by Jeff Kildow
“Because the Germans bombed them first; Grumman took a lot of damage, from what I heard,” said an Intel man.
“Well, there will be hell to pay with the President; and the papers will crucify us. And Congress! They’ll have a field day! The Army and Navy will look like incompetent fools again, just like Pearl Harbor. Maybe Coastal Defense will finally get some funding, as usual, after it’s too late,” Colonel Watkins lamented.
Chapter 60
5 October 1943
The White House, 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, Washington, D.C.
1257 Hours
Deflecting Blame
The four men comprising the Joint Chiefs of Staff waited nervously outside the Oval Office. That they had been summoned all at once had an ominous feeling. Admiral William Leahy, the Chairman, fidgeted slightly; he was convinced that all their careers were over; at the very least, he was confident that his own surely was. None of them had ever given much credence to the cockamamie idea that Germany would actually attack America on her own soil, much less that an airborne attack was possible.
What can I say? he mused, what can I possibly say that would excuse the fact that such a brazen attack could happen so soon after Pearl Harbor. The simple, bald truth is, we were caught with our breeches down, again.
His thoughts were interrupted by the carefully neutral voice of a Presidential Aide; “The President will see you now, gentlemen.”
They moved into the famous room, and the aide silently closed the door behind them.
“Have a seat, gentlemen,” FDR said in a voice neither clear nor commanding.
Dear God, he looks awful, Leahy thought. The man was slumping uncharacteristically in his wheel chair, his face ashen, hair askew. The jocular attitude and confident grin were absent, and his eyes didn’t have the normal snappy look to them.
Roosevelt composed himself, and sat a bit more upright.
“The press is saying, with surprising uniformity, that I should sack the lot of you,” he said without preamble. “I suppose I could throw you all to the ravening wolves, but that would leave me with a most uncomfortable dilemma: how should I run this war, and whom should I choose to advise me in your absences? I have come to the inescapable conclusion that neither I nor the country can do without your services, notwithstanding what the gentlemen of the Forth Estate say. That conclusion having been reached rather quickly, I was then confronted with deciding by what means could I justify your staying on.”
He stopped and pursed his lips, and tilted his head up toward them, a spark of determination shinning in his eyes.
“I have therefore decided that we shall commit a small untruth, the five of us, in the service of freedom. I will give a radio address to the nation this evening in which I shall exclaim that you were all directed – ordered – by me, over your strident protests, of course, to ignore coastal defense in all aspects so that the maximum efforts of the country could go toward supporting the war efforts in Europe and the Pacific. I will proclaim that you have been unfairly attacked by the press, that you were in fact only obeying your Commander in Chief.”
The men seated in front of him looked shocked.
“Mr. President, you know that we can have no involvement in politics, but even we know that such a position this close to the election could severely hurt your chances for reelection,” General “Hap” Arnold said earnestly.
“Oh, do not concern yourself on my account, Hap,” FDR replied. “You all now have the very difficult job of putting into place the safeguards the American people thought were there all along. If you accomplish that, the uproar over this will be a tempest in a teapot. Mind you, the Germans will almost surely attack us again; at the very minimum, the very least,” he smacked a fist on his hand, “we must have a credible defense force to oppose them. Even if we can’t fend them off, even if we should take heavy losses in the process, the American people will gather behind us in the effort, but we must make a credible effort!”
The President looked each man in the eye, “I know you are convening small groups of mid-grade officers to advise you. Good. Take their wisdom and make it reality. I will do everything in my power to help you. But I warn you, collectively and individually: do not let inter-service rivalries impede this, or I will fire you, publicly, immediately, and without pensions. Do you understand me, gentlemen?”
