“It’s a great honor indeed, Mr. President,” Chadwick said, saluting.
“Nonsense, m’boy, nonsense!” the President replied in the mellifluous tones so well-known to every American with a radio. “The honor and pleasure is mine.” He leaned forward in his wheelchair and stuck out his hand. FDR’s handshake was surprisingly strong. While the polio might have crippled his lower half, his upper body had grown powerful muscles to compensate.
“A heroic battle, Frank, heroic!” He gestured for Chadwick to sit on the couch. Knox and King sat on either side. “As I recall, you oversaw the evacuation of the Enterprise, after poor Bill Halsey was killed. That’s a sad blow to the navy—but you showed gallantry under fire moving your cruiser in with the possibility that more Japanese submarines might be lurking.”
“Thank you, Mr. President. I’m flattered, but there was nothing I did that any other navy captain would not have done in the same circumstances—”
“Frank is up for the Navy Cross,” King interjected. “By risking his own safety and that of his ship, he saved nearly nine hundred men.”
“That’s the same story I heard,” Roosevelt said.
Chadwick was a little embarrassed by the amount of presidential attention he was getting. When FDR looked at him, it was as if he was caught in the beam of a searchlight.
The furniture might be shabby, but the White House liquor service was first rate. Chadwick sipped his scotch slowly and with appreciation. He had been traveling for nearly two days by military and civilian aircraft. His body still ached from being in confined spaces and his ears still rang from the roaring of aircraft engines. The cacophony of conversations was almost too much for him to handle.
As Knox prodded Chadwick to tell the President the story of the battle, Treasury Secretary Morgenthau was trying to get the President to pay attention to an elaborate discussion of movements in the long-bond market. Meanwhile, two White House staffers discussed the 1942 midterm elections, raising their voices in hopes that their specific worries would reach the Presidential ear. The third aide, the junior one, was trying to listen to every conversation at once so he could jot down any “to-do” items that came up.
A man with a briefcase, who Frank assumed was with the Office of Strategic Services—at a minimum he had some sort of involvement in the shadowy world of intelligence—made cryptic remarks about a recent Churchill cable that concerned a matter so secret even its code name was classified. There was one word—”Bletchley”—but Frank had no idea what it meant and knew enough not to be curious. The maybe-OSS man’s eyes darted side to side as if one of the other guests might be a deep-cover Nazi spy. He looked as if he wished everybody else would go away nearly as much as Admiral King did.
Roosevelt bobbed and weaved through the various conversations, his famous cigarette holder serving as a conductor’s baton. After a few minutes, Frank got the rhythm, telling a little piece of the story as FDR’s attention landed briefly on deck and took off again. He spent the intervening time trying to edit what he would say next, to pack a lot of information into a few words so Roosevelt could listen.
King, impatient as always, walked around the room looking at the various ship models, looking back at Roosevelt and Knox from time to time for a heads-up that it was time for King’s own audience. King was in the White House for his own business, not primarily to pin a medal on some captain.
There was a method beneath Roosevelt’s madness. The President seemed able to keep track of three or four conversations simultaneously, letting debate—sometimes even open argument—continue for a while, then cutting in with a decision or a directive artfully disguised as a suggestion. Morgenthau got his answer about the long bond and left, the two quarreling aides got FDR’s ideas for the 1942 midterms, and the OSS spook—if that’s what he was—got a cryptic reply that seemed to satisfy him.
Unfortunately for Admiral King’s growing apoplexy, as people left, others arrived. Now the group included a deputy undersecretary of state for some function Frank missed, two more White House aides without portfolio, and a fat army one-star wearing the Corps of Engineers castle. FDR seemed endlessly cheerful and energetic, and King continued to move along the spectrum toward purple.
The next arrival made Frank sit up and take notice. Both King and Knox looked surprised as well. It was “the Admiral”: Congressman Carl Vinson of Georgia, chairman of the House Naval Affairs and Armed Services Committee.
