Winds of War (107 page)

When the outside door closed, Rhoda said brightly, “Well! How long has it been Palmer? An age.”

Kirby sat forward, hands on his knees. “Pug doesn’t know he’s put you in a spot. I’ll be going.”

Rhoda sat composed, legs crossed, arms folded, head atilt. “You’ll waste some good double lamb chops. Can’t you smell them? Dinner’s about ready.”

“Rhoda, I really believe you don’t feel in the least awkward.”

“Oh, Palmer, I take things as they come. I’m very glad to see you, actually. What brings you to Washington anyway?”

“A defense job, about which I can tell you nothing except that it’s going very badly.”

“You mean you’re living here?”

“I have an apartment in the Wardman Park.”

“Well, well. What about your factory?”

“I have excellent managers and foremen. I fly to Denver every two weeks or so. I just got back.” With a sarcastic, one-sided grin he added, “It’s disturbing how well things go on without me.”

“And how is that house of yours?”

“Fine. I didn’t sell it, and now I won’t.”

“Oh? And now, here you are. Funny.”

“‘Funny’ isn’t the word I would choose.”

Rhoda dropped her voice to a soft, intimate note. “Was my letter so very upsetting?”

“It was the worst blow I’ve had since my wife died.”

Rhoda blinked at his rough tone, and sighed. “I’m sorry.” She sat clasping and unclasping her fingers in her lap. Then she tossed head. “I’m trying to think how to tell this so I don’t come out a flibbertigibbet, but to hell with that. I sat next to the President at that White House dinner. He was nice to me. He liked me. He said wonderful things about Pug, about his future career. A divorced man is very handicapped in the service, especially when he’s in sight of flag rank. I’m very aware of that. I’ve seen how it works. And - well, so I did what I did. I’ve slept badly ever since, Palmer, and I’ve been an awful crab. But I’ve stuck to him, and I don’t intend to apologize.”

“Dinner, Miz Henry.” A gray-haired colored woman in a white smock appeared in the doorway, looking sad and reproachful.

“Oh dear. Oh yes. What time is it, Barbara?”

“It’s half past eight now, Miz Henry.”

“That’s awful. I never intended for you to remain this late. Palmer, you’re staying, of course. Just put it on the table, will you Barbara? Then you can go.”

By the time Rhoda Henry and Palmer Kirby had finished off the thick chops, a salad, and a bottle of wine, the tension between them was gone, and he was laughing at her droll stories of troubles with the new house. She was laughing too, though, as she said, at the time the mishaps had put her in wild rages.

“What would you say to another glass of St. Julien with the cheese, Palmer?”

“Rhoda, if he comes home and finds us cracking a second bottle, those eyebrows will go way up, so.”

“Oh, pshaw.” She began clearing dishes. “Many’s the second bottle he and I have cracked. And third ones, on occasion.” She paused, holding a stack of dishes. “I can’t tell you how good I feel. This couldn’t possibly have been planned. But there’s a great weight off my mind.”

Rhoda brought the coffee, and the second bottle, out to the back porch. The rain was over. Beyond the dim trees, in July twilight fading into darkness, a few stars showed.

“Ah! Isn’t this pleasant?” she said. “I think this porch is the reason I wanted the place. It makes me think of the house we had in Berlin.

“This is like a Berlin summer evening,” Kirby said. “The light that lingers on, the fresh smell of rained-on trees –”

She said, “You remember?”

“I have an excellent memory. A little too good.”

“I have a very handy one, Palmer. It tends to remember the good and forget the bad.”

“That is a female memory.” Dr. Kirby gulped his wine with an abrupt motion. “Now let me ask you something, Rhoda. This may really sound offensive. But we may never talk like this again. I’ve had a lot to drink. Much too much, no doubt. Your letter was a bad shock. I’ve thought and thought about this thing ever since. I believed you. I still do. But I have a question to ask you. How come?” After a marked silence, broken only by the chirping of birds, he said, “I’ve made you angry.”

“No.” Rhoda’s voice was throaty and calm. “Of course I know the answer you want - that you were irresistible and there’d never been anyone remotely like you. That’s true enough. Still. I’ve had plenty of chances, dear. And I don’t just mean drunken passes at the officers’ club. There have been times . . . but to be absolutely honest, these men have all been naval officers like Pug. That’s the circle I move in. Not one has measured up to him, or even come very close.” She was silent for a space. “Don’t take this wrong. I’m not blaming Pug for what happened this time. That would be too low. But he does shut me out so much! And from the moment the war started, that got much worse. Pug’s a fanatic, you know. Not about religion, or politics. About getting things done.”

