Pearl Harbor (25 page)

The reports from Pearl Harbor were shocking, but the news from the Philippines must have been infuriating to Roosevelt. He was getting his full account of the destruction that had taken place during the overnight hours. He likely was shown a report based on a phone call from MacArthur about conditions in the Philippines. “Heavy damage was sustained at Clark Field with 23 dead and 200 wounded,” MacArthur stated. “Our air losses here were heavy, while enemy air losses were light or medium.”
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It was hard enough to understand why the navy and army in Hawaii were caught off guard, but how could MacArthur, who had been informed about Pearl Harbor and warned of an imminent attack, have been so unprepared? For now, Roosevelt kept his anger under control and simply updated his speech, jotting down additions to provide the nation with the most up-to-date information on Japanese movements in the Pacific.

Scanning the papers, Roosevelt likely noticed the mood of the nation had shifted overnight from fear and uncertainty to anger and determination. “What was the silence of shock last night, today was the cold, determined hatred of an outraged people,” observed wire service reporter Jerry Greene, describing the mood in Washington on December 8. Arthur Krock, writing in the
New York Times
, said that “national unity was an instant consequence” of the Japanese attack. “You could almost hear it click into place in Washington today,” he observed. “The lives, armament and property lost in Hawaii are a heavy price to pay for anything,” Krock wrote. “But they were not spent in vain, for national unity—which has been a distant and unattained goal since and before Hitler invaded Poland in 1939—seemed visibly to arise from the wreckage at Honolulu.”
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The attack on Pearl Harbor indeed forged unprecedented unity in America. “Probably never in all American history was there provided such a spectacle of unity of purpose as stamped the dramatic sequence of events today,” observed the
Pittsburgh Post-Gazette
. “In the flash of a few bombs dropped without warning on territory under the American
flag, isolationism puffed out in thin air. Republicans and Democrats dropped their differences. It was quickly apparent that President Roosevelt would have a vigorously united government behind him in the epochal days ahead.”
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Overnight the battle cry “Remember Pearl Harbor!” had taken its place alongside other great battle slogans, such as “Remember the
Maine
,” which came into existence shortly after the USS
Maine
sank in Havana Harbor in 1898, and “Remember the Alamo,” voiced by General Sam Houston before the battle of San Jacinto against Mexico in 1836. Hundreds of telegrams continued pouring into the White House, expressing outrage and demanding retribution against Japan. “Today,” announced the head of the Aplington, Iowa, Baptist Church, “we are no longer a divided people, but a united one.”
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But amid the calls for unity were subtle reminders of the deep divisions that could not be glossed over with patriotic fervor. Capp Jefferson, an African American living in Oklahoma City, wrote the president on December 8 to “pledge the loyalty of every Negro in the United States and its allied possessions to the protection of our flag and the policies of our government.” But his pledge of support came with a request. He asked that the president, along with the governors and mayors throughout the United States, proclaim an end to discrimination, poor housing, and poor transportation and “grant us the full rights of any and all American citizens.”
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F
or any president giving a speech before a joint session of Congress, knowing that millions of Americans would be huddled next to their radios listening to every word would be stressful enough. Roosevelt had the added physical burden of strapping on his metal braces, traveling to the Capitol, and navigating the path to the rostrum in full glare of the newsreels.

