The Winds of War

by Herman Wouk

  True, Clausewitz says the destruction of the enemy’s armed forces, not the winning of territorial or economic objectives, is the chief aim of warfare. But the much-criticized “Turn South” achieved a big destruction of enemy armed forces.

  Suppose that vast southern army had escaped and flanked us? Even if we had destroyed the armies in front of Moscow and occupied the capital, would we have been any better off than Napoleon? Napoleon essentially followed a Guderian strategy, striking for the “center of gravity” in Moscow. The trouble was, once he got there, that he could not feed his men or his horses, he was threatened on the left and right flanks, and after a while there was nothing to do but retreat to fathomless catastrophe.

  We who planned Barbarossa, and watched it unfold, were seldom without a copy of Caulaincourt’s Memoirs in hand! If the Wehrmacht held fast during the frightful winter of 1941, one very good reason was that we did not repeat Napoleon’s mistake. We at least seized the south, which supported us and gave us hope to fight another day. When Hitler told Guderian, who came to Wolf’s Lair to protest against the “Turn South,” that generals know nothing about the economics of war, he spoke the cold truth. They are like pampered athletes who let some other fellow worry about the playing fields, the crowds, and the money; their only interest is in displaying their prowess. Such was Guderian, an opinionated if brilliant prima donna.

  The contention that the drive through the center was weakened is itself rather weakened by the plain fact that after finishing his assigned duties in the south, Guderian returned north and jumped off for our spectacular September and October victories. There was nothing particularly enfeebled in that performance!

  I have not hesitated to point out Adolf Hitler’s amateurish errors in other situations; some of these were disastrous, but the turn south was a sound, necessary, and successful move.

  To the Towers of the Kremlin

  The remnants of the Red Army in the north and center, beaten and broken once again, went staggering back into the enormous spaces of Russia. Hordes were captured, but more hordes abandoned tanks and guns to slip through our encirclements in the night. In the north all our objectives were achieved except the actual taking of Leningrad. The city was laid under siege which lasted nine hundred days, in which it withered into helplessness and almost perished. The Baltic coast was ours, so that we could supply our northern forces by sea. We were in operational touch with our Finnish allies. In the south we invested the Crimea and were racing for the Caucasus oil fields. And in the center, giant armored pincers closed on Moscow from north and south, actually penetrating the suburbs. Bock’s indomitable infantry, marching up the road from Smolensk with amazing speed, was smashing forward in a frontal thrust toward the Bolshevik capital. Panic seized Moscow. October 16 is known to this day in Russian war literature as the date of the “Great Skedaddle,” when the foreign diplomats, many government departments, and a large number of Soviet big shots, together with a huge throng of civilians, abandoned the city and scuttled east for the safety of the Urals.

  Stalin stayed behind in Moscow, making desperate speeches, and ordering women and children out to dig trenches in the path of our oncoming armies. On the central Russian plain it was just beginning to snow. The Rasputitza had already begun in September—the autumn mud time. God knows it was hard to advance under such conditions, but we advanced. Never has an armed force shown greater energy and spirit under greater difficulties. A remarkable élan glowed alike in the highest general and the humblest foot soldier. The end of the long road, the incredible nine-year march of the German nation under the Führer, was in view across muddy, snowy wild plains, on the misty Russian horizon lit by a low cold red sun. Our advance patrols saw the towers of the Kremlin. World empire at last lay within the German grasp.

  _________

  TRANSLATOR’S NOTE:General von Roon is tolerant throughout of Hitler’s Barbarossa performance, perhaps because he took part in the planning and was in Hitler’s favor at the time. Other historians contend that the armies caught in the Kiev pocket were rabble. The hard nut of Russian resistance lay around Moscow, they say, and destruction of these forces in October would have ended the war. The land campaigns in the Soviet Union are not in my field of competence, though I spent time there. The full truth about that front may never be known.—V.H.

