Chapter 9

Affirmative. He will be in your office within the hour. Thank you." Hanging up, King folded bony han,is over his flat stomach and, staring at Victor Henry, he spoke in a formal drone. "Captain, I desire that you now form out of Desron Eight an antisubmarine screen, and proceed to sea to conduct realistic tests and drills. This includes forming up screens on cooperative merchant vessels which you may encounter. You will of course avoid provoking belligerent vessels that may sight you. I desire you to keep security at a maximum and paperwork at a minimum. For that reason my instructions are verbal. You'll conduct yourself similarly." "Understood, Admiral." A chilly smile moved one side of Ernest King's mouth, and he reverted to his natural voice. "Perfect horseshit, but that's the story. In the event of an incident, it will be a hanging party for all hands. That will be all." Even in t'he North Atlantic in March, even in a destroyer, even on such risky and peculiar business, going back to sea was a tonic. Pug paced the bridge of U.S.S. Plunkett all day, a happy man, and slept in the sea cabin by the chart house. On clear nights, no matter how Cold the wind and how rough the sea, he spent hours after dinner alone on the flying bridge. The broad dark ocean, the streaming pure air, the crowded stars arching overhead, always made him feel what the Bible called the spirit of God hovering on the face of the waters. Down the years even more than his childhood Bible training, this religious awe inspired by nights at sea had kept Captain Henry a believer. He spoke of this to nobody, not to ministers who were his old friends; he would have felt embarrassed and mawkish, for he wa, not sure how seriously even they took the Lord. On this voyage, the Alrwghty was there for Victor Henry as always in the black starry universe, a presence actual and lovable, if disturbingly unpredictable. Officially Pug was an observer of the "exercise," and he kept to that role, leaving operations to the commander of the destroyer screen. He interfered once. On the second day after the join-up off Newfoundland, the long ragged columns of merchant ships, stretching across the horizon, plowed into a snowstorm. Lookouts were coming down off their posts almost too stiff to move, and covered with icicles. Plunging up and dowil over huge black waves, ships a mile apart were losing sight of each other. After several reports of minor collisions and near-misses in the zigzags, Pug called into his sea cabin Commander Baldwin, who headed the screen, and the British liaison officer. "I've been figuring," he said, pointing to a chart, and banging on to his gyrating chair. "We can gain an advance of half a day by proceeding on a straight course. Now maybe there are U-boats out there in all that stuff, and then again maybe there aren't. If they're going to try topenetrate a screen of fifteen American destroyers, well, with seventy-one juicy crawling targets, zigzagging won't help much. Let's head straight for Point Baker, Turn over this hot potato, and skedaddle." Mopping snow from red eyebrows under an iced-up parka hood, Commander Baldwin grinned. 'Concur, Captain." Pug said to the British signal officer, a little quiet man who ha:d come in from the stormy bridge smoking a pipe upside down, "Give your commodore a flag hoist: DISCO E zigzagging." "Aye aye, sir," said the Englishman, managing to look delighted with a small tightening of his mouth around the pipe. Day after day, Victor Henry and Commander Baldwin ate breakfast from trays in the sea cabin, reviewing courses of action in case of a German attack. Each morning the screen conducted combat drills, in a ragged style that enraged Pug. He was tempted to take over and work these units hard; but to maintain the dull calm of the operation was paramount, so he did nothing. Unmolested, the first Lend-Lease convoy steamed straight eastward. About half the time bad weather shrouded the ships. On the crystalline days and bright moonlit nights Victor Henry remained clothed and awake, drank gallons of coffee, and smoked his throat raw, now and then dozing in the captain's chair. Whether U-boats saw the convoy and laid low because of the American destroyers fanned ahead of it, or whether it got through undetected, Victor Henry never knew. They arrived at Point Baker, a dot of latitude and longitude on the wide empty sea, mdthout a single episode of alarm. A feeble yellow sun was just rising. The convoy began steaming in a pattern ten miles square, in a ring of desolate ice-flecked black water and pearly sky, waiting for the British. Victor Henry stood on the flying bridge peering eastward, hoping that the Plunkett's navigator knew his job. Since the return from Berlin, he had never felt so well. He had read a lot of Shakespeare in his mildewed seagoing volume, and had caught up on a footlocker full of paperwork, and slept and slept, his body responding in the old way to the rocking of a destroyer. After three hours, the first hulls began to show above the horizon, due east: old American four-pipers. As the motley British screen of destroyers, frigates, and corvettes came on, the leading ship began to blink a Yellow light. A signalman rushed up to the flying bridge, bringing a pencilled scrawl: KS YANKS X CUPBOMM IS B. Pug granted. "Send him EAT HEARTY-X-RAy-MOPX COMING-X-RAYand sign it MOTHER HUBBARD." The grinning sailor said, "Aye aye, Sir," and trampled down the ladder. "As an observer," Pug called to Commander Baldwin on the bridge below, "I would now be pleased to observe how fast your signal gang can hoist REVERSE COURSE, MAKe 2 KNOTS." When the Plunkett tied up in the Norfolk Navy Yard, Victor Henry went straight to Rag quarters on the Texas. Admiral King listened to his report with the face of a scrawnysandstone pharaoh, showing a human reaction only when Pug mentioned the poor performance of the destroyers. The pharaoh face then became slightly more unpleasant. "I am aware of the low level of preparedness in the fleet, and have instituted corrective programs. Now, then. On what basis, Captain, did the President choose YOU for this mission?" "When I was naval attache in Germany, sir, he happened to use me on jobs involving high security. I suppose this fell in that category." 'Will you report back to him?" g'yes, sir." Victor Henry jumped to his feet as the admiral walked to a map of the world, newly hung on the bulkhead opposite his desk in place of the photograph of Admiral Mayo. "I suppose while out at sea you've gotten the news? You know that the Germans blitzed Yugoslavia in one week? That Greece has surrendered"-the admiral ran a bony finger along Adriatic and Mediterranean coastlines hatched in angry fresh red ink-"that this fellow Rommel has knocked the British cjear back into Egypt, and is massing to drive on the Suez Canal? That the big British force trapped in Greece will be lucky to Pull off another Dunkirk? That the Arabs are rising to throw the British Out of the Nfiddle East? That Iraq's already ordered them out and asked the Germans in?" "Yes, sir. We got most of that. It's been a bad few weeks. "Depends on the viewpoint. For the Germans it's been a fine few weeks. In a month or so, they've tipped the world balance. My considered judgment is that this war's almost over. There seems to be very little awareness of that here. When the Germans take the canal, master the middle East, and close the Mediterranean, the British Empire lines will be severed. That's