Her stars being aligned that evening, she was able to get Tugwell back to his beloved President,
“So Mr. Tugwell, tell me more of this extra-ordinary man.”
At last she was blessed with the “call-me-Rex.”
“Well, let me show you these snapshots.”
He removed a small black lizard-skin photograph wallet and from it he took out two photographs, which he passed to Louise. Both photographs had the regular variegated edges. Both showed the President, but the two photographs could not have been more different.
“Here is the man in all his glory, and these two snaps show the two extremes of his being. Both are quite old, from ‘33 as it happens. The first is with the British Prime Minister during a conference on setting money policy, while the second is in Virginia,” Tugwell explained.
“That’s you on the right of the one in Virginia, isn’t it?”
Tugwell smiled and nodded.
Louise studied the two photographs and Tugwell was correct: in the photograph with the Prime Minister, Roosevelt’s countenance was one of boredom bordering on insurrection. Neither he nor any of the 15 other men were smiling. In contrast, the photograph in Virginia had been taken at a lunch table where Roosevelt and his group are seated; behind the seated men stood 40 beaming young men, reveling in the fine weather and their proximity to their President. At the table, all the suited men were also beaming and at the head of the table, Roosevelt, leaning on his left arm rest, was actually elevating himself half a head higher than his lunch companions. His massive shoulders and fine head of hair clearly evident with that trademark gay smile that charmed all, from prime ministers to that crusty old curmudgeon, Irving Fisher of Yale University. On his nose he wore an old-fashioned pair of pince-nez, far too small in proportion to his large beaming face.
“What’s this round thing?”
“Oh, that was the microphone. President Roosevelt had just finished addressing the camp when the photo was taken.”
“These young men all look so fit and happy and healthy. It reminds me of the youth groups we have back in Germany. Why this blond boy at the back looks pure German.”
“Actually you’re right. He was an exchange student from Münster. This camp was one of our Civilian Conservation Corps, what we call CCC. It is a huge success and very popular.”
“So tell me more about this remarkable man, Mr. Tugwell,” Louise said with prim formality, but happy that Tugwell had been stealing glances at her chest.
“Well, I guess the best part of the man is he is so generous. He wants to share the wealth. Like me, he sees private wealth as a sin—why should all Americans not share in the wealth of this great country? This is why he increased income taxes. Why should any person ever need more than $100,000 per year? It makes no sense. It’s just pure greed. With the American frontiers now closed, the wealth should be spread around more. And people like Ford are all just crooks—they never do what the government tells them to do and they do all kinds of crazy things. You know, Ford and his gang go off on a tangent.”
“But can’t he do that?”
Tugwell had finally gotten a head of steam,
“Not now. Today we have to think about everyone, not just a greedy few. A man who wants to make a lot of money is not a decent man. It’s immoral. Take Ford. One of the worst things Ford does is to decrease prices on his cars. And that can only lead to national economic ruin. You see Louise, when prices go down farmers are hurt and then everyone is hurt, and wages go down and then it is a terrible downward spiral. Ford broke the law, the law of the United States, the law of this great country.”
Now Louise was genuinely confused,
“But in the ‘20s didn’t Ford double his workers’ wages and reduce the price of his cars from $3,000 to $500? As a woman, of course I am not good at mathematics, but isn’t that a six-fold improvement? And doesn’t cheaper food help the poor? So they can buy more food and better quality food?”
Ignoring Louise’s point about poor people not going hungry, Tugwell steamed ahead,
“Oh, yeah, with Ford that was last decade, you know in the Roaring Twenties. But that’s ancient history now. And that was under the Republican Coolidge—‘Mister Do Nothing.’ You can’t even compare that time to this time. And Coolidge’s financial guy, an old miser named Mellon, actually decreased tax rates so rich people kept more money.”
“Oh, I see now. And by now increasing taxes the government gets more money for your camps, right?”
