The staff car sped down Constitution Avenue at twenty-five miles per hour. In peacetime, that fast a pace would have been too dangerous. In wartime, the streets around the government offices along the National Mall were clear. Pedestrians kept well clear as the noise of a car engine was so unusual as to be easily discernible. The car slowed, turned on to Seventeenth Street, and alighted near the War Department gatehouse.
Robert Fitzgerald jumped from the car and scanned for nearby threats. Then, satisfied that there was no danger, he opened the door. Admiral Fiske, once again disguised in a civilian suit, emerged. Captain de Steiguer climbed out after him, followed by Colonel Feland and Lt. Nimitz. Together, the quartet hurried to the gatehouse and presented their credentials to the guards. After being cleared by the sentries, Robert followed Fiske towards the War Department.
The War Department’s atmosphere had changed dramatically since their last visit less than two months prior. The old entrance alcove had additional sentries, and there was a sense of sudden urgency in the way the military personnel and the civilian employees moved. A quick glance around the corner showed a corridor packed with desks and new staffers at them, writing or hammering away at typewriters. The War Department building seemed to be at maximum capacity, and the wartime expansion of the Army and Navy likely meant that the situation would only grow worse.
Fiske walked up to the front desk, now filled with eight men rather than the two usually assigned, and said, “Admiral Fiske and staff here for their meeting.”
The yeoman he addressed looked through an appointment book. “Ah…yes sir,” He said. “Very good sir. I’ll have someone escort you there immediately.”
Fiske stepped back. Within a few minutes, a marine orderly came rushing up. He said “Sir, if you would follow me?” Fiske nodded, and the five of them set off.
Quickly, Robert noticed that they were not heading upstairs. Instead, the marine led them to a stairwell, and they found themselves walking down several flights of stairs. Robert had never been in the basement of the War Department. Walking behind, he couldn’t tell if Fiske was surprised to be led this way as well. Upon reaching the bottom, they found two doorways with armed sentries in front of them. One was guarded by a sailor, the other by a soldier. The escort walked up to the sailor and presented his credentials. The man stepped aside.
They entered the door and stood in a small entry alcove in front of a solid oak door. The guide turned to them. “You may enter, sir,” he said before departing.
Fiske opened the door, and Robert followed him in. They stood on a balcony of sorts and looked down at a large room the size of a basketball court. Large tables, each with a map of a different section of the world, were placed around the room. Officers stood around them, moving markers about the maps and using long sticks to pinpoint specific areas. Looking around, Robert noticed that the floor on which they stood had many different rooms and offices. Before he could look closely, a naval lieutenant with a staff aiguillette walked up.
“Welcome to the Map Room sir,” he said.
“Quite impressive!” Fiske said. “I’m glad to see they chased the bats out of here.” He turned to his staff. “The basements were originally meant to be emergency store rooms if Washington was besieged again. Lost their purpose when we crushed the Rebs in “72. The Department didn’t bother to look after it, and a colony of bats ended up roosting here. In 1911, the Army-Navy Board persuaded the Department to rebuild it as a ‘military coordination center.”
“By the looks of it sir,” Steiguer said. “The Department sure listened.”
Robert thought that was an understatement. In addition to the maps, there looked to be entire rooms off to the side filled with telephones, telegraph machines, rotor machines for sending coded messages. Then there were other rooms full of file cabinets, which Robert figured contained vital intelligence information. Around the balcony were offices for senior staff, Navy bureau chiefs, and civilian secretaries. It made sense that the entrance had its own sentry, and Robert was surprised that some of these individual rooms didn’t have their own guards.
Fiske’s party followed its guide down to the main floor. There, they were greeted by an admiral. Robert recognized him at once. It would have been rather difficult for him not too. Any posting near D.C. made it wise to be able to identify the Chief of Naval Operations.
“Admiral Benson,” Fisk said, a bit coolly.
