Hatred & Integrity: Two Short Tales of Historical Fiction, Page 2
Rich DiSilvio
Blazing through the wind in his shiny blue Ford convertible, Franklin’s polio-ridden body showed no sign of burden as he deftly manipulated the custom hand levers. Above all things, Franklin loved driving and swimming, as it was only during those times that his crippling paralysis, which robbed him of the use of his legs, seemed to vanish. Only then could Franklin regain the full vigor of his youth.
Dashing to Hackensack airport from his home in Hyde Park, New York, the president rapidly approached the crudely constructed airfield. It was June 19, 1942.
With the landed airplane now in sight, Franklin cut the wheel and fishtailed onto the airstrip’s dirt runway. Excitedly, he squeezed the accelerator lever with his hand, as the Ford’s whirling Firestones churned up huge billows of dust, forming a long amber wake. With his hair flapping in the breeze, Franklin rumbled up to the small Piper J-3 Cub and came to a sliding stop. As the dust cloud passed by his head and over the front hood, Franklin could see the plane’s tiny passenger hatch fling open.
Franklin’s fingertips impatiently tapped the steering wheel as he awaited his guest. The plane’s air-cooled engine cut back to an idle and the small prop gradually whooshed to a stop. It was then that Franklin could vaguely see a stout figure slowly emerging from the fuselage’s square-shaped threshold.
Impulsively, Franklin’s arm shot upward and waved, as he yelled, “Winston, how good to see you again!”
The robust prime minister looked over and cracked a nervous smile as he irritably pushed his way past the pilot. The tiny two-seater was not Churchill’s cup of tea. As he positioned himself to exit, his coattails inadvertently slapped the pilot’s face. The pilot rolled his eyes as Winston grunted, grabbed the aluminum sash, and then pushed outward, making a short leap to the ground.
He straightened out his wrinkled jacket, then purposefully plodded toward the president’s car. In his thick British accent he bellowed, “Franklin ol’ boy! How grand to get here in one piece.” He grabbed the passenger door handle, then peered back at the Piper Cub with an evil eye. “But that bloody little bird nearly killed me! What a perfectly sinful landing.”
Franklin chuckled. “Well, PM, these little Piper Cubs don’t handle the turbulence too well, especially around here, near the gusty Hudson. Nor is this one of America’s greatest airfields.” Franklin adjusted the round spectacles on his nose and added, “However, I’m glad you made it safe and sound. Hop in!”
Churchill swung open the door, placed one foot on the running board, and pulled himself up. Then swiveling his hips, he plopped his rear onto the thick leather seat. Just then, Winston’s eyes jolted as they caught a glimpse of the customized control levers. Immediately, they darted back up at Franklin.
Roosevelt winked. “Don’t worry! You’re in good hands.”
“Y…y…yes, ol’ chap, I can see. Good hands indeed! But how in blazes can this thing move without foot pedals?”
Franklin laughed. “Right here, with these levers. I have complete control of the throttle and brakes. I can make this baby purr like a cat or scream like a cheetah.”
The president squeezed the accelerator lever and the Ford lunged forward, snapping Winston’s head clean back. With a startled look, the prime minister forced his head forward, and balked, “Damn cowboys, you Yanks!”
Franklin popped his long, silver cigarette holder into his mouth, and jumped right into positing serious strategies for the war. Winston anxiously righted himself in the seat and tried to listen as Franklin raced along the Hudson’s perilous cliffs at nail-biting speed.
With more than a touch of concern, Winston squeaked, “Franklin, ol’ boy, I do hope these bloody contraptions of yours have been well tested?”
“Nope! Just had them installed yesterday—I guess you can call this a test drive!”
Winston’s eyeballs bulged as he swallowed a lump of fear. Franklin looked over with his trademark grin. As he began to speak, his cigarette holder flapped wildly with each syllable. “Only kidding, Winston. Why sure, these babies are made of the finest U.S. steel. Naturally they were tested. Relax!”
With trepidation, Winston managed to summon enough courage to force a meager smile of confidence. Wearily, Winston proceeded to respond to the critical war strategies and the dilemmas that plagued them both. The further they engaged in conversation, the more Winston forgot about the risky road hazards. All distractions vanished, however, when Franklin unexpectedly mentioned his thoughts about a major strike that would be either a military milestone or a calamitous nightmare.
