“Get me a drink, will you Henry. Something for you, Ernie?”
King nodded and got himself a double tot of rum.
For minutes, no one spoke.
It was clear Roosevelt’s nimble brain was hard at work. He quickly downed his martini, and Stimson provided a refill and then another. Roosevelt rubbed his chin, thinking. He leaned back in his wheelchair.
Impetuous as ever, Roosevelt said,
“I got an idea. I know it sounds crazy, but just listen for a second. Suppose, just suppose—I am not saying we do this—it’s just an idea. But suppose we cut a deal with the Japs.”
King exploded,
“Cut a deal; are you mad? Have you lost your senses? We lost American lives yesterday, brave American sailors, and you want to cut a deal. Are you mad? These are Americans, American lives were lost. And after your radio address.”
King was so angry that all pretense of formal address and “Mr. President” had evaporated.
“OK, Ernie. First thing you need to know is we politicians simply say what our constituents want to hear—that’s the essence of democracy.”
The President’s face beamed his broad grin while King looked stone-faced at this axiom of political expediency.
“Today, I simply gave my radio audience what they wanted to hear. But, ignoring the minutiae of a typical politician’s sleight of hand for a moment, answer me this larger question. You tell me how we fight a war with them; go on, you tell me that.”
Roosevelt held up his fingers and counted off each point in turn,
“We have no oil in the Hawaiian Islands; we have no oil in San Diego; we have two aircraft carriers in the Pacific, both running on fumes by now; the English are being pricks, as they always are; the Canadian rail system is broken, for how long no one knows; and to get Texas oil to California we send it by rail, but both the SP and CP roads have trestles down, and these trestles took months to build originally. And now the Canadians know all about War Plan Red. And the Canal—our Canal—is out of commission, and that could take months to clear. Oh, yes, and we don’t have enough latex to make a single rubber for a randy high school boy on a Saturday night with a hot date. So you tell me, what’s my next move in this chess game—what piece do I move?”
King sat and silently fumed, saying nothing. Stimson also remained silent and was drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair. An uncomfortable silence descended, which no man was eager to break.
Finally, the President spoke,
“I tell you one thing, however. Sticking it to those English pricks would feel oh so good. Fuck, yes. After all I have done and all the crap I have had put up with.”
The phone rang; Roosevelt leaned forward and answered it. A broad smile spread over his generous face.
“You are not going to believe who is outside.”
The Americans called the Japanese diplomatic code, “Purple” and over the preceding two years had wildly varying degrees of success in reading the code—sometimes breaking one word in five, while a month later breaking just one word in 20. While there were many gaps in individual messages, one thing was clear—the Japanese ambassador in Washington had been dealing in good faith.
It was clear that Ambassador Nomura was an honorable man and was genuinely trying to work with Secretary Hull and his own government to resolve the two countries’ differences. The common definition of an ambassador as an honest man sent to lie for this country seemed to perfectly describe Nomura.
“Ernie, are you ready to speak to Nomura?” Roosevelt asked in the tones of a stern and strict school master.
“OK, let’s see what he’s got to say, and no insults—I suspect he is as surprised as us.”
Roosevelt buzzed Miss Tully, “Grace, please send in the Ambassador.”
The door opened and Nomura entered. His appearance dismissed all doubts about the Ambassador’s sincerity: he had removed his top hat, and carried it in his left hand; his suit was an old-fashioned black mourning suit with tails. There are a surprising number of shades of black but the suit worn by the Japanese ambassador was the blackest any of the three men could remember ever seeing.
Upon entering the room, he bowed, and he bowed so low that his back was parallel to the floor, and he stayed bowed for ten seconds. On any day but this, a friendly American wisecrack would have been made, but this day was not one for wisecracks.
After an eternity, Nomura rose. His face showed his anguish, and it was an unhealthy white glaze.
Very slowly, he finally spoke, “Mr. President, my Emperor is very, very badly served.”
Roosevelt was tempted to speak, but rather, he waved Nomura to sit. The Ambassador sadly shook his head,
“Today I do not deserve to sit, Mr. President. I have failed you and I have failed my Emperor.”
Ernie King’s stern Midwestern roots sensed a man in torment.
“I had heard rumors of this insanity, but foolishly dismissed them as rumors. I should have brought my suspicions to you and to Secretary Hull and to Mr. Stimson.”
Stimson nervously glanced at Roosevelt who caught his glance; each could read the other’s thoughts—here is an honest man trying to make amends for something that Roosevelt and Stimson had themselves created.
“While Secretary Hull and I have held the differing positions of our two governments, I have always considered Secretary Hull—as I do consider you, Mr. President, and you, Mr. Stimson, as honest and honorable gentleman. I have always hoped that our two countries could work together.”
“We Japanese admire the United States without limitation. It was your Commodore Perry who shook us from our incestuous complacency and thus created the modern Japan. While Japan is a very old country, we have much to learn from your country—Fordism is a religion for us, and he has helped our country immensely. It has always been my sincere hope that our two Pacific Ocean countries could jointly develop Asia, to replace the narrow-minded, bigoted European colonialists. But the fools and madmen in Tokyo have destroyed this glorious possibility.”