the ball game. There will be no viable military force left in all of Asia between Hitler and the japs. India and China will fall to them." Admiral King swept bony fingers across the Eurasian landmass. "Solid dictator-ruled, from Antwerp to Tokyo, and from the Arctic Circle to the equator. Did you hear about that neutrality deal between the Soviets and the japs?" "No, sir. I missed that one." "Well, they signed a pact-oh, a couple of weeks ago, this was-agreeing to lay off each other for the time being. The press here almost ignored it, but that's terrific news. It secures the jap rear"-he waved toward Siberia-"and turns them loose to pick up all these big marbles." The gnarled hand jumped south and ran over Indo-China, the East Indies, Malaya, and the Philippines; it paused, and one stiff finger glided to the Hawaiian Islands. Admiral King stared sourly from the map to Victor Henry and strode back to his desk. "Now, of course the President has to make the political judgments. He's an outstanding politician anda great Navy President. Possibly his judgment is coamt, that politically he can't do any more now than extend our patrol area. Maybe politically he has to chop hairs about patrolling' versus 'convoying." But it's just as belligerent for us to patrol, and broadcast the positions of German U-boats and raiders, as it is to convoy. just as belligerent, but weak and futile. The British haven't enough ships as it is to keep the Mediterranean open and cut this fellow Rommel's supply lines. If we took over convoying, they might have a chance to stay in the game. My opinion hasn't been asked by the President. You seem to be in his entourage. You might find a moment to make these points." Ernest King sat, hands folded on the desk, and looked at the captain for a silent minute. "That might be, by sheer accident, the best contribution you ever make to the security of the United States." Henry! Hey, Henry!" Byron groaned, went rigid as a stretching cat, and opened one eye. Lieutenant Caruso and the other officers on the S-45 were used to this waking pattern of Ensign Henry. Until he went rigid there was no rousing him. It sometimes took violent shaking of the limp form. "Huh?" "Your father is here." "What?" Byron fluttered his eyes and reared up on an elbow. He now occupied the middle bunk of three. "You're kidding, skipper. My father?" 'He's in the wardroom. Care to join us?" In his underwear, unshaven, mussed, and blinking, Byron stumbled to the doorway of the tiny wardroom. "Holy cow. You really are here." "You heard your commanding officer say I was." immaculate in dress blues, Victor Henry frowned at his son over a coffee cup. "they'll tell me anything on this boat to get me out of my bunk. They're all fiends." "What the devil are you doing in the sack at noon?" "I had the midwatch. Excuse me, sir, for coming out like this. Be right back." Byron quickly reappeared in a freshly starched khaki uniform, groomed and shaved. Victor Henry was alone. "Cosh, Dad, it's good to see you." 'Briny, a dwatch isn't major surgery. You're not supposed to take to your bed to recover." "Sir, I had it two nights in a row.-He poured coffee for his father and himse]L 'Say, this is a real surprise.
Mom said you were somewhere at sea. Have you been detached from War Plans, Dad?" "No, this was a temporary thing. I'm heading back now. I was visiting the TexasI saw the S45 on the yard roster and thought I'd look in." Victor Henry scanned his son's thin face. "Well? How goes it?" "Oh, first-rate. Swell bunch of guys on this boat. The skipper is 4-0, and the exec, I'd really like you to meet him. Lieutenant Aster. He was a witness at my wedding." Byron grinned the old half-melancholy, halfamused grin that never failed to charm Pug Henry, and most other people. "I'm glad to see you. I'm lonesome." "What's your wife's situation? Is she on her way home yet?" Byron gave his father a veild glance that hinted at his standing grudge about Natalie. But he was in a good mood and responded amiably. "I don't know. We got in this morning from maneuvers. The yeoman just went for the mail." Pug Put down his cup. "Incidentally, will your boat be in port on the twenty-sixth?" 4( I can find out. Why?" "Nothing much. just if you are, and if you can get overnight leave, You're invited to dinner at the White House." Byron's deep-set eyes opened wide. "Cut it out, Dad." "Your mother and Madeline, too. I don't guess Warren can fly in from Pearl Harbor. But if you're around, you might as well come. Something to tell your children about." "Dad, how do we rate?" Victor Henry shrugged. "Oh, a carrot for the donkey. Your mother doesn't know about it yet." "No? Dinner at the White House! Mom will go clear through the overhead." Lieutenant Aster, carrying a basket of mail, poked his head into the wardroom. "Briny, Carson's got a fistful of letters for you at the gangway. ) "Hey. Good enough. This is my exec, Dad, Lieutenant Carter Aster. Be right back." Byron vanished. Seating himself at the narrow wardroom table and slitting envelopes with an Indian paper cutter, Aster said, "Excuse me, sir. Priority mail." "Go ahead." Victor Henry studied the blond officer as he attacked the letters. One couldsometimes guess, by the way a young man went at papers or a book, the kind of officer he was. Aster traversed the pile fast, scribbling a note here and a checkmark there. He looked good. He pushed the basket aside and poured coffee for himself when Henry held up a hand to decline. 'Lieutenant, you were a witness at Briny's wedding?" "Yes, sir. She's a wonderful girl." "How's Briny doing?" Aster's jolly reminiscent smile disappeared. The wide mouth became a slash of tight lips. 'In his work?" "Yes, let me have it straight." "Well, we all like him. There's something about Briny, I guess you know that. But for submarines... don't get the idea that he can't measure up. He can, but he won't bother. Briny just slides along the bottom edge of tolerable performance." Victor Henry was not surprised; still, the words hurt. "People run true to form, I guess." "He's way behind on his officer qualification book. Now he knows his way around the boat, sir, he knows the engines, the compressed air system, the batteries, all that. He stands a good diving watch. He has a knack for trimming the boat and keeping her at the depth the captain wants. But when it comes to writing reports on time, or even logs, keeping track of records and dispatches and the crew's training books-an officer's main work-forget it." Aster looked Byron's father in the eye. "The skipper sometimes talks of beaching him." Victor Henry said sadly, "That bad?" "In a way he's kind of nuts, too." "How, nuts?" "Well, like last week, we had this surprise inspector aboard. We fired this dummy torpedo and surfaced to recover it. We hadn't tried a recox,ery for a long time. It was a rough sea, raining, cold as hell. The torpedo detail was out there trying to retrieve the thing. It was bobbing up and down, banging and crashing against the hull, and we were rolling like mad, and the sailors were slipping around with lifelines tied to them. It was awful. They messed about for an hour and couldn't hook that fish. I was sure somebody would get drovrned or crushed. The inspector got tired and went below. The skipper was exploding. The deck gang was soaked and frozen and falling all over itself. Well, as you know, a dummy warhead's hollow, and the fish floats straight up and down. Briny was the officer on that detail.