A profound look of doubt marred Churchill’s meaty face. “Franklin, the British military has thoroughly examined the possibilities of a major strike on the northern shores of France, but alas, it came to no avail, and for good reason. Unless by some miracle the German forces become demoralized, I can’t fathom how anything of the sort shall ever succeed.”
“Winston, we must move boldly and decisively to penetrate Germany with an aggressive assault. We just need to firm up a plan by logically weighing all the options and possible reprisals, so we can knock this bastard on his ass!”
Winston snorted. “Franklin, ol’ boy, Britain has been fending for survival for quite some time now, and with all due respect, we’re acutely acquainted with German forces. And dare I say, in total confidence, Mr. President, that the German war machine is an intrepid foe, with first-rate generals and superior armaments.”
Unflinchingly, Franklin maintained his aggressive stance, as he blazed over the tree-lined country roads. Driving up the pebbled driveway of the Roosevelt estate, which picturesquely overlooked the Hudson River, Franklin and Winston were greeted by Harry Hopkins.
Hopkins was Franklin’s personal envoy who was sent to London several years prior to secretly assess Churchill. It was Hopkins who relayed to Roosevelt that, despite popular rumor, especially put forth by Joseph Kennedy, Churchill was not a rhetorical drunkard, but in fact, was the firm and lucid spirit of England itself.
As usual, Hopkins had been waiting with a wheelchair by the main entrance. Franklin swung open the door and slithered his body into the chair. Grabbing the chair’s two big front wheels, Franklin pushed himself forward with an affable smile and entered the house.
Winston looked at Harry and raised his eyebrows as they mindfully followed. Up ahead, they saw Franklin eagerly wheel himself over to a glass showcase, then pivot around. As they approached, Franklin enthusiastically showed Winston his prized stamp collection. Winston nodded amicably and listened. At one point he discreetly peered over at Hopkins and winked. After an informative presentation by the president, Winston seized the soapbox to expound upon his love for oil painting, which he said began at age forty-one in 1915. However, he regretted not having touched a brush since 1940, as the war had consumed his every waking hour. After which, they all entered the Green Room and enjoyed a cordial dinner with Eleanor and several of her lady friends.
After dessert, Franklin retreated to his study as his two guests followed close behind. As they entered the dimly lit room, Franklin quickly swiveled about in his wheelchair. “Winston, Harry, can I get you boys a drink?”
Winston chuckled. “When did I ever refuse, my dear boy?” he replied, as Harry laughed and nodded.
“Would you boys like the usual, or do you feel adventurous?” As both stood momentarily mute with indecision, Franklin added, “Fine then, how about one of my Orange Blossom Specials?”
Winston waved his hand. “No thank you! I’ll stick to my Scotch, ol’ boy. Those bloody cocktails of yours are vile concoctions.”
Harry laughed and added, “Sure, I’ll go for one of your Orange Blossoms, Chief.”
Collecting their drinks, the three men clinked rims and toasted.
“Cheers!”
“Salute!”
“Good luck!”
As Winston and Harry took their seats, the prime minister squirmed in his chair as he extracted one of his thickly rolled cigars from his pocket. Striking a match, he lit up the brown, pungent stick.
> The president paused as his genial face suddenly grew serene and formal. “Winston, I have something extremely important that I wish to share with you.”
With a serious look and a squinted eye, Winston replied, “Franklin, you know you speak as if to your own soul, ol’ boy. Go on.”
Franklin took a big swig and slowly leaned forward. “Back in October of 1939, an advisor of mine, Alexander Sachs, handed me a letter from the famed Nobel Prize winner, Albert Einstein; whom you’ve met in the past. This man of great intelligence had made clear to me that a revolutionary new bomb could be fabricated. It’s called an atomic bomb. This volatile weapon, he claims, would be of such a magnitude as to lay waste to an entire city.”
Winston pulled the smoldering cigar away from his moistened lips and smiled. “Yes, I was already briefed by one of my advisors about this same devilish device, Franklin. I believe it was two months previous, in August of the same year. Odd indeed, how these top secrets are not so secret. Aye? In fact, we’ve already started tinkering with this wild theory, we call it Tube Alloys.”
“Do you really believe there’s much validity to this theory?”
Winston frowned as his deep gravelly voice belched, “May God forgive us; but, yes, I believe so. We inherited two Jewish scientists from Germany—Otto Robert Frisch and Rudolf Peierls—and they’ve already laid some groundwork for developing this fiendish monstrosity.”