Tugwell changed the topic. This was what Louise expected as Morgenthau had admitted to her that canny Mellon’s tax cuts in the 1920s actually increased total tax revenues. In contrast, the tax increases of the Roosevelt regime had—unexpectedly—decreased the total revenues. Morgenthau ruefully had admitted to Louise that when taxes increased, rich people simply worked less and invested less, and by investing less, companies got less money to grow, so Roosevelt’s administration was forced to create more and more make-work alphabet soups, and more and more camps. But none of this Louise mentioned to the zealot.
“You see, Louise, we’re no longer afraid of bigness, and unrestricted competition is the death, not the life, of trade. This is a new world and we’re just doing what Mussolini in Italy is doing, but we’re doing it in an American way. You know, comprehensively and completely and frankly better than Mussolini, who I’ve met by the way. You see, some people are stubborn and some people just don’t want to change. But with his glorious fireside chats, the President has been able to convince people. When I was here in Washington we would listen on the radio to the President and my God, what a voice. Calm, deep, reassuring—why, he can talk the birds out of the trees. It’s like he can make a dream come true. Any dream.”
He paused and looked at her,
“He can create a new reality for the new world we’re building. Yeah, sure there will be some unhappy people, especially the greedy people, like business men. But the President understands all the people’s needs, not just the rich people, not just the investors. And yeah, we’ll keep increasing taxes. You know that is why the President repealed Prohibition—so we could raise more money taxing booze—it all counts. And we can get a new NIRA without those damn Brooklyn Jews complaining. Everything is possible now; there are no human limits when the government can control things. We just have to keep experimenting. We cannot let people decide for themselves in this ever-more complex world. It’s madness to think so.”
Louise found Morgenthau to be genuinely very attractive, in part due to Morgenthau’s not trying to bed her; in part due to Morgenthau’s innate sense of propriety; in part due to Morgenthau’s intelligence; and in part due to Morgenthau’s honesty. In contrast to Morgenthau, Louise found Tugwell to be identical to some of her father’s friends back in Germany—too many of her father’s friends were just as narrow-minded and as bigoted as Rex Tugwell.
Louise stood and shook Tugwell’s hand,
“Absolutely fascinating. My God, you’re the cleverest man I have met in this city. You’re amazing. I don’t know how to thank you.”
Completing these classic Schneider phantasy lines, and before Rex could suggest one, she left the table and walked to the front door. The doorman waved and the first Checker on the rank pulled up.
“What a total asshole,” Louise thought.
10: Mr. Horikoshi’s Confession
Washington
Thursday, 24 July 1941
The President was leaning back in his wheelchair smoking a Cuban cigar. He was always very careful to only be photographed with a cigarette in his famous cigarette holder—always the common man, at least in public.
Harry Hopkins said,
“In light of our discussions on the HS document a few weeks back, I have since reached out to a friend at Sullivan & Cromwell. You know John Dulles, Mr. President?”
“He’s a fucking Republican,” said a startled Roosevelt with a frown.
“Yes, that he is, and he is well-travelled, intelligent, and experienc
ed in international affairs, which I suppose makes him unique among that ilk.”
Roosevelt laughed.
“OK. So what does this fellow Dulles say?”
“Well, he’s a lawyer, and a very successful one at that, so he does tend to speak in circles with every sentence a conditional, but over dinner last night he said that Japan, not Germany, is this country’s greatest adversary, not only now but in the future. And he does have an excellent grasp of history.”
“According to Dulles, by 1970 Japan will be the first supernation in history—150% of U.S. GNP; we have to do something now, or they will be unstoppable and the white race will be doomed.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Harry, get a grip of yourself—the Japs ahead of us?—impossible. I am not sure if you know this but the average Jap has no balance—they are carried around on the backs of their mothers and this completely destroys their balance—they can barely drive an automobile let alone fly a fighter ‘plane. Probably couldn’t drive my fucking prison-on-wheels,” said Roosevelt referring to the wheelchair he hated so much.