This time, loud children’s voices interrupted Frank’s story. Four of FDR’s thirteen grandchildren burst into the room. They were continuing a very active game of tag over, around, and under the overstuffed furniture in a room that suddenly felt reduced to half its former cramped size.
Chadwick felt a tug on his jacket and looked down at a solemn-faced boy of about eight. “I haven’t seen you before,” the boy said. “Are you new?”
Chadwick knelt down to be eye to eye with the boy. “I’m just visiting,” he replied, reaching out his hand.
The boy shook hands solemnly. “You’re a captain, aren’t you? I’m going to join the navy and go to the academy,” he said. “I want to captain a ship at sea.”
“That’s a fine ambition,” replied Chadwick. “The navy can always use brave captains. Maybe we’ll serve together someday.”
“Fighting the Japs?”
“Well, I hope not. I’m sorry to say it probably will be over before you can get into it. But there’s a lot to do in the navy even when you’re not in a battle.”
The boy thought about it for a minute. “Can you fire the guns anyway?”
Chadwick leaned forward, looked left and right to ensure privacy (and in so doing drew a quick stare from the maybe-OSS man, who was whispering with Roosevelt), and whispered, “When you’re the captain, you get to fire the guns anytime you want. It’s the best part of the job.”
The boy’s face lit up and he ran over to his grandfather, tugged on his sleeve, and shouted, “Guess what, guess what?”
The President held up a hand to ask the maybe-OSS man to wait. “What?”
“If you’re the captain of a ship, you get to fire the guns anytime you want!”
There was a pause. King gave Chadwick a look that felt like a volley from six-inch guns.
FDR looked up at Chadwick and grinned. “Well, now, that means being captain of a ship must be the best job in the world. Even better than being President. Ernie, what do you think about that?”
King snorted and polished off his scotch. “As long as you’re firing those guns at the enemy, you can fire them all you want, Captain.”
There was only one reply Frank could make: “Aye aye, sir.”
Roosevelt laughed. One of the granddaughters ran past, touched the boy on the shoulder, shouted, “Tag! You’re it!” and kept running. The boy shouted, “I am not! I was talking! Time out!”
“You didn’t call ‘Time out’!” the girl yelled back.
Forgetting the conversation, the boy started chasing after the girl, yelling, “Cheater! I’m going to get you!” as Chadwick straightened up. He noticed that both Roosevelt and King were watching him, the President with a slight grin, King with an air of disgust. Chadwick finished his own scotch. Well, maybe a second drink wouldn’t hurt.
Throughout, Frank Knox was completely in his element. King’s face, on the other hand, continued to redden slowly, like mercury rising in a thermometer. Any other audience would be witnessing one of King’s famous outbursts by now.
Of course, Chadwick could have told him that his attitude was guaranteeing that FDR would make him wait until last, but King wasn’t looking for advice from a mere captain. As a former assistant secretary of the navy himself, FDR could be expected to show sympathy for the navy position in the Pacific, but not with King’s contempt radiating in his face. This was no way to win the war against MacArthur, much less against the Japanese.
Throughout, Roosevelt continued to extract from Chadwick details of the Battle of the Solomon Sea. Frank started out thin
king of the President as a civilian but soon realized his command of the details of the battle and of naval operations in general was formidable. Chadwick didn’t think Knox would have quite the same command of the details.
FDR reached over and patted Chadwick on the knee. “And you’ve been traveling ever since, I understand,” he said with apparently genuine sympathy. “What you need is a real pick-me-up.” He signaled to his valet. “This fine young man could use one of your famous Irish coffees.”
“Right away, Mr. President,” the valet replied. “Nothing’s too good for our men in the navy.”
“George’s son is a navy man. He’s with the Pacific Fleet Service Forces,” Roosevelt added.
“That’s right, Mr. President,” George replied as he worked. “He’s a hard worker, doing well. Had a letter from him just last week. From New Guinea, it was.” He handed Chadwick a cup and saucer branded with the presidential seal. “Careful, sir. It’s a mite hot.”
It was not only hot but also very strong. Frank resolved to keep his wits at battle stations, especially with King sailing on stormy waters.
