Winds of War (55 page)

Opposing our invasion would have been the Royal Air Force and the British fleet, two formidable fighting organizations. But had Hitler seized the first moment in June, using every available vessel afloat in western and northern Europe – there were thousands – to hurl an invasion body across the Channel, the fleet would have been caught by surprise, as it had been in the Norway operation. We would have been across before it could mass to counterattack. The aerial Battle of Britain would have been fought out in the skies over the Channel, under conditions vastly more favorable to the Luftwaffe.

Assuredly we would have taken heavy losses. The attack phase and the supply problem would have cost dearly. Again we would have been staking all on one throw. But in the hindsight of history, what else was there to do? I have several times requested in writing, from American and German archivists, a copy of a draft memorandum I wrote in June 1940, outlining for headquarters discussion a plan for exactly such an immediate cross-Channel assault. My requests have gone unanswered. The memorandum is only a curiosity, and I have no way of knowing whether it has actually survived. At the time Jodl returned it to me without a single word, and that was the end of it.

The Aborted Invasion

Seelöwe (Sea Lion), the invasion scheme scrambled together in the ensuing months, proved an exercise in leisurely futility. Forcing the Channel, once the British had caught their breath and fortified their coast, needed a complex buildup. Hitler never really pushed it. Against England he had lacked the greatness to dare all; and we gradually saw that he lacked the stomach to dare much. He merely allowed Göring to waste his Luftwaffe over the British aerodromes far inland, while the army and the navy frittered away weeks that stretched through the summer, disputing over the operation plan, and passing the buck back and forth. In the end, “Sea lion” was abandoned. Germany certainly had the industrial plant and the military strength to mount the invasion, but not the leadership. When an ounce more of boldness in battle might have won a world, Hitler faltered; and the professional generals were all in impotent subjection to this amateur.

That was the real “triumph” of the Führerprinzip in the summer of 1040. In retrospect, the wrong leader danced the jig.

____________

TRANSLATOR’S NOTE:
Roon’s biting discussion of the Maginot Line and the French leadership leaves little more to be said
.

My friends in the Royal Navy stoutly deny that even in June the Germans could have made it across the Channel. They would have thrown in every last ship they had, of course, to drown the invaders. It is a moot point, but in my judgment Roon makes out a fair case. The U-boats, which he does not mention, would have wreaked havoc in the narrow Channel against a defensively positioned fleet. Roon is on weaker ground in blaming Hitler for the lack of staff plans for an invasion. Had they had a feasible one ready, he might have activated it, as he did the Manstein Plan. Apparently, there was in the files a sketchy naval staff study, and nothing more. The German General Staff in World War II had a strange tendency not to see beyond the next hill, or maybe they preferred not to look
. – V.H.

* * *

Chapter 25

BIG GERMAN BREAKTHROUGH IN BELGIUM!

Still Not Our Fight, Declares Lacouture

Passing a newsstand on the corner of Fifth Avenue and Fifty-seventh Street, where a fresh stack of afternoon papers fluttered under a cobblestone, Janice Lacouture said to Madeline, “Oh gawd, there’s Daddy again, sounding off. Won’t your folks be impressed!” Madeline was helping her shop for her trousseau. Rhoda, Pug, and Byron were due at three o’clock in the Brooklyn Navy Yard aboard the cruiser
Helena
. Janice’s first encounter with Warren’s mother was much on her mind, far more so than the bad war news.

A rough May wind swooped along the avenue, whipping the girls’ skirts and hats. Madeline clutched a package with one hand and her hat with the other, peering at the two-column photograph of Congressman Isaac Lacouture on the Capitol steps, with three microphones thrust in his face. “He’s handsome, you know,” she said.

“I hope you’ll like him. He’s really an awfully smart man,” Janice said, pitching her voice above the wind. Actually the reporters have pushed him further than he ever intended to go. Now he’s way out on a limb.”

Madeline had redecorated the little flat. The walls were pale green, with cream-and-green flowered draperies. New Danish teak furniture, austere and slight, made the place seem roomier. Jonquils and irises in a bowl on the dining table touched the place with spring and youth, much as two girls did when they walked in. It was not a flat where one expected to find a Communist boyfriend. Indeed Madeline had long since discarded the poor popeyed trombone player in brown - something Janice had been relieved to learn. Her current boyfriend was a CBS lawyer, a staunch Roosevelt man and very bright, but going bald at twenty-six.

