Hitler's peace

“Come on in, Professor, and take a seat,” he said. “Arthur?” FDR turned to his black valet. “Get Professor Mayer a martini, would you, please?”

Prettyman nodded silently and retired to the rear of the cabin to prepare my cocktail. I hoped he hadn’t borrowed the recipe from the president.

“Did you bring some money to lose?” asked the president. “The stakes are ten cents a point. And I’m feeling lucky tonight.”

I thought it best not to mention that I had learned to count cards at Harvard. I had once written a small paper on probability theory as a generalization of Aristotelian logic. I wondered what the laws of etiquette were on taking money from the president of the United States in a card game.

“You’ve met Harry,” said FDR. “This is General Arnold.”

I nodded at the chief of the American Air Force, a largish, smug-looking man who, for all his extra size, seemed not much healthier than Hopkins: sweat was pouring from his brow and his color was not good.

“How are your quarters?” Arnold asked politely.

“Fine, sir. Thank you.”

“Hap hates the sea-don’t you, Hap?” said Hopkins, sitting down at the card table and pouring himself a glass of Saratoga Springs water. “Hates the sea and hates ships. I’ll deal first if you like, Mr. President.”

“Beats swimming, I guess,” growled Arnold.

“So what do you think of my ship?” FDR asked me.

“Very impressive.” I took the drink from Prettyman’s silver tray and sipped it cautiously. For once, it was perfect. “I’m almost sorry that I’m not going to see all these guns in action.”

“I don’t see why you shouldn’t see them in action,” said Roosevelt. “Come to think of it, a display of firepower might be good for morale. Let the crew know what kind of navy Hitler was fool enough to declare war on. What do you think, Harry?”

“You’re the navy man, Mr. President, not me. If I had a stomach I might look as bad as Hap here.”

“That true, Hap? Are you belly sick?”

“I’m fine, sir,” Arnold said gruffly.

Hopkins dealt the cards.

“I think the professor’s given me a good idea,” said FDR, picking up his hand and starting to sort it. “We’ll see how the Iowa can defend itself against an air attack. Shall I go first?”

FDR took the turned-up card and placed another on the discard pile.

The very next moment an enormous explosion rocked the ship and, seconds later, the door burst open to reveal Agent Rauff, gun in hand. “Are you okay, Mr. President?” he gasped.

“I’m fine, Wally,” Roosevelt said coolly.

Then, over the loudspeaker mounted in the corner of the cabin came the warning. “General stations. General stations. This is not a drill. Repeat, this is not a drill.”

“What the hell’s going on?” said Arnold.

“Sounds like we’re under attack,” said Roosevelt, not even looking up from his cards. “A submarine, perhaps.”

“Then I’d guess we’d better stay in here and out of the way,” said Arnold. “Let McCrea do his job.” Unperturbed, he drew a card from the stock pile and placed one on top of the discards.

Thinking I could hardly do less than General Arnold, I followed suit and found I could already make a sequence of four hearts.

“Go and find out what’s happening, Wally,” FDR told Rauff. “And for Christ’s sake, put that fucking gun away. This is a battleship, not Dodge City.”

“Yes, sir,” said Rauff, and holstering his weapon, he went out of the cabin to find Captain McCrea. The president took the five of spades I had just discarded and put down a diamond. “Thank you, Professor,” he muttered.

Arnold put down the spade I needed to make a group, which prompted me to count my three remaining cards. I might have knocked as soon as I had picked up Arnold’s card but by now I had guessed what the president was doing and, holding my remaining spade, I discarded a club and decided to hang on for gin. I felt anything but calm. Somewhere, a submarine might already have fired a second torpedo that even now was speeding inexorably toward the Iowa, but there was no sign of fear in Roosevelt’s demeanor. Any tension in the president’s face had to do with the card he had just drawn. Part of me wanted to put on a life vest; instead, I waited for Arnold to take his turn, and then picked up a card.

A moment later the door opened and Captain McCrea entered the cabin and stood to attention, although his uniform looked as if it might have managed this feat on its own. With his shiny shoes, shiny smile, shiny hair, shiny eyes, and shiny fingernails, McCrea was straight out of the box.

“Well, John,” said FDR, “are we under attack?”

“No, sir. A depth charge fell off the stern of one of our escort destroyers and detonated in the rough sea.”

“How the fuck is that possible?”

“It’s a little hard to say for sure, sir, while we’re maintaining radio silence for security reasons. But I would imagine someone didn’t set a safety the proper way.”

“Which ship was it?”

“The Willie D. Porter just flashed a signal to say it was them.”

“Jesus Christ, John, isn’t that the ship that backed into another ship while the Iowa was leaving Norfolk?”