He didn’t say that, of course. You couldn’t say anything along those lines in a public forum. But letting the audience fill in the dirty word for itself was even more delicious.
The house lights darkened. A tight spot played on Senator Guffey. It gleamed from the frames of his reading glasses. “Now, ladies and gentlemen, I have the great honor and high privilege to present the President of the United States, Franklin Delano Roosevelt!” he said, and stepped away from the lectern.
Next thing you knew, FDR was standing behind it instead. They must have wheeled him on while the only light in the house was the spot on Guffey. Roosevelt was sensitive about being seen-and especially about being photographed-in his wheelchair, and who could blame him? With heavy braces on his legs, he could stand and even take a few stiff steps, but he also didn’t like showing them off. In back of the lectern, he didn’t have to.
Where you could really see him only from the shoulders up, Roosevelt looked strong and vigorous. He waved to the cheering throng in the Arena. The cheers got louder. Then he waved again, in a different way, and they eased off. “Thank you, folks,” he said, his voice booming out of the loudspeakers hooked to the microphone. “Thank you very much. I’m glad to be in Philadelphia. This is where our freedom got its start. This is where the Declaration of Independence was written, and where the Liberty Bell rang out before it cracked.” More cheers. Smiling, the President waited them out. “And I want to tell you, liberty almost everywhere seems a little cracked, or more than a little, today.”
No one applauded that. People leaned forward to listen to whatever FDR would say next. Peggy found herself doing it, and saw Herb was, too. The President didn’t keep them waiting: “Up till very recently, the war in Europe was a war against liberty-liberty there and liberty everywhere. We weren’t fighting, but we were involved, because what happened there was liable to happen to us next. And we acted accordingly, doing what we could for the countries that thought more like we did.”
Sadly, he shook his big, strong-jawed head. “But Europeans are still Europeans. President Wilson, in whose Cabinet I had the privilege of serving as Assistant Secretary of the Navy, found that out the hard way after the last war. And now we discover it all over again. When the so-called democracies make common cause with the Nazis against the Communists, no one cares for liberty any longer. It returns to the same sad old story of the strong trying to steal from the weak for no better reason than that they think they can. And I say, and America must say, a plague on all their houses!”
The Arena went nuts. That has how Peggy put it when she talked about the speech later on. At the moment, she and her husband yelled and stomped and clapped as loud as anybody else. She was as disgusted by England and France’s jump from war against Germany to war against Russia as she’d ever been by anything in her life. (Except, perhaps, her self-disgust at waking up in bed with Constantine Jenkins. But wasn’t waking up in bed with Adolf Hitler a thousand times worse?)
“And so,” Roosevelt went on, “we are sending no more weapons to England or to France. And I have ordered the appropriate authorities to ensure that we sell no more oil or scrap metal to Japan until she ends her aggression against China. Governments must no longer see their neighbors as their prey.”
He got another ringing round of applause. Peggy noticed that he didn’t say anything about Japan’s just-ended war with Russia. Chances were he didn’t want to remind people. Even some of his supporters had been hoping the Communists would lose, as they did.
Roosevelt also didn’t say what Japan-whose home islands didn’t yield much past rice and tough little men-was liable to do when her access to raw materials she needed suddenly got cut off. We’ll all find out, Peggy thought as she left the hall.
Chapter 22
London bubbled like a pot of oatmeal left too long on the fire. No one could prove the government had arranged for that Bentley to run over Winston Churchill. But if Neville Chamberlain did arrange it, he got precious little time to enjoy what he’d done. He went into the hospital for what were described as routine tests… and came out after surgery for cancer of the bowel.
It soon became obvious he could not go on as Prime Minister. He laid down the office and left Number 10 Downing Street for a stay in the country “to recover his strength,” as the papers said. Alistair Walsh could read between the lines. Chamberlain was dying, and would never amount to anything again.
His backers still held a tight grip on Parliament, though. Despite much impassioned oratory from the men Churchill had inspired, Sir Horace Wilson succeeded Chamberlain as the head of government. Wilson was, if anything, even more bonelessly pro-Nazi than his mentor had been.
“We’re bloody well out of it,” Walsh said one cloudy afternoon over a pint of best bitter at the Lion and Gryphon, a pub not too far from Parliament that these days found itself full of men in ill-fitting civilian clothes they seemed uncomfortable wearing. It was, in other words, a place where veterans the armed services found politically unreliable congregated. Misery loved, and drank with, company.
Some of the disgruntled ex-soldiers and -sailors and -flyers nodded. But another man who seemed as out of place as Walsh in tweeds and linen said, “We shouldn’t let them sideline us, by God. If the PM and the Foreign Office have gone off the rails, who’s going to set ’em right but us?”
He spoke like an officer, with a posh Oxbridge accent of the kind much imitated by BBC newsreaders. He had an aristocrat’s long, bony features, too, and an air that said he expected to be taken seriously.
But ranks didn’t matter any more. They were all demobbed together. Anyone could take a potshot at anyone else, no matter which accent he had. Someone at the back of the room said, “Sounds like treason to me.”
The aristo-he was too young to have fought the last time around-only shrugged. “Winston would have quoted that bit about treason’s only being treason if it fails-if it prospers, none dares call it treason.”
His easy use of the Christian name made Walsh ask, “You… knew Churchill?”
“I had that honor, yes,” the younger man replied. “And you?” He was trying to place Walsh, as Walsh was trying to place him.
“I talked with him once,” Walsh said. “He came to see me after they put me on ice here. For my sins, I was the bloke who met up with Hess in the middle of that Scottish field.”
“The famous Sergeant Walsh!” the other fellow said. “Winston spoke well of you, if that matters. Said you rather wished you’d plugged the bugger instead of bringing him in.”
Walsh didn’t remember telling Churchill anything like that. Maybe he had. Or maybe Churchill worked it out from what they had said. “Might’ve worked out better if I had,” Walsh said. “Couldn’t very well have worked out worse. On the same side as the bloody Hun…” He drained his pint to show what he thought of that idea.
“Let me buy you a refill, if I may,” said the man who’d known Churchill. He nodded to the fellow behind the bar. “Publican, if you’d be so kind…?”
“Coming up.” The barman worked the tap. He slid a fresh pint across the smooth surface to Walsh.
“Obliged,” Walsh said. “I’ll do the same for you when you finish there. And, begging your pardon, but you’re a step ahead of me.”
“Oh, quite. My apologies.” The younger man laughed. “The name’s Ronald Cartland.” He held out his hand.
Walsh shook it. The name rang a bell. “You’re an MP!” he blurted.
Ruefully, Cartland nodded. “Afraid so. These days, I’m not what you’d call proud of it. But they couldn’t drum me out of Parliament, and I’m not about to resign there, the way I did when they tried shipping me off to Byelorussia to fight alongside the same bastards I’d been shelling after they invaded France.”