Throughout, Roosevelt continued to handle simultaneous conversations. The deputy undersecretary of state got a decision on recognizing a government in exile. The fat army general got a presidential handshake. I bet his job assignment is going to be a real son of a bitch, thought Chadwick.
Congressman Vinson had his own agenda, and it became increasingly clear his presence tonight was no coincidence. “Admiral King,” he intoned in a deeply Southern accent, one ham-shaped hand reaching out in greeting, the other wrapped around a highball glass that was nearly empty. “Such a pleasure to see you again, Admiral, and in circumstances more conducive to pleasant conversation than a hot and stuffy hearing room.” The congressman wiggled his glass in the direction of George, who quickly and silently refilled it and returned it to the congressman’s outstretched hand.
King grudgingly shook the outstretched hand. “Mr. Chairman,” he growled.
The congressman pulled out a somewhat stained handkerchief to blot the sweat from his forehead. “I venture to suggest that hot and sweaty is the common condition of Washington, and not merely our hearing rooms, isn’t that right, Admiral?” He laughed heartily at his own joke.
King did not.
The congressman paused, waiting for King to speak, then decided to fill the silence himself. “I have to say, Admiral, that I am puzzled. I am curious and I am puzzled. I am curious and I am puzzled as to why you have elected, with all the brave men in the history of the United States Navy, to nominate Admiral Halsey for the Congressional Medal of Honor. After all, and correct me if I am mistaken in any of the particulars, but did he not get our fleet sunk?” He turned, hands clenched to suspenders as if they were lifelines, to gather in the reactions of the audience, to assure himself that the public was on his side.
King looked ready to tear him open and eat his liver raw.
But it was FDR who spoke. “Oh, I’m completely in favor of Admiral Halsey’s brilliant queen sacrifice being recognized, Carl. I think it was one of the greatest feats of strategic and tactical brilliance as well as personal bravery in the annals of sea warfare. It will go into the history books—right up there with Nelson at Trafalgar!” He puffed lazily on his cigarette holder and smiled, the audience in his palm. Even King was interested.
“Go on, Mr. President,” Vinson said, a lazy grin appearing on his face. “But if I recollect my history books, didn’t Nelson’s fleet survive the battle?” Chadwick interpreted this as the appreciation of one bullshit artist for another.
FDR smiled in return, his cigarette holder between his teeth. “The Japanese, simply put, cannot continue a shipbuilding program with the resources they have. When one of their carriers is lost, it is lost forever. The United States, on the other hand, is producing a new aircraft carrier each month. It is, perhaps, a Pyrrhic victory to lose our carriers in destroying the Japanese fleet, but it is in fact a strategic victory. Within a year, certainly within two, our fleet will be far larger than it was before the Battle of the Solomon Sea. But the Japanese fleet will be even smaller than it is today. All of this is thanks to Admiral William Halsey’s strategic genius and courage. We owe him a debt we can never repay.”
The congressman looked at Roosevelt with hard eyes. That aw, shucks act is just so people will let their guard down, Frank thought. Vinson is smart as a whip. After a moment, Vinson’s face opened back up to the guileless expression he presented to the world. “And that will be the reason for giving him the medal?” he asked.
“That’s right,” replied FDR.
“Well, then, Admiral,” the congressman said, shaking the reluctant King’s hand with both of his own, “let me be the first to congratulate the navy on its wonderful victory against the Japanese. We mourn the loss of your brave sailors. And I’m certain we’ll honor the courageous leadership that shows the world why our navy is the very finest afloat! Except for the submarines, of course,” he added. He waited for the laugh. It didn’t come.
King seemed somewhat mollified by the President’s vigorous defense of the navy. “Queen’s sacrifice,” Chadwick heard him mutter, trying the idea on for size.
Finally, though, the CNO and COMINCHFLT could wait no longer. “Mr. President, I wonder if I might have a word with you in private,” King asked.