Suddenly he took the hook, stuck it in his lifeline, and by Christ if he didn't go and jump on that torpedo! He timed it so right, it looked easy. He hung on, with these icy waves breaking over him, riding that yellow steel dummy head like a goddamn bronco. He secured the hook and then got knocked off. Well, we hauled him in half-dead and then we hoisted the fish aboard. The skipper filled him full of medicinal brandy. He slept eighteen hours and was fine." Victor Henry said, clearing his throat, "He took a stupid chance." "Sir, I'd like to have him on any boat I ever command. But I'd expect to wear out two pairs of heavy shoes, kicking his ass for him." "If the occasion arises, let me buy you the brogans, Lieutenant," said Pug. "She's pregnant!" Byron catapulted into the little wardroom, arresting himself by grabbing the doorway. "Natalie's pregnant, Dad." He brandished torn-open letters. "How about that? Hey, Lady, how about that? Boy, I feel strange." "Fast work," said Aster. "You better get that gal home for sure, now. Pleasure to meet you, Captain. Excuse me." The executive officer slid out from behind the table with his mail basket. "Any news on her coming home?" Victor Henry asked. "She says Leslie Slote really built a fire under the consuls this time. She and Jastrow should be on their way by-well, maybe by now! She'd better be, or I'll desert and go fetch her, Dad. My kid's going to be born in the United States." "That's great news, Briny. Great." Victor Henry stood, putting a hand on his son's shoulder. "I've got a plane to catch. You'll find out about the twenty-sixth, won't you? And let me know." "The what? Oh, yes." Byron was sitting with his chin on both fists, reading a closely written airmail sheet, his face lit up with happiness. "That dinner, Yes, sir, I'll telephone you or soriiething." "I'm sure you have a load of paperwork, after your maneuvers. Get at it, boy." "Oh, sure," said Byron. "So long, Dad." "I'm happy about your wife, Byron."Again the veiled glance, again the amiable tone. "Thanks." Rhoda was in bad turmoil. Palmer Kirby had returned from England in April, while Pug was at sea. The cherry blossoms were early that year; and in Virginia and North Carolina, where they went four-day drive like honeymoon, the countryside was Hooded with fragrant blossoms(on) .R(a) hodacamebacktoW(a) asbirigton committed in the strongest terms to leave her husband and to marry Kirby. The decision seemed clear, simple, and natural to Rhoda in the bedrooms of wayside hotels, and on long walks amid the peach and plum blossoms of the southland. But when Kirby went happily off to Denver to put the big old house in order for a new life, leaving her in a home full of Henry photographs and mementos, the simplicity of the vision, and some of its charm, started to fade. Rhoda's inexperience was misleading her. An investment of more than twenty-five years of love and intimacy-even if it has gone slightly sour-usually should not be liquidated. Its equivalent in romance, in thrills, or even money, can seldom be recovered. So hard-beaded bad women tend to decide. Rhoda's trouble was that, in her own mind, she was still a good woman, caught up in a grand passion which consumed all moral law. One misstep during her husband's long absence in Germanyat an age when many men and women make missteps-had led to another and another. Her desire to keep her good opinion of herself had completed her confusion. She still liked-perhaps loved-and also feared Pug, but his career was a growing disappointment. For a while she had hoped that his "in" with President Roosevelt might lead to big things, but that was not happening. Some of her friends were preening their husbands' new commands: battleships, destroyer flotillas, cruisers. Therivalryof(over) Digger Brown, Paul Munson, and Harry Warendorf was exactly paralleled among their ladies. Rhoda Henry was becoming the wife of a man bogged in twilit shore jobs after more than twenty years of racing along with the front-runners Evidently Pug didn't have it. This was bitter medicine for Rhoda. She had always hoped that he would some day become at least a Deputy Chief of Naval Operations. After all, she had preferred him to fellows who had since gone on to careers like bank president, steel executive, army general. (These men had not necessarily proposed; if she had dated and kissed them, she considered them possibilities sacrificed for Pug.) Now it seemed he might not even make rear admiral! Certainly that limited goal was receding with every month he spent in a Navy Department cubicle while his competitors accumulated command time at sea. With such thoughts Rhoda Henry was working herself up to tell Pug that she had fallen in love with another man. But she did not look forward with dewy pleasure to this, and she teetered, ready to be pushed either way. She missed his return from the convoy trip. He had not telephoned from Norfolk, for he knew that she liked to sleep late. Arriving by airplane in Washington, he found the house empty, cook off, Rhoda out, mail overflowing his desk, no coffee. He couldn't blame anybody, but it was a cold homecoming.
At the War Plans office, by chance, he encountered Pamela Tudsbury. She had not gone back to England with Burne-Wilke. Secretaries cleared for Very Secret rare, so the British Purchasing Council had requisitioned her for a while. Spry,springy(were) , refreshingly unmilitary in a yellow and green cotton frock, Pamela greeted him with the warmth he had not found at home. He asked her to lunch with him in the Navy cafeteria. During the quarter hour it took to bolt a sandmich, pie, and coffee, Pamela spoke of her unhappiness at being left behind by BurneWilke. "I want to be there now," she said, eyes somewhat moist. "Not that I really think the end is at hand, as some do. But in the wee hours, one does begin to picture how one accommodates to German military police and street signs. It's a nightmare that now and then gets terribly real." She shook her head and smiled. "Of course it's darkest before the dawn. You poor man. You've got a splendid color. The sea so obviously agrees with you. You look ten years younger. I hope it lasts, or that you get back to sea.py "Well, I've tried to walk a lot and play tennis. It isn't the same." "Of course not." He asked her for further news of Ted Gallard, but there was none. They parted with a casual good-bye. All the rest of the day, plowing through the mound of accumulated paper, Victor Henry felt much better. Rhoda was waiting for him at home in a bright red dress, with ice and drink mixes ready, and cheese and crackers out. Her manner and conversation struck him as strange. She gabbled about houses. She was so eager to talk, so voluble, that he had no chance at first to tell her of the White House invitation. Early that afternoon, finding Pug's note on her dressing table, she had rushed out with an agent and visited three. All her suppressed guilt feelings focussed on the house business. If only she could convince Pug that gbe had been diligently looking at houses, she felt her tracks would be covered. This made no sense. She was planning to break the news to him. She acted on nervous instinct, triggered by the short scrawl in Pug's handwriting: He's back. Man the bar. Pug was uninterested in a verbose account of faiats in houses he had never seen. But be put up with it. Next, Rhoda chattered on that sore topic, recent promotions: that utter fool, chaser, and drunk, Chipper Pennington, had gotten the Heicna; and did Pug know that even Bill Foley was now commanding a destroyer squadron at Pearl Harbor? Pug broke in on Rhoda's flow of words-this was at dinner, over the meat -to tell her of the President's invitation. Her mouth fell open. "Pug! Really?" She asked many questions, worried out loud over what she would wear, and gloatedabout how Annette Pennington and Tammy Foley would feel when they heard thisi It was a bad performance. He was seeing her at her very worstworse than her worst, for she had never been quite so demoralized, though she looked extremely pretty and her wonderful skin glowed smooth as ever. Pug found himself looking at his wife detachedly, as he judged professional matters. Few wives in their forties can weather such a scrutiny. That night Victor Henry recognized familiar signals that he was not, for the time being, welcome in her bedroom. He did not know why; but he had long ago decided that Rhoda was entitled to these.spells, physical or mental, though it seemed too bad after his six weeks at sea. It took him a long time to fall asleep. He kept thinking of the callous happy-golucky mood he had found in the capital, the sense that by passing the Lend-Lease Bill, America had done its bit to stamp out Nazism. Nobody appeared to care how much stuff was actually being produced and shipped. The figures at War Plans had appalled him. Conflicting boards and agencies, contradictory directives, overlapping demands by the Air Corps, the Navy, the Army, and the British had overwhelmed the program. Under an amazing welter of meetings, talk, and mimeographed releases, LendLease was paralyzed. He kept thinking, too, of the contrasts between his wife