Even a task as simple as getting dressed required enormous effort. At 11:00 a.m., valet Arthur Prettyman entered FDR's bedroom and began the laborious task of dressing the president for his trip to the Capitol.
While laying FDR flat in bed, Prettyman would remove the president's pajamas and slip his legs into the heavy metal braces, which weighed roughly five pounds each. The braces had a hinge at the knee that could be locked into place, along with three straps: One went below FDR's knee, another across his thigh, and a third was positioned at the top of the brace just below the hip. When pulled tight, the straps would keep his legs rigid. FDR's black dress shoes were attached to the bottom of the braces through a hole drilled into the heel. The most difficult part of the process for Prettyman was trying to fit the lifeless feet into the shoes.
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Once the braces were strapped on and the shoes secured, Prettyman proceeded to dress the president. FDR chose formal morning clothes—black cutaway coat, striped trousers, and a gray and white tie. Roosevelt insisted on an added feature: a black armband he wore in memory of his mother. With the president still lying flat on the bed, his assistant would rock FDR to the right and then the left, gradually working his trousers over the shoes and braces and up his legs. Once the pants were on, Prettyman lifted the president to a sitting position on the bed and helped him put on his shirt, tie, and jacket. Once Roosevelt was dressed, Prettyman hoisted him into his wheelchair for the trip to the Capitol. The whole process took about forty-five minutes.
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Before leaving the White House, however, FDR made another brief visit to his physician's office. He arrived at 11:55 a.m. and stayed for ten minutes. McIntire probably sprayed FDR's nose to clear up any congestion and probably applied an ointment on his throat and mouth to keep his vocal cords moist.

After his brief stopover with McIntire, Roosevelt was wheeled to the north portico of the White House. As he emerged into the open air, Roosevelt would have seen ten highly polished black limousines bearing the seal of the president. Up ahead, and reaching nearly to the west gate, stood a dozen escorting police on motorcycles. Never before had a president been so well protected. There were more Secret Service agents and police gathered around him than at any other time in his presidency, including his three inaugurals. Many agents carried sawed-off
shotguns. Despite the cold weather, they had decided not to wear topcoats because they feared the extra clothing would hamper their ability to draw their .38-caliber service revolvers.
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Roosevelt must have been surprised to see a new, shiny limousine waiting to transport him to the Capitol. Since government rules prevented spending more than $750 for a single automobile, the president did not have an armored car. “We could pay a million and a half dollars for a cannon if we thought that would protect the President,” Mike Reilly observed, “but the book said $750 for a car, and when the book says anything in the government that's it.” Although the car was billed as bulletproof, in reality, only the windows were able to stop bullets.
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As Roosevelt approached the car, he said to Reilly, “What's that thing, Mike?”

“Mr. President, I've taken the liberty of getting a new car. It's armored, I'm afraid it's a little uncomfortable, and I know it has a dubious reputation.”

“Dubious reputation?” FDR asked inquisitively.

“Yes, sir. It belonged to Al Capone. The Treasury Department had a little trouble with Al, you know, and they got it from him in the subsequent legal complications. I got it from treasury.”

Roosevelt seemed amused. “I hope Mr. Capone doesn't mind,” he said.
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Reilly and Roosevelt's son James, dressed in his Marine Corps officer uniform, then lifted FDR to a standing position and maneuvered him into the car for the short ride. Eleanor, wearing a black hat, black suit, and a silver-fox fur, stood by his side, watching his every step. James jumped in with his father, while Eleanor took a backup car.

