Answered prayers

December 7, 1941, was a day of infamy for Franklin Roosevelt and the American people.  But despite the maelstrom that had rained down from the skies on the U.S. Pacific fleet at Pearl Harbor, Winston Churchill couldn’t have been happier.  Since Dunkirk and the rout of France he had known that the best England could hope for in its struggle against the German juggernaut was a stalemate; a pitiful fortress England dependent solely on valor and Lend-Lease aid to avoid being devoured by the ravenous Fortress Europe of Adolf Hitler that lay across the channel.  Only with American military intervention could Britain end the threat and dispel the cloud that hung over it, but barring some extraordinary attack on its land or interests the United States was intent on limiting its involvement to moral and material support.  Now just such an event had happened and no one could blame him, Churchill wrote after the war, if he felt the “greatest joy” it had.  Although he regretted the loss of life it took to invoke the might of American manpower, it was a necessary evil and a godsend.  Not only England but the enslaved countries of the continent would be delivered.  “We are all in the same boat now,” he heard the president say over the hiss and crackle of the trans-Atlantic call he had made to Washington to confirm the catastrophe.  The metaphor brought a smile to his cherubic face that spread from jowl to jowl.  His prayers had been answered.

Or had they?  For on December 8, America was no closer to joining ranks against the German serpent than it was before the sun peeked over the horizon in Hawaii the previous day.  The war that Roosevelt exhorted and Congress declared was directed against Japan, not Germany.  Britain still stood alone.  Only a foolish German and Italian declaration of war against the United States on December 11 broadened the scope, and brought Churchill the deliverance he had been yearning.  He would have chuckled if the delicious irony crossed his mind that with a rash stroke of a pen, Hitler had done more to bring America into the war than he had been able to do in 19 months of endless supplications, diplomatic maneuverings and stirring oratory.  Ah, what a fool I am, he might have gone on to think.  I wonder who is the bigger, the führer or me?

Relieved of shouldering the burden of the war in Western Europe single-handedly by an American power he was certain ensured victory, Churchill was in fine mettle as Roosevelt and he decided he should come to America to coordinate the opening gambits of the new Anglo-American alliance.  Setting off December 12 on the HMS Duke of York, he intended also to give cheer to a stricken nation on behalf of a people who had suffered worse during the Battle of Britain.  For the PM, hard memories of those days had lifted with America’s entry into the war and he felt rejuvenated.  Gone was the deflated man who had carried the weight of the free world, replaced by the cocky Churchill of old, his personal physician Lord Moran noted as the York braved its way across the dangerous byways of the north Atlantic on its shakedown cruise.

For public consumption and the most part, Roosevelt too was confident.  Despite being the leader of a country that had gone from nonbelligerency to war in two theaters against three countries in four days, he was upbeat and optimistic as he faced the coming upheaval.  Privately and to some considerable degree, however, the president was unsure.  While both Britain and the Soviet Union had rebuffed major German offensives, who knew whether an undeterred Hitler would regain his footing and turn things around in 1942?  If that happened America would stand alone, forced into a hostile standoff against two mighty foes and maybe worse if the Germans harnessed the secrets of nuclear fission and developed an atomic bomb before fledgling U.S. efforts paid off.  Even if that nightmare scenario never unfolded and the war henceforth began to move in the Allied’s favor, the roads to Berlin and Tokyo at the very least would take a heavy toll on the fruit of America, the hundreds of thousands and perhaps millions of young men who laid down their lives to gain victory.  Their flesh was the price America would have to pay even if his rosy expectations were on target.  Visions of such a staggering loss saddened Roosevelt, adding to his fear of a possible “cold war” or even defeat.  Steeped in a sorrow and apprehension few men have ever had to bear, the chief executive of the already loneliest office in the world shared his feelings with no one.  For Franklin Delano Roosevelt operated exclusively in a universe of his own.

It was a detachment both imposed on him and of his own making.  The only child of an overprotective mother and busy, much older father (James Roosevelt was 53 when his son was born), the young Roosevelt grew up in a bubble into the perennial outsider.  His own company and doing things on his own were what he was used to and what he preferred, even when he married and became the father of five children.  While he valued Eleanor and loved his four sons and daughter, privacy and independence were his way.  FDR the family man was for campaign literature and theatrical presentations; in reality the ambitious politician and future president was an absentee husband and father.  In this regard, politics was the perfect cover for family feelings of abandonment and neglect.  “I’d love to go with you kids today but there’s a crisis at the statehouse.”  Or, “You know how important you are to me but there are a lot of people out there who will suffer if I don’t win this campaign.”  FDR was a master of finagling out of sticky situations at home.  This art of deftly removing himself from culpability extended to matters of state, too, where he always had a ready explanation for errant actions or a scapegoat if he didn’t.