Franklin squinted and paused for a brief moment, then said, “Well, I think it’s best if we pool our resources.”
“Indeed, man, indeed we must! This new bomb could prove to be a decisive advantage, or foretell the inevitable doom of opening Pandora’s Box.”
“Well, Winston, as you must know, this apparently ill-kept secret is also known by the Germans. So this is now a race, and not something I can ponder idly anymore. I had allocated only limited resources to this project back in 1939, but now, well, after your confirmation of its true feasibility, I swear by the good Lord above that I have every intention of winning this race. This project will be a top priority and I’ll spare no expense.” Franklin’s face grew stiff with resolve as he added, “We will win this race, Winston, and the war!”
Winston shook his head with a dubious grin. “You damn Yanks are a curious lot. Using only mere logic you set a plan into motion, and then inexorably forge forward. A rather grand mindset, if I do say.”
Franklin grabbed the bottle of Beefeaters and added another splash of gin to his cocktail. “Yes, Winston, perhaps it is, but defensive maneuvers will not bring about victory. We believe in establishing aggressive goals and achieving them at all costs.”
Winston looked at Franklin with paternal gravity beyond his years as he took another puff. As his cigar’s peppery smoke rose into his eyes, Winston blinked, and opined, “Franklin, ol’ boy, we Britons are most comfortable with improvisation. The battlefield is like a raging sea; you never know when a gale will snap a mast, or a wave will roll a ship. I guess you can say, we Brits roll with the punches.”
“Well, PM, we Americans like to throw the punches!”
Churchill laughed with a piggish snort as smoke streamed out his nostrils. “Yes, I can see, ol’ boy, I can bloody well see!”
The two leaders spent the next few days soaking up the tranquil scenery of the Hudson Valley. Franklin took Winston on a small tour of the area, pointing out one of Vanderbilt’s mansions down the road, and further north the Olana House, designed and once owned by the famous nineteenth century painter, Frederic Church. The eclectic Middle Eastern designs of the small castle intrigued Winston, and since it had been turned into a museum, Churchill couldn’t resist taking a guided tour. Only small samples of Church’s famous landscapes were on view, but Winston reveled in the art and relaxing conversation. Continuing their leisurely drive, the rural beauties of mountains, dense woods, and the mighty Hudson River offered the two weary leaders much-needed respite. However, by dawn on Sunday, it was time for them and Hopkins to catch a train to Washington, D.C.
The balmy June air peacefully blanketed the mountains, yet as they traveled south they could see dark clouds beginning to form on the horizon. Upon their arrival, the sky rumbled and moaned. As they made their way toward the White House, gusts of wind swirled and drizzle speckled the pavement. En route to the entrance, a torrential downpour unleashed itself upon the trio. Instantly, they were all saturated, as Franklin’s hands had all to do to propel the slippery wheels on his chair. Just as they made it over the threshold, the skies cracked, releasing an even heavier deluge of rain that pounded the six-paneled door and windowpanes.
Entirely drenched, Franklin gazed up at Churchill with his typical jovial smile and buoyant inner spirit. “That was rather fun! Are you okay, PM?”
“Certainly, ol’ boy. We brawny Brits were reared in the rain. We ought to have gills.”
Franklin laughed as he thought about his younger days in the Navy. He had weathered all sorts of storms and swam like a fish. How he missed those years. But the nation had become his salvation, keeping his mind and crippled body active as he diligently struggled to resuscitate it from the ravages of the Great Depression and now from the ultimate peril of conquest by Hitler and Hirohito’s war machines. He gazed up at Hopkins, his arms tired from all the wheeling about. “Well, Harry, what do you say you give the old man a push?”
Hopkins dutifully nodded and wheeled Franklin down the hall, as two strips of water and a set of footprints trailed behind. Churchill snapped his saturated derby and followed, as his shoes oozed water from their seams.
However, the rain and the elements were the least of Franklin’s worries as they made their way down the slippery hallway. Upon entering the Oval Office, several aides readily stood by, each anxious to update the president. One bent over and whispered into the president’s ear.
Twisting in his wheelchair, he looked back at Winston and said, “PM, make yourself comfortable. I’ll only be a moment.”
The prime minister amicably nodded, then strolled over to the office’s huge double-hung windows. As Winston gazed up to ponder the unstable skies, a violent discharge of lightning bolted toward the ground. His plump ruddy face was suddenly illuminated as an aide slowly approached him. The prime minister turned and was cordially presented with his usual Scotch and a coaster bearing the presidential seal.
