Winds of War (108 page)

“I understand they’re on their way, sir.”

“Good. Very good.” Roosevelt puffed out a long breath. “Quite a lad, that submariner of yours.”

“A presumptuous pup, I’m afraid.” Victor Henry was trying to read the document, which was explosive, while chatting with Roosevelt. It was hard because the pages were full of figures.

“I also have a son who’s an ensign, Pug. He’s aboard and I want you to meet him.”

“My pleasure, sir.”

Roosevelt lit a cigarette, coughing. “I received a copy of that Jewish statement. A delegation of some old good friends brought it to me. The way the Jews stick together is remarkable, Pug. But what’s one to do? Scolding the Germans is so humiliating, and so
futile
. I’ve exhausted that line long ago. We tried to get around the immigration laws, with this device and that, and we’ve had some luck, actually. But when I’ve got a Congress that’s ready to disband the Army, can you imagine my going to them with a bill to admit more Jews? I think we’ll beat them on the draft, but it’ll be close at best.”

While he was saying this, Franklin Roosevelt cleared a space on the table, took up two decks of cards, and meticulously laid out a complex solitaire game. He moved cards around in silence for a while, then said in a new cheerful tone, as the ship took a long roll, “By George, Pug, doesn’t it feel wonderful to be at sea again?”

“It sure does, Mr. President.”

“Many’s the time I’ve sailed in these waters. I could navigate this ship for them, honor bright!” He observed Pug turning over the last page. “Well? What do you think?”

“This is something for my chief, Mr. President.”

“Yes, but Kelly Turner’s over on the
Tuscaloosa
. Anyway, another squabble between the service heads is just what I
don’t
want.” The President smiled at him with flattering warmth. “Pug, you have a feeling for facts, and when you talk I understand you. Those are two uncommon virtues. So let’s have it. Take your time.”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

Pug flipped through the document again, making quick notes on a pad. The President, chain-lighting a cigarette, carefully put down card on card.

Nothing in the document surprised Henry. He had heard it all before, in arguments with Army war planners. But here the Army was taking its case to the President, either through Marshall, or by some devious route which the President in his usual fashion kept open. The document was a scorcher indeed; if it leaked to isolationist senators, it might well end Lend-Lease, kill Selective Service, and even start an impeachment drive. Hence he was taken aback to see that it existed at all.

Roosevelt had called for the preparation of a “Victory Program,” a fresh start to unlock the paralysis of Lend-Lease and war production. Half a dozen agencies had tangled themselves and the big industries into impotence - the Army and Navy Munitions Board, the War Resources Board, the Office of Emergency Management, the National Defense Advisory Commission, the Office of Production Management. Their heads were jockeying for presidential favor; all Washington was bewildered by the flood of new initials; shortages and bottlenecks were mounting; and actual munitions were being produced in a feeble trickle. To break this up, Roosevelt had ordered the armed forces to list everything they needed to win a global war, and work out new priorities from this master list.

For weeks planners like Victor Henry had been calculating possible American invasions of France, Africa, Germany, Italy, China, and Honshu, air strikes against industrial cities, and joint operations with the British and even the Russians. The Army and the Navy, not particularly trusting each other, were hardly communicating about the program. Each had prepared a draft, and each had of course called for the greatest possible share of manpower and industrial output. They had been at the greatest pains to keep the Victory Program secret and the papers few. The document now in Victor Henry’s hands was a sharp critique by the Army of the Navy’s demands.

“How about some orange juice?” the President said, as a steward entered with a pitcher on a tray. “Wouldn’t you like that? Felipe squeezes it fresh. He’s gotten hold of some glorious oranges.”

“Thank you, sir.” Pug sipped at a glass of foaming juice. “This thing needs a paper just as long in reply, Mr. President. Essentially, the Navy and the Army are just using two different crystal balls. That’s inevitable. The Army’s the big service, and it’s ultimately responsible for the security of the United States. No argument there. They figure they may have to fight the Axis single-handed, after Russia and England fold. That’s why they demand so much. They arrive at the army of nine million men by working backward from the total manpower of the United States. It’s the biggest force our country can field.”

“And we may well need it,” said the President.