Although destiny explains much of Roosevelt’s predilection for insularity, personal choice also plays a role.  Inspired by cousin Teddy and notions of manhood, the boy decided the self-contained man was the only one worthy of the gender moniker.  In the tradition of the lone cowboy hero of countless westerns, such a man took care of his own affairs and would never spill his guts (unless, of course, it was in a shootout).  A corollary of this precept was a noblesse oblige to be a tower of strength and well of encouragement to the good people who depended on him to save the day.  (Son James recalled that even when he was first stricken with polio at Campobello, he downplayed the crisis to his children to “lighten our fears.”)  As a leader, it was incumbent upon him to live up to these virtues, even if it meant he had to bottle up intense emotions.  Together with his self-reliant comfort zone and view, this ethos compelled him to internalize somber reflections such as those that pressed upon him during America’s first days at war.  For relief he would smoke 30 cigarettes a day and get a little looped every night, but these remedies hardly assuaged the pent-up emotions that swelled within him and almost certainly hastened his death.  It was a terrible load for any man to carry, but incomprehensible for one facing problems of Olympian proportions.  Exacerbating the pressure was the obligation to be the nation’s cheerleader in chief, an act he had pulled off for eight years in the midst of the greatest economic disaster in history.  As mentioned, Roosevelt was the master finagler, knowing few peers among the great illusionists of the ages.  Recognizing this ability in himself, he remarked to Orson Welles on meeting him, “You know, Orson, you and I are the two best actors in America.”  Truly said by a man millions of America men, women and children regarded as a father figure yet in fact was a stranger to his own family.  Perhaps the greatest anomaly of FDR is that as well-known as he was, no one ever really knew him.

So who was the inner man if he was a cipher, a sphinx, as much of an enigma as DiMaggio, Garbo and Carson?  Look at the days following December 7 to get an idea.  Insider accounts tell of a man all-too-human, by and large sanguine but also sad, worried and angered by the untimely deaths of 2,403 young American servicemen, threats a formidable Germany and Japan posed to his woefully unprepared country, and Japan’s wanton and unprovoked aggression.  True to form he was churning underneath, yet not betraying the slightest discomfiture.  In truth, Pearl Harbor had hit him like a haymaker, but his disdain for showing what he felt prevented him from confiding that fact even to those closest.  Instead, he went into the Zen-like state he adopted in times of crisis, serenely shuffling through his prized stamp collection in the immediate aftermath of the disaster.

Of all the emotions that Roosevelt manifests at this time the one that stands out most is his optimism.  It was the special gift he had used to miraculous effect in the Great Depression to persuade his ailing nation that better days lay ahead.  After Pearl Harbor he put it to use in a fireside chat, press conference (with Churchill) and other public occasions to give America faith that it would emerge victorious from the titanic struggle that lay ahead.  Even in his darkest hours, Roosevelt’s optimism far outflanked his darker side, and shined as a beacon of hope for the American people.

This, then, was Roosevelt at the outbreak of the war and throughout life in general:  at heart happy, confident and serene, juxtaposed to a lesser extent by sadness, fear and anger.  In short, he was a man who experienced the gamut of human emotion, despite his portrayal of himself as a demigod.  Make no mistake:  The popular image FDR successfully perpetuated of himself as unflappable, optimistic, vital and heroic marked the birth of presidential media manipulation but it stopped short of coming clean.  For FDR was a complex man who often dwelled on the flip side of life.  As much as wanted to be seen and remembered as a deity, he was human.

On December 22, 1941, the day Churchill arrived in Washington for talks that extended into mid-January, he was also itching to let Hitler and Tojo know they had picked a fight with the wrong guy; so much so that he couldn’t wait for the prime minister to arrive at the White House but instead rushed to the airstrip at which he landing from port to get the ball rolling a few minutes sooner. Now that Tojo had thrown the first punch and Hitler declared his intention to join the melee, the president was chomping at the bit to step swinging from the corner and didn’t want to lose a beat. With little formality and within hours Churchill and he laid the groundwork for a joint landing in French North Africa to take it to the Jerries.

For the PM, the strategizing was cause for celebration. The tide of the war had finally shifted and he felt a lessening of the overwhelming strain he had labored under since the Fall of France. But the long hours of fighting for his nation’s survival had weighed heavy on his heart and on December 26 extracted their due in the form of a mild heart attack. Although Lord Moran did not deem it serious enough to tell him, fearing it would not induce him to reduce his workload but only add to his concerns, it still knocked the wind out of his sails. Nevertheless, he continued to work at a furious pace, hammering out numerous key agreements with Roosevelt, most important to make the European theater dominant over the Pacific (the Germany first grand strategy) and Washington headquarters for coalition command decisions. Between the flurry, however, he now found occasion to indulge himself a bit, with the essentials he needed to do so at hand.