and the English girl. At last he got up and swallowed a stiff drink of bourbon like a pili. Pig cheered up later in the week, as most people did, when Hitler's deputy Fuhrer, the black-brewed fanatic Rudolf Hess, made a solo flight to Scotland, landed by parachute, and demanded to see Winston Churchill. For a day or two it seemed that Germany might be cracking. But the Nazis at once announced that Hess, through heroic overwork, had gone off his head. The British said little publicly. Pug heard from Pamela, who had it from the embassy, that in fact Hess, mad as a hatter, was shut up in a sanatorium, drivelling peace plans. Certainly in the war news there was no sign of German weakness. They were bagging hordes of British prisoners and mountains of arms in Greece, sinking ships in the Atlantic at a great rate, showering London and Liverpool with fire-bombings worse than any during the 1940 blitz, laying siege to Tobruk, and launching a breathtaking airborne invasion of Crete, over the heads of the British Mediterranean fleet. This outpouring of military energy to all points of the compass, this lava flow of violence, was awesome. In the face of it, Vichy France was folding up and negotiating a deal with the Nazis that would hand over North Africa to them, and perhaps the strong French fleet too. This was a brutal bloody nose for American diplomats trying to hold France neutral, and keep the Germans out of the African bulge at French Dakar, which dominated the whole south Atlantic. The Nazis appeared unstoppable. The entrenched, heavily armed British on Crete claimed to be butchering the sky invaders. But floating to earth dead or alive in their parachute harnesses,crashing in gliders, on the airborne multitudes came. The confident British communiques grew vaguer. Somehow, they conceded, the Germans at incredible cost had managed to capture one airfield; then one more. It soon became clear that Hitler was doing a new thing in Crete, taking a strong island from the air without sea power, in fact in the teeth of sea power. This was threatening news for England. Aside from the heavy defeat itself, Crete began to look like a dress rehearsal for the end. And still the United States did nothing. In the inner War Plans circles, a split was widening between the Army and the Navy. Victor Henry's section wanted strong fast moves in the North Atlantic to save England: convoys, the occupation of keland, shipment of all possible arms. But the Army, which now gave England only three months before collapse, preferred a move into Brazil and the Azores, to face the expected Nazi thrust in the south Atlantic from Dakar. Between these two plans, the President was stalling and hesitating. Then came the scarifying news that the Bismarck, a new German battleship, had blown up England's mighty war vessel, the Hood, off Greenland, with a single salvo at thirteen miles, and vanished into the north Atlantic mists! This jolted the country out of its Maytime languor. The President announced a major radio address. Speculations about the speech filled the press and radio. Would he proclaim the start of convoying? Would he ask Congress to declare war? The brawny feat of the Bismarck seemed to show Hitler achieving mastery of the oceans as well as the land and the air. The shift of the power balance in the Atlantic was suddenly self-evident and frightful. Rhoda's reaction to all this heavy news was loud frantic fretting that the White House would call off the dinner invitation, after she had told all her friends about it. FDR was probably getting ready to go to war. How could he bother with a social dinner, especially with unimportant people like themselves? Victor Henry, to secure some peace, checked with the President's naval aide. The invitation to the White House stood. "What do you think, Dad? Will the Limeys get the Bismarck?" Perched on the edge of the bathtub, Byron observed that Victor Henry still liked to rest one leg on the tub as he shaved. Nor had Pug's shaving motions ever changed, the successive scrape of cheeks, chin, and neck, then the scowl to stretch his upper lip. Byron had sat exactly so as a child countless times, talking to his dad. "Well, Briny, they claim the Prince of Wales winged her off Greenland there. But those Germans have fine damage control. I've been aboard the Bismarck. She's a floating steel honeycomb. If they were hit, they probably just buttoned up the flooded compartments and lit out for home. The British are throwing everything into their search. To hell with conVOYS, to hell with the Mediterranean! They know where she's headingthe French coast, as fast as she can skedaddleand they know the speed she can make. Aircraft ought to find her. Unless"-he rinsed his razor and shook it-'unless the Bismarck is undamaged. In which case heaven help any convoys she runs across. With that fire control she displayed, she'll pick off forty ships in half an hour." "I wish I were out there," said Byron, 'in that search." "Do you?" Pug gave his son a pleased look. Where Byron saw much the same father, Victor Henry saw a pallid, melancholy, thin-faced little boy transformed into a spruce six-foot ensign in blue and gold. Pug wiped his face with a wet towel. "What time is it? Let's make tracks." Byron followed him into his dressing room. "Say, Dad, you're pretty close to the President, aren't you?" Buttoning his dress shirt, Pug said, "Close? Nobody's really close to Mr. Roosevelt, that I can see. Except maybe this Harry Hopkins." Byron crouched on a stool, watching his father dress. "I got two more letters from Natalie yesterday. She's stuck, after all." Pug frowned at the mirror over his bureau. "Now what?" "Same thing, Dad, this balled-up foolishness about when her uncle's father was naturalized. He just cantt get that passport renewed. One official makes promises, and the next one fudges on them. The thing goes round and round." "Tell You wife to come home, and let him sweat it out." "Let me finish, Dad." Byron waved both hands. 'It was all set, they'd even bought steamship tickets. Some formality of approval from Washington just never came through. Natalie had to Turn back the boat tickets. Dad, they're ringed by Germans now. Germans in France, Yugoslavia, Greece, North Africa, and for that matter all through Italy. They're a couple of Jews." 'I'm aware of that," said Victor Henry. Rhoda's voice called from the bedroom, "Pug, will you come here I'm going out of my mind." He found her glaring at the full-length closet mirror, in a tight blue silk dress, the back of which hung Open, displaying underwear and an expanse of rosy skin. "Hook me up. Look how my stomach is bulging," she said. "Now why is that? The stupid dress didn't look the least bit like this in the store. It looked fine." "You're not bulging," said Victor Henry, trying to fix the snaps despite the poor light on her back. "You look very pretty." "Oh, Pug, for God's sake. I'm bulging POOr. I look six months pregnant. I'm horrible. And I'm wearing my tightest girdle. Oh, what'll I do?"Her husband finished closing the snaps and left her. Rhoda looked much the same as always, and was making much the usual evening-dress noises. Her laments and queries were rhetorical, and best ignored. Byron still crouched on the stool. "Dad, I thought you might mention this thing to the President." Victor Henry's response was quick and curt. "That's an unreasonable notion." Heavy silence. Byron slumped down, elbows on knees, hands clasped. Pug was jarred by the hostility, almost the hatred, on his son's face. "Byron, I don't think your wife's uncle's citizenship mess is a suitable problem to submit to the President of the United States. That's all." "Oh, I knew you wouldn't do it. You're sore at me for marrying a Jew, you always have becti, and you don't care what happens to her." Rhoda marched in, pulling on gloves. "For heaven's sake, what are you two jawing about? Pug, will you put on your jacket and come along?" On the Pennsylvania Avenue side of the White House, the Henrys passed several dozen pickets, marching with antiwar signs in a ragged oval, and chanting, 'The Yanks are not coming!" Near them a handful of men sauntered in sandwich boards that read: THE AMERICAN PEACE MOBILIZATION IS A COMMUNIST FRONT. Two yawning policemen kept watch on this tranquil agitation. "Good evening." A tall Negro in a colorful uniform opened the door, sounding-at least to Rhoda-like the basso in The Magic Flute. The Henrys stepped from a warm May night, sweet with the scent of the White House lawns and flowers, into a broad dazzling marble-floored foyer. A middle-aged man in a dinner jacket stood by the presidential seal inlaid in brass in the floor. He introduced himself as the chief usher. "Mrs. Henry, you will be sitting on the President's left," he said, glancing at a large card. "You see, Crown Princess Marta of Norway is a houseguest. She will sit on his right." "Oh, yes, yes, oh my. Princess Marta? Well, she ranks me all right," said Rhoda with a nervous giggle. "I guess we're early," Victor Henry said. "Not at all. Please come this way." He left them in the large public room called the Red Room, saying they would go upstairs soon.
