by Ward Wagher
“Well, well, well. Do we have any indications of what the British think of this?”
“We are not sure they have received the invitation, yet.”
“And they are not terribly pleased with us.”
Hull nodded to acknowledge the president’s statement. “To be honest, Mr. President, I was not initially in favor of casting the British adrift like that. However, considering the situation in the Pacific, it is very much to our benefit that we are not engaged in a shooting war with the Germans.”
“As you know I was not interested in war in Europe, either,” the president stated. “To be honest, that was more because I did not feel America had any business involving itself in a European war. I greatly regret that events in the Pacific confirmed my decision.”
“Regardless, I think we have a great opportunity here, Sir.”
Wallace walked around to the front of his desk, where Hull stood. He slid a hip on to the corner of the desk and folded his arms across his chest.
“I wish we could send Truman again. He has a much better feel for these people than I.”
“You understand why it would almost have to be you?” Hull asked.
“Oh, yes. I just do not like being absent from Washington for a month, if not longer. Perhaps, I could attend the opening and then leave things in your hands, Mr.Secretary.”
“That is something we could consider. I have a team putting together an options paper for you.”
“Where do you expect the conference to be held?” Wallace asked.
“We are betting it will be in Lisbon. The Portuguese are friendly with both the Germans and the Brits. It’s a fairly convenient location.”
“Convenient for them, maybe. It’s a long ride for me.”
“True, Mr. President. But it is centrally located for everyone involved.”
“Fine.” Wallace looked disgusted. “Go ahead and set it up. If we can get them talking to each other, I suppose it’s worth the trip. I’ll talk to Admiral Leahy and see if he can whistle up a ride for us. I don’t want to keep requisitioning Pan American’s flying boats.”
“I don’t really think they would object if we were to reserve one of the Clippers. They have regular service to Lisbon.”
“I think I’d rather take a ship,” Wallace said. “I’m not comfortable flying that far over the water.”
“I understand, Sir.”
“Very well, if you’ll excuse me, Mr. Secretary. I have a dinner and a speech to give tonight. I haven’t had a chance to look at a draft of the speech, yet. My speechwriter is a splendid young man, but if I read what he writes verbatim, he makes me sound like a county bumpkin.”
Hull smiled. “I quite understand. Thank you for your time, Mr. President.”
Wallace shook the secretary’s hand and turned back to his desk. He opened the folder and began studying the text of his speech before Hull was out the door. A few minutes later, he capped his pen and tossed it down in disgust. He yelled for his secretary.
“Yes, Mr. President?”
“Get Ambrose in here! This speech is not even fit for the Republicans. And while you are at it, see if Admiral Leahy is available.”
“The admiral is outside, Sir.”
“Fine. Send him in. And go find my unprintable speechwriter.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Leahy marched into the office. He was in uniform, rather than his suit.
“Over at the Pentagon, today, Admiral?”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“Tell me, Admiral, does the Navy still keelhaul people?”
“Not to my knowledge, Mr. President. Did you have someone in mind for that particular punishment?”
“I need some way to encourage my speechwriter to think before he types.”
“Keelhauling might be a bit extreme. It’s generally considered to be in the category of a cruel and unusual punishment.”
Wallace held up his index finger and pointed it at Leahy. “That’s exactly what I have in mind. Do you think I would have trouble with the Congress over it?”
“As to whether it would be considered high crimes or misdemeanors, I am not prepared to say.”
“Okay, I am going to have to sit down with the little buzzard and go over this thing line by line. I don’t have time for it, so I’m going to have to make him miserable enough to learn from it.”
“If you would like, I could have a word with him.”
“Maybe later. Cordell Hull was just here. Schloss has invited me to host the talks between Germany and Britain. It will likely be in Lisbon. Can you arrange something from the Navy for me to travel on?”
“Of course, Mr. President. I will send a directive to Secretary Knox to line something up. It would probably be a cruiser.”
“Whatever,” Wallace waved a hand. “If we are going to Lisbon, I would like to take my wife. Will that be a problem?”
“Not at all, Mr. President.”
“Fine, now go see if Ambrose is out there. I’m collecting scalps, today.”
Leahy laughed. “I’ll send the prisoner in, immediately.”
“Thanks, Bill.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
August 31, 1942; 8 AM
Army Air Corps Offices
Boeing Field
Seattle, Washington
Captain Lane Johnson walked into Lieutenant-Colonel Cliff Carlsen’s office and saluted.
“At ease, Major,” Carlsen said. “Sit down.”
Johnson eased into the chair across the desk from his boss and wondered at the reason for the summons. He and Carlson had worked together for two years during the B-17E program in Seattle. Johnson managed the acceptance flights for the army and Carlsen pushed the paperwork.
Boeing had accomplished a lot in building 512 of the E models over the previous two years. Although the plant had been destroyed during the Japanese raid, the company had preserved its people and its knowledge of mass-producing bombers for the military. It was now in negotiations with the government on a new project. The B-17 lacked the range needed for the Pacific war, and production was ending, anyway.