She called her telephone answering service, briskly jotted notes on a pad, and slammed the receiver down. “Rats. I can’t go with you to meet my folks, Janice, after all. Isn’t that a pain? Two of the amateurs have loused out. I have to spend the afternoon listening to replacements. Always something!” She was clearly quite pleased with herself at being kept so busy. “Now. Do you happen to know a man named Palmer Kirby? He’s at the Waldorf and he says he’s a friend of the family.” Janice shook her head.

Madeline rang him and liked his voice with his first words; it had a warm humorous resonance. “You are Rhoda Henry’s daughter? I saw your name in the book and took a chance.”

“Yes, I am.”

“Good. Your family was very hospitable to me in Berlin. Your mother wrote me they’d be arriving today. I just thought they might be tired and at a loose end, their first evening in New York. I’d like to take all of you to dinner.”

“That’s kind of you, but I don’t know their plans. They won’t arrive till one or so.”

“I see. Well, suppose I make the dinner reservations? If your folks can come, I’ll expect you all in my suite at six or so. If not, just give me a ring, or your mother can.”

“I guess so, sure. Thank you. Warren’s fiancée is visiting me, Mr. Kirby.”

“Ike Lacouture’s daughter? Excellent. By all means bring her.”

Off Madeline went, brimming with zest for existence, while Janice changed into warmer clothes for the Navy Yard.

Madeline was now the “program coordinator” of
The Walter Field Amateur Hour
. Walter Field, an old ham actor, had stumbled into great radio popularity with the hackneyed vaudeville formula of amateur entertainment.

Suddenly made rich, he had gone into a whirl of big real estate deals, and just as suddenly dropped dead. Hugh Cleveland had stepped in as master of ceremonies. Madeline still fetched chicken sandwiches and coffee for him, but she now also interviewed the amateurs. She remained Cleveland’s assistant for his morning show, and she was making more money than ever. For Madeline Henry, May 1940 was as jolly a month as she had ever lived.

In the Brooklyn Navy Yard the wind was stronger and colder. The cruiser was already tied up at the pier, fluttering a rainbow of signal flags strung down from the mast to stem and stern. Amid a swarm of waving shouting relatives on the pier, war refugees were streaming off the gangway. Janice found her way to the customs shed, where Rhoda stood by a heap of luggage, blowing her nose. The tall young blonde in a green wool suit and toque caught Rhoda’s eye.

“Well, isn’t this Janice? I’m Rhoda Henry,” she said, stepping forward. “The snapshots didn’t do you justice at ALL.”

“Oh, yes, Mrs. Henry! Hello!” Rhoda’s willowy figure, modish straw hat, and fuchsia gloves and shoes surprised Janice. Warren’s father had struck Janice, during their brief meeting in Pensacola, as a coarse-grained weather-beaten man. By contrast Mrs. Henry seemed youthful, elegant, even sexy. This was true despite the woman’s reddened nose and frequent sneezing.

“Aren’t you CLEVER to wear that suit. I dressed for spring and it’s positively ARTIC here,” Rhoda said. “Where’s Madeline? Is she all right?”

Quickly Janice explained why the daughter hadn’t come.

“Well! Hasn’t Mad turned into the little career girl! My dear, I want to kiss you, but I daren’t. Don’t come near me. I’m virulent! I’ve got the cold of the ages. They should quarantine me. I’ll infect the nation. Well! How beautiful you are. You’re ravishing. Lucky Warren! How is he, anyway?”

“All right, I hope. He’s sweating out carrier landings, down off Puerto Rico somewhere.”

Victor Henry, looking more impressive than Janice remembered in a gold-buttoned blue bridge coat and gold-encrusted cap, came through the crowd with a surly-looking customs inspector. After a brusque greeting to Janice and an inquiry about Madeline, he wanted to know where Byron had gotten off to.

“Briny disappeared. He had to make a phone call,” the mother said.

As the inspector glanced through the luggage, Janice told the Henrys about Palmer Kirby’s invitation. Between sneezes, Rhoda said, “Well, of all things. His factory’s in Denver. What’s he doing here? I don’t think we can go, can we, Pug? Of course dinner at the Waldorf would be a lovely way to start life in the USA again. Take the taste of Berlin out of our mouths! Janice, you just can’t picture what Germany is like now. It’s gruesome. I’m cured. When I saw the Statue of Liberty I laughed and cried. Me for the USA hereafter, now and forever.”

