The Winds of War by Herman Wouk
“Exactly. What do you think about my taking this attaché job?”
“Since when do you have any choice?”
“He gave me the impression that I did. That if I didn’t want it, I’d go to a battlewagon next, as an exec.”
“Good lord, Pug, that’s more like it!”
“You’d prefer that I go back to sea?”
“I’d prefer? What difference has that ever made?”
“All the same, I’d like to hear what you’d prefer.”
Rhoda hesitated, sizing him up with a slanted glance. “Well—naturally I’d adore going to Germany. It would be much more fun for me than sitting here alone while you steam around Hawaii in the New Mexico or whatever. It’s the loveliest country in Europe. The people are so friendly. German was my major, you know, aeons ago.”
“I know,” Victor Henry said, smiling, if faintly and wryly, for the first time since arriving home. “You were very good at German.” Some of the early hot moments of their honeymoon had occurred while they stumbled through Heine’s love poetry aloud together.
Rhoda returned an arch glance redolent of married sex. “Well, all right, you. All I mean is, if you must leave Washington—I suppose the Nazis are kind of ugly and ridiculous. But Madge Knudsen went there for the Olympics. She keeps saying it’s still wonderful, and so cheap, with those tourist marks they give you.”
“Yes, no doubt we’d have a gay whirl. The question is, Rhoda, whether this isn’t a total disaster. Two shore assignments in a row, you understand, at this stage—”
“Oh, Pug, you’ll get your four stripes. I know you will. And you’ll get your battleship command too, in due course. My God, with your gunnery pennants, your letter of commendation—Pug, suppose CNO’s right? Maybe a war is about to pop over there. Then it would be an important job, wouldn’t it?”
“That’s just sales talk.” Pug got up and helped himself to cheese. “He says the President wants top men in Berlin now as military attachés. Well, okay, I’ll believe that. He also says it won’t hurt my career. That’s what I can’t believe. First thing any selection board looks for—or will ever look for—in a man’s record is blue water, and lots of it.”
“Pug, are you sure Kip won’t stay to dinner? There’s plenty of food. Warren’s going to New York.”
“No, Kip’s on his way to a party at the German embassy. And why the hell is Warren going to New York? He’s been home all of three days.”
“Ask him,” Rhoda said.
The slam of the front door and the quick firm steps were unmistakable Warren sounds. He entered the porch greeting them with a wave of two squash rackets in a fist. “Hi.”
In an old gray sweater and slacks, his tanned lean face glowing from the exercise, his hair tousled, a cigarette slanting from his thin mouth, he looked much like the lad who, on graduating from the Academy, had vanished from their lives. Pug was still not used to the way Warren had filled out on shipboard food. The boyish weediness was changing into a tall solid look. A sprinkle of premature gray in his dark hair had startled his parents on his return. Victor Henry envied Warren the deep sunburn which bespoke a destroyer bridge, tennis, green Oahu hills, and above all, duty at sea thousands of miles from Constitution Avenue. He said, “You’re off to New York, I hear.”
“Yes, Dad. Is that okay? My exec just blew into town. We’re going up there to see some shows. He’s a real Idaho farmer. Never been to New York.”
Commander Henry made a grouchy sound. It was no bad thing for Warren to be friendly with his executive officer. What bothered the father was thoughts of a woman who might be waiting in New York. A top student at the Academy, Warren had almost ruined his record with excessive frenching-out. He had ended with a bad back attributed by himself to a wrestling injury; by other reports, to an escapade involving an older woman and a midnight car crash. The parents had never raised the topic of the woman, partly from bashfulness—they were both prudish churchgoers, ill at ease with such a topic—and partly from a strong sense that they would get nowhere with Warren.
The door chimes rang. A gray-headed houseman in a white coat passed through the living room. Rhoda stood up, touching her hair and sliding slim hands over her silk-clad hips. “Remember Kip Tollever, Warren? That’s probably Kip.”
“Why, sure. That tall lieutenant commander who lived next door in Manila. Where’s he stationed now?”
“He’s just finished a tour as naval attaché in Berlin,” Victor Henry said.