Frank Knox stood up nervously and put a restraining hand on King’s arm. “It’s late. We should really continue this tomorrow when everyone’s had a good night’s sleep …”
King shrugged off Knox’s hand. The President’s mild expression had not changed, but his eyes were focused on King’s. “Very well, Admiral,” the President said. “In the next room, if you please.” It was the first time that night Chadwick had heard FDR address anyone by anything other than first name.
Roosevelt began to roll his wheelchair forward. King followed. The valet left his station at the bar and opened the door set into the right side of the oval room. The President rolled forward into the darkness, followed by the stiff and formal King, and the valet closed the door behind them.
Knox, still standing, looked down at Chadwick and grinned weakly. “I wouldn’t want you to get the idea that this is a normal meeting at the White House. King drives me crazy sometimes, but I hope to hell I still have a COMINCHFLT and CNO when that door opens again.”
Chadwick didn’t know what to think. Several stiff drinks and prolonged sleep deprivation had taken their toll, making him confess what he would otherwise have kept private. “I wonder what’s going on in there,” he said.
“You and me both, Captain,” Knox replied.
The President’s bedroom was adjacent to the Oval Study. The room was dominated by a large mahogany four-poster with a set of rails at one end to allow the President to lift himself in or out of bed unassisted. The covers had been turned down.
Only a single bedside table light was shining. Most of the room was draped in shadow. Underneath the lamp was a stack of books with random torn slips of paper stuck in them as bookmarks. One read TOP SECRET.
Roosevelt wheeled himself in front of his bed with the light behind him. There was no obvious place for King to sit, so the admiral remained at attention.
“What may I do for you, Admiral King?” said the President in a formal voice.
King replied with equal formality. “Mr. President, I came here to offer you my resignation. The war with MacArthur has gotten serious enough to damage the navy.”
Roosevelt, expressionless, waited. King stood with equal stoicism. Finally, Roosevelt spoke. “Ernie.”
King stopped. “Yes, Mr. President?”
After a pause, Roosevelt continued, “You know I could never accept your resignation.” His voice sounded tired.
“Then you’ve got to rein in MacArthur. Interservice rivalry is all well and good. On one level it can be helpful. It keeps everyone on his toes. But when it starts to cause real damage, it has to be stopped. We’ve reached that level. Mac
won the war to control the Pacific. I don’t like it—God knows I don’t like it—but it’s the truth. But he’s got to stop shooting at the navy now and let us take care of our own. I’m glad to see you’re signing the recommendation for Bill Halsey. I really would have had to resign if you hadn’t.”
“I’ve always supported you, Ernie. I’ve made it clear that MacArthur’s views were not the views of the White House or of me personally.”
“In the form of a press release. Not in a personal statement, and not with any rebuke to MacArthur. It leaves the impression that you’re on his side but just can’t bite the bullet. It undercuts me, which may not matter, but it also undercuts the navy, and that’s not acceptable. And you should know, he’s not after my job. He’s after yours. He’s going to run against you in ‘44.”
Roosevelt smiled. “Do you think so? Oh, I know about the letters he’s been writing to Senator Vandenberg, but what our friend Douglas wants is for the Republicans to draft him, and the Grand Old Party isn’t suicidal. They won’t draft him, not in ‘44 anyway. Not unless he wins the war before their convention, and if he does that, he deserves the presidency, don’t you think? Not that he’d enjoy it. Nor would you, Ernie. I imagine it’s crossed your mind a time or two.”
“I’m not political, Mr. President.”
“Nonsense, Ernie. Of course you are. You’re just used to having actual authority in your job. You’d hate this one, where all you get to do is horse-trade and make suggestions to people and occasionally twist an arm or two. Douglas will come in here and give commands and nothing will happen.
It will be quite frustrating for him. Too bad I won’t be here to see it. No, Douglas’s year is 1948,1 think. Possibly 1952. And that depends on the extent of his victory in the Pacific.”
“So you’re choosing MacArthur.”
“No, Ernie. I’m not choosing Douglas. I can’t afford to lose either one of you. The country needs you. Your commander in chief needs you. I understand the problem, but you must find some other solution, some solution short of your resignation. Perhaps if Douglas apologized and withdrew his antinavy rhetoric?”
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