"Oh, dear, think of Warren missing all this!" Rhoda peered at the paintings of Presidents hung near the high ceilings, and the elegant redupholstered furniture. "Him, with his love of American history." "That's just it," Madeline said, looking around with bright snapping eyes. She wore a long-sleeved black silk dress buttoned to the throat, quite a contrast to her mother's bared arms and bosom. "It's like walking into a history book." "I wonder if it's okay to smoke," Byron said. "No, no, don't," his mother said. Pug said, "Why not? There are ashtrays all around. This is a house. You know what the White House is really like?" He too was nervous, and talking to cover it. "Commandant's quarters on a base. The big fancy house with stewards that the boss man gets to live in. This one is the biggest and fanciest. just the cumshaw of becoming Number One." "But the thought of actually keeping house here!" said Rhoda. Despite themselves they were all speaking in uxinatural voices, hushed or too loud. "Even with an army of servants, I'd go mad. I can't imagine how she does it, especially traipsing around the country the way she does. Byron, watch those ashes, for heaven's sake." "May I present Mr. Sumner Welles?" The chief usher led in a bald lean gloomy man. ",And I believe we can go upstairs now," he added, as the Undersecretary of State shook hands with the Henrys. An elevator took them up. Behind his desk at one end of an enormous yellow room hung with sea paintings sat the President, rattling a cocktail shaker. "Hello there, just in time for the first round!" he called, a big grin lighting up the jowly pink face. His voice had a clear virile ring. He wore a black tie and dinner jacket with a soft white shirt; and when Pug leaned across the desk to take drinks, he noticed the brown trousers of a business suit. "I hope Mrs. Henry likes Orange Blossoms, Pug. That's what I'm mixing. Good evening, Sumner." The President gave all the Henrys firm moist handshakes, cold from the shaker. "How about you, Sumner? Would you prefer something else? I make a fair martini, you know." "Thank you, sir. That looks just right." In the center of the room at the mantel, Eleanor Roosevelt stood drinking cocktails with a tallblack-haired woman and a sharp-faced, aged little man. On either side of them warm breezes stirred the lace curtains of open windows, bringing in a heavy sweet smell of flowers. The usher introduced the Henrys to Mrs. Roosevelt, to Princess Marta, and to Mr. Somerset Maugham. When Rhoda heard the author's name, her stiff manner broke. "Oh my! Mr. Maugham! What a surprise. This may be very bad form, but i've read all your books and I love them." The author exhaled cigarette smoke and stammered, "That-that's charming of you," moxing only his thin scowling lips, his aged gloomy eyes remaining cold and steady. "Well, we're all here. Why don't we sit?" The President's wife moTed a chair near the desk, and the men at once did the same, all except for Somerset Maugham, who sat in a chair Byron put down. "Anything very new on the Bismarck, Sumner?" said the President. "Not since about five o'clock, sir." "Oh, I've talked to Averell in London since then. The connection was abominable, but I gathered there was no real news. What do you say, Pug? Will they get her?" "It's a tough exercise, Mr. President. Mighty big ocean, mighty bad weather." "You should know," said Franklin Roosevelt slyly. 'But if they winged her, as they claim," Pug went on, "they ought to catch her." "Oh, they hit the Bismarck. Their cruisers followed a trail of oil far into the fog. That's straight from Churchill. Harriman's his houseguest." Rhoda was trying not to stare at Crown Princess Marta, who, she thought, held a c il glass like a sceptre. Unconsciously imitating her posture, Rhoda decided that her skin was almost as good as Marta's, though the princess was younger and had such rich black hair, done up in a funny way. Contemplating royalty, she lost track of the war talk, and was a little startled when everybody rose. They left the President and followed Mrs. Roosevelt to the elevator. When they arrived in the dining room, there sat Franklin Roosevelt, already whisked to his place at the head of the table. Here too, strong flower scent drifted through the open windows, mingling with the smell of a big silver bowl of carnations, the table centerpiece. "Well, I had a good day!" the President exclaimed as they sat down, with the obvious intent of putting everybody at ease. "The Ford Company finally promised Bill Knudsen to make liberators in their huge new plant. We've been sweating over that one. The business people seem to be waking up at last" He started on his soup, and everyone else began to eat. "We want to put out five hundred heavy bombers a month by next fall, and this will do it. Mr. Maugbam, there's good news to pass on!
By next fall, we'll be making five hundred heavy bombers a month. That's hard intelligence." 'Mr. President, the-hard intelligence is"-Maugham's stammer caught everybody's attention, so they hung on his words-"that you s-say you'll be making them." The President was smiling before the author got the words out; then be roared with laughter. This houseguest was privileged to make jokes, Pug saw. 'Mr. Maugham was a British spy in the last war, Pug," Roosevelt said across the table. 'y, he even wrote a spy novel. Ashenden. Watch out what you say here. It'll get right back to Churchill." "Mr. President, you know a houseguest would never do that. I am not a ferret now, I assure you, but a lower form of life. A-a-a sponge." Mrs. Roosevelt said cheerily, amid the laughter, 'What else happened, Franklin, to make it a good day?" "My, the fellows finally finished the umteenth draft of my big speech. It looks pretty good, pretty good. So I let them have coffee and sandwiches, and now they're locked up downstairs doing draft umteenplus-one. What's the betting now, Sumner? Am I going to ask for war, or proclaim convoying, or what? Why, the suspense is even getting me." The President laughed and added, "Mr. Maugham, as a great writer have you no ideas for my speech? War? Convoy? Or some real new inspiration?" "Mr. President, you r-remember your Oliver Twist? 'Please, sir, I w-want some more'?" "Of course," said the President, his close-set, clever eyes twinkling in anticipation of a joke. "Well, p-please, sir," said the author with a dead serious face, "I w-vant some w-war." The whole table broke into laughter. "Ha ha ha! Spoken like a true British agent!" said the President, gaining another general laugh. Uniformed waiters cleared the table for the next course. Franklin Roosevelt took obvious pleasure in slicing the saddle of lamb. Rhoda Henry ventured to remark, "My goodness, I wish Pug could carve like that!" "Oh, I'm sure he can." Arching his thick grizzled eyebrows with selfsatisfaction, the President swept the knife artistically through the meat. "I do like a slice of lamb, though, don't you, Rhoda? Not a steak, and not a shaving, either. The secret is a sharp knife and a firm hand." Victor Henry was answering Mrs. Roosevelt's questions about Nazi Germany, raising his voice because she had said she was rather deaf. "What's that, Pug?" the President said, cocking an ear as he sliced meat. "Am I missingsomething good?" "I was saying, sir, that when I left Germany, their industrial effort was just getting into high gear." "You don't say. They scored pretty well in low gear, then." "Well, Mr. President, as it turned out, the others had been doing even less." Roosevelt faced Maugham, on the other side of the crown princess. "Captain Henry was in the intelligence business too, Willie. He was naval attache in Berlin. He predicted that pact between Hitler and Stalin before it happened. All the clever diplomats, generals, and columnists were caught flat-footed, but not Pug. What's your prediction now, Pug? How about all that massing of troops in the east? Will Hitler attack Russia?" The President's quick wily glance told Pug that he was thinking of the document they had discussed on the train. "Mr. President, after that piece of luck, I hocked my crystal ball and threw away the ticket." Maugham wagged a knobby tobacco-stained finger. "Ccaptain, don't ever admit to luck, in our r-racket." "What do you think, Sumner?" the President said. "If one studies Mein Kampf," said Welles in undertaker tones, "the attack is inevitable, sooner or later." 'How Yong ago did he write that book? Twenty years ago?" said Franklin Roosevelt, his powerful voice reminding Rhoda very strongly of his radio manner. "I'd hate to be bound by anything I said or wrote way back then." Mrs. Roosevelt said, "Mr. Maugham-if Germany attacks the Soviet union, will England help Russia, or leave Stalin to stew in his own juice?" The author looked at the President's wife for several seconds. A heavy silence enveloped the table. "I-I can't really say." "You know, Willie," said the President, "a lot of folks here don't believe the story that Rudolf Hess is crazy. They say that he was sent over to advise your people of the coming attack on Russia, and to get a handsoff agreement, in return for a promise to help you keep the Empire." "That very plan is in Mein Kampf." Mrs. Roosevelt spoke out like a schoolteacher. Somerset Maugham, caught in the cross-fire of crisp words from the President and his wife, spread his hands, crouching in his chair, looking small, old, and tired.