“Admiral Fiske,” Benson replied, equally coolly. Robert vaguely knew that Benson and Fiske did not have the best rapport. Fiske’s close relationship to Theodore Roosevelt put the noses of a number of the senior officers on the naval staff out of joint. “If you and your staff will come this way, we’ve readied the Atlantic Table for you.”
“Certainly,” Fiske replied. Robert got the distinct impression that the two men did not care for each other. Then again, this did not surprise him too much. After a while, senior officers had to compete with each other for command billets, and the danger of being passed over into retirement engendered a certain degree of anxious hostility.
They came to a halt alongside one of the large tables. It was covered with an enormous map of the Atlantic, stretching from the Arctic to the Antarctic. It was bounded by the Americas to the west and Europe and West Africa to the east. There were a few pieces on the board: an enemy marker at the Orkneys, another in Edinburgh, and two more on the southeast coast of England. A smaller marker at Brest represented the French squadron guarding the Biscay. A few other British and French markers were scattered throughout the North Sea. An allied marker denoted the High Seas Fleet at Wilhelmshaven. The Caribbean was solidly in American hands, while markers marked French and British vessels on patrol off the coast of Africa. Benson paced a marker on the board, representing BatDiv 2.
“Well gentlemen,” Benson said. “I know that Admiral Fiske has informed you of what the Department intends for him. I also know that he’s had you discussing ideas for slipping into the North Sea and down to Wilhelmshaven. The Naval Staff has been looking at this problem as well, and we would like to coordinate our efforts.”
“Very good,” Fiske replied. “Captain de Steiguer, would you explain what the staff has come up with.”
“Yes, sir,” Steiguer replied. He picked up one of the pointing sticks and started to explain. “The major factors at play are the distance involved, the fuel capacity of our squadron, and Britain’s Grand Fleet at Scapa Flow. Broadly speaking, distance makes it impossible to sail directly from New York or Boston to Wilhelmshaven. We’d need to take on coal and bunker fuel. We would need to do so relatively close to Germany so that the squadron would have sufficient fuel for battle maneuvering while still having enough fuel to make port. While the squadron should avoid engaging the enemy, we cannot rely on its ability to slip through undetected.” Steiguer paused, and Benson nodded. “As such,” Steiguer continued. “we will also need to coordinate with the Imperial Navy Office and Admiral von Pohl. It is almost certain that we will need the High Seas Fleet to sortie when we try to slip into the North Sea.”
Benson nodded again and said, “I’ll speak to the Assistant Secretary and the German naval attaché. Much will depend on the Imperial Navy, but I would be surprised if they rejected the request. They know they really can’t expect us to run a battle division close to the Orkneys while their own ships ride at anchor. Did you have anything in mind regarding fueling points?”
“That’s where we ran into difficulty.” Fiske answered. “It’s easy for oil-fired ships. We can send along a few oilers and be well on our way. That’s not an option with the coalfired ships. Even with the best transfer equipment and ideal conditions, the best we’ve ever managed is a rate of 35 tons of coal per minute. That’s not fast enough to be practical. We need an anchorage.”
“Did you discuss any potential places?” Benson asked.
“Yes,” Fiske said, “but the State Department will pitch a fit.”
Benson sighed a bit. “By your answer, I assume this involves grossly violating the sovereignty of a neutral power?”
“Yes,” Fiske said. “There’s a fjord on the eastern side of Iceland that might do.” Fiske took a pointer and indicated its general location. “It’s large enough to let us fit our projected force, and we’d only need to use it sporadically.”
“I see the logic,” Benson said. “but you’re also right regarding how the State Department will react, not to mention the Germans. The Germans are already fighting on two fronts, and if the Danes should enter the war on the side of the Allies in response, it would force the Germans to defend yet another front. That doesn’t even factor in the danger posed to the Kiel Canal. Still, the Naval Staff has been kicking around ideas for weeks and come up with nothing better. I’ll take it upstairs and-”
A naval lieutenant and two ratings came rushing over to the table. Before Benson could demand an explanation of why the Chief of Naval Operations and the senior operational commander in the Atlantic were interrupted, the lieutenant used a shuffling tool to place down a German marker on the map board. Robert took a close look and saw that the change had occurred on the Broad Fourteens.