Today it is commonplace for celebrities to have written in their contracts a litany of demands that must be met to ensure their creature comfort while on a set or in their hotel. But this kind of star treatment was virtually unknown in the world of the 1940s. Churchill was the rare exception. Like some grand vizier, he required scotch, brandy, champagne and cigars to be in ample supply in his quarters at all times. These were the tools of the trade he needed to conduct his work, along with a squadron of secretaries to jot down any and all thoughts that circulated in his crown and, most essentially, steaming hot water and a tub for his daily bath. (Churchill could not function without this necessity, even when it was a luxury. In 1921, en route from Cairo to Jerusalem, the then secretary of state for the colonies insisted that the train he was traveling on be scoured for some sort of receptacle to act as a makeshift tub. A large basin was found, but there was a problem in getting hot water from the engine boiler to his compartment before it cooled. As his aides scratched their heads in befuddlement, unable to come up with the solution that had appeared spontaneously to him, an exasperated Churchill brushed them aside, told the engineer to stop the train, and ordered the porters to set up the tub alongside the engine. There in the barren waste of the Sinai, in full view of livid diplomats and a caravan of baffled bedouins, he had his bath.)

The stuff of his vices had to be top shelf.  Provision of inferiors to Johnnie Walker Red scotch, properly aged Hine brandy, vintage Pol Roger champagne and hand-rolled Cuban cigars would earn his damnation and a place in the trash heap.  Notwithstanding medical evidence, Churchill was of firm mind that the partaking of vast quantities of liquor and tobacco wasn’t what did harm to the human body, but the partaking of cheap vast quantities of liquor and tobacco.  He would “never” let anyone shorten by even a stroke his full allotment of years by serving him swill.

That included FDR, which presented a delicate problem.  At the end of each working day, the president liked to unwind with a cocktail social, or “children’s hour” as he called it, in which he would personally mix martinis and nightly specialty drinks for specially invited company.  During his stay Churchill, of course, was the guest of honor each evening, and the president went out of his way to make sure he had the privilege of sampling each and every one of his best received concoctions over the years, an inventory that had grown quite extensive over two terms in office.

The problem was, with Roosevelt the quality of the liquor wasn’t of concern, it was the flavor of the drink that was the thing.  This thinking, inevitably, was sacrilege to Churchill, who couldn’t care less about how good the bloody Tom Collins was as to whether it was made with premium Beefeater or Tanqueray.  And even they weren’t up to snuff when diluted with lemon juice and sugar.  Why ruin good liquor with rubbish? the PM might well have thought.  What is Roosevelt trying to do, for chrissakes, kill me?

Thus began a nightly sequence of Churchill holding his breath, sipping one of the president’s “little dividends,” complimenting his host on a most exquisite libation, excusing himself to the men’s room to pour the abomination down the drain, and finally filling the glass with water to hide the subterfuge.  It was quite a production night after night, but one he was willing to undergo to keep on his benefactor’s good side.  Let it never be said that WSC wasn’t willing to pay any price great or small for the sake of king and country.

As much as Roosevelt was a closed book, Churchill was wide open.  The story goes that on the day after his arrival, FDR wheeled into the White House Queen’s Bedroom suite that was his accommodation while in Washington just as he emerged stark naked from his daily bath.  Discomposed and embarrassed, Roosevelt froze at the sight of the dripping pink-fleshed statesman in his full, if shrunken, glory.  Breaking the tension, the quick-witted Churchill came to the rescue with a line that epitomizes his essential forthrightness.  “You see, Mr. President, I have nothing to hide.”

Literally caught with his pants down, Churchill let go of airs he had affected to improve his standing with the president.  Any chance he may have had to impress FDR with a distinguished bearing went down the drain with the bubbles in his bathwater.  Freed of the chore, he could now be the kind of fellow he was at Chartwell, his family home.  That meant striding imperiously past staff and servants in his bathrobe, forgetting his tables manners as he gorged on food and liquor, and waking up anyone he needed in the dead of the night to discuss some or another matter he deemed urgent.  Even the president himself wasn’t exempt from this latter behavior; more than once the restless PM startled him from a sound sleep to hash out a concern that had prevented his own restful slumber.

Churchill’s guilelessness encouraged a tickled Roosevelt to drop his guard, an effect no one had ever inspired in him.  Making candid confessions such as wounded feelings he experienced at Harvard as an odd man out, and letting him address him as Franklin instead of Mr. President in private moments showed FDR had allowed the PM past the barriers.  Most tellingly, he allowed his new friend to see him bathed and dressed as his crippled condition required.  It was an intimacy afforded no one outside his wife, children and discreet attendants.

Was Churchill on his way to becoming FDR’s first real friend?  It certainly looked that way.  But something even more meaningful was developing for the president, a relationship that made friendship pale in comparison.  FDR moved in a rarefied circle of one, like a Chinese heir to the throne deemed too holy to be exposed to mortal flesh.  In such a vacuum, in this most perilous of times only Abraham Lincoln and Woodrow Wilson had come close to facing, he secretly prayed for someone who understood the unique pressures and responsibilities of high office to share his load.  What the president beseeched was for a soul mate like Winston Churchill to blow into his life, and like manna from heaven he was there.

Photo caption:  President Roosevelt lights the national Christmas tree while Churchill gazes in silent reflection at the brilliant display from the South Portico of the White House on Christmas Eve 1941.  “I spend this festival far from my country and far from my family, yet I cannot say I feel far from home,” the wholly British but half American (his mother was born and bred in Brooklyn) prime minister told a national radio audience.