Warren made a comic grimace, and dropped his voice. “Jehosephat, Dad. How did he ever get stuck with that? Cookie pusher in an embassy!”
Rhoda looked at her husband, whose face remained impassive.
“Commander Tollever, ma’am,” said the houseman at the doorway.
“Hello, Rhoda!” Tollever marched in with long arms outstretched, in a flawlessly cut evening uniform: blue mess jacket with medals and gold buttons, a black tie, a stiff snowy shirt. “My lord, woman! You look ten years younger than you did in the Philippines.”
“Oh, you,” she said, eyes gleaming, as he lightly kissed her cheek.
“Hi, Pug.” Smoothing one manicured hand over heavy wavy hair just turning gray, Tollever stared at the son. “Now for crying out loud, which boy is this?”
Warren held out his hand. “Hello, sir. Guess.”
“Aha. It’s Warren. Byron had a different grin. And red hair, come to think of it.”
“Right you are, sir.”
“Rusty Traynor told me you’re serving in the Monaghan. What’s Byron doing?”
Rhoda chirruped after a slight silence, “Oh, Byron’s our romantic dreamer, Kip. He’s studying fine arts in Italy. And you should see Madeline! All grown up.”
Warren said, “Excuse me, sir,” and went out.
“Fine arts! Italy!” One heavy eyebrow went up in Tollever’s gaunt handsome face, and his cobalt-blue eyes widened. “Well, that is romantic. Say, Pug, since when do you indulge?” Tollever inquired, accepting a martini and seeing Henry refill his own glass.
“Why, hell, Kip, I was drinking in Manila. Plenty.”
“Were you? I forget. I just remember what a roaring teetotaller you were in the Academy. No tobacco either.”
“Well, I fell from grace long ago.”
Victor Henry had started to drink and smoke on the death of an infant girl, and had not returned to the abstinences his strict Methodist father had taught him. It was a topic he did not enjoy exploring.
With a slight smile, Tollever said, “Do you play cards on Sunday now, too?”
“No, I still hold to that bit of foolishness.”
“Don’t call it foolishness, Pug.”
Commander Tollever began to talk about the post of naval attaché in Berlin. “You’ll love Germany,” were his first words on the topic. “And so will Rhoda. You’d be crazy not to grab the chance.”
Resting his elbows on the arms of his chair, legs neatly crossed, he clipped out his words with all the old articulate crispness; still one of the handsomest men in Pug’s class, and one of the unluckiest. Two years out of the Academy, while officer of the deck of a destroyer, Tollever had rammed a submarine at night in a rainsquall, during a fleet exercise. The submarine had surfaced without warning a hundred yards in front of him. It had scarcely been his fault, nobody had been hurt, and the general court-martial had merely given him a letter of reprimand. But that letter had festered in his promotion jacket, sapping his career. He drank two martinis in about fifteen minutes, as he talked.
When Victor Henry probed a bit about the Nazis and how to deal with them, Kip Tollever sat up very erect, his curled fingers stiffened as he gestured, and his tone grew firm. The National Socialists were in, he said, and the other German parties were out, just as in the United States the Democrats were in and the Republicans out. That was the one way to look at it. The Germans admired the United States, and desperately wanted our friendship. Pug would find the latch off, and the channels of information open, if he simply tre
“Hitler’s a damned remarkable man,” said Tollever, poised on his elbows, one scrubbed hand to his chin, one negligently dangling, his face flushed bright pink. “I’m not saying that he, or Göring, or any of that bunch, wouldn’t murder their own grandmothers to increase their power or to advance the interests of Germany. But that’s politics in Europe nowadays. We Americans are far too naïve. The Soviet Union is the one big reality Europe lives with, Pug—that Slav horde, seething in the east. We can hardly picture that feeling, but for them it’s political bedrock. The Communist International is not playing mah-jongg, you know, those Bolos are out to rule Europe by fraud or force or both. Hitler isn’t about to let them. That’s the root of the matter. The Germans do things in politics that we wouldn’t—like this stuff with the Jews—but that’s just a passing phase, and anyway, it’s not your business. Remember that. Your job is military information. You can get a hell of a lot of that from these people. They’re proud of what they’re accomplishing, and not at all bashful about showing off, and I mean they’ll give you the real dope.”