Walter Winchell began his broadcast, “Hello, Mr. and Mrs. America, and all the ships at sea! Let’s go to press. The President spoke to the nation this evening in an address carried by this network and its affiliates. In the aftermath of the dreadful attack on New York City, he proclaimed that the neglected condition of the defense of the nation’s coastline was deliberate, was directed by him, and proclaimed the innocence of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Mr. Roosevelt proclaimed that by so doing, men and materiel were provided to the war efforts in Europe and the Pacific that otherwise would have remained here at home. Most Republicans and not a few Democrats are proclaiming that the president’s position is a ruse to protect the Joint Chiefs. There is also widespread concern that this action could badly affect the president’s chances for reelection in the elections coming up in November. In other news—.”
“Well,” Joel chuckled humorlessly, “Drew Pearson has done it again.” He handed Chappie the paper.
“Roosevelt’s blatant attempt to protect the near-criminal acts, or should I say inaction, of the military’s Joint Chiefs of Staff would be funny, except for the fact that it is so serious. The neglect of our nation’s coastlines is criminal, and in violation of the Constitutional requirement that the government’s first duty to its citizens is to protect them. We are in fact exposed to attacks on both our coasts, and no lies, bald-faced or otherwise, no matter how glib, can conceal the fact.
“The military is beginning to scramble to firmly close the barn door now that the horses have escaped. May God protect us if the Germans attack us again; we are still defenseless and unprotected. The shame of suffering such a humiliating attack will gradually fade with time, I suppose, but the deaths, the needless deaths suffered in New York City and environs, will hang like a millstone around Roosevelt’s neck for all his life, and beyond. It is this reporter’s opinion that unless Mr. Roosevelt cleans up this stinking mess, he will be handed a stinging, and well deserved defeat in November.”
Chapter 61
Wednesday, 6 October 1943
Joint Chiefs of Staff Briefing Room
The Pentagon, Washington, D.C.
0700 Hours
Joint Chiefs
Joel suspected that the Joint Chiefs were angry and looking for scapegoats. Personally, he expected that the Chiefs would be fired, or worse. Congress was sure to come down on their heads. The President’s radio talk defending them had only added fuel to the fire. The debacle of the post-Pearl Harbor congressional investigations was fresh; some were still on-going. More than a few newspapers echoed the New York Times editorial, and called for heads to roll.
To their credit, reprisals weren’t the chief topic on the Joint Chief’s agenda. Joel and Sergeant Ledbetter retold their stories, with frequent interruptions for questions. The photographs had been blown up to poster size. Both men rose to indicate various details.
“Lieutenant Colonel Knight, I understand that you believe you know who the lead pilot was. How is that possible?” asked Admiral Ernest King.
Joel cleared his throat, and proceeded to succinctly explain his encounters with von Schroeder in 1936.
“Were you assigned to Army G-2 then, Colonel?”
“No, sir; my boss, Colonel Ryan Bigsby and I, along with twenty-five others, were assigned to fly prototype Curtiss P-36 Hawks on a European demonstration tour that summer. G-2 briefed us before we left, and told us what to look for, but we were specifically ordered not to do any spying of any kind; just look at what was out in the open,” he explained.
“Bigsby? Wasn’t he on MacArthur’s staff?”
“Yes,” answered General Henry “Hap” Arnold quietl
y. “He was killed by the Japanese during the retreat from Manila.”
“What do we know about this Baron von und zu Schroeder? If he was flying fighters in ’36, how’d he end up leading bombers on a raid on New York?” the question was directed at the Intelligence officers.
“I may have had something to do with that, sir,” Joel said quietly.
“How’s that, Colonel?” The question was sharp; these men didn’t suffer fools gladly, neither was self-aggrandizement tolerated under such serious circumstances.
“Well, sir, after I beat Schroeder four times in a dog fight—”
“Beat him? Four times? In a dog fight? What do you mean?” the incredulous general asked.
“Yes, sir. Four times. In 1936. Flying a prototype ME-109.”
“You’re the pup who did that? Now, that was a real piece of flying! And your flight report was amazing; first real Intel we got on the ‘109.”
“Yes, sir; thank you sir. I told him that day, in the hearing of his Colonel, that he wasn’t fit to fly fighters, that all he should fly was transports or bombers. Looks like the Jerrys took me up on that.”