“Perhaps, but we need to stop them now,” Hopkins retorted
“Dulles says we don’t have a lot of time—they work like Trojans, but with the brains of a white man. Their weakness is their lack of oil; we need to nip these Nips in the bud, now.”
The President of the United States smiled at Hopkins’s pun.
Hopkins leant forward, opened his small black briefcase and extracted a nondescript and well-worn manila folder. From inside the folder he removed three copies of a report. He passed one first to the President and the second to Tugwell.
“This is a report I was given last night by John. It is from his brother, Allen, who, as you know, is currently in Switzerland. This report is a translation by the Swiss security office of a report from a German flyer who toured the Mitsubishi Heavy Industry plant in Yokohama in May ‘39; Allen is apparently on very good terms with the Swiss security people,” Hopkins said with a smile.
“This report is from a German in their Condor Legion in the Spanish Civil War, he was one of the leaders of the devastating air attacks in July ‘37 in the Battle of Brunete; it was the German air support that won that battle, and much of that war. Anyway, please turn to page five, starting at the second paragraph.” Hopkins read aloud,
From the hotel to the factory by car I was driven. At the main gate the manager and five of his senior staff greeted me. The main gate and the factory itself were both modest and spotlessly clean. Two small green shrubs in earthenware tubs were the only decoration and two ladies had just finished the daily trimming, these ladies proudly stood beside their wards. The manager and the five staff all wore the same dark blue uniforms which I take as the color of the factory. The translator explained how the factory was honored to meet an ace who had flown the famous Messerschmitt 109 so successfully in battle. I was surprised to learn how much they knew; during the tour, the armorer specialist offhandedly remarked on my change of the ratio of my cartridges from 30/70 to 50/50, armor to incendiary. This really shocked me as I had forgotten this change myself.
The factory itself was extremely well lit. But what first struck me was the complete absence of wood—back in Germany all our factories, including aircraft factories make extensive use of wood for shelving, and even for support and construction jigs for wing assemblies, and so on. In this Yokohama factory there was no wood to be seen. One of the senior managers—a Mr. Horikoshi—explained that wood was not used so all workers would come to see light alloy as their natural wood. I walked over to one of the shelves holding cylinder heads and was shocked to see that even the light alloy shelves had been carefully painted with a clear shellac lacquer.
The factory was divided into four sub-factories: two lines for ‘plane assembly; one—the largest—for engine building and testing; and one for radio and navigation.
“Galland-san, we have studied Fordism and have, we like to think, in our own little ways, improved it. Mr. Ford is a great man and he is our inspiration,” the manager told me. I was shocked how the workers were so efficient. As we passed each of the 22 stations on the line, the workers would pause, and all bow together to me. I must say, I felt like a feted virgin.
As a pilot, the construction of these ‘planes—called the ‘Zero’—was of greatest interest to me. The wing construction was of particular interest. When I examined the wings assemblies being fabricated, I was shocked to see the extremely lightweight nature of the wings and I frowned. Mr. Horikoshi seemed to read my mind and he explained that his company had initially withdrawn from the competition for the Imperial Navy’s new fighter, but by working with Sumitomo, Mitsubishi was able to use a special new alloy called Extra Super Duralumin. Even as a lay person and not as metallurgist, it is clear to me that the Japanese are clearly well ahead of us in metallurgy. And there were even more startling revelations to come.
Eventually, we came to the final of the four sub-factories where the radio and navigation equipment was assembled and tested. In the navigation assembly area we passed through three separate air-tight doors and I had to remove my shoes and put on cotton slippers, and a cotton cap like a lady’s shower bath cap. If the rest of the factory was clean, this assembly area was like nothing I had ever seen—the air was specially manufactured with the humidity and temperature both strictly controlled.