  50

  ASLIM dark-haired girl walked out on the stage of the open-air theatre at the Pearl Harbor Naval Base, taking off sunglasses and blinking in the white glare of morning sun. The swish of her ice-cream pink dress, displaying silk-sheathed legs, brought glad whistles from the soldiers and sailors who filled every seat in the theatre and most of the folding chairs before the stage. Directly up front sat the governor of Hawaii, the admirals, the generals, and their ladies, and photographers were still blinking feeble blue flashes at them. It was just before eleven o’clock, somewhat early for staged fun, but this first Happy Hour broadcast was being aimed at the big night-time audiences along the Atlantic seaboard. Beyond the low stage, where the Navy band sat with brass instruments glinting in the sun, several moored battleships were visible towering in a gray double row.

  At the microphone, the girl stood smiling till the good-humored commotion subsided. Then she held up a varnished board lettered in black: APPLAUSE. The audience responded with a heavy round of hand-clapping.

  “Thank you, and hello. I’m Mr. Cleveland’s assistant, Madeline Henry.” A lone piercing wolf whistle sliced down from the topmost row, and laughter swept the stands. She wagged a finger. “And you watch yourself up there! I have two brothers sitting out here, a naval aviator and a submariner, and they’re both big and strong.” This brought more laughter and applause.

  The audience was in a lively expectant mood. This debut of a major new radio program at the naval base had been stirring the somnolent territory for days. The island’s good white families, a bored lotus-eating little clique, had been vying to entertain Hugh Cleveland, and people had flown in from other islands to Oahu just to attend the parties. The Navy had even postponed a fleet drill simulating an enemy surprise attack, since it conflicted with the broadcast time. Front-page headlines in Honolulu papers about the show quite overshadowed the news of the German encirclement of several Russian armies around Kiev.

  In an awkward, halting manner that had a certain shy charm, Madeline described the rules of the new show. Only genuine fighting men could take part in the amateur contest. Every participant would receive a five-hundred-dollar defense bond. The performer winning the most applause would get an extra prize: the sponsor would fly in his girl or his parents to visit him for a week. “Mr. Cleveland just hopes there won’t be too many winners with girls in Cape Town or Calcutta,” she said, drawing a laugh. “Well, I guess that’s about it. Now here’s the man you’re all waiting for—the star of the famous Amateur Hour and now of our new Happy Hour—my nice boss, Mr. Hugh Cleveland.” Walking to a seat near the band she demurely sat down, tucking her skirt close to her legs.

  Cheers greeted Cleveland as he walked to the microphone. “Okey-be-bedokey,” he drawled. This phrase, delivered in a cowboy twang, had become a sort of trademark for him, and it brought applause. “Maybe I ought to just let Madeline Henry keep going. I’ve got the job, but she’s sure got the lines.” He wagged his eyebrows, and the audience laughed. “I’d better introduce her brothers, so you’ll see just how big and strong they are. The naval aviator is Lieutenant Warren Henry of the Enterprise. Where are you, Warren?”

  “Oh, Christ,” Warren said. “No. No.” He cringed down in his chair in a middle row.

  “Stand up, you fool,” Janice hissed.

  Warren got grimly to his feet, a long lean figure in white, and dropped at once, sinking far down.

  “Welcome, Warren. And now here’s Byron Henry, of the Devilfish.”

  Byron half rose, then sat down with an unpleasant mutter.

  “Hi, Byron! Their father’s a battleship man, folks, so the family’s pretty well got the sea cover
ed—the surface, the air, and the deeps. That’s the Henry family, and one reason our country remains strong and safe is that we have plenty of Henry families.” The governor and the admirals joined heartily in the handclapping. Slumped low, Byron made a gagging sound in his throat.

  The first Happy Hour delighted the audience, and promised great popular success. Cleveland had been all over the United States; he could make folksy knowledgeable jokes about out-of-the-way places. Working without a script, holding prepared gags in his memory, he created the illusion of an easy, bright, small-town wit. What emerged above all was the reticent homesickness of the soldiers and sailors who performed. Their little acts resembled church social entertainment; the band played patriotic marches; it was an hour of sentimental Americana. Madeline’s awkwardness, as she introduced the acts and took some joshing, fitted the homey atmosphere.

  Byron was not amused. He sat through the show in a slouch, his arms folded, looking vacantly at his shoe tips. Once Janice nudged her husband, narrowing her eyes and tilting her head at Byron. Warren pantomimed the bulge of a pregnant woman’s stomach.

