The Winds of War

believe the big man in shirt-sleeves had said the words. The newspapers and magazines were full of the President’s ringing declarations that America would stay out of the war. Roosevelt went blandly on with a compliment about Combat Readiness of Nazi Germany, which he said he had read with great interest. His next questions showed that he had retained little of the analysis. His grasp of the important strategic facts about Germany was not much better than Harry Warendorf’s or Digger Brown’s, and his queries were like theirs, even to the inevitable “What’s Hitler really like? Have you talked to him?” Pug described Hitler’s war speech in the Reichstag. Franklin Roosevelt exhibited a lively interest in this, asking how Hitler used his voice and hands, and what he did when he paused.

“I’m told,” Roosevelt said, “that they type his speeches on a special machine with perfectly enormous letters, so he won’t have to wear glasses.”

“I wouldn’t know about that, sir.”

“Yes, I got that from a pretty reliable source. Fuhrer type, they call it.” Roosevelt sighed, turned his chair away from the food, and lit a cigarette. “There’s no substitute for being in a place yourself, Pug, seeing it with your own eyes, getting the feel. That’s what’s missing in this job.”

“Well, Mr. President, in the end it all boils down to cold facts and figures.”

“True, but too often all that depends on who writes those reports. Now that was a fine report of yours. How did you really foresee he’d make a pact with Stalin? Everybody here was stupefied.”

“I guess mathematically somebody somewhere was bound to make that wild guess, Mr. President. It happened to be me.”

“No, no. That was a well-reasoned report. Actually, we did have some warning here, Pug. There was a leak in one German embassy — never mind where — and our State Department had predictions of that pact. Trouble was, nobody here was much inclined to believe them.” He looked at Hopkins, with a touch of mischief. “That’s always the problem with intelligence, isn’t it, Pug? All kinds of strange information will come in, but then—”

The President all of a sudden appeared to run out of conversation. He looked tired, bored, and withdrawn, puffing at a cigarette in a long holder. Victor Henry would have been glad to leave, but he thought the President should dismiss him. He was feeling a bit firmer about the meeting now. Franklin Roosevelt had the manner, after all, of a fleet commander relaxing over lunch, and Pug was used to the imperious ways of admirals. Apparently he had crossed the Atlantic in wartime to kill an off-hour for the President.

Hopkins glanced at his watch. “Mr. President, the Secretary and Senator Pittman will be on their way over now.”

“Already? The embargo business? Well, Pug.” Henry jumped up, and took his cap. “Thank you for coming by. This has been grand. Now if there’s anything else you think I should know, just anything that strikes you as significant or interesting, how about dropping me a line? I’ll be glad to hear from you. I mean that.”

At this grotesque proposal for bypassing the chain of command, which ran counter to Henry’s quarter century of naval training and experience, he could only blink and nod. The President caught his expression. “Nothing official, of course,” he said quickly. “Whatever you do, don’t send me more reports! But now that we’ve gotten acquainted again, why not stay in touch? I liked that thing you wrote. I could just see that submarine base emptying out at five o’clock. It said an awful lot about Nazi Germany. Sometimes one little thing like that — or what a loaf bread costs, or the jokes people are repeating, or like that advertising blimp over Berlin — such things can sometimes suggest more than a report umpteen pages long. Of course, one needs the official reports, too. But I get enough of those, heaven knows!”

Franklin Roosevelt gave Commander Henry the hard look of a boss who has issued an order and wants to know if it’s understood.

“Yes, Mr. President,” Henry said.

“And, oh, by the way, here’s a suggestion that’s just come to my desk, Pug, for helping the Allies. Of course we’re absolutely neutral in this foreign war, but still -” The President broke into a sly grin. His tired eyes sparkled as he glanced here and there on his cluttered desk, and took up a paper. “Here we are. We offer to buy the Queen Mary and the Normandie, and we use them for evacuating Americans from Europe. There are thousands stranded, as you know. What do you think? It would give the Allies a pile of much needed dollars, and we’d have the ships. They’re fine luxury liners. How about it?”

Victor Henry looked from Hopkins to the President. Evidently this was a serious question. They were both waiting for his answer. “Mr. President, I’d say those ships are major war assets and they’d be insane to sell them. They’re magnificent troop transports. They’re the fastest vessels for their tonnage of anything afloat, they can outrun any submarine at cruising speed, they hardly have to zigzag they’re so fast, and with the interiors stripped their carrying capacity is gigantic.”

The President said dryly to Hopkins, “Is that what the Navy replied?”

“I’d have to check, Mr. President. I think their response went mainly to the question of where the money’d come from.”

Franklin Roosevelt cocked his head thoughtfully, and smiling at Victor Henry, held out a long arm for a handshake. “Do you know why I didn’t make more of a fuss about those clothes? Because your skipper said you were one of the best ensigns he’d ever seen. Keep in touch, now.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“Well, how did it go?” The President’s aide was smoking a cigar in the anteroom. He rose, knocking off the ash.

“All right, I suppose.”

“It must have. You were scheduled for ten minutes. You were in there almost forty.”

“Forty! It went fast. What now?”

“How do you mean?”

“I don’t have very specific instructions. Do I go straight back to Berlin, or what?”

“What did the President say?”

“It was a pretty definite good-bye, I thought.”

Captain Carton smiled. “Well, I guess you’re all through. Maybe you should check in with CNO. You’re not scheduled here again.” He reached into a breast pocket. “One good thing. This came to my office a little while ago, from the State Department.”

It was an official dispatch envelope. Henry ripped it open and read the flimsy pink message form:

FORWARDED X BYRON HENRY SAFE WELL WARSAW X AWAITING EVACUATION ALL NEUTRALS NOW UNDER NEGOTIATION GERMAN GOVERNMENT X SLOTE

* * *

Victory Henry disappointed Hugh Cleveland when he walked into the broadcaster’s office; just a squat, broad-shouldered, ordinary-looking man of about fifty, in a brown suit and a red bow tie, standing at the receptionist’s desk. The genial, somewhat watchful look on his weathered face was not sophisticated at all. As Cleveland sized up people — having interviewed streams of them — this might be a professional ballplayer turned manager, a lumberman, maybe an engineer; apple-pie American, fairly intelligent, far from formidable. But he knew Madeline feared and admired her father, and day by day he was thinking more highly of the young girl’s judgment, so he took a respectful tone.

“Commander Henry? It’s a pleasure. I’m Hugh Cleveland.”

“Hello. Hope I’m not busting in on anything. I thought I’d just drop by and have a look-see.”

“Glad you did. Madeline’s timing the script. Come this way.” They walked along the cork floor of a corridor walled with green soundproofing slabs. “She was amazed. Thought you were in Germany.”

“For the moment I’m here.”

In a swishing charcoal pleated skirt and gray blouse, Madeline came scampering out of a door marked NO ADMITTANCE, and kissed him. “Gosh, Dad, what a surprise. Is everything all right?”

“Everything’s dandy.” He narrowed his eyes at her. She looked a lot more mature, and brilliantly excited. He said, “If you’re busy, I can leave, and talk to you later.”

Cleveland put in, “No, no, Commander. Please come in and watch. I’m about to interview Edna May Pelham.”

“Oh? The General’s Lady? I read it on the plane. Pretty good yarn.”