"Sumner, do you suppose we could explain it to the American people," said Roosevelt, "if the British did not help Russia?" "I think that would finish off aid to England, Mr. President," said Sumner Welles. "If Hitler is a menace to mankind, that's one thing. If he's just a menace to the British Empire, that's something very different." With a brief look at the British author, the President said in a much lighter tone, "Well! Shall I slice some more lamb?" "I will thank you for some, Mr. President," spoke up the crown princess. "Of course, Hitler may be massing his troops in the east precisely because he intends to invade England." The princess talked precise English with a Scandinavian lilt. She was making a tactful cover, Pug thought, for the awkward moment with Maugham. She had not previously said anything. "You know, every time Hitler starts a new campaign, Stalin pinches off something here and something there. This may be a show of force to keep him out of the Rumanian oil fields." "That, too, is possible," said Sumner Welles. "European politics can be such a miserable tangle," said Mrs. Roosevelt. "But it all boils down to Hitler's impulses nowadays," said the President. "Pity we must live in the same century with that strange creature. Say, we have here two men who talked at length face to face with the kL fellow. Let's take a Gallup poll. Sumner, do you think Hitler is a madman?" "I looked hard for such evidence, Mr. President. But as I reported, I found him a cool, very knowledgeable, very skilled advocate, with great dignity and-I'm afraidonsiderable charm." "How about you, Pug?" "Mr. President, don't misunderstand me. But to me, so far, all heads of state are more alike than they are different." Roosevelt looked taken aback, then he threw his head back and guffawed, and so the others laughed. "Well! That's something! At my own table, I've been compared to Hitler! Pug, you'd better talk your way out of that one fast." "But it's the truth. He has a very powerful presence, sir, face to face -though I hate to admit it-with an incredible memory, and a remarkable ability to marshal a lot of facts as he tami. In his public speeches he often raves like a complete nut. But I think when he does that, he's just giving the Germans what they want. That impressed me, too. His ability to act such different parts." Roosevelt was slightly smiling now. "Yes, Pug, that would be part of the job. The fellow is able, of course. Or he wouldn't be giving us all this trouble."Rhoda blurted, "Pug, when on earth did you have a talk with Hitler? That's news to me." The artless injured-wife tone made the President laugh, and laughter swept the table. She turned on Roosevelt. "Honestly, he's always been closemouthed, but to keep something like that from me!" "You didn't need to know," Pug said across the table. "C-captain Henry," said Somerset Maugham, leaning forward, "I bow to a p-p-professional." The conversation broke into little amused colloquies. Roosevelt said to Rhoda Henry, "My dear, you couldn't have paid your husband a handsomer compliment in public." "I didn't intend to. Imagine! He's just a sphinx, that man." She darted a tender look at Pug, She was feeling very kindly toward him, and indeed to all the world, having enjoyed a moment of spontaneous success at the presidential table. of Pug is a fine officer," said the President, "and I expect great things of him." Rhoda felt warm excitement. "I always have, Mr. President." "Not everybody deserves such a beautiful wife," Roosevelt said, with a decidedly human glance at her that took in her decolletage, "but he does, Rhoda." Withe oldest instinct in the world, blushing, Rhoda Henry looked toward Mrs. Roosevelt, who was deep in conversation with Sumner Welles. It flashed through Rhoda's mind that there was a tall woman who had married a very tall man. But Pug at least could walk. Life balanced out in strange ways, Rhoda thought; the heady situation was making her philosophical. Madeline and Byron sat on opposite sides of the table, she between Maugham and Welles, Byron between the crown princess and a deaf, very old lady in purple named Delano. This lady had said nothing all evening; a relative, obviously, living at the White House and interested mainly in the food. Madeline was speaking first to the Undersecretary of State and then to the famous author, her face alive, flushed, and gay, her gestures quick, Maugham offered to come on Cleveland's interview program, when she told him what she did. He said candidly that his mission was British propaganda, so why not? She was entranced. Byron throughout the dinner sat silent, collected, withdrawn. Victor Henry saw Roosevelt looking quizzically at him. The President loved to charm everybody and to have only cheerful faces around him. Pug kept glancing at his son, hoping to catch his eye and signal him to perk up. Over the ice cream, the President said in moment's lull, "We haven't heard from our submariner here. Byron,you'reanaturalfort(a) he silent service. Ha ha." The young officer gave him a melancholy smile. "How's the morale in your outfit?" "Good, Mr. President.""Are you ready to go to war, as Mr. Maugham seems to desire?" "Personally, sir, I'm more than ready-" "Well, that's the spirit." Victor Henry interposed, "Byron was visiting a friend in Poland when the war began. He was strafed by a Luftwaffe plane and wounded." "I see," said the President, giving Byron an attentive stare. "Well, you have a motive then for wanting to fight Germans." "That's not it so much, Mr. President. The thing is that my wife is trapped in Italy." Franklin Roosevelt appeared startled. "Trapped? How, trapped?" The rich voice went flat. Everybody at the table looked at Byron. The atmosphere was thick with curiosity. "Her uncle is Dr. Aaron Jastrow, Mr. President, the author of A jew's Jesus. He's had some trouble about his passport. He can't come home. He's old and not well, and she won't abandon him." Byron spoke as flatly as the President, getting out each word very distinctly. Mrs. Roosevelt put in with a smile, "Why, Franklin, we both read A Jew's Jesus. Don't you remember? You liked it i,ery much indeed." "Dr. Jastrow taught at Yale for years, Mrs. Roosevelt," Byron said. "He's lived here almost all his life. It's just some crazy red tape. Meantime there they are." "A jew's Jesus is a good book," said the President, bored and stern. "Sumner, couldn't you have somebody look into this?" "Certainly, Mr. President." "And let me know what you find out." "I will, sir." Franklin Roosevelt resumed eating his ice cream. Nobody spoke. Perhaps eight or ten seconds ticked by, but at that table, in that company, it was a long time. Everybody appeared bent on eating dessert, and the spoons clinked and scraped. "Speaking of that book," the President's wife said with a bright smile, looking up, "I have just been reading the most extraordinary little volume-" The door to the hallway opened, and a pale moustached Navy commander entered, carrying a brown envelope. "I beg your pardon, Mr. President.""Yes, yes. Let me have it." The commander went out. The tearing envelope made a noisy rasp. Yellow strips like telegram tape were pasted on the white sheet the President unfolded. "Well!" Franklin Roosevelt looked around, his face all at once charged with teasing relish. "May I relay a bit of news?" He took a dramatic pause. "It seems they've got the Bismarck!" "Ah!" The crown princess bounced in her chair, clapping like a girl, amid an excited babble. The President raised his hand. "Wait, wait. I don't want to be overoptimistic or premature. What it says is, airplanes from the Ark Royal have caught up with her and pat several torpedoes in her. They must have hit her steering gear, because when night fell she was trailing thick oil and steaming slowly west-the wrong way. The entire fleet is closing in and some units now have her in sight." "Does it give a position, Mr. President?" said Victor Henry. The President read off a latitude and longitude. "Okay. That's a thousand miles from Brest," said Pug. "Well outside the Luftwaffe air umbrella. They've got her." President Roosevelt turned to a servant. "Fill the glasses, please." Several waiters sprang to obey him. Silence enveloped the table. The President lifted his glass. "The British Navy," he said. 