With a gracious nod, Churchill mindfully turned back to view the tempestuous activity outside. The menacing clouds mercilessly choked the entire sky, while bolts of lightning flashed down from the heavens, as if thunderbolts hurled by enraged pagan gods to punish and decimate humanity. He couldn’t help but notice how it unnervingly echoed the war-ridden world they had now found themselves embroiled in.
Meanwhile, another aide quickly entered the office and approached Franklin with a grave look on his face. He handed the president a telegram.
Unfolding the document, Franklin’s eyes oscillated left to right and steadily downward. Suddenly his arm fell limp as he turned toward Winston. “PM, I’ve just received a telegraph. It’s regarding your troops in Tobruk.”
Winston pivoted about excitedly, when another alarming bolt of lightning flashed. Illuminating Churchill from behind, it formed a brief but ominous silhouette. As Winston spotted Franklin’s solemn expression, however, a porcelain-like pallor washed over his face.
With profound misgivings, Winston uttered, “I was expecting good news, but I surmise I’ll need another shot before reading this one, aye?”
Franklin sat speechless, his empathetic eyebrows wilted. With a sigh, the president nodded as his line of vision fell solemnly toward the floor.
Winston suddenly felt alone. There he stood, in a foreign office with foreign dignitaries all locked in a cold stare. A wave of discomfort rattled his body. Raising his glass, he threw back his head and emptied his charge in one swig. As the intoxicating tonic slid down his gullet, Winston closed his eyes. Then as he lowered his head, they reopened, a liquored glaze coating each orb. He placed the glass d
own and grasped the bottom of his jacket. Firmly, he tugged it down, took a deep breath, and advanced toward the president.
Franklin handed Winston the telegram, then swiveled about and rolled slowly toward his desk. With the telegram locked tightly in his hand, Churchill could sense the weight of anticipation by all those in the office. With a feeling of dread, Winston lowered his head to examine the ominous slip.
An eerie silence befell the room. Only the sound of pounding rain and occasional clashes of thunder reverberated within the oval chamber. As Winston read further and further, his heart became weaker and weaker. Then his eyes came to the lethal lines. His soul dropped.
Angrily, Winston crumbled the yellow paper in his meaty fist, and stared gloomily at the floor. Barely detecting a chair nearby, Winston wearily swiveled and plopped backward, sinking into the dark brown leather.
For an odd moment, Winston just sat frozen and mute. Then in his thick British accent, he mumbled as if in a trance, “How could they? I’m utterly appalled. Over 30,000 men surrendered in Tobruk. Only a short while ago, 85,000 surrendered at Singapore. What are these bloody fools thinking? How could they disgrace the Crown like this? Don’t they realize civilization and freedom teeter in the balance?” His voice grew heavier, deeper. “Surrender is not an option. Damn them! Damn them all!”
His dazed eyes drifted toward Roosevelt. “Dear God, I can just picture Rommel’s face. Soon the desert rouge will have access to Cairo and the Suez. This is grave, grave indeed, I tell you. If Hitler allies with Japan, who will move in from the east, they’ll occupy the entire breadth of Africa and lower Asia. The oil-rich nations will be theirs. All will be lost!”
Franklin wheeled himself near Winston’s side, and placed his hand firmly on his shoulder. Overwhelmed with empathy, he said, “What can we do to help?”
As if awoken from a hellish dream, Winston’s glazed eyes cleared. “Franklin, your magnanimity never ceases to amaze. Here I sit dejected, nay, aghast, ashamed, and awaiting a barrage of criticism, yet you rally to my side like a heavenly angel.”
Looking about, Winston could see and feel the same spirit and benevolence in the eyes of Franklin’s aides. With renewed vigor, Winston energetically rose to his feet. “Give us as many Sherman tanks as you can spare, and ship them to Northern Africa as quickly as possible!”
Without delay, Franklin wheeled himself over to his desk and picked up the phone. Jamming his fingers into the rotary dial, he made direct contact with General George Marshall and duly put in the request.
On the other end, Marshall promptly responded, “But Mr. President, the new Shermans were allotted to one of our own divisions. They’re eager to replace their obsolete armaments.” Yet, sensing the urgency of the president’s request, Marshall switched gears and added, “But, if the British are in dire straits, Mr. President, then the Shermans they will have. I can also send them some newly developed automatic weapons that will prove most useful. Where do we ship them, sir?”