Nomura spat out the last sentence with the contempt that Roosevelt reserved for California Republicans.
“And progressive elements in Tokyo have always talked of working with the United States and with you personally, Mr. President, to have your National Industrial Recovery Act implemented throughout all of Asia for all commodities. We Japanese could have worked with you to make this dream a reality and remove cut-throat and greedy competition with your excellent idea, and without selfish business men and foolish lawyers. But all hope of that has now been shattered. I am very truly sorry I have failed you, Mr. President.”
He repeated his first, painful bow, and walked backwards leaving the room, closing the door as he left.
No one spoke.
Stimson looked at Roosevelt and finally said,
“Well there’s one man in this world who was more surprised than we were.”
Roosevelt nodded, “Ernie?”
“Mr. President, may I light the Smoking Lamp?”
The President smiled, and for the first time in days with a relaxed and real smile, as Roosevelt realized they were making history—or rather altering the course of history—for most of the world’s inhabitants. Although the Ambassador could not see it, Roosevelt had been sitting in his hated wheelchair. He rolled it out and said to Stimson,
“Henry, fetch us that box of Cubans, will you please.”
Stimson was happy to oblige and passed the box to the President who passed it to King, who in turn returned it to the Secretary of War.
After the happy ritual of cutting and teasing and lighting, all three men smoked, thinking.
“I limit myself to one per day, but one of the White House gardeners was telling me his grandfather told him that Grant smoked five per day—in this very room.”
Out of nowhere Stimson said, “I like Nomura; it’s a shame there’s not more like him.”
After a very, very long pause, Roosevelt changed the history of the world with three
words, “Perhaps there are.”
“My biggest problem is not the Republicans but my party—I know what those fool Republicans will do, and they know what is expected of them, but my party is full of mad dogs—some even voted against my NIRA. Perhaps, just perhaps, there are more Nomuras in Japan. Look, all three of us have experienced—all too often—the madness of our own service, be that Army or Navy, and how these mad dogs fight each other with more and more crazy schemes.”
“Let me ask you one question and one question only. Just one. And think before you answer.”
Stimson and King looked at the President.
“If—if—if you had to cut a deal with this fellow or the Lisper, whom would it be?”
King looked at Stimson and King simply shrugged.
“I thought as much.”
Roosevelt added,
“And I agree, wholeheartedly. And the idea of a proper NIRA in all of Asia for commodities—well, I discussed precisely that idea myself with Morgenthau in ‘37. I could retire and become a consultant to various nations of the world. Perhaps I could correct their ailments or perhaps I would simply turn up my nose. For example, I could tell one country that she needed to move out tens of millions of her population. I could make them disarm. Now that could be of real value—and Asia has no fucking Supreme Court, and no Sutherlands, and no Brandeises, and no fucking Schechters. That’s the wonderful thing about being a politician—we are the modern-day gods.”
Dusk was entering the room and Roosevelt’s tone softened.
“Modern mechanics are shrinking the world a little every day—when it used to take four days to travel from New York to Los Angeles by Pullman, now on the latest DC-3 it is just 17 hours and you get the pretty registered nurses as well on the modern DC-3s, not those fat, smelly and lazy Pullman porters.”
Stimson reflected,
“Insane as it sounds, perhaps the Japanese have actually done us a favor. I know it sounds mad. But perhaps we’ve been looking through the wrong end of the telescope. Let’s dissect the Asia we have today: Indochina—dead,—it’s a French possession and the French are dead, the Germans have seen to that; Dutch East Indies—same; Malaya, Singapore, Hong Kong, Burma, India—well, we all know our charming Winston; and that leaves our Asian possessions of the Philippines and the Hawaiian Islands.”
“Now, just suppose, just suppose for one second that we were to ally ourselves with the Japanese. Perhaps this could possibly be a dream made in heaven. Let’s step backwards; what are the causes of our disagreements with the Japanese? Well, there is China; of interest to us, but it will never be truly strategic until the Chinese start acting like the Japanese and start becoming disciplined and organized. Then there is French Indochina—can either of you explain why we give a flying fuck about French Indochina, because I can’t? Then there is our possession of the Philippines. We’ve actually been a little too clever and we’ve backed the Japanese into a corner; there is really not a lot that they could do but this preventive attack, and that is precisely what it is—a preventive attack. And we’ve done these preventive attacks ourselves. We have taunted the Japanese mercilessly—we’ve blocked their use of the Panama Canal, an illegal act if ever there was one; we’ve cut off their oil; we have totally fucked them in the ass. So we’ve done just about everything we can to drive them to desperate measures.”
A literate fly on the wall would have noticed—likely with approval—the change of the language: “Japs” had been replaced with “Japanese” and there were no longer any bad puns about nipping the “Nips.”
