eyes—he had met Admiral Tom Phillips, and had instantly formed a most disagreeable opinion.
“Well, Winston, I need to ask a favor. We’re going to have to work together on this one. We need to have you send your ships to Manila, where we expect the Japs to attack next.”
Even before Roosevelt had finished his sentence, the answer lisped down the cable,
“Not possible, Franklin. You see—and you must realize—the Empire is at risk. We must protect Singapore, and just as important, Malaya. You know Malaya is a key
part of the Empire. I would like to help, but I am afraid it is completely and utterly out of the question at this time.”
The two men saw the President’s face redden,
“Wait a minute, Winston. Look, I have personally taken a huge gamble backing your country for the past two years—the Republicans have been after my hide, and there’s Lindbergh and his American First group, and that fucking Liberty League with Al Smith and all them. I have personally put my own presidency at risk and in jeopardy to support your country. Personally. Lend-Lease, the money we’ve silently supplied—all of it. I think the least you can do is help us out—and it is helping both our countries—to simply divert Phillips to Manila for a week or two. That’s not too much to ask, surely.”
“Not possible, I am sorry Franklin. Let’s speak tomorrow. Good night.” The line went dead.
“That motherfucker just hung up on me. That fucking drunk. Me, the President of the United States. That motherfucker—that slimy little, fat English pompous cocksucker cunt,” Roosevelt said slowly shaking his head in disbelief.
“Hung up on me. Me. The fucking President of the United States. That limey scum bag.”
“Well, there goes the Special Relationship,” said Stimson.
Roosevelt burst out laughing, “Henry, I do enjoy having you around at times like this for your bon mots.”
The so-called Special Relationship was the phantasy that many countries deluded themselves into believing existed between themselves and the biggest bully on the block.
“These fucking monkeys, I cannot believe their attitude. So, Ernie, tell me about this Phillips character.”
Admiral King explained how he had meet Tom Phillips,
“The first thing you notice is that he is about this tall.”
King put his hand below the knot in his perfectly knotted tie.
“Because he is so short, he is called ‘Tom Thumb.’ And he is both shy and abrasive at the same time. I saw him standing on a wharf one time in his uniform, his hands in front of him. His right hand was holding his left thumb, as you often see shy kindergarten children do. This left a most disagreeable impression. As you know, I am a Big Ship man, but even I know in this modern era we need coverage against enemy aircraft. When I broached this subject with Phillips, his amazing answer was that gun crews on capital ships were quote, ‘simply not trying hard enough’ and that large capital ships had quote, ‘nothing to fear from aircraft.’ I was so surprised at the comment, I had him repeat himself. The man is typically English: short, smug, superior and always wrong. It is my distinct impression that Churchill is surrounding himself with yes men on the naval side—his First Sea Lord is Dudley Pound, who seems to be completely dominated by Churchill, but Pound is not as bad as this Phillips character.”
The Goddess Of Fortune Page 23