As Roosevelt issued General Marshall the instructions, he looked over at Winston. Giving a firm nod, the president winked. With a profound sense of relief, Winston gazed blissfully at Franklin, awash with veneration.
Dashing to Hackensack airport from his home in Hyde Park, New York, the president rapidly approached the crudely constructed airfield. It was June 19, 1942.
With the landed airplane now in sight, Franklin cut the wheel and fishtailed onto the airstrip’s dirt runway. Excitedly, he squeezed the accelerator lever with his hand, as the Ford’s whirling Firestones churned up huge billows of dust, forming a long amber wake. With his hair flapping in the breeze, Franklin rumbled up to the small Piper J-3 Cub and came to a sliding stop. As the dust cloud passed by his head and over the front hood, Franklin could see the plane’s tiny passenger hatch fling open.
Franklin’s fingertips impatiently tapped the steering wheel as he awaited his guest. The plane’s air-cooled engine cut back to an idle and the small prop gradually whooshed to a stop. It was then that Franklin could vaguely see a stout figure slowly emerging from the fuselage’s square-shaped threshold.
Impulsively, Franklin’s arm shot upward and waved, as he yelled, “Winston, how good to see you again!”
The robust prime minister looked over and cracked a nervous smile as he irritably pushed his way past the pilot. The tiny two-seater was not Churchill’s cup of tea. As he positioned himself to exit, his coattails inadvertently slapped the pilot’s face. The pilot rolled his eyes as Winston grunted, grabbed the aluminum sash, and then pushed outward, making a short leap to the ground.
He straightened out his wrinkled jacket, then purposefully plodded toward the president’s car. In his thick British accent he bellowed, “Franklin ol’ boy! How grand to get here in one piece.” He grabbed the passenger door handle, then peered back at the Piper Cub with an evil eye. “But that bloody little bird nearly killed me! What a perfectly sinful landing.”
Franklin chuckled. “Well, PM, these little Piper Cubs don’t handle the turbulence too well, especially around here, near the gusty Hudson. Nor is this one of America’s greatest airfields.” Franklin adjusted the round spectacles on his nose and added, “However, I’m glad you made it safe and sound. Hop in!”
Churchill swung open the door, placed one foot on the running board, and pulled himself up. Then swiveling his hips, he plopped his rear onto the thick leather seat. Just then, Winston’s eyes jolted as they caught a glimpse of the customized control levers. Immediately, they darted back up at Franklin.
Roosevelt winked. “Don’t worry! You’re in good hands.”
“Y…y…yes, ol’ chap, I can see. Good hands indeed! But how in blazes can this thing move without foot pedals?”
Franklin laughed. “Right here, with these levers. I have complete control of the throttle and brakes. I can make this baby purr like a cat or scream like a cheetah.”
The president squeezed the accelerator lever and the Ford lunged forward, snapping Winston’s head clean back. With a startled look, the prime minister forced his head forward, and balked, “Damn cowboys, you Yanks!”
Franklin popped his long, silver cigarette holder into his mouth, and jumped right into positing serious strategies for the war. Winston anxiously righted himself in the seat and tried to listen as Franklin raced along the Hudson’s perilous cliffs at nail-biting speed.
With more than a touch of concern, Winston squeaked, “Franklin, ol’ boy, I do hope these bloody contraptions of yours have been well tested?”
“Nope! Just had them installed yesterday—I guess you can call this a test drive!”
Winston’s eyeballs bulged as he swallowed a lump of fear. Franklin looked over with his trademark grin. As he began to speak, his cigarette holder flapped wildly with each syllable. “Only kidding, Winston. Why sure, these babies are made of the finest U.S. steel. Naturally they were tested. Relax!”
With trepidation, Winston managed to summon enough courage to force a meager smile of confidence. Wearily, Winston proceeded to respond to the critical war strategies and the dilemmas that plagued them both. The further they engaged in conversation, the more Winston forgot about the risky road hazards. All distractions vanished, however, when Franklin unexpectedly mentioned his thoughts about a major strike that would be either a military milestone or a calamitous nightmare.
A profound look of doubt marred Churchill’s meaty face. “Franklin, the British military has thoroughly examined the possibilities of a major strike on the northern shores of France, but alas, it came to no avail, and for good reason. Unless by some miracle the German forces become demoralized, I can’t fathom how anything of the sort shall ever succeed.”
