Evidently the ultimate horror was quite thinkable, though the civilized term for it, strategic bombing, was not yet in vogue. The leaders of England therefore had to face a bitter decision: whether to send their few precious planes to fight over France against the Germans, or hold them back to defend the homeland's cities and shores.
The French had even fewer planes. In the years before the war, instead of constructing an air fleet, the French had built their Maginot Line.
Their military thinkers had argued that aircraft were the scouts and stinging insects of war, useful, annoying, hurtful, but incapable of forcing a decision. As the French state, under the punch of German dive bombers, flew to pieces like a Limoges vase hit by a bullet, its premier issued a sudden frantic public appeal to President Roosevelt to send "clouds of airplanes." But there were no clouds to send. Maybe the French premier did not know what a paltry air force America had, or that even then, no fighter plane in existence could travel more than a couple of hundred miles. The level of information among French politicians at the time was low.
Meantime, over the fields of Belgium and France, British lots had learned something important. They could knock down German flying machines. They knocked down many; but many British planes fell too.
As the Battle of France went on, the French implored their retreating allies to throw in all their aircraft. This the British did not do. Their air commander, Dowding, told Winston Churchill that twenty-five squadrons had to be kept intact to save England, and Churchill listened to him.
The French collapse thus became foredoomed, if it had ever been anything else.
At the height of the debacle, on June 9, in a letter to old General Smuts, Winston Churchill explained himself. The military sage had reproved him for failing to observe a first principle of war: Concentrate everything at the decisive point. Churchill pointed out that with the shortranged fighter planes then in the air on both sides, the side that fought nearer its airdromes had a big advantage.
"The classical principles are in this case modified by the actual quantitative." he wrote. 'I see only one way through now, to 'Wit, that Hitler should attack this country, and in so doing break his air -weapon. If this happens, he will be left to face the winter with Europe writhing under his heel, and probably with the United States against him after the presidential election is over." Winston Churchill, today an idealized hero of history, was in his time variously considered a bombastic blunderer, an unstable politician, an intermittently inspired orator, a reckless self-dramatizer, a voluminous able writer in an old-fashioned vein, and a warmongering drunkard.
Through most of his long life he cut an antic, brilliant, occasionally absurd figure in British affairs. He never won the trust of the people until 1940, when he was sixty-six years old, and before the war ended they dismissed him. But in his hour he grasped the nature of Hitler, and sensed the way to beat him: that is, by holding fast and pushing him to the assault of the whole world, the morbid German dream of rule or ruin, of dominion or Gdtterdiimmerung. He read his man and he read the strategic situation, and with the words of his mouth he inspired the British people to share his vision. By keeping back the twenty-five squadrons from the lost Battle of France, he acted toughly, wisely, and ungallantly; and he turned the war to the course that ended five long years later, when Hitler killed himself and Nazi Germany fell apart. This deed put Winston Churchill in the company of the rare saviors of countries, and perhaps of civilizations.
With France and the Low Countries overrun, and the Germans at the Channel, England now lay within range of the Luftwaffe's fighter planes. The United States was safe from air attack in 1940, but the onrolling conquest of Europe by the Germans, combined with the growing menace of japan, posed a danger to the future safety of the United States. The question arose: if selling warplanes to the British would enable them to go on knocking down German aircraft, killing German pilots, and wrecking German bomber factories, might not that be, for American security, the best possible use of the aging craft while new, bigger, and stronger machines were built in the inaccessible sanctuary across the ocean?
The answer, from the United States Navy, the Army, the War Department, the Congress, the press, and the public, was a roaring NO!
Franklin Roosevelt wanted to help the British, but he had to reckon with that great American NOI Churchill, with the power of a wartime chief of state, had not sent planes to France, because the survival of England depended on them. Roosevelt, presiding over a wealthy huge land at peace, could not even sell planes to England without risking impeachment.
It was a shock for Victor Henry to see Franklin Roosevelt out from behind the desk in a wheelchair. The shirt-sleeved President was massive and powerful-looking down to the waist; below that thin seersucker trousers hung pitifully baggy and loose on his fleshless thigh bones and slack lower legs. The crippled man was looking at a painting propped on a chair. Beside him stood the Vice Chief of Naval Operations for Air, whom Victor Henry knew well: a spare withered little naval aviator, one of the surviving pioneers, with a lipless mouth, a scarred red face, and ferocious tangled white eyebrows.
'Hello there!' The President gave Victor Henry a hearty handshake, his grip warm and damp. It was a steamy day, and though the windows of the oval study were open, the room was oppressively hot. "You know Captain Henry, of course, Admiral? His boy's just gotten his wings at Pensacola. How about this picture, Pug? like it?"
Inside the heavy ornate gold frame, a British man-o'-war under full sail tossed on high seas beneath ' a storm-wracked sky and a lurid moon.
,it's fine, Mr. President. Of course I'm a sucker for sea scenes."
'So am I, but do you know he's got the rigging wrong?" The President accurately, pointed out the flaws, with great relish for his own expertise.
