The Winds of War

caught up on a footlocker full of paperwork, and slept and slept, his body responding in the old way to the rocking of a destroyer. After three hours, the first hulls began to show above the horizon, due east: destroyers, frigates, and corvettes came on, the leading ship began to blink a yellow light. A signalman rushed up to the flying bridge, bringing a pencilled scrawl: THANKS YANKS X CUPBOARD IS BARE.

Pug grunted. “Send him EAT HEARTY — X-RAY — MORE COMING — X-RAY — and sign it MOTHER HUBBARD.”

The grinning sailor said, “Aye aye, sir,” and trampled down the ladder.

“As an observer,” Pug called to Commander Baldwin on the bridge below, “I would now be pleased to observe how fast your signal gang can hoist REVERSE COURSE, MAKE 32 KNOTS.”

* * *

When the Plunkett tied up in the Norfolk Navy Yard, Victor Henry went straight to flag quarters on the Texas. Admiral King listened to his report with the face of scrawny sandstone pharaoh, showing a human reaction only when Pug mentioned the poor performance of the destroyers. The pharaoh face then became slightly unpleasant. “I am aware of the low level of preparedness in the fleet, and have instituted corrective programs. Now then. Oh what basis, Captain, did the President choose you for this mission?”

“When I was naval attache in Germany, sir, he happened to use me on jobs involving high security. I suppose this fell into that category.”

“Will you report back to him?”

“Yes, sir.” Victor Henry jumped to his feet as the admiral walked to a map of the world, newly hung on the bulkhead opposite his desk in place of the photograph of Admiral Mayo.

“I suppose while out at sea you’ve gotten the news? You know that the Germans blitzed Yugoslavia in one week? That Greece has surrendered” — the admiral ran a bony finger along Adriatic and Mediterranean coastlines hatched in angry fresh red ink — “that this fellow Rommel has knocked the British clear back into Egypt, and is massing to drive on the Suez Canal? That the big British force trapped in Greece will be lucky to pull off another Dunkirk? That the Arabs are rising to throw the British out of the Middle East? That Iraq’s already ordered them out and asked the Germans in?”

“Yes, sir. We got most of that. It’s been a bad few weeks.”

“Depends on the viewpoint. For the Germans it’s been a fine few weeks. In a month or so, they’ve tipped the world balance. My considered judgment is that this war’s almost over. There seems to be very little awareness of that here. When the Germans take the canal, master the Middle East, and close the Mediterranean, the British Empire lines will be severed. That’s the ball game. There will be no viable military force left in all of Asia between Hitler and the Japs. India and China will fall to them.” Admiral King swept bony fingers across the Eurasian landmass. “Solid dictator-ruled, from Antwerp to Tokyo, and from the Arctic Circle to the equator. Did you hear about that neutrality deal between the Soviets and the Japs?”

“No, sir. I missed that one.”

“Well, they signed a pact — oh, a couple of weeks ago, this was — agreeing to lay off each other for the time being. The press here almost ignored it, but that’s terrific news. It secures the Jap rear” — he waved toward Siberia — “and turns them loose to pick up all these big marbles.” The gnarled hand jumped south and ran over Indo-China, the East Indies, Malaya, and the Philippines; it paused, and one stiff finger glided to the Hawaiian Islands.

Admiral King stared sourly from the map to Victor Henry and strode back to his desk. “Now, of course the President has to make the political judgments. He’s an outstanding politician and a great Navy President. Possibly his judgment is correct, that politically he can’t do any more now than extend our patrol area. Maybe politically he has to chop hairs about ‘patrolling’ versus ‘convoying.’ But it’s just as belligerent for us to patrol, and broadcast the positions of German U-boars and raiders, as it is to convoy. Just as belligerent, but weak and futile. The British haven’t enough ships as it is to keep the Mediterranean open and cut this fellow Rommel’s supply lines. If we took over convoying, they might have a chance to stay in the game. My opinion hasn’t been asked by the President. You seem to be in his entourage. You might find a moment to make these points.” Ernest king sat, hands folded on the desk, and looked at the captain for a silent minute. “That might be, by sheer accident, the best contribution you ever make to the security of the United States.”

* * *

“Henry! Hey, Henry!”

Byron groaned, went rigid as a stretching cat, and opened one eye. Lieutenant Caruso and the other officers on the S-45 were used to this waking pattern of Ensign Henry. Until he went rigid there was no rousing him. It sometimes took violent shaking of the limp form.

“Huh?”

“Your father is here.”

“What?” Byron fluttered his eyes and reared up on an elbow. He now occupied the middle bunk of three. “You’re kidding, skipper. My father?”

“He’s in the wardroom. Care to join us?”

In his underwear, unshaven, mussed, and blinking, Byron stumbled to the doorway of the tiny wardroom. Holy cow. You really are here.”

“You heard your commanding officer say I was.” Immaculate in dress blues, Victor Henry frowned at his son over a coffee cup.

“They’ll tell me anything on this boat to get me out of my bunk. They’re all fiends.”

“What the devil are you doing in the sack at noon?”

“I had the midwatch. Excuse me, sir, for coming out like this. Be right back.” Byron quickly reappeared in a freshly starched khaki uniform, groomed and shaved. Victor Henry was alone. “Gosh, Dad, it’s good to see you.”

“Briny, a midwatch isn’t major surgery. You’re not supposed to take to your bed to recover.”

“Sir, I had it two nights in a row.” He poured for his father and himself. “Say, this is a real surprise. Mom said you were somewhere at sea. Have you been detached from War Plans, Dad?”

“No, this was a temporary thing. I’m heading back now. I was visiting the Texas. I saw the S-45 on the roster and thought I’d look in.” Victor Henry scanned his son’s thin face. “Well? How goes it?”

“Oh, first-rate. Swell bunch of guys on this boat. The skipper is 4.0, and the exec, I’d really like you to meet him. Lieutenant Aster. He was a witness at my wedding.”

Byron grinned the old half-melancholy, half-amused grin that never failed to charm Pug Henry, and most other people. “I’m glad to see you. I’m lonesome.”

“What’s your wife’s situation? Is she on her way home yet?”

Byron gave his father a veiled glance that hinted at his standing grudge about Natalie. But he was in a good mood and responded amiably. “I don’t know. We got in this morning from maneuvers. The yeoman just went for the mail.”

Pug put down his cup. “Incidentally, will your boat be in port on the twenty-sixth?”

“I can find out. Why?”

“Nothing much. Just if you are, and if you can get overnight leave, you’re invited to dinner at the White House.”

Byron’s deep-set eyes opened wide. “Cut it out, Dad.”

“Your mother and Madeline, too. I don’t guess Warren can fly in from Pearl Harbor. But if you’re around, you might as well come. Something to tell your children about.”

“Dad, how do we rate?”

Victor Henry shrugged. “Oh, a carrot for the donkey. Your mother doesn’t know about it yet.”

“No? Dinner at the White House! Mom will go clear through the overhead.”

Lieutenant Aster, carrying a basket of mail, poked his head into the wardroom. “Briny, Carson’s got a fistful of letters for you at the gangway.”

“Hey. Good enough. This is my exec, Dad, Lieutenant Carter Aster. Be right back.” Byron vanished.

Seating himself at the narrow wardroom table and slitting envelopes with an Indian paper cutter, Aster said, “Excuse me, sir. Priority mail.”