  After the show the stage was so crowded with the governor, his entourage, and the high brass, all ringing Cleveland, that the Henrys couldn’t mount the steps.

  “Wouldn’t you know,” Byron said, “Branch Hoban’s right in there.” The handsome skipper of his submarine, standing between two admirals, was shaking Cleveland’s hand, talking to him like an old friend.

  “You having trouble with Branch Hoban?” Warren said. “He’s an okay guy, Briny.”

  “He’s having trouble with me.”

  “Hey, the big strong brothers! Come on up.” Cleveland saw them and beckoned, laughing. “Gad, Madeline’s one girl whose honor is safe, hey? Janice, the governor here has just invited me to lunch, and I’ve just turned him down. Told him you’re expecting me.”

  Janice gasped, “No, please, you mustn’t do that.”

  The governor smiled at her. “It’s all right. Hugh’s coming to Washington Place later. I didn’t realize Senator Lacouture’s daughter was lurking in our midst. We must have you to dinner soon.”

  Janice took a bold chance. “Won’t you join us for lunch, Governor? We’re just having steaks and beer on the lawn, nothing much, but we’d love to have you.”

  “Say, steaks and beer on the lawn sounds pretty good. Let me find my lady.”

  Warren and Branch Hoban were exchanging cheerful insults about their nonexistent paunches, and about how old and married they both looked. Byron stood by with blank face and dull eyes. He broke in, “Excuse me, Captain. My sister-in-law’s invited me to lunch. May I go?”

  Warren said, “Hey! Don’t tell me junior’s in hack.”

  “Oh, Briny and I have had a leetle disagreement. Sure, Briny, you have your lunch with Janice and Warren. Report aboard at fifteen hundred.”

  “Aye aye, sir. Thank you, sir.” At Byron’s uncivil tone, Warren slightly shook his head.

  Janice rode home in the governor’s limousine; Madeline and Byron went in Warren’s old station wagon. The double lei of pink and yellow flowers around the sister’s neck perfumed the air in the car. She said, gaily, “Well, well, just the three of us. When did this last happen?”

  “Listen, Briny,” Warren said, “Branch Hoban’s an old pal of mine. What’s the beef? Maybe I can help.”

  “I drew a sketch of an air compressor for my officers’ course book. He didn’t like it. He wants me to do it over. I won’t. I’m in hack until I do.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “I think so myself.”

  “I mean you’re being ridiculous.”

  “Warren, on our way from San Francisco, an air compressor conked out because the oil pump froze. The chief was sick. I stripped down that compressor and got it going.”

  “Three cheers, but did you draw a good sketch?”

  “It was a lousy sketch, but I fixed that compressor.”

  “That’s beside the point.”

  “It’s the whole point.”

  “No, the whole point is that Branch Hoban decides whether or not to recommend you for your dolphins.”

  “I don’t care about getting dolphins.”

  “The hell you don’t,” Warren said.

  “Look, Warren, I was shanghaied aboard the Devilfish. I had orders to new construction, the Tuna, but my exec and Hoban pulled a fast one at ComSubPac. Moreover, it wasn’t my idea to go to submarine school in the first place. Dad shoved me in, mostly to keep me from marrying Natalie. That’s why she went to Italy. That’s why she’s still stuck there. My life is snafued beyond all measure because I went to sub school. God knows when I’ll see my wife again. And my baby, if I’ve got one. She’s having it on the other side of the world. That’s what’s on my mind, not dolphins.”

  “You’re in the Navy now. Do you want to get beached?”

  “Why not? The hours are better and the mail is more reliable.”

  “Oh, horseshit. Pardon me, Mad.”

  “Shucks, this is like old times. Anyhow, you should hear Hugh talk. Yikes!” she squealed, as Warren bounced off the highway onto grass, avoiding a rusty old green Buick cutting in front of him.

  Warren said calmly, “These Kanaka drivers give you gray hairs.”

  “There’s another fellow who leaves me cold, that Cleveland,” Byron said. “How did you get mixed up with him, Matty?”

  “I’m not mixed up with him,” Madeline rapped out. “I work for him.”

  Byron gave her an affectionate smile. “I know, sis.”

  “He does a good job,” Warren said. “That show goes over.”