"Now how about that, Pug? all the man had to do was paint a sailing ship-that was his whole job-and he got the rigging wrong! It's positively unbelievable what people will do wrong, given half a chance.
Well, that thing's not going to hang in here."
During all this, the admiral was training His eyebrows like weapons at Victor Henry. Years ago, in the Bureau of Ordnance, they had violently disagreed over the deck plating on the new carriers.
Junior though he was, Henry had carried his point, because of his knowledge of metallurgy.
The President now turned his chair away from the painting, and glanced at a silver clock on his desk shaped like a ship's wheel.
"Admiral, what about it? Are we going to put Pug Henry to work on that little thing? Will he do?"
"Well, if you assigned Pug Henry to paint a square-rigger, Mr.
President," the admiral replied nasally, with a none too kind look at Pug, "you might not recognize it, but he'd get the rigging right.
As I say, a naval aviator would be a far more logical choice, sir, but-" He gestured reluctant submission, with an upward chop of a hand.
The President said, "We went through all that. Pug, I assume some body competent is tending shop for you in Berlin?"
"Yes, sir."
Roosevelt gave the admiral a glance which was a command. Picking his white hat off a couch, the admiral said, "Henry, see me at my office tomorrow morning at eight."
"Aye aye, sir."
Victor Henry was left alone with the President of the United States.
Roosevelt sighed, smoothed his thin rumpled gray hair, and rolled himself to his desk. Victor Henry now noticed that the President did not use an ordinary invalid's wheelchair, but an odd piece of gear, a sort of kitchen chair on wheels, in and out of which he could easily slide himself. "Golly, the sun's going down, and it's still sweltering in here." Roosevelt sounded suddenly weary, as he contemplated papers piled on the desk. "Isn't it about time for a drink? Would you like a martini? I'm supposed to mix a passable martini."
"Nothing better, sir."
The President pressed a buzzer. A ed tall Negro in a gray gabardine jacket appeared and deftly gathered papers and folders
out of various trays, while Roosevelt pulled wrinkled papers from one pocket and another, made quick pencilled notes, jabbed papers on a spike and threw others in a tray. 'Let's go," he said to the valet. "Come along, Pug."
All down one long hall, and in the elevator, and down another hall, the President glanced at papers and scrawled notes, puffing at the cigarette holder in his teeth. His gusto for the work was evident, despite the heavy purple fatigue smudges under his eyes and the occasional deep coughs racking his chest. They arrived in a small dowdy sitting room hung with sea paintings. "That thing isn't going to end up in here either," said the President. "It's going in the cellar." He handed all the papers to the valet, who wheeled a chromium-stripped bar beside his chair and left.
"Well, how was the wedding, Pug? Did your boy get himself a pretty bride?" said the President in chatty and warm, if faintly lordly tones, measuring out gin and vermouth like an apothecary. Henry thought that perhaps the cultured accent made him sound more patronizing than he intended to be. Roosevelt wanted to know about the lacouture house, and wryly laughed at Victor Henry's account of his argument with the congressman. "Well, that's what we're up against here. And Ike Lacouture's an intelligent man. Some of them are just contrary and obstinate fools.
If we get Lacouture in the Senate, he'll give us real trouble."
A very tall woman in a blue-and-white dress came in, followed by a small black dog. "Just in time! Hello there, doggie!" exclaimed the President, scratching the Scottie's head as it trotted up to him and put its paws on the wheelchair. "This is the famous Pug Henry, dear."
"Oh? What a pleasure." Mrs. Roosevelt looked worn but energetic: an imposing, rather ugly woman of middle age with fine skin, a wealth of soft hair, and a smile that was gentle and sweet, despite the protruding teeth stressed in all the caricatures. She firmly shook hands, surveying Pug with the astute cool eyes of a flag officer.
"The Secret Service has an unkind name for my dog," Roosevelt said, handing his wife a martini. "They call him The Informer. They say he gives away where I am. As though there were only one little black Scottie in the world. Eh, Fala?"
"What do you think of the way the war's going, Captain?" said Mrs.
Roosevelt straight off, sitting in an armchair and holding the drink in her lap.
"It's very bad, ma'am, obviously."
Roosevelt said, "Are you surprised?"
Pug took a while to answer. "Well, sir, in Berlin they were might sure that the western campaign would be short. Way back in January, all their government war contracts had a terminal date of July first.
They thought it would all be over by then and they'd be demobilizing."
Roosevelt's eyes widened. 'That fact was never brought to my attention. That's extremely interesting." Mrs. Roosevelt said, 'Meantime, are they suffering hardships?"
Victor Henry described the "birthday present for the Fuhrer" drive, collecting household tin, copper, and bronze; the newsreel of Goering adding busts of himself and Hitler to a mountain of pots, pans, and irons, and washtubs; the death penalty announced for collectors caught taking anything for their own use; the slogan, One pan per house; ten thousand tons for the Fuhrer. He talked of snowbound Berlin, the lack of fuel, the food rationing, the rule,that a spoiled frozen potato had to be bought with each good one. It was against the law, except for foreigners and sick people, to bail a tad in Berlin.