“We’re winding down here, Lane,” Carlsen said. “Boeing is writing off the plant here and reconstructing inland. We’re done building B-17’s anyway.”
“May I ask where I will be going, Sir?”
“You may ask,” Carlsen answered with a smile. “The army, in its infinite wisdom, has seen fit to assign us a new job.”
“Us, Sir?”
“Is something wrong with your hearing, Major?”
That’s the second time he has called me Major. What is going on?
“No, Sir.” I think maybe I should just shut up and wait for Carlsen to tell me what’s on his mind. He’s in love with these little games.
“Heavens to Betsy, Major. Not only is your hearing shot, but I think your eyesight is going.”
Johnson then noticed the eagles on Carlsen’s collar. “Congratulations, Colonel. The promotion is well deserved.”
“Thank you.” He reached into his desk drawer and then flipped a cellophane packet across the desk. Johnson stared at the gold oak leaves in the packet. “Congratulations, Major.”
“Thank you, Sir.” Johnson hesitated. “Sir, I don’t know what to say.”
“Sometimes when an officer doesn’t know what to say, the best thing is to say nothing.”
“Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”
“For your information, and this is currently classified secret, our president has seen fit to sell one hundred Fortresses to the Krauts. I will be leading the advance party to set up logistics and training for the Germans when the aircraft arrive. You will be my adjutant.” He watched the newly minted major. “What, Major? You have nothing to say?”
“Sir, a very wise man once told me that if I didn’t know what to say, I should keep my mouth shut.”
Carlsen laughed. “Well said. Okay, we don’t have a date yet. You and I need to start putting together a staff and writing an Operations Plan. And we
probably won’t have a lot of time.”
“One question, Sir.”
“Speak.”
“Will I have time to get married before we leave?”
Carlsen snorted. “I can tell you are really thinking about the job, Major.” He watched the reaction on Johnson’s face. “You’re too easy, Lane. Make your plans to get married. But, don’t tarry. I think we’ll be out of here within the month.”
“Yes, Sir. One other question.”
“Shoot.”
“Can I take Jack with us?”
“What?” Carlsen yelled. “I thought this would be a perfect opportunity to get rid of your copilot. If you take him along, you’ll probably end up in the Atlantic Ocean.”
The air group had been saddled with Lieutenant Jack Flannigan because none of the regular Army Air Corps wings had any confidence in him as a pilot. Lane Johnson had patiently worked with the man and now felt he could be trusted in the copilot's seat. This was, however, after several close calls.
“The lieutenant has turned into a decent pilot, Sir,” Johnson protested.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Okay, it’s your neck. Now get out of here and start thinking about your plans. You can bring your sergeant into this, but no one else. My sergeant knows about it.”
Johnson stood up. “By your leave, Sir?”
Carlsen returned the salute. “By my leave. Now, git.”
Johnson was thoughtful as he walked across the airfield to his office. The promotion was unexpected and very welcome. The mission to Germany was also a complete surprise. On the west coast, everyone’s focus was on the war with Japan. Germany received comparatively little attention in the news. The sale of the B-17’s made a lot of sense to him. With Japanese forces so distant, the B-17 was effectively useless unless the United States decided to bomb Canada or Mexico, and Johnson didn’t think that was likely.
Of more immediate concern, he pondered the possibility of marriage. He had been dating a nurse who worked at the local hospital but wasn’t sure whether the relationship had advanced to the point where he thought he could safely propose. And he didn’t know how Liz would react to his leaving the country for an extended tour.
Being a practical man, he shoved these items to the back of his mind and began considering the requirements of their upcoming mission. One thing was certain; Colonel Carlsen would assume that Major Johnson would handle the logistics. Carlsen was adept at delegating down. To be fair, he thought, Carlsen would trust him to manage the project and stay out his hair.
And, how in the world am I going to transport one-hundred B-17s across the country, and across the Atlantic to Germany. I am going to need some maps.
He walked into the building where his office was located. He pointed to Sergeant Billy Dale.
“I need you in my office. Bring coffee. We have a lot to talk about, Sarge.”
“Yes, Sir.”
§ § §
September 2, 1942; 4 PM
10 Downing Street
London, England
Amazing, Anthony Eden thought to himself as he climbed out of his 1938 Rolls Royce Wraith and looked around. In little more than a year, all traces of the German bombings had disappeared. Many of the empty lots, which had formerly been bombed out building, now had new construction. Whatever the government thought, the entrepreneurial Brits were convinced the war was over. They were now going about their business again.
Eden fervently hoped the market was correct in this instance. The smart money was obviously betting that the British and the Germans would eventually settle their differences. What Eden was not prepared to do, however, was sell Britain’s allies on the continent for a mess of potage. It did not work for Esau in the ancient Biblical record, and it would not work for the United Kingdom now. At least he was convinced it wouldn’t.
The bobby at the door opened it for him, and then stood at attention. Eden nodded politely to him as he walked through the door, although his mind was on other things. Churchill’s secretary quietly led him into the Prime Minister’s office. Eden sat down in the chair across the desk from Churchill and placed his hat in his lap. The Prime Minister sat with an unlit cigar between his teeth and a nearly full tumbler of Scotch whiskey at hand. Stacks of government papers surrounded him as he worked. For nearly two minutes he continued reading, and then pulled his reading glasses off.