“Now, if, and I realize it is the world’s largest ‘if,’ but if we come to an understanding with the likes of Nomura, perhaps, just perhaps, we can move forward.”
Stimson tilted his head and looked at the other two cigar smokers.
“It will cost us nothing to try. I’m sure glad I am wearing my lucky shoes today,” Roosevelt said.
“Henry, have Grace call the Embassy and get the Ambassador back here.”
An hour later, a very confused Japanese Ambassador was invited to sit on one of the two yellow damask sofas and to try one of the President’s excellent Cubans. Still wearing his black mourning suit, Nomura assumed he was to be executed—that the President had discussed the situation with the Secretary and the Admiral and that the decision had been made to forthwith put him up against the wall outside the Oval Office and have the Marine guard fire away. And Nomura was resigned to his fate; after all was it not Nomura who had failed both his Emperor and the emperor of his host country? Very, very slowly he came to realize that the three men were not talking about execution but about redemption.
“Kishi,” the President said, even though his nickname was actually “Kichi.”
“I’ve spent the last hour talking about the situation with Hank and Ernie, and we wanted to ask you just one question.”
The President puffed on his cigar.
Feebly, Nomura nodded; it was all he could muster.
“What are your country’s plans in Asia? I mean what if—and it is a huge if—what if we were to work together? How would that benefit the United States?”
Nomura nodded and then asked—actually it was more he pleaded—if he could cut and start his cigar.
Ever the gracious host, Roosevelt nodded, “Please do.”
The three men saw how Nomura’s hands were shaking as he tried to cut the end of his cigar. After a moment, Stimson leant forward, took the cigar from him and cut the end of his cigar for him. Nomura’s eyes blinked away tears at this simple human kindness.
Roosevelt said, without sarcasm and with genuine humor, “All three of us are at your disposal this evening.”
Like an old priest late for mass, Nomura quickly lit his cigar. He took precisely five puffs, and had regained just enough composure to commend the excellent quality of the cigar to his host.
Roosevelt nodded politely.
“I will not waste the time of you three gentlemen. But I must start by telling you that the government in Tokyo is riven with disagreement—many of them are like drunken samurai. Boasting, threatening, berating. Then, the next day, all apologies. It is horrible, most horrible.”
“Sound like us Democrats,” Roosevelt commented and Stimson and King both laughed.
Nomura did not understand the joke, but was delighted to see his American hosts laughing.
The Ambassador decided then and there not to hold back. Quietly, he started to tell the Americans all he knew, and he was a sufficiently experienced negotiator to know that starting high never hurt.
“In the next seven days, the Imperial Japanese Navy will sink the Royal Navy’s Repulse and the Prince of Wales.
This really took the breath away of the three Americans, who suddenly had a new-found respect for this little Japanese man with the round face and even rounder black spectacles.
“By the Lunar New Year, the Japanese Army will have captured Singapore and Hong Kong.”
As not one of the three listeners had the vaguest idea of what the hell the Lunar New Year was, King guessed and quietly asked,
“So, by the first of March?”
Nomura said, “Yes, or perhaps a little before that.”
Stimson shook his head,
“I am sorry, Ambassador, but I frankly cannot see it. While the British are weak, their base in Singapore is huge and it is impregnable and it has 15 inch guns protecting it. I’ve been there—I’ve seen the guns.”
Nomura said, “So have I.”
“And Secretary Stimson, we have a number of our agents in Singapore. Actually, we have three Chinese agents in the quartermaster’s office that keeps careful count of all the shells in the armory. Almost all of the shells for these massive guns are armor-piercing, which are extremely effective at piecing warships’ armor but which are useless against infantry. The British are defending Singapore in precisely the same way that they prepared for the battles of 1916.”
The penny dropped.
“Fuck,” said t
he always verbose King.
“Of course. Yes. Fucking brilliant—Somme redux,” King could not contain himself.
Nomura nodded.
King, like Nomura, was a diligent student of war and the all-too-common disasters caused by massive misunderstandings by distant and remote generals (and admirals)—“Send Up Three And Four Pence, We’re Going To A Dance,” was a message received from the British front in 1916, when the actual message had been, “Send Up Reinforcements, We’re Going To Advance.”
As King explained to the other two Americans, on the front line at the river Somme the British had fired over one million shells from the “heavies” in the weeks leading up to the 1st of July in 1916 (And three months later, the British armament companies who made these one million shells quietly paid two million Pounds to a Swiss bank in royalties to the German companies holding the fuse patents for these shells.).
The 25-year-old sepia films and photographs showed these shells exploding in the desolate moonscape of the northern part of the Western Front. Unfortunately for the British, the German line at the Somme was the best fortified of the entire of the Western front: the hard, dry, chalky soil of the area—excellent for Champagne grapes—was perfect for deep fortifications. And the Germans, ever the clever engineers, had constructed massive dugouts that were impervious to the shells the British lobbed over; actually many of the second-line dugouts had carpets, “the electric,” and even gramophone record players.
The Goddess Of Fortune Page 24