Although FDR rode in a closed, bulletproof car, a Secret Service man stood on the running board to shield him from a potential assassin. Both sides of his car were flanked by an open Secret Service car with three men on each of the running boards armed with .38-caliber service revolvers. Four more agents were huddled inside with sawed-off riot guns at the ready. Another Secret Service car followed FDR. In
front of the president's auto was a car the Secret Service dubbed “Big Bertha” or “the Queen Mary,” because it held a rolling arsenal of firepower. “If ever a President rode in a mechanized division it was Roosevelt today,” observed journalist Felix Belair Jr.
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The president's route along Pennsylvania Avenue to the Capitol was lined with soldiers and heavily armed policemen. “We turned out every policeman in Washington, and we virtually soaked the halls of Congress with Secret Service operatives summoned from New York, Philadelphia, and other Eastern cities,” recalled Reilly. The Secret Service took other unprecedented steps to protect the presidential motorcade: Street intersections were blocked off so that the motorcade could maintain a constant thirty-mile-an-hour speed. According to Wilson, all “manholes on the route were inspected for hidden bombs, and then sealed.”
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In 1917, President Woodrow Wilson had traveled the same route to deliver his message. Large and enthusiastic crowds, which embraced Wilson's idealistic crusade to make the world safe for democracy, greeted him along the way. On this day, the crowds were small, somber, and silent. Roosevelt occasionally waved and smiled at the crowds, although, as one reporter noted, “the hand waving was a little less vigorous and the smile was not from ear to ear.”
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Roosevelt arrived at a Capitol swarming with police, Secret Service agents, and soldiers. More than two hundred Secret Service men guarded the Capitol. Another four hundred police officers were stationed in and around the building. Marines with fixed bayonets guarded each entrance. Everyone was on edge. When a reporter absentmindedly walked into the Capitol with a rolled-up newspaper in his hands, police snatched it away. A Secret Service agent forcefully pushed back another journalist who was trying to get into the press gallery without a pass.
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Roosevelt's car pulled up to the ground-floor entrance under the south entrance of the Capitol. It was a secure area, away from public view. The Secret Service took his wheelchair from the trunk before helping FDR out of the car. James stood by his side, while Mrs. Roosevelt left her husband and was escorted to the elevator to the Executive Gallery,
where she would watch the speech. It was there that she met her invited guest: Mrs. Woodrow Wilson.
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Roosevelt entered the building using the same ramp that he originally used for his first inaugural in March 1933. Since FDR became president in 1933, the Secret Service had installed wooden ramps at all the key buildings in Washington that Roosevelt routinely visited. James trailed a few feet behind, carrying his father's speech. The Secret Service pushed him to the Speaker's Room, a chamber just off the House floor. There he waited to give one of the most important speeches ever delivered by an American president.

 

 

W
hile FDR waited in the Speaker's Room, members of Congress and the press crowded into the House chamber. With the exception of the first few rows of seats, which were reserved for the Senate, the Supreme Court, members of the cabinet, and the leaders of the armed forces, every inch of the ornate hall was filled to capacity. People were jammed into doorways, standing on chairs, and leaning on the narrow ledge of the panels on the wall. The 86 seats available in the press gallery could not begin to cover the accredited corps of 590 correspondents who had turned out to hear the speech.
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At 12:15 Speaker Sam Rayburn gaveled the House to order. Most members of Congress were already in their seats. About a dozen members had brought their children onto the floor with them to witness the historic occasion. Doorkeeper Joe Sinnott announced a message had been received from the Senate. It was passage of House Concurrent Resolution 61, agreeing that a joint session of Congress be convened.

A few minutes later, members of the Senate filed into the House chamber. Vice President Henry Wallace led the delegation, escorting octogenarian Carter Glass of Virginia. He was followed by a delegation of Democratic and Republican leaders. As a demonstration of solidarity, isolationist Republican Hiram Johnson of California linked arms with silver-haired Elmer Thomas, a Democrat from Oklahoma.
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The cabinet followed, led by the white-headed Cordell Hull. “He looked almost like a ghost risen for the occasion,” observed one reporter. “Tall, slightly stooped, he seemed almost exhausted. His face was deeply lined, sad. His white hair was neatly brushed, set off by his blue suit, black tie and white soft-collar shirt.” Admiral Stark and General Marshall followed in full uniform. Next in line were the members of the Supreme Court, in their long black robes. “There was no laughter, and none of the boisterous horseplay which customarily accompanies the preliminary stages of such gatherings,” noted a reporter. “There was only a subdued hum of conversation.”
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A
t 12:29 a voice cried out, “The President of the United States.” There was a moment of silence before FDR appeared in the back of the center aisle. His presence in the hall produced a burst of thunderous applause. For the first time in years, Republicans stood and applauded Franklin Roosevelt. The president stood, propped up on the arm of his son James. A House and Senate delegation of six members surrounded them. Their presence underscored the bipartisan nature of Roosevelt's message, but it also helped to disguise FDR's awkward movement to the podium before the full glare of the world's media.
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