The Winds of War

piled on the floor and in the leather armchair. Emptied drawers and files stood open; a swivel chair was overturned; the place looked as though it had been robbed. On the desk, on a typewriter with bunched tangled keys, a message was propped, printed in block letters on torn cardboard: IMPERATIVE — BURN TONIGHT CONTENTS SECOND BROWN LOCKED FILE. (L. SLOTE HAS COMBINATION.) Pug cleared the desk, untangled the typewriter keys and stood the lamps on either side of the machine. He found paper, carbons, and onionskin paper in a drawer.

Spaso House

October 16, 1941

THE MOSCOW FRONT — EYEWITNESS REPORT

His stiff cold fingers struck wrong keys. Typing in a bridge coat was clumsy and difficult. The slow clicks of the machine echoed hollowly in the deserted embassy. One lamp began to smoke. He fiddled with the wick until it burned clear.

This report attempts a description of a visit to the fighting front west of Moscow, from which I have just returned.

Tonight, twenty miles outside the city, our car halted because of an air raid on Moscow. At a distance this was quite a spectacle: the fanning searchlights, the A.A. like an umbrella of colored fireworks over one patch of the horizon, blazing away for half an hour straight. Whatever the Russian deficiencies, they seem to have an infinite supply of A.A. ammunition, and when the Luftwaffe ventures over the capital, they blow it skyward in huge displays. This beats anything I saw in Berlin or London.

However, this brave show is not being matched on the ground in Moscow tonight. The town is getting ready for a siege. It has an abnormal look, and the fainthearted are fleeing in a heavy snow. The Communist government is either unable or unwilling to stop the panic. I am told there is already a slang name for this mass exodus — Bolshoi Drap, the Big Scram. The foreign diplomats and newspapermen have been sent to Kuibyshev on the Volga, five hundred miles further east, and many government agencies are departing for the same haven en masse. Heavy vehicular and foot traffic eastward gives an undeniable aspect of rats leaving a sinking ship. However, it is reported that Stalin is staying on.

I believe this panic is premature, that Moscow has a fair chance of holding, and that even if it falls, the war may not end. I bring back many impressions from the front, but the outstanding one is that Russians, though they are back on about their nine-yard line, are not beaten. The American leadership must guess whether Russia will stand or fall, and lay its bets accordingly in Lend-Lease shipments. An eyewitness account of the front, however fragmentary, may therefore be pertinent.

The typewriter was clicking fast now. It was almost one o’clock. Victory Henry still had to return to the hotel and pack. He chewed another “polar bear,” the Russian chocolate candy, for energy, and began banging out the tale of his journey. Electricity all at once lit up the room, but he left the kerosene lamps burning and typed on. In about half an hour the lights flickered, burned orange, dimmed, and pulsed, and went out. Still he typed ahead. He was describing the interior of the KV tank when Slote came in saying, “You’re really going at it.”

“You’re working late yourself.”

“I’m getting to the bottom of the pile.” Slote dropped on the desk a brown envelope sealed with wax. “By the way, that came in the pouch, too. Care for some coffee?”

“You bet. Thanks.”

Pug stretched and walked up and down the room, beating his arms and stamping his feet, before he broke the seal of the envelope. There were two letters inside, one from the White House and one from the Bureau of Personnel. He hesitated, then opened the White House letter; a few sentences in Harry Hopkins’s dashed-off slanting hand filled a page:

My dear Pug —

I want to congratulate you on your new assignment, and to convey the Boss’s good wishes. He is very preoccupied with the Japanese, who are beginning to get ugly, and of course we are all watching the Russian struggle with anxiety. I still think — and pray — they’ll hold. I hope my letter reached Stalin. He’s a land crab, and he’s got to be convinced that the Channel crossing is a major task, otherwise bad faith accusations will start to fly, to Hitler’s delight. There’s been an unfortunate upturn in submarine sinkings in the Atlantic, and the Germans are cutting loose in Africa, too. All in all the good cause seems to be heading into the storm. You’ll be missed in the gray fraternity of office boys.

Harry H.

The other envelope contained a Navy letter form in telegraphic style:

MAILGRAM

FROM: THE CHIEF OF PERSONNEL.

TO: VICTOR (NONE) HENRY, CAPTAIN, U.S.N.

DETACHED ONE NOVEMBER PRESENT DUTY X PROCEED FASTEST AVAILABLE TRANSPORTATION PEARL HARBOR X REPORT CALIFORNIA (BB 64) RELIEVE CO X SUBMIT VOUCHERS OF TRAVEL EXPENSES COMBAT FOR PEARL

In bald trite Navy jargon on a flimsy yellow sheet, here was command of a battleship. And what a battleship! The California, the old Prune Barge, a ship in which he had served twice, as an ensign and as a lieutenant commander, which he knew well and loved; the ship named for his own home state, launched in 1818 and completely modernized.

Captain of the California!

Pug Henry’s first reaction was orderly and calculating. Evidently Admiral King’s staff was a trap he had escaped. In his class only Warendorf, Munson and Brown had battleships, and Robinson had the Saratoga. His strange “gray office boy” service to the President had proved a career shortcut after all, and flag rank was suddenly and brightly back in sight.

He thought of Rhoda, because she had sweated out with him the twenty-seven-year wait for this bit of yellow tissue paper; and of Pamela, because he wanted to share his excitement right now. But he was not even sure that he would see her again in Moscow. They had parted at the railroad station with a strong handclasp, as Talky Tudsbury pleaded with the RAF pilots to take him along and simultaneously blustered at a Narkomindel man who was trying to lead him off.

Leslie Slote walked in, carrying two glass tumblers of black coffee. “Anything good?”

“New orders. Command of the California.”

“Oh? What is that?”

“A battleship.”

“A battleship?” Slote sipped coffee, looking doubtful. “Is that what you wanted next?”

“Well, it’s a change.”

“I should think you’d find it somewhat confining and — well, routine, after the sort of thing you’ve been doing. Not many naval officers — in fact not many Americans — have talked to Stalin face to face.”

“Leslie, I’m not entirely unhappy with these orders.”

“Oh! Well, then, I gather congratulations are in order. How are you coming with that report? I’m almost ready to turn in.”

“Couple of hours to go.”

“You won’t get much sleep.” Slote went out shaking his head.

Victor Henry sat drinking coffee, meditating on the little rectangle of yellow paper, the sudden irreversible verdict on his life. He could ask for no better judgment. This was the blue ribbon, the A-plus, the gold medal of naval service. Yet a nag in his spirit shadowed the marvellous news. What was it? Between sips of coffee, probing his own heart, Pug found out something surprising about himself.