Hitler's peace

“That’s right. Admiral King’s none too pleased about it, I can tell you.”

“I bet he’s not,” laughed Arnold.

“By the way, John,” Roosevelt said. “I’ve decided I’d like to see this ship demonstrate its firepower.”

“Maybe you could use the Willie D. for practice,” said Arnold.

“Ernie King would probably agree with you,” continued Roosevelt. “How about tomorrow morning, John?”

“Yes, sir,” grinned McCrea. “I’ll organize a display you won’t ever forget.”

“Since we’re not actually under attack,” said Arnold, “could we get back to the game?”

But as soon as McCrea had left the cabin, I knocked and spread my cards on the table. “Gin,” I said.

“I’ve got a better idea,” said FDR. “We’ll attach Willard to one of those weather balloons.”

An hour later, when I was more than fifty points ahead, Captain McCrea returned to inform the president that the convoy was stopping to search for a man overboard from the Willie D. Roosevelt looked grimly at the darkness outside the porthole and sighed. “Poor bastard. The man overboard, I mean. Hell of a night to fall overboard.”

“Look on the bright side,” suggested Hopkins. “Maybe it’s the guy who fucked up with the depth charge. Saves a court-martial.”

“Gentlemen,” said Roosevelt. “I think we had better conclude our game. Somehow it doesn’t seem right for us to continue playing gin rummy when a man on this convoy is missing and presumably drowned.”

With the game over, I returned to my cabin to find Ted Schmidt lying on his bunk, apparently insensible, but still holding the neck of the now empty bottle of Mount Vernon rye. I removed the bottle from Schmidt’s pudgy fingers and covered him with a blanket, wondering if his drinking was habitual or occasioned by fear of being abroad on the ocean in a battleship.

The next morning I left Schmidt to sleep it off and returned to “Presidential Country” to watch the barrage display from the flag bridge reserved for Roosevelt’s use during the voyage. Admirals Leahy, King, and McIntire (FDR’s physician) were already on the bridge, and we were soon joined by Generals Arnold, Marshall, Somervell, Deane, and George, as well as some diplomatic personnel I didn’t recognize. Last to arrive were Agents Rowley, Rauff, and Pawlikowski, Rear Admiral Wilson Brown, Harry Hopkins, John McCloy, the assistant secretary of war, Arthur Prettyman, and the president himself. He wore a regulation navy cape with velvet collar and braid frogs and a jaunty little hat with the brim turned up. He looked like a bookmaker going to his first opera.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” Roosevelt said brightly. He lit a cigarette and glanced over the rail at the secondary battery detector and the gunfire control station below. “Looks like we picked a nice day for it.”

The ship was just east of Bermuda on a moderate sea with pleasant weather. I was only feeling a little seasick. I trained my binoculars on the escort destroyers. The Iowa had been making twenty-five knots, but the three smaller destroyers-the Cogswell, the Young, and the Willie D. Porter -had found the pace hard going. I overheard Rear Admiral Brown telling the president that the Willie D. had lost power in one of its boilers.

“She’s not what you would call a lucky ship, is she?” observed the president.

Hearing a loud metallic clunking noise, I glanced down to see, immediately beneath me, one of the Iowa ’s nineteen 40-millimeter guns being loaded. A little further to my right, in front of the first uptake, a sailor was manning one of the ship’s sixty 20-millimeter guns. The weather balloons were launched and a minute or so later, when these had achieved a sufficient altitude, the antiaircraft batteries began to fire. If I’d been deaf, I think I would still have complained about the noise. As it was, I was too busy covering my ears with both hands and remained that way until the last of the balloons had been hit, or had drifted out of range toward the escort destroyers. It was then I noticed something unusual to starboard and turned toward Admiral King, a tall, slim-looking man who resembled a healthier version of Harry Hopkins.

“The Willie D. Porter appears to be signaling, sir,” I said, when the noise had finally abated.

King trained his binoculars on the flashing light and frowned as he tried to decipher the Morse code.

“What do they say, Ernie?” asked the president.

I had already read the message. The training at Catoctin Mountain had perhaps been better than I remembered. “They’re telling us to go into reverse at full speed.”

“That can’t be right.”

“Sir, that’s what they’re signaling,” I insisted.

“Doesn’t make sense,” muttered King. “What the hell does that idiot think he’s playing at now?”

A second or two later all became frighteningly clear. On the underside of the flag bridge, immediately beneath our feet, an enormous public-address system burst loudly to life. “Torpedo on the starboard quarter. This is not a drill. This is not a drill. Torpedo on the starboard quarter.”

“Jesus Christ!” yelled King.