'the British Navy," the company said in chorus, and all drank. Somerset Maugham blinked his lizard eyes many times. Next morning, long after Victor Henry had gone to work, when the maid came to remove the breakfast things, Rhoda asked her for pen and paper. She wrote a short note in bed: Palmer, dearYou have a kindly heart that understands without explanations. I can't do it. I realize we can't see each other for a long while, but I hope we will be friends forever. My love and everlasting thanks for offering me more than I deserve and can accept. I'll never forget. Forgive me. Rhoda She sealed it up at once, dressed quickly, and went out in the rain and mailed it herself. That same dark and muggy morning, shortly before noon, a buzzer sounded on the desk of Victor Henry's office. He sat in his shirt-sleeves working by electric light. "Yes?" he growled into the intercom. He had left word that he would take no calls. The head of War Plans wanted, by the end of the week, a study of merchant shipping requirements for the next four years. "Excuse me, sir. The office of Mr. Sumner Welles is calling, sir." "Sumner Welles, hey? Okay, I'll talk to Sumner Welles."Welles's secretary had a sweet sexy Southern voice. "Oh, Captain Henry. Oh, suh, the Undersecretary is most anxious to see you today, if you happen to be free." Glancing at his desk clock and deciding to skip lunch, Pug said, "I can come over right now." "Oh, that will be fahn, suh, just fahn. In about fifteen minutes?" When he arrived at Welles's office, the warm sexy voice turned out to belong to a fat old fright, sixty or so, in a seersucker dress. 'Mali, you got here fast, Captain. Now, the Undersecretary is with Secretary Hull just now. He says do you mind talking to Mr. Whitman? Mr. Whitman has all the details." "Yes, I'll talk to Mr. Whitman." She led him from the spacious and splendid offices of Sumner Welles to a much smaller and more ordinary office without a window. The projecting sign over the doorway indicated a minor official in European Affairs. Aloysius R. Whitman was a thick-haired man in his late forties, indistinguishable from ten thousand other denizens of Washington offices, except for his somewhat horsy clothes, an unusually florid face, and an unusually bright smile. Several prints of horses livened the walls of the small office. "The Undersecretary sends his thanks to you, Captain, for interrupting a busy schedule to come over." He gestured at a chair. "Cigarette?" "'nanks." The two men smoked and regarded each other. "Wretched weather," said Whitman. "The worst," said Pug. "Well, now. The business of Dr. Aaron Jastrow's passport," Whitman said genially. it's no problem whatever, as it turns out. The authorization was sent out a while ago. It may have been delayed enroute, the way things often are nowadays. At any rate it's all set. We doublechecked by cable with Rome. Dr. Jastrow can have his passport any time he'll come down from Siena to pick it up, and has been so informed. It's all locked up." "Good. That was fast work." "As I say, there was no work to do. It had already been taken care of." "Well, my son will be mighty glad to hear about this.""Oh yes. About your son." Whitman uttered a little laugh. He rose, hands jammed in the patch pockets of his green and brown jacket, and leaned casually on the edge of his desk near Pug, as though to make the chat less official. "I hope you'll take this in the right spirit. The Undersecretary was disconcerted to have this thing raised at the President's dinner table." 'Naturally. I was mighty jarred myself. So was my wife. I chewed Byron out afterward, gave him holy hell, but the thing was done." 'I'm awfully glad you feel that way. Suppose you just drop a little note to the President, sort of apologizing for your son's rather touching gate, and mentioning that you've learned the matter was all taken care of long ago?" 'An unsolicited letter from me to the President?" "You're on very good terms with the President. You just dined with him." "But he asked for a report from Mr. Welles." The captain and the State Department man looked each other in the eye. Whitman gave him the brightest of smiles and paced the little office. 'We went to a rather dramatic effort this morning, Captain, just to make sure young Mrs. Henry could get home. Literally thousands of these cases of Jewish reugees come to us, all the time. The pressure is enormous. It's absolutely nbelievable. Now the problem in your family is settled. We hoped you'd be more appreciative." Rightly or wrongly, Henry sensed an unpleasant nuance in the way the man said "your family," and he broke in, "Natalie and her uncle aren't Jewish refugees, they're a couple of Americans." "There was some question, Captain-apparently a very serious question-as to whether Aaron Jastrow was technically an American. Now we've cleared it up. In return I really think you should write that letter." "I'd like to oblige you, but as I say, I wasn't asked to address the President on this subject." Pug got to his feet. "Is there something else?" Whiunan confronted him, hands in jacket pockets. "Let me be frank. The Undersecretary wants a report from me, for him to forward to the President. But just a word from you would conclude the matter. So-" "I'll tell you, Mr. tman, I might even write it, if I could find out why a distinguished man like Jastrow got stopped by a technicality when he wanted to come home. That's certainly what the President wants to know. But I can't give him the answer. Can you?" Whitman looked at Victor Henry with a blank face. "Okay. Maybe somebody in your section can. Whoever was responsible had better try to explain." 'Captain Henry, the Undersecretary of State may find your refusal hard to understand.""Why should he? He's not asking me to write this letter. You are." Pulling hairy hands from his pockets, Whitman chopped both of them in the air with a gesture that was both a plea and a threat. He suddenly looked weary and disagreeable. "It's a direct suggestion of the State Department. $ "I work for the Navy Department," said Pug. "And I have to get back on the job. Many thanks." He walked out, telephoned the Norfolk Navy Yard from a booth in the lobby, and sent a message to Byron on the S-45. His son called him at his office late in the afternoon. "Eeyowl" shouted Byron, hurting his father's ear. "No kidding, Dad! Do you believe it this time?" "Yes." "God, how Marvelous. Now if she can only get on a plane or a boat! But she'll do it. She can do anything. Dad, I'm so happy! Hey! Be honest now. Was I right to talk to the President, or was I wrong? She's coming home, Dad!" "You had one hell of a nerve. Now I'm goddamned btwy and I hope you are. Get back to work." Therefore I have tonight issued a proclamation that an UNLIMITED national emergency exists, and requires the strengthening of our defenses to the extreme limit of our national power and authority. "Okay!" exclaimed Pug Henry, sitting up, striking a fist into a palm, and staring at the radio. "There he goes!" Roosevelt's rich voice, which in broadcasting always took on a theatrical ring and swing, rose now to a note of passion. "I repeat the words of the signers of the Declaration of Independence -that little band of patriots, fighting long ago against overwhelming odds, but certain, as we are, of ultimate victory: With a firm reliance on the protection of Divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our lives, our fortunes, and our sacred honor."' After a moment of crackling static, the announcer sounded awed: "You have been listening to an address by the President of the United States, speaking from the East Room of the White House in Washington." "That's terrific! It's far more than I expected." Pug snapped the radio off. "He finally did it!" Rhoda said, 'He did? Funny. I thought he just pussyfooted around." "Pussyfooted! Weren't you listrung? 