The Winds of War

officers began glancing at each other. He added, “And they’ve even started installing the stuff in their night fighters.”

General Fitzgerald sat straight up. “Airborne radar? What about the weight problem?”

“They’ve licked it.”

“Then they’ve developed something new.”

“They have, General.”

Fitzgerald turned a serious gaze on Train Anderson, who stubbed out his cigar, observing to the admiral, “Well, I’ll say this, your man makes out a case, at least. We’ve got to come across anyhow, since that’s what Mr. Big wants. What we can do is exercise tight control item by item, and that by God we will do. And get trade-offs like that cavity thing, wherever possible.” He regarded Henry through half-shut eyes. “Very well. Suppose they do hold out? Suppose Hitler doesn’t invade? What’s their future? What’s their plan? What can they do against a man who controls all Europe?”

“Well, I can give you the official line,” Victor Henry said. “I’ve heard it often enough. Hold him back in 1940. Pass him in air power in 1941, with British and American production. Shoot the Luftwaffe out of the skies in 1942 and 1943. Bomb their cities and factories to bits if they don’t surrender. Invade and conquer in 1944.”

“With what? Ten or fifteen divisions against two hundred?”

“Actually, General, I think the idea is simpler. Hang on until we get in.”

“Now you’re talking. But then what?”

General Fitzgerald said very quietly, “Why, then we pound Germany from the air, Train, with the bomber fleet we’re building. A few months of that, and we land to accept the surrender, if anyone’s alive to crawl out of the rubble.”

Raising an eyebrow at Victor Henry, Admiral Benton said, “How’s that sound, Pug?”

Victor Henry hesitated to answer.

“You’re dubious?” General Fitzgerald observed amiably.

“General, I’ve just been out pounding Germany from the air. Twenty-four bombers went on the mission. Fifteen returned. Of those, four didn’t bomb the right target. Navigation was off, they had operational troubles, there were German decoy fires, and so forth. Two didn’t bomb any target. They got lost, wandered around in the dark, then dropped their bombs in the ocean and homed back on the BBC. In one mission they lost a third of the attacking force.”

“This business is in its infancy,” smiled Fitzgerald. “Twenty-four bombers. Suppose there’d been a thousand, with much heavier payloads? And at that, they did get the gasworks.”

“Yes, sir. They got the gasworks.”

“How do you think it’s going to go?” General Anderson said brusquely to Henry.

“Sir, I think sooner or later a couple of million men will have to land in France and fight the German army.”

With an unpleasant grunt, Train Anderson touched his left shoulder. “Land in France, hey? I landed in France in 1918. I got a German bullet through my shoulder in the Argonne. I don’t know what that accomplished. Do you?”

Victor Henry did not answer.

“Okay.” Train Anderson rose. “Let’s be on our way, gentlemen. Our British cousins await us.”

“I’ll be right along,” Benton said. When the Army men were gone he slapped Victor Henry’s shoulder. “Well done. These Limeys are holding the fort for us. We’ve got to help ‘em. But Jesus God, they’re not bashful in their requests! The big crunch comes when they run out of dollars. They can’t even pay for this list of stuff, without selling their last holdings in America. What comes next? It beats me. The boss man will have to figure a way to give ‘em the stuff. He’s a slippery customer and I guess he will. Say, that reminds me—” He reached into a breast pocket and brought out a letter. Victory Henry, in his wife’s small handwriting, was the only address on the envelope, which was much thicker than usual.

“Thank you, Admiral.”

The admiral was fumbling in his pockets. “No, there’s something else. Damn, I couldn’t have — no, here we are. Whew! That’s a relief.”

It was a White House envelope. Pug slipped both letters into his pocket.

“Say, Pug, for a gunnery officer you’ve painted yourself into a peculiar corner. That screwball socialist in the White House thinks a lot of you, which may or may not be a good thing. I’d better mosey along. Rhoda sounded fine when I talked to her, only a little sad.” Benton sighed and stood. “They have to put up with a lot, the gals. Good thing she didn’t know about that bomber ride. Now that you’re back I sort of envy you. But me, I’m absurdly fond of my ass, Pug. I’m not getting it shot off except in the line of duty. I command that thought to you hereafter.”

Blinker Vance took off big black-rimmed glasses and stepped out from behind his desk to throw an arm around Pug. “Say, I want to hear all about that joyride one of these days. How did it go with the big brass?”

“All right.”

“Good. There’s a dispatch here for you from BuPers.” He peeled a tissue off a clipboard hung on the wall, and handed it to Pug.

VICTOR HENRY DETACHED TEMPORARY DUTY LONDON X RETURN BERLIN UNTIL RELIEVED ON OR ABOUT 1 NOVEMBER X THEREUPON DETACHED TO PROCEED WASHINGTON HIGHEST AIR PRIORITY X REPORT BUPERS FOR FURTHER REASSIGNMENT X

Vance said, “Glad you’ll be getting out of Berlin?”

“Overjoyed.”

“Thought you’d be. Transportation tells me they’ve got priority to Lisbon available on the fourteenth.”

“Grab it.”

“Right.” With a knowing little smile, Vance added, “Say, maybe you and that nice little Tudsbury girl can have a dinner with me and Lady Maude tomorrow night.”

Several times Blinker had asked Victor Henry to join them for dinner. Pug knew and liked Blinker’s wife and six children. Avoiding a censorious tone, he had declined the invitations. Victor Henry knew how common these things were — “Wars and lechery, nothing else holds fashion” — but he had not felt like endorsing Blinker’s shack-up. Vance now was renewing the bid, and his smile was reminding Pug that on telephoning the flat, he found Pamela there.

“I’ll let you know, Blinker. I’ll call you later.”

“Fine!” Vance’s grin broadened at not being turned down. “Lady Maude will be charmed, and my God, Pug, she has a fabulous wine cellar.”

Victor Henry returned to the bench in Grosvenor Square. The sun still shone, the flag still waved. But it was just a sticky London evening like any other. The strange brightness was out of the air.

The President’s hasty penciled scrawl was on a yellow legal sheet this time.

Pug —

Your bracing reports have been a grand tonic that I needed. The war news has been so bad, and now the Republicans have gone and put up a fine candidate in Wendell Willkie! Come November, you just might be working for a new boss. Then you can slip the chain and get out to sea! Ha ha!

Thank you especially for alerting us on their radar. The British are sending over a scientific mission in September, with all their “wizard war” stuff, as Churchill calls it. We’ll be very sure to follow that up! There’s something heartwarming about Churchill’s interest in landing craft, isn’t there? Actually he’s right, and I’ve asked for a report from CNO. Get as much of their material as you can.

FDR

Pug stuffed the vigorous scrawl in his pocket like any other note, and opened his wife’s letter. It was a strange one.

She had just turned on the radio, she wrote, heard an old record of “Three O’Clock in the Morning,” and burst