At one of the light-alloy benches, Mr. Horikoshi passed me a pivot pin used in the compass of the ‘plane. It was an ordinary looking pin, one millimeter in diameter and about 40 millimeters in length. I examined it and passed it back to Mr. Horikoshi who smiled enigmatically. He took the pin and clamped it to a small clamp under a huge lense. Beneath the clamp was a small electric light. After a moment or two of adjusting the clamp’s vernier screws, Mr. Horikoshi invited me to look. “Shit,” is all I said. All the Japanese laughed.
Under the magnification of the huge lense, I was able to see that there was a tiny hole that had been drilled the entire length of the pivot pin. The shock on my face was genuine, and I started to splutter, not making any sense. A few seconds later, I regained my composure.
“This is the most astonishing engineering feat I have even seen; how is this done?”
Proud of the praise, Mr. Horikoshi was happy to explain,
“These critical pins are made at three special factories in northern Kanto. The locations of these factories were selected based on the quietness of the ground there. As you know, Japan is on edge of the Pacific Rim and is thus prone to earthquakes, but most of the time the ground in northern Kanto is very stable. Our engineers conducted micro-seismic studies and surveys for six years before building the three factories. The hole you see is able to take a strand of a young girl’s hair, but it is a very tight fit.”
I simply shook my head.
“Galland-san, we have a demonstration I think you will find entertaining.”
After this, I doubted I would be surprised, but I was wrong.
We walked to the engine test area.
In the middle of the floor were two blocks of ice, each about twice the size of the ice block used in domestic iceboxes in homes in Germany. Each block, waist high, sat on a cotton mat about five centimeters thick, and these mats in turn sat on light-alloy stands with four splayed legs. On a large table lay two swords, one was a sword from the Middle Ages. I recognized it immediately from my school boy outings to museums in Germany as a Great Sword, a massive two-handed affair about one and half meters long and weighing at least eight kilograms. In contrast, the other was modest: about half the length, slightly curved, and beautifully decorated with intricate engravings running the entire length. One could easily be forgiven for thinking it a work of art, rather than a weapon. Mr. Horikoshi explained this was a traditional Samurai sword.
Standing beside the table was one of the workers from the factory, a slight chap who was almost a head shorter than me. Beside him stood the largest Japanese man I have ever seen, not fat, but all muscle. It was explained to me
he was the current All Japan National Amateur Wrestling Champion and I had no reason to doubt it. Apparently, he worked in the factory and he towered over his companion.
Mr. Horikoshi asked me to take the huge sword and to cut a block of ice in two. Obviously I was extremely hesitant to do this, but, of course, I could not decline after all the wonderful hospitality afforded me. So, somewhat hesitantly, I lifted the monster with both hands, and it was even heavier than it looked. I staggered a little and the two Japanese men had wisely moved well away. Mr. Horikoshi advised me to swing it in increasingly vertical circles, making the motion himself of what to do. With difficulty I was able to swing the sword, and after six rather unstable swings was finally able to bring the sword crashing down on the block of ice. I felt a terrible pain as the shock ran up my arms. A few chips of ice flew from the ice block. Then Mr. Horikoshi instructed the wrestler to take the sword from my hands. Free from this burden I examined the block of ice—it was essentially undamaged. The wrestler’s swinging of the Great Sword made mine look puerile. After seven or eight swings the sword came down on the ice block. The entire table shook. I was pleased to see that his efforts were just as ineffectual as my own. The wrestler bowed and replaced the monster sword on the table. The pain in his arms must have been extra-ordinary but he did not grimace at all.
At this stage, the small worker stepped forward and took the Samurai sword. But rather than swinging the sword as we had done, he took three very large steps backward away from his block of ice. He held his sword in both hands and raised it above his head. He stood motionless, standing like a statue for almost a minute. Then, suddenly, with a shout, ran at the block bringing the sword down with such speed the steel became a blur. Just as suddenly he retraced his three steps and held the sword above his head, as if preparing to strike again.
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