“That’s an American trait,” said Palmer Kirby. “I’m the same kind of fanatic.”

“Ah, but in Berlin, whether you knew it or not, you were courting me. When Pug courted me, I fell in love with him, too.” She uttered a low chuckle, and added, “Let me say one thing more. Though you, of all people, might give me the horselaugh. I’m a good woman. At least I think I am. So, with one thing and another, there’s been no one else. Nor will there be. I’m a quiet grandma now. That’s that.”

They did not speak for a long time. In the darkness, they were two shadowy shapes, visible only by the dim reflection of unseen streetlamps on the leaves.

“Pug’s never called,” said Rhoda quietly.

The shape of Kirby emerged from the wicker chair, looming tall. “I’ll go now. The dinner was a success. I feel remarkably better. Thanks.”

She said, “Will I see you again?”

“Washington’s a pretty small town. Look at the way I bumped into Pug.”

“Can you find your way out, dear?”

“Certainly.”

“I don’t mean to be rude, but to be frank, at the moment my eyes are messy.”

Palmer Kirby came to her, bowed over her hand, and kissed it. She put her other hand over his and gave it a soft lingering pressure.

“My,” she said. “So continental. And very sweet. Straight through the living room, darling, and turn left to the front door.”

Chapter 47

A week later, Victor Henry lay in the upper bunk of an officer’s cabin in the heavy cruiser
Tuscaloosa
, above a gently snoring colonel of the Army War plans Division. A hand on his shoulder and a whisper, “Captain Henry?” brought him awake. In the red glow from the corridor, he saw a sailor offering a dispatch board. Pug switched on his dim bunk light.

DESIRE CAPTAIN VICTOR HENRY TRANSFER WITH ALL GEAR TO AUGUSTA PRIOR TO 0500 TODAY FOR FORTHCOMING EXERCISE X

KING

“What time is it?” Pug muttered, scribbling his initials on the flimsy sheet.

“0430, and the OOD says the captain’s gig is standing by for you, sir.”

Pug tried to pack quietly, but a squeaky metal drawer woke the colonel. “Hey, skipper, leaving me? Where are you off to?”

“The
Augusta.”

“What?” The colonel yawned, and snuggled under his blanket. Even in midsummer, the morning air was cool in Nantucket Bay. “I thought that boat’s only for big brass and the President.”

“I guess the admiral decided he needs another typist.”

“Would that be Admiral King? The one who shaves with a blowtorch?”

Henry laughed politely. “Yes, that’s the one.”

“Well, good luck.”

A brisk wind was tumbling and scattering the fog in the twilit anchorage, and the choppy water tossed the slow-moving gig so that the bell clanged randomly and Henry had to brace himself on the dank leather seat. After a dull rocky ride the
Augusta
loomed ahead through the mist, a long dark unlit shape. The cruiser was not even showing anchor lights, a serious and strange peacetime violation. In the breaking fog the President’s yacht and the dunes of Martha’s Vineyard were barely visible. As Captain Henry mounted the cruiser’s ladder, a faint pink glow was appearing in the east. The cleanliness of the old vessel, the fresh smooth paint, the pale gleam of brightwork, the tense quiet gait of sailors in spotless uniforms, marked it as King’s flagship. Peculiar long ramps on the decks, and freshly welded handrails, were obvious special fittings for the crippled President.

Admiral King in starchy whites, lean legs crossed, sat in his high bridge chair querying the captain of the
Augusta
about arrangements for Roosevelt. He took no notice whatever of Henry’s arrival. The captain, a classmate of Pug, was answering up like a midshipman at an examination. When King dismissed him, he ventured a subdued “Hi, Pug,” before leaving his bridge.

“Henry, the President will want a word with you when he comes aboard.” Fitting a cigarette into a black filter holder, King turned cold eyes on Pug. “I just learned that, hence this transfer. We’ll be under way before you can get back to the
Tuscaloosa
. I trust you’re prepared with any reports or information he may desire.”

“I have my work papers here, Admiral.” Pug touched the dispatch case which, in the transit between cruisers, had not left his hand.

King, with chin high, looked down at Victor Henry through half-closed eyes, puffing at the cigarette. “As I told you last week, the President asked to have you along on this exercise. He didn’t mention that he wanted you at his beck and call, however. Are you by any chance a distant relative or an old family friend of Mr. Roosevelt?”

“No, Admiral.”