  Byron said, “What? Why, the whole thing is so phony! He doesn’t make up those jokes, he’s got them memorized.”

  “You’re dead right about that,” Madeline laughed.

  “It’s obvious. He just puts on a big smooth empty act. He reminds me of Branch Hoban.”

  “Branch is no phony,” said Warren. “He has a remarkable record, Briny. And you’d better make up your mind that he’s boss man on that submarine.”

  “Sure he’s boss man, and sure he’s got a great record, and sure I’m in hack, but hell will freeze over before he gets another sketch of that air compressor. When I found out that Natalie had gone back to Italy to have her baby, I put in a request for transfer to the Atlantic. Our subs operate in and out of the Med, and I might have a chance to see her, and maybe even to get her out. I told him all this. He lectured me about subordinating my personal life to the Navy! Well, I said I was putting the request in anyhow. He forwarded it—he had to forward it—‘not recommending approval.’”

  Warren said, his eyes on the road, “You’ve been aboard that boat three months. The usual tour is two years.”

  “The usual ensign doesn’t have a pregnant wife stuck in Italy.”

  “Don’t get me wrong, but that’s not the Navy’s fault.”

  “I’m not blaming the Navy. I’m telling you why I’m not on fire to please Branch Hoban.”

  Madeline struck into this curt exchange with a laugh. “Say, do you guys know that Dad is studying Russian again, of all things?”

  “Russian!” Warren exclaimed. “What for?”

  “He’s going there. I don’t know when or how.” Madeline laughed. “Mom’s fit to be tied. He’s taking a crash course, ten hours a day. She never sees him. She sits around that big new house by herself, except when somebody shows up to play tennis with her or go to a movie.”

  “Dad had better step on it,” Warren said, “if he wants to beat the Germans into Moscow.”

  Byron took Madeline’s lei and put it around his neck. “Boy, these are strong frangipani. God knows when we three will ever be together again like this. I’m in a rotten mood, but I love you both. How’s the booze situation at your house, Warren?”

  “Ninety-seven percent. We just topped off.”

  “Great. I intend to burn you down to fifty percent.”

  “By all means.”

>   Byron came on the latest airmail Time at Warren’s house, and read it in a deck chair among the multiple roots of a banyan tree, while Warren, Janice, and their guests grew gay on hors d’oeuvres and rum drinks. At sea for two weeks, he had heard only fragmentary news.

  When the party reached the stage of hula dancing to the guitar music of the grinning houseboy, Warren began broiling steaks in billows of fragrant smoke. Meantime Hugh Cleveland and Madeline did a barefoot hula while the Navy people and islanders clapped and laughed, and a photographer from the society page snapped pictures. Byron sourly watched his sister’s white feet writhe in the grass, and her pink-sheathed bottom gyrate; and he wondered who was mad—he or this playful group. According to Time, the Germans were rolling through Russia exactly as they had through Poland two years before. It was the same month, September. The cheery German claims, backed by combat photographs, were most convincing. The pictures showed villages afire, skies aswarm with Luftwaffe, roads through cornfields jammed with refugees, and unshaven Russian prisoners behind barbed wire in sullen hordes. The scenes brought vividly back to Byron’s mind the days when he and Natalie had drawn together: the flight in the old automobile from Cracow to Warsaw, his wound, the child on the road crying over her mother’s smashed face, the orange flares, the whistling bombs, Natalie in the malodorous jammed hospital, the song of grasshoppers in no-man’s-land.

  Carrying two plates of sliced steak and french fries, Warren came and sat down beside him on the grass. “Eat hearty, my lad.”

  Byron said, “Thanks. Pretty grim issue of Time.”

  “Hell, Briny, you knew the Germans would take the Russkis, didn’t you? The Russian’s a hardy soldier, but that Bolshevik government’s just a mess of crackpot politicians. Stalin shot half his officers in ’38, including all the professionals left from the Czarist days. You can’t fight a war without career officers. That’s where the Germans have us all licked. That General Staff of theirs has been going for a hundred years. The day they lost the last war, why, they just started collecting maps and dope for fighting this one. That’s a savvy outfit. How about some wine? California Burgundy gets here in pretty fair shape.”