“We confirm that, sir. After Colonel Knight embarrassed him, von Schroeder was reassigned to bombers. He met Generalmajor Wever, then Luftwaffe Chief of Staff, and became one of his fair-haired boys. Von Schroeder really went after the ‘Bomb America’ campaign after Göring was killed. The last information available has him as a senior Oberst – that’s full Colonel, sir – but he dropped out of sight several months ago.”
“Mr. President, I have a preliminary version of the report you requested about jurisdictions and responsible authorities for coastal defense.”
“Excellent. Give me the condensed version, if you would.”
“Certainly, sir. I’m afraid it’s not a pretty picture no matter how short the version.”
“I didn’t expect it would be. Please continue.”
“Yes, sir. We did a quick examination of the states from Maine to the Florida Keys. The lack of uniformity boggles the mind; we found jurisdictions as small as 100 yards and as large as 300 miles. Responsible parties ranged from governors to local representatives of every branch of the armed services, including the Cavalry, to police departments, constabularies, sheriffs, magistrates, state guard units, militias and so on, down to individual private land owners. There is no common reporting mechanism or recipient of such reports. Reports, if they are generated at all, are mostly in the form of letters! One in Florida still required a letter to the king of Spain! More than half have no access to a telephone. Those few that are equipped with weapons have virtual antiques. All are intended to repel ships or landing parties, often pirates or Revolutionary War era English attacks. The more modern are of Spanish American War vintage. Nowhere did we find anti-aircraft defenses or modern means of even detecting an air raid. At the risk of sounding sarcastic, sir, I doubt we could successfully repel an invasion by a band of Vikings, let alone modern war planes.”
Chapter 62
6 October 1943
The Vestibule of the Joint Chiefs of Staff Briefing Room
The Pentagon, Washington, D.C.
1030 Hours
New Assignment
Joel and Sergeant Ledbetter finished and were dismissed. As they left, an Army Major with the shoulder rope of a general’s aide-de-camp approached them.
“Sir,” he said to Joel, “the Chiefs want you available for a meeting tomorrow; I can arrange quarters, as well as transportation. Sergeant, you may return to your base with our thanks.”
Joel sought out a phone to call Chappie.
The next morning, in a fresh shirt, shined shoes and pressed uniform, Joel was picked up at the Washington Hotel and delivered by Army car to the Pentagon. An Army MP Staff Sergeant gave him an ID badge.
“Sir, please wait in this room, you will be escorted to your meeting.”
Joel was thankful he didn’t have to navigate the Pentagon’s labyrinth of corridors by himself. He’d gotten lost in the huge building before. He found the coffee, and sat in a leather chair. About a dozen other officers were waiting, as he was, for their guide. He began to read a magazine.
“Lieutenant Colonel Knight?” Joel looked up to see a fuzzy-cheeked Second Lieutenant holding a clipboard. He couldn’t have been over eighteen.
“That’s me, Lieutenant,” Joel told him.
“This way, sir,” the young man said, and began to lead him through the halls.
“Where are we going?”
“Sir, I have been ordered to bring you to a specific room without conversation.”
Well, that qualifies as strange, even for the Army, Joel thought.
The room was down the hall from where he and Ledbetter had briefed the Joint Chiefs the day before. He went to the Corporal sitting at the desk, and announced himself.
“Sir, please be seated. You’ll be called in momentarily.” The Corporal picked up a telephone. As Joel sat, he saw two other officers, a Marine Major he didn’t know, and the Lieutenant Commander he’d met at the briefing for Admiral Stuart.
“Commander Higgins? Colonel Knight, sir. We met at the briefing to Admiral Stuart.”
“Good morning. Joel, isn’t it?” They shook hands. Before they could begin a conversation, the door opened, and an Army Captain stepped out.
“Sirs, would join us, please?”