“Well - you might remember, when occasion offers, that you work for the United States Navy.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Virtually nobody saw the crippled man hoisted aboard. The ship’s company in dress whites was mustered on the long forecastle at attention under the main battery guns. No band played, no guns saluted. The yacht
Potomac
came along the port side, out of sight of Martha’s Vineyard. Sharp commands rang out, a boatswain’s pipe squealed, the
Potomac
churned away, and the President appeared in his wheelchair, pushed by a Navy captain, with an impressive following of civilians, admirals, and Army generals. As on a theatrical cue, the sun at that moment came out and sunlight shafted down the decks, illuminating the grinning, waving President. The white suit and floppy white hat, the high-spirited gestures, the cigarette holder cocked upward in the massive bespectacled face, were almost too Rooseveltian to be real. An actor would have come on so, and Pug thought FDR actually was putting on a little show for the crew, perhaps responding to the burst of sunshine. The wheelchair and its entourage passed across the castle and went out of sight.

At once the two cruisers weighed anchor and steamed out to sea, with a destroyer division screening ahead of them. The morning sun disappeared behind the clouds. In dreary gray North Atlantic weather, the formation plunged northeast at twenty-two knots, cutting across main ship lanes. Victor Henry walked the main deck for hours relishing the sea wind, the tall black waves, and the slow roll of iron plates under his feet. No summons came from the President. That scarcely surprised him. His chief in the War Plans Division was aboard the
Tuscaloosa
; they had intended to do a lot of work en route. Now when the two cruisers reached the rendezvous, they would need an all-night conference. The separation was probably pointless, but the President’s whim had to be endured.

He was finishing bacon and eggs next morning in the flag mess, when a steward’s mate handed him a sealed note on yellow scratch paper:

If you’re not standing watch, old man, you might look in about ten or so.

The skipper

He folded the note carefully away in his pocket. Pug was preserving all these communications, trivial or not, for his grandchildren. At the stroke of ten he went to flag quarters. A rugged frozen-eyed marine came to robot attention outside the President’s suite.

“Hello there, Pug! Just in time for the news!” Roosevelt sat alone in an armchair at a green baize-covered table, on which a small portable radio was gabbling a commercial. Dark fatigue pockets under Roosevelt’s eyes showed through the pince-nez glasses, but the open shirt collar outside an old gray sweater gave him a relaxed look. He had cut himself shaving; a gash clotted with blood marred the big chin. His color was good, and he was snuffing with relish the wind that blew in through a scoop and mussed his thin gray hair.

He shook his head sadly at a Moscow admission that the Germans had driven far past Smolensk. Then the announcer said that President Roosevelt’s whereabouts were no longer a secret, and he perked up. FDR was vacationing aboard the
Potomac
, the announcer went on. Reporters had seen him on the afterdeck of the yacht at eight o’clock last evening, passing through the Cape Cod Canal. Roosevelt’s eyes darted cunningly at Captain Henry. His smile curved up, self-satisfied and wise. “Ha ha. And here I was at eight o’clock, out on the high seas. How d’you suppose I worked that one, Pug?”

“Pretty good deception, sir. Somebody in disguise on the yacht?”

“Darn right! Tom Wilson, the engineer. We got him a white suit and white hat. Well, that’s just grand. It worked!” He tuned down another commercial. “We didn’t want U-boats out gunning for Churchill and me. But I admit I get a kick out of giving the press the slip, Pug. They do make my life a misery.” Roosevelt was searching through piles of paper on the desk. “Ah. Here we are. Look this over, old fellow.” The typewritten document was headed “For The President – Top Secret, Two Copies Only.”

Turning up the radio again, the President slumped in his chair, and the mobile face went weary and grave as the announcer described a newspaper poll of the House of Representatives on the extension of the draft, predicting defeat of the bill by six to eight votes. “That is wrong,” the President interjected, his heavy black-ringed eyes on the radio, as though arguing with the announcer. In the next item, the German propaganda ministry ridiculed an accusation by world Jewish leaders of massacres of Jews taking place in German-held parts of the Soviet Union. The Jews were spreading Allied atrocity propaganda, the ministry said, and the Red Cross was free to come in at any time to verify the facts. “There’s another lie,” the President said, turning off the radio with a disgusted gesture. “Those Nazis are the most outrageous liars, really. The Red Cross can’t get in there at all. I think, and I certainly hope, those stories are terribly exaggerated. Our intelligence says they are. Still, where there’s smoke -” He took off his pince-nez, and rubbed his eyes hard with thumb and forefinger. “Pug, did your daughter-in-law ever get home with her uncle?”