Rhoda asked questions about the Jews, as Pug Henry mixed more martinis. Tollever assured her that the newspaper stories were exaggerated. The worst thing had been the so-called Crystal Night when Nazi toughs had smashed department store windows and set fire to some synagogues. Even that the Jews had brought on themselves, by murdering a German embassy official in Paris. As an embassy official himself, Tollever said, he took rather a dim view of that! He and his wife had gone to the theatre that very night, and on the way home had seen a lot of broken glass along the Kurfürstendamm, and the glow of a couple of distant fires. The account in Time had made it seem that Germany was ablaze from end to end, and that the Jews were being slaughtered en masse. There had been conflicting reports, but so far as he knew not one of them had really been physically harmed. A big fine had been put on them for the death of the official, a billion marks or something. Hitler did believe in strong medicine. “Now as to the President’s recalling our ambassador, that was a superfluous gesture, utterly superfluous,” Tollever said. “It only made things worse for the Jews, and it completely fouled up our embassy’s workings. There’s just no common sense here in Washington about Germany.”
Drinking two more martinis, the erect warrior began dissolving into a gossipy, slouched Navy insider, reminiscing about parties, weekends, hunting trips, and the like; about the potato soup he had drunk with Luftwaffe officers in the dawn, while recovering from a drinking bout after a Party rally; about the famous actors and politicians who had befriended him. Great fun and high living went with an attaché’s job, he chuckled, if one played one’s cards right. Moreover, you were supposed to do those things, so as to dig up information. It was dream duty. A man was entitled to get whatever he could out of the Navy! He had sat in a front seat, watching history unfold, and he had had a glorious time besides. “I tell you, you’ll love it, Pug. It’s the most interesting post in Europe nowadays. The Nazis are a mixed crowd, actually. Some are brilliant, but between you and me, some are pretty crude and vulgar. The professional military crowd sort of looks down on them. But hell, how do we feel about our own politicians? Hitler’s in the saddle and nobody’s arguing about that. He is boss man, and I kid you not. So lay off that topic and you’ll do fine, because really you can’t beat these people for hospitality. In a way they’re a lot like us, you know, more so than the French or even the Limeys. They’ll turn themselves inside out for an American naval officer.” A strange smile, rueful and somewhat beaten, appeared on his face as he glanced from Rhoda to Pug. “Especially a man like you. They’ll know all about you long before you get there. Now if this is off the reservation say so, but how on earth did a gunnery redhot like you come up for this job?”
“Stuck my neck out,” Pug growled. “You know the work I did on the magnetic torpedo exploder, when I was at BuOrd—”
“Hell, yes. And the letter of commendation you got? I sure do.”
“Well, I’ve watched torpedo developments since. Part of my job in War Plans is monitoring the latest intelligence on armor and armaments. The Japs are making some mighty healthy torpedoes, Kip. I got out the old slide rule one night and ran the figures, and the way I read them our battlewagons are falling below the safety margin. I wrote a report recommending that the blisters be thickened and raised on the Maryland and New Mexico classes. Today CNO called me down to his office. My report’s turned into a hot potato. BuShips and BuOrd are blaming each other, memos are flying like fur, the blisters are going to be thickened and raised, and—”
“And by God, Pug, you’ve got yourself another letter of commendation. Well done!” Tollever’s brilliant blue eyes glistened, and he wet his lips.
“I’ve got myself orders to Berlin,” Victor Henry said. “Unless I can talk my way out of it. CNO says the White House has decided it’s a crucial post now.”
“It is, Pug, it is.”
“Well, maybe so, but hell’s bells, Kip, you’re wonderful at that sort of thing. I’m not. I’m a grease monkey. I don’t belong there. I had the misfortune to call attention to myself, that’s all, when the boss man was looking for someone. And I happen to know some German. Now I’m in a crack.”
Tollever glanced at his watch. “Well, don’t pass this up. That’s my advice to you as an old friend. Hitler is very, very important, and something’s going to blow in Europe. I’m overdue at the embassy.”