“Death by suffocation is not entirely different then to what I must experience, Anthony. The paper just never stops coming in here.”
“What makes us seek these offices, Prime Minister?” Eden asked.
“What, indeed?” Churchill Responded. “I believe I shall be very happy when I can retire to Chartwell and indulge my painting hobby. Unfortunately, I cannot do that until I deal with a couple of wars.”
“Speaking of which,” Eden said, “We have agreement from all parties in the European conflict to observe a cease-fire as of twelve-hundred Greenwich Time tonight. Schloss has agreed to meet in Lisbon on September 21.”
Churchill brightened. “Good, Anthony, good. We will be able to put my plan into action.”
“Are you still convinced this is the best move, Winston?” Eden asked. “This is a high-risk move, and the government could fall because of it.”
“The government will fall sooner or later,” Churchill said, waving his cigar as he talked. “Obviously we need to postpone the inevitable as long as possible. Clement and I have been talking about the future. He is concerned that Labor as a whole will force him to withdraw from the Unity Government.”
“I have heard rumblings of such. What does the Attlee think about that?”
“He would prefer to wait until the general elections, but if we get a treaty signed with Schloss, we will have to dissolve as a practical matter.”
“True,” Eden replied. “But, it doesn’t matter who sits in this office, Winston, the people will compel us to go to the aid of the South Asian commonwealth.”
“And we would be morally obligated to do so.” Churchill leaned back and steepled his fingers. I should think that if we surge our navy into the Indian Ocean, we can isolate Australia from the Japanese. As a prelude to liberating them, of course.”
“Do you think we can do that on our own?”
“No. We must needs work in concert with the Americans. However, I fear they will not be ready to push from the American west coast yet.”
Eden nodded. “I have had some private conversations with Ambassador Winant about this. Since we are barely on speaking terms with Washington at the moment, discussions about the conduct of the Pacific war will be delicate.”
“Ha!” Churchill responded. “And the state of the relationship is much the fault of the Americans, although we will need to be too polite to say so. I cannot say I am looking forward to meeting President Wallace in Lisbon.”
“Particularly when he reacts to what you have planned,” Eden said. “And you have yet to convince me it is a good idea.”
Churchill’s eyes twinkled. “If nothing else, the results of the surprise will be entertaining.”
Eden shook his head. When Churchill hatched one of his schemes, it was like remonstrating to a child. He decided to let Churchill enjoy his fun for as long as possible. In this case, the results were likely to be far from entertaining. They could be disastrous to Britain.
“Very well,” Eden continued, “I will begin working on the agenda for the conference. I want to make sure we are all singing from the same page.”
“And I hope Herr Schloss will enjoy the tune.”
Eden decided to worry more about Churchill’s actions related to the conference.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
September 1, 1942; 9 AM
Office of the Prime Minister
Tel Aviv, Judaea
“This is very nice,” David Ben-Gurion said as he looked at the proposed map of Israel. “According to this, we have the entire Sinai, the West Bank, and the Golan.”
“Yes, Sir,” Asher Carrin replied. “Just as you
suggested.”
“But, do we hold these lands?”
“I believe we do, David,” Yitzhak Rabin replied. “We have marched a brigade to the Suez. We have a squadron of tanks on the Golan. We hold Jerusalem and Hebron. We have troops along the Jordan.”
“But can we hold the territory? We hold the borders, but our people are still subject to attacks. There was a bombing in Jaffa this morning. We have Arabs throwing stones at our people in Jerusalem. There have been critical articles in the American papers about our territorial grab.”
“And our pacification of the territories is killing too many innocent Arabs,” Golda Meyerson stated. “If this continues we will have war for generations.”
“But, the land is ours,” Rabin said. “We must defend it.”
“What about your Purity of Arms?” she challenged. “We are trying to build a moral army. How is it moral to massacre the civilians in Arab villages?”
Rabin turned red. “The Irgun are the maniacs. They ignore our guidelines and take matters into their own hands. And the other militias are nearly as bad.”
“Have we identified all of the militias?” Ben Gurion asked.
“I think we know who they are,” Rabin replied. “I have worked to maintain an awareness of them.”
“We know who they are,” Reuven Shiloah stated flatly. “The Institute has detailed lists of the organizations.”
Ben Gurion had established The Central Institute for Coordination as the intelligence organ for Jewish activities in Palestine. It was organized by Ben Gurion’s friend Reuven Shiloah. Upon the declaration of Judaea’s independence, Shiloah had declared the allegiance of the organization solely to the prime minister. The size of the organization was a mystery to most Judaeans, as was the source of its funding. There was no question of its dedication to the establishment and protection of a Jewish state in Palestine.
“Then we must make them understand they must join the Judaean Defense Forces or lay down their arms,” Ben Gurion said.
“They have ignored your instructions to do so,” Carrin said.