They followed him through the door, and immediately stopped and came to attention. Sitting at the desk was a U.S. Army full Colonel. He was a bull of a man, ruddy-faced, with short salt and pepper hair, and broad shoulders. His uniform had six rows of ribbons; the insignia on his blouse was Infantry. One ribbon was a Silver Star, Joel noted, and that was surely a West Point ring.
“Stand at ease, gentlemen. Please take a seat. I am Colonel Thomas A. Regan, on General Marshall’s staff. I have been charged by the Joint Chiefs with giving you a very important assignment. First, though, some introductions and brief bios so you all know with whom it is you are working.
“On my left is Lieutenant Commander John Bell Higgins, USN: Annapolis class of 1930, a history major; fleet pilot, squadron commander. Shot down over Guadalcanal, Silver Star and Purple Heart. Next, Lieutenant Colonel Joel T. Knight, USAAF: West Point class of 1932, Airman’s Medal. An aeronautical engineer, and an expert on flying wings. First Allied military pilot to fly an ME-109. Extremely broad flying experience. Squadron commander. Finally, and not at all least, Major, Lieutenant Colonel-select, Beverly C. Tucker, USMC: Annapolis 1931, a combat engineer. Three amphibious landings in the Pacific, Bronze Star. Battalion commander. Expert on logistics and supply. Colonel Tucker, I expect you and Commander Higgins know each other, being at Annapolis at the same time.” The two men nodded.
Solid, impressive men, Joel thought.
“Now, why you are here,” the Colonel’s visage was grim. Joel felt the tension in the room ratchet upward.
He looked at them sharply, “It’s clear to everyone, in uniform and not, that the military has severely screwed up the coastal defense of this country. Everyone who wears the uniform is embarrassed that the Germans attacked us with such impunity, especially in the aftermath of Pearl Harbor. Not to understate it, gentlemen, despite what he said in his radio address, the President believes that this debacle occurred largely because of divisions between the services. He will tolerate no more inter-service rivalries: he has threatened to make us all one service, which would be a disaster for all us professional soldiers, to say nothing of not curing the problem. And don’t fool yourselves; he absolutely means it.
“You three comprise one of four sub-committees charged with independently developing defense plans. You will ignore which service now has responsibility for what. You are to use your common sense and logic to determine who should have responsibility. You are also to recommend changes in weaponry, manning, location, and so on as you deem necessary. You will present your plan to the Chiefs in thirty days, along with the other teams. Your plan will recommend the best use of exist
ing assets, no matter what service owns them, and how to effectively bring command of those assets under a single, unified commander.
“We were specifically directed by the President to bring in O-5s [Lieutenant Colonel] and below to accomplish this. He believes that as experienced, academy educated officers, you have enough hands-on experience, and that you probably haven’t yet been ‘fatally infected with the disease of service prejudice’, blindly assuming your parent service is the only one capable of doing it.” The sour look on the Colonel’s face made it clear to Joel that he didn’t agree.
He looked at them seriously. “I needn’t tell you, gentlemen, that if you succeed, you will have done your country a great service, and will assure your ascension in rank. Fail, and you will have wasted a month of irreplaceable time, and perhaps, condemn your careers to obscurity.”
The Colonel’s stark briefing went on for another hour. They were to be supplied with an office suite, staff members, and clerical help. Their clearances were Top Secret, with access to almost everything available.
“If you think you can use it, ask for it,” he told them bluntly. “You have priority over almost every other activity, so ask for what you need. We have detailed information on facilities, manpower, weaponry, including ships and aircraft, as well as radios and RADARs. Use it. Support is available around the clock, including a print shop. Commander Higgins, you have worked in the Pentagon for several months, so I’ll expect you to provide your colleagues guidance on that score. Your task is code named Stalwart Guard Three; that will give you priority. Everything you produce will be labeled with that name, and will be classified Top Secret. Are there any questions?”
The three men, stunned with what they had been charged with, had nothing to say.
Chapter 63
6 October 1943
An Office, The Pentagon, Washington, D.C.