“Yes, sir. It’s mainly on Lend-Lease that we see the thing differently. The Army says we want to give away too many arms and machines which the Germans may capture and use against us. But our contention is that even if the Soviet Union does go down soon, and the British too, a hell of a lot of Germans will have to die first to lick them. And every German who dies is one less German who’ll be shooting at us one day.

“I agree,” the President said, very flatly.

“Well, then, Mr. President, should we at any cost strengthen these people who are killing Germans right now? We can rebuild and replace lost materiel pretty fast, but it takes twenty years to raise a live Boche to replace a dead one.”

The President observed with a slight grin, “Well said. But Lend-Lease isn’t the only bone of contention here. I notice the Navy wants a pretty hefty share of our total steel production.”

“Mr. President” - Pug leaned forward, elbows on knees, hands outstretched, talking as forcefully as he could - “Hitler didn’t beat England last year because he couldn’t land the strongest army in the world on a coast a few miles away. He had all the ships he needed to carry them across. But he couldn’t dock them on the other side. Assault from the sea is a tough battle problem, Mr. President. They don’t come much tougher. It’s easy to put your men ashore, one place or another, but then how do you keep the defenders from wiping you out? Your men are stranded. The defenders have all the mobility, the numerical superiority, and the firepower. They can concentrate and crush you.” As Pug talked, the president was nodding, cigarette holder drooping between his teeth, eyes piercingly attentive. “Well, sir, the answer is special craft that can hit an open beach in large numbers. You throw a large force ashore, and keep it supplied and reinforced until it captures a harbor. Then you can pile in with your regular transports, your luxury liners too – if you’ve got ‘em - and your invasion’s on. But those landing craft, you need swarms of them, sir, of many different designs. This analysis has been assigned to me. It looks as though we’re going to have to manufacture something like a hundred thousand, all told.”

“
A hundred thousand
!” The president tossed his big head. “Why, all the shipyards in the United States couldn’t do that in ten years, Pug, even if they stopped doing everything else. You’re talking sheer nonsense. Everybody exaggerates his little specialty.” But Roosevelt was smiling in an excited way and his eyes were lighting up. He spoke of landing boats the Navy had used in the last war, when he was Assistant Secretary, and of the disastrous British landing at Gallipoli. Victor Henry took from his briefcase pictures of German invasion craft and of new models, and some designs for American boats. The President scanned these with zest. Different craft would perform different missions, Pug said, from a big landing ship to cross the ocean with a great load of tanks and trucks in its belly, to little amphibious tanks that could crawl out on land, chug back into the water, and maybe submerge. Roosevelt obviously loved all this. Under the spread of pictures and sketches lay his solitaire game, scattered and forgotten.

“Say, have you fellows ever thought of this?” The President seized a yellow ruled pad and sketched with crude black pencil strokes as he talked. “It’s an idea I had back in 1917, studying the Gallipoli reports. I sent it to BuShips, sketches and all, and never heard another word. I still say it has merit, though it hadn’t crossed my mind again until this minute. Look here, Pug.”

The drawing showed an oblong, flat-bottomed craft. Amidships on an arching frame, over the heads of crouched soldiers, an airplane engine whirled its big propeller in a screened housing. “I know there’s a stability question, with all that weight so high, but with a broad enough beam, and if you used aluminum – you see that boat could go right up on the beach, Pug, through marshes, anywhere. Underwater obstacles would be meaningless.” The President grinned down at his handiwork with approval, then scrawled at the bottom, FDR –
on board USS Augusta, en route to meet Churchill, 7 August 1941.
Here. Don’t bury it the way BuShips did! Look into it. Maybe it’s just a wild notion, but – Well! Will you look at Old Man Sunshine, pouring through that porthole at last!”