Victor Henry walked him outside to his shiny gray Mercedes. Tollever’s gait was shaky, but he spoke with calm clarity. “Pug, if you do go, call me. I’ll give you a book full of phone numbers of the right men to talk to. In fact—” A twisted grin came and went on his face. “No, the numbers of the little fràuleins would be wasted on you, wouldn’t they? Well, I’ve always admired the hell out of you.” He clapped Henry’s shoulder. “God, I’m looking forward to this party! I haven’t drunk a decent glass of Moselle since I left Berlin.”
Reentering the house, Victor Henry almost stumbled over a suitcase and a hatbox. His daughter stood at the foyer mirror in a green wool suit, putting on a close-fitting hat. Rhoda was watching her, and Warren waited, trench coat slung on his shoulder, holding his old pigskin valise. “What’s this, Madeline? Where are you going?”
She smiled at him, opening wide dark eyes. “Oh, didn’t Mom tell you? Warren’s taking me to New York.”
Pug looked dourly at Rhoda, who said, “Anything wrong with that, dear? Warren’s lined up extra tickets for the shows. She loves the theatre and there’s precious little in Washington.”
“But has college closed down? Is this the Easter vacation?”
The daughter said, “I’m caught up in my work. It’s only for two days, and I don’t have any tests.”
“And where would you stay?”
Warren put in, “There’s this Hotel Barbizon for women.”
“I don’t like this,” Victor Henry said.
Madeline glanced at him with melting appeal. Nineteen and slight, with Rhoda’s skin and a pert figure, she oddly resembled her father, in the deep-set brown eyes and the determined air. She tried wrinkling her small nose at him. Often that made him laugh, and won her point. This time his face did not change. Madeline glanced at her mother and then at Warren for support, but it was not forthcoming. A little smile curved Madeline’s mouth, more ominous perhaps than a rebellious tantrum; a smile of indulgence. She took off her hat. “Well, okay! That’s that. Warren, I hope you can get rid of those extra tickets. When’s dinner?”
“Any time,” Rhoda said.
Warren donned his trench coat and picked up the suitcase. “Say, incidentally, Dad, did I mention that a couple of months ago my exec put in for flight training? I sent in one of the forms too, just for the hell of it. Well, Chet was snooping around BuNav today. It seems we both h
“Flight training?” Rhoda looked unhappy. “You mean you’re becoming a carrier pilot? Just like that? Without consulting your father?”
“Why, Mom, it’s just something else to qualify in. I think it makes sense. Doesn’t it, sir?”
Commander Henry said, “Yes, indeed. The future of this here Navy might just belong to the brown shoes.”
“I don’t know about that, but Pensacola ought to be interesting, if I don’t bilge out the first week. Back Friday. Sorry, Madeline.”
She said, “Nice try. Have fun.”
He kissed his mother, and left.
Pug Henry consumed vichyssoise, London broil, and strawberry tart in grim abstracted silence. Kip Tollever’s enthusiasm for the mediocre spying job had only deepened Henry’s distaste. Madeline’s itch to avoid schoolwork was a steady annoyance. But topping all was Warren’s casually dropped news; Pug was both proud and alarmed. Carrier aviation was the riskiest duty in the Navy, though officers even his own age were now applying for Pensacola, so as to get into the flattops. A devoted battleship man, Henry wondered all through the meal whether Warren hadn’t hit on something, whether a request for flight training might not be a respectable if desperate way to dodge Berlin.
Madeline kept a cheerful face, making talk with her mother about the student radio station at George Washington University, her main interest there. The houseman, an old Irishman who also did the gardening in warm weather, walked softly in the candlelit dining room, furnished with Rhoda’s family antiques. Rhoda contributed money to the household costs so that they could live in this style in Washington, among her old friends. While Victor Henry did not like it, he had not argued. A commander’s salary was modest, and Rhoda was used to this better life.
Madeline excused herself early, kissing her father on the forehead. The sombre quiet during dessert was unbroken except by the hushed footfalls of the manservant. Rhoda said nothing, waiting out her husband’s mood. When he cleared his throat and said it might be nice to have brandy and coffee on the porch, she smiled pleasantly. “Yes, let’s, Pug.”