“Matter of fact, I have to talk to Fred Kirby,” Pug said.

“Oh, Pug, it’s impossible, I have this filthy cold – and my HAIR!” Rhoda said. “What could I wear to the Waldorf, anyhow? Everything’s a mass of wrinkles, except what I’m standing up in. If I could only get my pink suit pressed – and if I could get to a hairdresser for a couple of hours –”

Byron come sauntering through the noisy crowd. “Hey, Janice! I’m Warren’s brother. I thought you’d be here.” He produced from his pocket a small box with a London label and gave it to her.

Janice opened it, and there lay a Victorian pin, a little golden elephant with red stones for eyes. “Good heavens!”

“Anybody who marries one of us needs the patience of an elephant,” said Byron.

“Ye gods, if that’s not the truth,” said Rhoda, laughing.

Janice gave Byron a slow female blink. He was even handsomer than Warren, she thought. His eyes had an eager aroused sparkle. She kissed him.

* * *

“. . .
I have nothing to offer
,” said the grainy strong singsong voice out of the radio, slurring the consonants almost like a drunken man, “
but blood, toil, tears, and sweat
.”

“Why, he’s a genius!” Rhoda exclaimed. She sat on the edge of a frail gilt chair in Kirby’s suite, champagne glass in hand, tears in her eyes. “Where has he been till now?”

Smearing caviar from a blue Russian-printed tin on a bit of toast, and carefully sprinkling onion shreds, Byron said, “He was running the British Navy when Prien got into Scapa Flow and sank the
Royal Oak
. And when the Germans crossed the Skagerrak to Norway.”

“Shut up and listen,” Victor Henry said.

Janice glanced from the son to the father, crossed her long, legs, and sipped champagne. Palmer Kirby’s eyes flickered appreciatively at her legs, which pleased her. He was an interesting-looking old dog.

“. . .
You ask, what is our policy? I will say, it is to wage war, by sea, land, and air, with all our might and all the strength that God can give us: to wage war against a monstrous tyranny, never surpassed in the dark, lamentable catalogue of human crime. That is our policy. You ask, what is our aim? I can answer in one word: Victory - victory at all costs, victory in spite of all terror . . . I take up my task with buoyancy and hope. I feel sure that our cause will not be suffered to fail among men
. . .”

The speech ended. An American voice said with a cough and tremor, “
You have just heard the newly appointed Prime Minister of Great Britain, Winston Churchill
.”

After a moment, Rhoda said, “That man will save civilization. We’re going to get in now. The Germans over-played their hand. We’ll never let them conquer England. There’s something strangely thick about the Germans, you know? One must observe them close up for a long time to understand that. Strangely thick.”

Victor Henry said to Dr. Kirby, glancing at his watch, “Quite a speech. Can we talk now for a few minutes?”

Kirby got to his feet and Rhoda smiled at him. “Champagne, caviar, and business as usual. That’s Pug.”

“We’re just waiting for Madeline,” Pug said.

“Come along,” Kirby said, walking into the bedroom.

“Say, Dad. I’m going to have to mosey along,” Byron said. “There’s this plane to Miami I have to catch. It leaves La Guardia in about an hour.”

“What! Dr. Kirby thinks you’re dining with him.”

“Well, see, I made the reservation before I knew about this dinner.”

“You’re not waiting till Madeline comes? You haven’t seen her in two years. She’s taking us all to her show after dinner.”

“I think I’d better go, Dad.”

Abruptly, Pug left the room.

“Briny, you’re impossible,” his mother said. “Couldn’t you have waited until tomorrow?”

“Mom, do you remember what it’s like to be in love?”

Rhoda surprised him and Janice Lacouture by turning blood red. “Me? My goodness, Byron, what a thing to say! Of course not, I’m a million years old.”

“Thank you for my marvellous pin.” Janice touched the elephant on her shoulder. “That must be some girl, in Miami.”

Byron’s blank narrow-eyed look dissolved in a charming smile and an admiring glance at her. “She’s all right.”

“Bring her to the wedding with you. Don’t forget.”

As Byron went to the door, Rhoda said, “You have a real talent for disappointing your father.”