The President put on the white hat, and smoothly slid into his wheeled kitchen chair, pressing his hands on the table with almost simian strength to lift and move himself. Victor Henry opened a door to the sun deck. Roosevelt wheeled himself briskly across the gray-painted wooden ramps over the coaming. “Ah! Doesn’t this feel swell! Warm sun and ocean air. Just what the doctor ordered. Give me a hand, Pug.” The President eased himself into a blue leather reclining chair, in an angle of the deck structure sheltered from the wind. They were looking aft at the long gray guns and the foaming wake of the gently pitching cruiser. “I still say you’ll never find the shipyard or Navy Yard space for those landing craft, Pug. There are the merchant ships to build, the destroyer escorts, the carriers. You’re going to have to use factories where you can find them – on rivers and inland waterways – hundreds of little factories.” President Roosevelt cocked his head, staring out at the sea. “You know? This program could be a godsend to small business. Congress has given us all
kinds
of trouble about that. There’s a real thought. Money going out to small factories in many states – “ The president lit a cigarette, deftly cupping the match against the breeze. “Very good. Let me have your notes on that Army paper, Pug. Just write them up yourself, and give them to me today.”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“Now I’m extremely interested in that landing craft problem, but I don’t want you getting bogged down in it. Once the Victory Program is finished, let’s detach you from War Plans, and send you out to sea. You’re overdue.”

Victor Henry saw that he had scored with Roosevelt and that the moment was favorable. He said, “Well, Mr. President, for a long time I’ve been yearning for a battleship.”

“You think you can command one?”

Trying hard not to show emotion in face or voice, realizing that a lifetime might hang on the next few words, Henry said, “I think I can, sir.”

“Well, you’ve been delayed on the beach by unrewarding jobs. The Commander-in-Chief out to have a little say in this. Let’s get you command of a battleship.”

The President spoke lightly. But the ring in his cultured voice, the self-satisfied tilt of his head, the regal way he held the arms of his chair and smiled at Captain Henry, shoed his relish for power and his satisfaction in bestowing largesse.

“Thank you, Mr. President.’

“Now, Pug, you’ll find the Chief Yeoman Terry in the flag office. Will you tell him to come here?”

Dazed by the last turn of the conversation, Victor Henry walked back into the President’s suite, and interrupted a chat between General Marshall, Admiral King, Admiral Stark, and General Watson, sitting relaxed on a couch and armchairs in splendid uniforms. The four elderly awesome heads turned at him. Admiral King gave him a puzzled scowl. Pug crossed the room as fast as he could without running, and went out.

It was for this chat, lasting less than an hour, that Franklin Roosevelt had evidently summoned Victor Henry to the
Augusta
. Except at a distance, the Navy captain did not see the President again all the way to Newfoundland.

Pug no longer tried to fathom the President’s purposes. He did not feel flattered when Roosevelt summoned him, or put out when the President forgot he was alive. He was under no illusion that he held high place in the President’s esteem, or that anything he said or did influenced the course of history. The President used other obscure men. The identities and missions of some were fogged in secrecy. He himself knew of a marine colonel who ran presidential errands in Japan, China, and India; and an elderly Oregon lumberman, a friend of his own father, who specialty was buying up scarce war materials in South America, to deny them to the Germans. Pug counted himself among these small fry, and took the President’s use of him as the result of random impulse. Roosevelt liked him because he was knowledgeable, got things done, and kept his mouth shut. A lucky guess about the Nazi-Soviet pact had earned him more credit for acumen than he deserved. There was also the odd phrase Roosevelt had used: “When you talk, I understand you.”

Still, the President’s promise of a battleship command gave Victor Henry sleepless nights. Only two of his classmates had battleships. He went to the flag office and checked the Navy Register, to narrow down the possibilities. Of course, new construction – the
North Carolina
class or the
Indiana
class giants – was out of the question for him. He would get a modernized old ship. The deadline for delivering the Victory Program was less than a month off. Scanning the records, he noted that places might open up within a couple of months in the
California
or
West Virginia
. This was heady business for Captain Victor Henry, after thirty years in the Navy, checking over the battle ship roster to guess which one he might soon command!

He tried to crush down his elation. Henry admired the President, and had moments when he almost loved the gallant cripple with the big grin and the boundless appetite for work. But he did not understand Roosevelt or trust him; and he did not in the least share the unlimited devotion to this man of people like Harry Hopkins. Behind the warm jolly aristocratic surface, there loomed a grim ill-defined personality of distant visions and hard purpose, a tough son of a bitch to whom nobody meant very much, except perhaps his family; and maybe not they, either. It might be that Roosevelt would remember to get him a battleship command. It was equally likely that some new job would put the promise off until it faded. Roosevelt had taught Victor Henry what a great man was like; the captain thought time and again of the Bible’s warning, that the clay pot should keep its distance from the iron kettle.