Roosevelt burst out laughing, “The man is a lunatic and a drunk, but surely you see his entertainment value, Henry.”
“If you say so, Franklin.”
26: Somme Redux
IT HAS BEEN SAID that the difference between politicians and actors is that actors are honest in their sleight of hand. If that is so, then that Monday, the President of the United States of America would have proven the adage correct as he moved to address a joint session of the Congress. Truculent and surly, he made his way into the chamber, his face as black as thunder.
On the drive over, Roosevelt made a few last minute changes to the four typed sheets that he had prepared back in January.
“Yesterday, Sunday, December 7, 1941, a date which will live in infamy,” he boomed and threatened into the microphones, as the real audience was not the Congress but rather the people glued to their radios. Roosevelt had a voice that was made for radio—a beautiful, deep baritone that was as soothing as it was sonorous; people could listen to it for hours; the gentler sex loved to listen to its glorious, strong tones projecting a virile and powerful man (if only they knew the truth). Only the little German propaganda minister could come close to matching Roosevelt but Goebbels’s radio voice was more theatrical and instilled fear rather than trust; Churchill’s radio voice was easily recognized and even more easily mimicked by every drunk in every pub is London; Roosevelt’s radio voice was one that a person could easily listen to for hours, it was so comforting. “If President Roosevelt said it on the radio, it must be true,” became the most terribly dangerous delusion of the times.
Returning to the White House, Roosevelt met with Stimson and Admiral King. The much vaulted Brains Trusters were nowhere to be seen. The three men discussed the situation and some unpleasant other developments that all seemed—at the time—to be unconnected.
Stimson read from his notes,
“Well, it seems that there is a Fifth Column operating in this country, and it’s proving to be quite effective.”
“Fifth Column?”
“Mr. President, saboteurs. The term “Fifth Column” is a new term from the recent war in Spain. There has been a mysterious explosion at the naval oil tanks in San Diego; there is a problem with the Northeast rail corridor—seems that the Canadian locomotives have been interfered with; both the Central Pacific and the Southern Pacific had trestle bridges destroyed out West and it could be months before they can be repaired—that means we have to depend on the Canadians, and they are not in the best of moods these days after the leaking of War Plan Red; worst of all, the fires last week in Ohio—we were desperately dependent on those stockpiles of rubber, and without them, well that rubber is worth its weight in gold.”
“OK, Ernie, now you can give me some good news,” the President said.
“Well, my news is not good—we lost the Saratoga yesterday, all hands I am afraid.”
The President looked up; the shock on his face this time was genuine.
“Fuck.”
Ever expedient, the President said, “Well, I will tell the British we need their help; that will please fat Winston no end.”
He pressed the intercom, “Grace, set up a call on the scrambler for 3 p.m. today to speak to Mr. Churchill, please.”
“Well, that is 15 minutes time. Ernie, plug the extensions in will you please?”
Admiral King walked over to the small bookcase in the Oval Office, opened the draw under the bookcase and extracted two earpieces that were originally part of B-25 radiomen’s headphones. Attached to each earpiece was a length of wire cable covered in khaki-colored cotton; at the other end of the cable was a large brass plug, the same as used by a telephonist as she connects a caller to an extension. King plugged the two extensions into the base of the modern, Bakelite telephone instrument.
A little after three in the afternoon in Washington, the scrambler telephone rang. On the other end was the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. Mr. Churchill started by expressing his regrets and the regrets of his country for the attack by the Japanese and promised to do all in his power to help. He went on to explain that he was in somewhat of a difficult position as the Japanese had not actually, formally declared war on the British Empire so he could not actually declare war on the Japanese without cause—“that would be a breach of international law.” (At this, Roosevelt looked up at the two men and slowly shook his head.)
Roosevelt listened politely; both Stimson and King were taking notes.
“Well, Winston, that is what we want to talk to you about. I have Ernie King and Henry Stimson with me; they’re on the extensions here in the Oval. Now, Winston, you have the Repulse and the Prince of Wales in Singapore, don’t you? Who is commander of that task fleet?”
The silence was precisely what Roosevelt was hoping to not hear.
“Yes, Franklin, both of these Royal Navy ships are in Singapore at present, and it is Tom who is in command,” came the unfriendly answer.
King rolled his eyes—he had met Admiral Tom Phillips, and had instantly formed a most disagreeable opinion.
“Well, Winston, I need to ask a favor. We’re going to have to work together on this one. We need to have you send your ships to Manila, where we expect the Japs to attack next.”
Even before Roosevelt had finished his sentence, the answer lisped down the cable,
“Not possible, Franklin. You see—and you must realize—the Empire is at risk. We must protect Singapore, and just as important, Malaya. You know Malaya is a key part of the Empire. I would like to help, but I am afraid it is completely and utterly out of the question at this time.”
The two men saw the President’s face redden,
“Wait a minute, Winston. Look, I have personally taken a huge gamble backing your country for the past two years—the Republicans have been after my hide, and there’s Lindbergh and his American First group, and that fucking Liberty League with Al Smith and all them. I have personally put my own presidency at risk and in jeopardy to support your country. Personally. Lend-Lease, the money we’ve silently supplied—all of it. I think the least you can do is help us out—and it is helping both our countries—to simply divert Phillips to Manila for a week or two. That’s not too much to ask, surely.”
“Not possible, I am sorry Franklin. Let’s speak tomorrow. Good night.” The line went dead.
“That motherfucker just hung up on me. That fucking drunk. Me, the President of the United States. That motherfucker—that slimy little, fat English pompous cocksucker cunt,” Roosevelt said slowly shaking his head in disbelief.
“Hung up on me. Me. The fucking President of the United States. That limey scum bag.”
“Well, there goes the Special Relationship,” said Stimson.
Roosevelt burst out laughing, “Henry, I do enjoy having you around at times like this for your bon mots.”
The so-called Special Relationship was the phantasy that many countries deluded themselves into believing existed between themselves and the biggest bully on the block.
“These fucking monkeys, I cannot believe their attitude. So, Ernie, tell me about this Phillips character.”
Admiral King explained how he had meet Tom Phillips,
“The first thing you notice is that he is about this tall.”