“Winston, we must move boldly and decisively to penetrate Germany with an aggressive assault. We just need to firm up a plan by logically weighing all the options and possible reprisals, so we can knock this bastard on his ass!”
Winston snorted. “Franklin, ol’ boy, Britain has been fending for survival for quite some time now, and with all due respect, we’re acutely acquainted with German forces. And dare I say, in total confidence, Mr. President, that the German war machine is an intrepid foe, with first-rate generals and superior armaments.”
Unflinchingly, Franklin maintained his aggressive stance, as he blazed over the tree-lined country roads. Driving up the pebbled driveway of the Roosevelt estate, which picturesquely overlooked the Hudson River, Franklin and Winston were greeted by Harry Hopkins.
Hopkins was Franklin’s personal envoy who was sent to London several years prior to secretly assess Churchill. It was Hopkins who relayed to Roosevelt that, despite popular rumor, especially put forth by Joseph Kennedy, Churchill was not a rhetorical drunkard, but in fact, was the firm and lucid spirit of England itself.
As usual, Hopkins had been waiting with a wheelchair by the main entrance. Franklin swung open the door and slithered his body into the chair. Grabbing the chair’s two big front wheels, Franklin pushed himself forward with an affable smile and entered the house.
Winston looked at Harry and raised his eyebrows as they mindfully followed. Up ahead, they saw Franklin eagerly wheel himself over to a glass showcase, then pivot around. As they approached, Franklin enthusiastically showed Winston his prized stamp collection. Winston nodded amicably and listened. At one point he discreetly peered over at Hopkins and winked. After an informative presentation by the president, Winston seized the soapbox to expound upon his love for oil painting, which he said began at age forty-one in 1915. However, he regretted not having touched a brush since 1940, as the war had consumed his every waking hour. After which, they all entered the Green Room and enjoyed a cordial dinner with Eleanor and several of her lady friends.
After dessert, Franklin retreated to his study as his two guests followed close behind. As they entered the dimly lit room, Franklin quickly swiveled about in his wheelchair. “Winston, Harry, can I get you boys a drink?”
Winston chuckled. “When did I ever refuse, my dear boy?” he replied, as Harry laughed and nodded.
“Would you boys like the usual, or do you feel adventurous?” As both stood momentarily mute with indecision, Franklin added, “Fine then, how about one of my Orange Blossom Specials?”
Winston waved his hand. “No thank you! I’ll stick to my Scotch, ol’ boy. Those bloody cocktails of yours are vile concoctions.”
Harry laughed and added, “Sure, I’ll go for one of your Orange Blossoms, Chief.”
Collecting their drinks, the three men clinked rims and toasted.
“Cheers!”
“Salute!”
“Good luck!”
As Winston and Harry took their seats, the prime minister squirmed in his chair as he extracted one of his thickly rolled cigars from his pocket. Striking a match, he lit up the brown, pungent stick.
> The president paused as his genial face suddenly grew serene and formal. “Winston, I have something extremely important that I wish to share with you.”
With a serious look and a squinted eye, Winston replied, “Franklin, you know you speak as if to your own soul, ol’ boy. Go on.”
Franklin took a big swig and slowly leaned forward. “Back in October of 1939, an advisor of mine, Alexander Sachs, handed me a letter from the famed Nobel Prize winner, Albert Einstein; whom you’ve met in the past. This man of great intelligence had made clear to me that a revolutionary new bomb could be fabricated. It’s called an atomic bomb. This volatile weapon, he claims, would be of such a magnitude as to lay waste to an entire city.”
Winston pulled the smoldering cigar away from his moistened lips and smiled. “Yes, I was already briefed by one of my advisors about this same devilish device, Franklin. I believe it was two months previous, in August of the same year. Odd indeed, how these top secrets are not so secret. Aye? In fact, we’ve already started tinkering with this wild theory, we call it Tube Alloys.”
“Do you really believe there’s much validity to this theory?”
Winston frowned as his deep gravelly voice belched, “May God forgive us; but, yes, I believe so. We inherited two Jewish scientists from Germany—Otto Robert Frisch and Rudolf Peierls—and they’ve already laid some groundwork for developing this fiendish monstrosity.”
Franklin squinted and paused for a brief moment, then said, “Well, I think it’s best if we pool our resources.”
“Indeed, man, indeed we must! This new bomb could prove to be a decisive advantage, or foretell the inevitable doom of opening Pandora’s Box.”