'We are placing our armed forces in position... we willuse them to repel attack. an unlimited national emergency exists. "What does all that mean?" Rhoda yawned and stretched on the chaise tongue, kicking her legs. One pink-feathered mule dropped off her naked foot. "Is it the same as war?" "Next thing to it. We convoy right away. And that's just for starters." "Makes me wonder," said Rhoda, flipping the negligee over her legs, whether we should pursue those houses any further." "Why not?" "They'll surely give you a sea command if we go to war, Pug." "Who knows? In any case, we need a place to hang our hats." "I suppose so. Have you thought any more about which house you'd want?" Pug grimaced. Here was an old dilemma. Twice before they had bought a bigger house in Washington than he could afford, with Rhoda's money. "I like the N Street house." "But, dear, that means no guest room, and precious little entertaining." "Look, if your heart is set on Foxhall Road, okay." "We'll see, honey. I'll look again at both of them." Rhoda rose, stretching and smiling. "It's that time. Coming to bed?" "Be right up." Pug opened a briefcase. Rhoda swished out, purring, "Bring me a bourbon-and-water when you come." Pug did not know why he was back in her good graces, or why he had fallen out in the first place. He was too preoccupied to dwell on that. His arithmetic on merchant shipping was obsolete if the United States about to convoy. Transfers of ownership and other roundabout tricks could be dropped.(was) It was a whole new situation now, and Pug thought the decision to convoy would galvanize the country. He made two bourbon-and-waters, nice and rich, and went upstairs humming. The yeoman's voice on the intercom was apologetic. "Sir, beg your pardon. Will you talk to Mr. Alistair Tudsbury?" Victor Henry, sweating in shirt-sleeves over papers laid out on every inch of his desk, was tryingat the urgent demand of the office of the Chief of Naval Operations-to bring up to date before nightfall the operation plan filed months earlier, for combined American and British convoying. "What? Yes, put him on.... Hello? Henry speaking." "Am I disturbing you, dear boy? That's quite a bark." 'No, not at all. What's up?" "What do you make of the President's press conference?""I didn't know he'd had one." "You are busy. Ask your office to get you the afternoon papers." "Wait a minute. They should be here." Pug's yeoman brought in two newspapers smelling of fresh ink. The headlines were huge: NO CONVOYS - FDR and PRESIDENT TO PRESS: SPEECH DIDN'T MEAN CONVOYS "Unlimited Emergency" Merely a Warning; No Policy Changes Skinuning the stories, Pug saw that Franklin Roosevelt had blandly taken back his whole radio speech, claiming the reporters had misunderstood it. There would be no stepped-up United States action in the Atlantic, north or south. He had never suggested that. Patrolling, not convoying, would go on as before. No Army troops or marines would be sent to Iceland or anywhere else. All he had been trying to do was warn the nation that great danger existed. Tudsbury, who could hear the pages turning, said, "Well? Tell me something encouraging." "I thought I understood Franklin Roosevelt," Pug Henry muttered. Tudsbury said, 'What's that? Victor, our people have been ringing church bells an'd dancing in the streets over last night's speech. Now I have to broadcast and tell about this press conference." "I don't envy you." "Can you come over for a drink?" "I'm afraid not." "Please try. Pam's leaving." "What?" "She's going home, leaving on a boat tonight. She's been pestering them for weeks to let her return to Blighty." "Let me call you back." He told his yeoman to telephone an old shipmate of his, Captain Feller, at the office of the Chief of Naval Operations. "Hello, Soapy? Pug. Say, have you seen the papers about that press conference?... Yes, I quite agree. Well, now, next question. This Convoy Annex Four. Do you still want it by tonight?. .. Now, Soapy, that's a rude suggestion, and it's an awfully bulky annex. Moreover I hope we'll use it one day.... Okay. Thanks." Pug hit the buzzer. "Call Tudsbury. I'm coming over.""The funny part is," Pug said to Tudsbury, "Rhoda said he pussyfooted around. I was taken in." "Maybe it needs a woman to follow that devious mind," said the correspondent. "Pam, where are your manners? Pug's here to say good-bye to you. Come in and have your drink." "In a minute. My things are all in a slop." They could see Pamela moving in the codor, carrying clothes, books, and valises here and there. They sat in the small living room of Tudsbury's apartment off Connecticut Avenue, hot and airless despite open windows through which afternoon traffic noise and sunlight came streaming. Tudsbury, sprawling on a sofa in a massively wrinkled Palm Beach suit, with one thick leg up, heaved a sigh. "I shall be alone again. There's a girl who is all self, self, self." "Family trait," called the dulcet voice from out of sight. "Shut up. Please, Pug, give me something comforting to say in this bloody broadcast." "I can't think of a thing." Tudsbury took a large drink of neat whiskey and heavily shook his head. "What's happened to Franklin Roosevelt? The Atlantic convoy route is the jugular vein of civilization. The Huns are sawing at it with a razor. He knows the tonnage figures of the past three months. He knows that with Crete and the Balkans mopped up, the Luftwaffe will come back at us, double its size of last year and howling with victory. What the devil?" "I'll have my drink now," said Pamela, striding in. "Don't you think you should be going, governor?" He held his tumbler out to her. "One more. I have never been more reluctant to face a microphone. I have stage fright. My tongue will cleave to the roof of my mouth." "Oh yes. just as it's doing now." Pamela took his glass and Pug's to the small wheeled bar. "Put in more ice. I've caught that decadent American habit. Pug, the Empire's finished. We're nothing but an outpost of yours against the Germans. But we're a fighting outpost of forty millions, with a strong navy and a plucky air force. Why, man, we're your Hawaii in the Atlantic, many times as big and powerful and crucial. Oh, I could make one hell of a broadcast about how preposterous your policy is!" "Thanks, Pam," Pug said. "I agree with you, Tudsbury. So does the Secretary of the Army. So does Harry Hopkins. They've both made ST)eeches urizing convoy now. I have no defense of the President's policy.