Russian food deliveries were coming in slowly, if at all, so the Nazis were wrapping butter from Czechoslovakia in Russian-printed packages to foster the feeling of Soviet support. The "wartime beer," a uniform brew reduced in hops and alcohol content, was undrinkable, but the Berliners drank it.
"They've got a 'wartime soap' too," Pug said. 'Einheitsseife.
When you get into a crowded German train it's not much in evidence."
Roosevelt burst out laughing. "Germans are getting a bit ripe, eh? I love that. Einheitsseifel' Pug told jokes circulating in Berlin. In line with the war effort speedup, the Fuhrer had announced that the period of pregnancy henceforth would be three months. Hitler and Goering, passing through conquered Poland, had stopped at a wayside shrine. Pointing to the crucified Christ, Hitler asked Goering whether he thought that would be their final fate.
"Mein Fiih, we are perfectly safe," Goering said. "When we are through there win be no wood or iron left in Germany."
Roosevelt guffawed at the jokes and said that there were far worse ones circulating about himself. He asked animated questions about Hitler's mannerisms in the meeting at Karinhall.
Mrs. Roosevelt interjected in a sharp serious tone, 'Captain, do you think that Mr. Hitler is a madman?"
"Ma'am, he gave the clearest rundown on the history of central Europe I've ever heard. He did it off the cuff, just rambling along.
You might think his version entirely cockeyed, but it all meshed together and ticked, like a watch." 'Or like a time bomb," said the President.
Pug smiled at the quick grim joke, and nodded. "This is an excellent martini, Mr. President. It sort of tastes like it isn't there. Just a cold cloud."
Roosevelt's eyebrows went up in pride and delight. "You've described the perfect martini! Thank you." "You've made his evening," said Mrs. Roosevelt.
Roosevelt said, "Well, my dear, even the Republicans would agree that as a President, I'm a good bartender."
It wasn't much of a joke, but it was a presidential one, so Pug Henry laughed. The drink, the cosiness of the room, the presence of the wife and the dog, and the President's naive pleasure in his trivial skill, made him feel strangely at home. The little black dog was the homiest touch; it sat worshipping the crippled President with a bright stare, now and then running a red tongue over its nose or shifting its look inquiringly to Pug.
Sipping his martini, his pose in the wheelchair as relaxed as before, but the patrician tones subtly hardening for business, Roosevelt said, "Do you think the British will hold out, Pug, if the French collapse?"
"I don't know much about the British, sir." observer? Possibly
"Would you like to go there for a spell as a naval after you've had a month or so back in Berlin?"
Hoping that Franklin Roosevelt was in as pleasant a mood as he seemed, Victor Henry took a plunge. "Mr. President, any chance of my not going back to Berlin?"
Roosevelt looked at the naval Captain for an uncomfortable five or ten seconds, coughing hard. His face sobered into the tired gravity of the portraits that hung in post offices and naval stations.
"You go back there, Pug."
"Aye aye, sir."
"I know you're a seafaring man. You'll get your sea command."
"Yes, Mr. President."
"I'd be interested in your impressions of London."
"I'll go to London, sir, if that's your desire."
"How about another martini?"
"Thank you, sir, I'm fine."
"There's the whole question of helping the British, you see, Pug."
The President rattled the frosty shaker and poured. "No sense sending them destroyers and planes if the Germans are going to end up using them against us."
Mrs. Roosevelt said with a silvery ring in her voice, "Franklin, you know you're going to help the British."
The President grinned and stroked the Scottie's head. Over his face came the look of complacent, devilish slyness with which he had suggested buying the Allied ocean liners-eyebrows raised, eyes looking sidewise at Pug, mouth corners pulled far up. "Captain Heny here doesn't know it yet, but he's going to be in charge of getting rid of those old, useless, surplus Navy dive bombers. We badly need a housecleaning there! No sense having a lot of extra planes cluttering up our training stations. Eh, Captain? Very untidy. Not shipshape."
"Is that definite at last? How wonderful," said Mrs. Roosevelt.
"Yes. Naturally the aviators didn't want a 'black shoe' to handle it."
Roosevelt used the slang with self-conscious pleasure. "So naturally I Picked one. Aviators all stick together and they don't like to p
art with planes. Pug will pry the machines loose, Of course it may be the end of me if word gets out. That'll solve the third-term question! Eh? What's your guess on that one, Pug? is that man in the White House going to break George Washington's rule and try for a third term? Everybody seems to know the answer but me. Victor Henry said, "Sir, what I know is that for the next four years Roosevelt's mobile pink face turned grave and tired again, and he this country is going to need a strong Commander-in-Chief."
coughed, glancing at his wife. He pressed a buzzer. "Somebody the people aren't bored with, Pug. A politician exhausts his welcome after a while.
Like an actor who's been on too long. The good will ebbs away and he loses his audience." A Navy lieutenant in dress blues with gold shoulder loops appeared in the doorway. Roosevelt offered his hand to Victor Henry. "That Sumner Welles thing didn't come to anything, Pug, but our re very helpful."
Herman Wouk - The Winds Of War Page 50