“Well, Winston, as you must know, this apparently ill-kept secret is also known by the Germans. So this is now a race, and not something I can ponder idly anymore. I had allocated only limited resources to this project back in 1939, but now, well, after your confirmation of its true feasibility, I swear by the good Lord above that I have every intention of winning this race. This project will be a top priority and I’ll spare no expense.” Franklin’s face grew stiff with resolve as he added, “We will win this race, Winston, and the war!”
Winston shook his head with a dubious grin. “You damn Yanks are a curious lot. Using only mere logic you set a plan into motion, and then inexorably forge forward. A rather grand mindset, if I do say.”
Franklin grabbed the bottle of Beefeaters and added another splash of gin to his cocktail. “Yes, Winston, perhaps it is, but defensive maneuvers will not bring about victory. We believe in establishing aggressive goals and achieving them at all costs.”
Winston looked at Franklin with paternal gravity beyond his years as he took another puff. As his cigar’s peppery smoke rose into his eyes, Winston blinked, and opined, “Franklin, ol’ boy, we Britons are most comfortable with improvisation. The battlefield is like a raging sea; you never know when a gale will snap a mast, or a wave will roll a ship. I guess you can say, we Brits roll with the punches.”
“Well, PM, we Americans like to throw the punches!”
Churchill laughed with a piggish snort as smoke streamed out his nostrils. “Yes, I can see, ol’ boy, I can bloody well see!”
The two leaders spent the next few days soaking up the tranquil scenery of the Hudson Valley. Franklin took Winston on a small tour of the area, pointing out one of Vanderbilt’s mansions down the road, and further north the Olana House, designed and once owned by the famous nineteenth century painter, Frederic Church. The eclectic Middle Eastern designs of the small castle intrigued Winston, and since it had been turned into a museum, Churchill couldn’t resist taking a guided tour. Only small samples of Church’s famous landscapes were on view, but Winston reveled in the art and relaxing conversation. Continuing their leisurely drive, the rural beauties of mountains, dense woods, and the mighty Hudson River offered the two weary leaders much-needed respite. However, by dawn on Sunday, it was time for them and Hopkins to catch a train to Washington, D.C.
The balmy June air peacefully blanketed the mountains, yet as they traveled south they could see dark clouds beginning to form on the horizon. Upon their arrival, the sky rumbled and moaned. As they made their way toward the White House, gusts of wind swirled and drizzle speckled the pavement. En route to the entrance, a torrential downpour unleashed itself upon the trio. Instantly, they were all saturated, as Franklin’s hands had all to do to propel the slippery wheels on his chair. Just as they made it over the threshold, the skies cracked, releasing an even heavier deluge of rain that pounded the six-paneled door and windowpanes.
Entirely drenched, Franklin gazed up at Churchill with his typical jovial smile and buoyant inner spirit. “That was rather fun! Are you okay, PM?”
“Certainly, ol’ boy. We brawny Brits were reared in the rain. We ought to have gills.”
Franklin laughed as he thought about his younger days in the Navy. He had weathered all sorts of storms and swam like a fish. How he missed those years. But the nation had become his salvation, keeping his mind and crippled body active as he diligently struggled to resuscitate it from the ravages of the Great Depression and now from the ultimate peril of conquest by Hitler and Hirohito’s war machines. He gazed up at Hopkins, his arms tired from all the wheeling about. “Well, Harry, what do you say you give the old man a push?”
Hopkins dutifully nodded and wheeled Franklin down the hall, as two strips of water and a set of footprints trailed behind. Churchill snapped his saturated derby and followed, as his shoes oozed water from their seams.
However, the rain and the elements were the least of Franklin’s worries as they made their way down the slippery hallway. Upon entering the Oval Office, several aides readily stood by, each anxious to update the president. One bent over and whispered into the president’s ear.
Twisting in his wheelchair, he looked back at Winston and said, “PM, make yourself comfortable. I’ll only be a moment.”
The prime minister amicably nodded, then strolled over to the office’s huge double-hung windows. As Winston gazed up to ponder the unstable skies, a violent discharge of lightning bolted toward the ground. His plump ruddy face was suddenly illuminated as an aide slowly approached him. The prime minister turned and was cordially presented with his usual Scotch and a coaster bearing the presidential seal.
With a gracious nod, Churchill mindfully turned back to view the tempestuous activity outside. The menacing clouds mercilessly choked the entire sky, while bolts of lightning flashed down from the heavens, as if thunderbolts hurled by enraged pagan gods to punish and decimate humanity. He couldn’t help but notice how it unnervingly echoed the war-ridden world they had now found themselves embroiled in.
Meanwhile, another aide quickly entered the office and approached Franklin with a grave look on his face. He handed the president a telegram.
Unfolding the document, Franklin’s eyes oscillated left to right and steadily downward. Suddenly his arm fell limp as he turned toward Winston. “PM, I’ve just received a telegraph. It’s regarding your troops in Tobruk.”
Winston pivoted about excitedly, when another alarming bolt of lightning flashed. Illuminating Churchill from behind, it formed a brief but ominous silhouette. As Winston spotted Franklin’s solemn expression, however, a porcelain-like pallor washed over his face.
With profound misgivings, Winston uttered, “I was expecting good news, but I surmise I’ll need another shot before reading this one, aye?”
Franklin sat speechless, his empathetic eyebrows wilted. With a sigh, the president nodded as his line of vision fell solemnly toward the floor.
Winston suddenly felt alone. There he stood, in a foreign office with foreign dignitaries all locked in a cold stare. A wave of discomfort rattled his body. Raising his glass, he threw back his head and emptied his charge in one swig. As the intoxicating tonic slid down his gullet, Winston closed his eyes. Then as he lowered his head, they reopened, a liquored glaze coating each orb. He placed the glass d
own and grasped the bottom of his jacket. Firmly, he tugged it down, took a deep breath, and advanced toward the president.
Franklin handed Winston the telegram, then swiveled about and rolled slowly toward his desk. With the telegram locked tightly in his hand, Churchill could sense the weight of anticipation by all those in the office. With a feeling of dread, Winston lowered his head to examine the ominous slip.
An eerie silence befell the room. Only the sound of pounding rain and occasional clashes of thunder reverberated within the oval chamber. As Winston read further and further, his heart became weaker and weaker. Then his eyes came to the lethal lines. His soul dropped.
Angrily, Winston crumbled the yellow paper in his meaty fist, and stared gloomily at the floor. Barely detecting a chair nearby, Winston wearily swiveled and plopped backward, sinking into the dark brown leather.
For an odd moment, Winston just sat frozen and mute. Then in his thick British accent, he mumbled as if in a trance, “How could they? I’m utterly appalled. Over 30,000 men surrendered in Tobruk. Only a short while ago, 85,000 surrendered at Singapore. What are these bloody fools thinking? How could they disgrace the Crown like this? Don’t they realize civilization and freedom teeter in the balance?” His voice grew heavier, deeper. “Surrender is not an option. Damn them! Damn them all!”
His dazed eyes drifted toward Roosevelt. “Dear God, I can just picture Rommel’s face. Soon the desert rouge will have access to Cairo and the Suez. This is grave, grave indeed, I tell you. If Hitler allies with Japan, who will move in from the east, they’ll occupy the entire breadth of Africa and lower Asia. The oil-rich nations will be theirs. All will be lost!”
Franklin wheeled himself near Winston’s side, and placed his hand firmly on his shoulder. Overwhelmed with empathy, he said, “What can we do to help?”
As if awoken from a hellish dream, Winston’s glazed eyes cleared. “Franklin, your magnanimity never ceases to amaze. Here I sit dejected, nay, aghast, ashamed, and awaiting a barrage of criticism, yet you rally to my side like a heavenly angel.”
Looking about, Winston could see and feel the same spirit and benevolence in the eyes of Franklin’s aides. With renewed vigor, Winston energetically rose to his feet. “Give us as many Sherman tanks as you can spare, and ship them to Northern Africa as quickly as possible!”
Without delay, Franklin wheeled himself over to his desk and picked up the phone. Jamming his fingers into the rotary dial, he made direct contact with General George Marshall and duly put in the request.
On the other end, Marshall promptly responded, “But Mr. President, the new Shermans were allotted to one of our own divisions. They’re eager to replace their obsolete armaments.” Yet, sensing the urgency of the president’s request, Marshall switched gears and added, “But, if the British are in dire straits, Mr. President, then the Shermans they will have. I can also send them some newly developed automatic weapons that will prove most useful. Where do we ship them, sir?”
As Roosevelt issued General Marshall the instructions, he looked over at Winston. Giving a firm nod, the president winked. With a profound sense of relief, Winston gazed blissfully at Franklin, awash with veneration.