“Mr. Halsey, what happened?” Benson asked.
“Sir,” Mr. Halsey answered. “We’ve just received a report that the German battlecruiser force has engaged British warships off Texel. We’re still waiting to decode more of their report, but it seems that there was heavy fighting between the Germans and light forces attached to the British detachment at Harwich.”
“Does this come from Berlin?” Benson asked.
“Yes sir,” Halsey replied. “There are confirmatory reports from the State Department. The two forces were close enough to the Dutch coast to wake up seaside communities when they opened fire.”
“Very good Mr. Halsey,” Benson said. “Keep me informed.” Halsey rushed away, and the entire group took a long hard look at the board.
“Is there any information on what the British have in that area?” Fiske asked.
“We have a bit,” Benson said. “They’ve concentrated light cruisers and destroyers at Harwich to keep an eye on the Belgian Coast and to support the Dover Patrol. They also had, for reasons beyond my understanding, a force of armored cruisers on patrol along the Broad Fourteens. They’re not quite as old as the Edgar-class cruisers the Germans shot up last month, but they have no business being in commission.”
“Now, where were we?” Benson said. “Oh yes. I’ll take your proposals to the Assistant Secretary and the Secretary himself. They might have more luck with the State Department. There’s plenty of time to figure things out. We can’t deploy you until the Pacific is sorted out. Which is complex.”
Benson walked over to a different table, followed by Fiske, Robert, and the rest of the staff. It was a map of the Pacific basin. The map was covered in markers. Robert was pleased to see that the Philippines, Guam, and Samoa had American and allied markers.
“So far, War Plan Orange has proceeded as smoothly as could be hoped for. The Japanese made their initial landings on Luzon and Guam but were unable to take either outright. In Guam, things became pretty desperate. The garrison retreated to fortified positions in the southern mountains but were heavily outnumbered. While we’d reinforced Guam, the garrison was lacking in machine guns and artillery. The Japanese were making good progress in investing our entrenchments. Luckily, Admiral Fletcher arrived in time. With support from the Pacific Fleet’s battleships, two brigades of Army troops and a provisional marine regiment combined with the garrison and wiped the Japanese out. As of four days ago, Guam is officially secure.”
“Bully!” Fiske said.
“Odd,” Benson said wryly. “That’s exactly what the Secretary of War said when he read the coded signal.” This provoked laughter.
“What’s the situation with the Philippines?” Fiske asked.
“As good as can be expected.” Benson replied. “Fletcher’s fleet has arrived, and the Japanese are slowly withdrawing North. We think they might be trying to evacuate their Army. Aguinaldo’s defensive line was solid enough that they couldn’t break through it or go around it. With the Pacific Fleet on station, the Japanese position is untenable. They can’t rely on their sea lines of communication staying open, and if closed off, their Army will starve.”
“Is that all?” Fiske asked.
“There’s been no decisive battle…yet,” Benson replied. “Fletcher will need several weeks to refit. To be frank, a delay hurts the Japanese far more than it hurts us. The only way they benefit is more time to lay siege to Tsingtao, but even if they manage to take it from the Germans, we’ll take it back once we see to their fleet.”
As Benson finished. Mr. Halsey came rushing back in. Halsey added more pieces to the Atlantic board and removed one. Benson rushed back over and glanced at the board.
“What’s the news?” Benson asked.
“Clarifying information from Berlin sir,” Halsey replied. “SMS Moltke was torpedoed during the night but was able to halt the flooding and set a course for home. The rest of the German scouting force pursued the British and caught them at dawn. It was a force of light cruisers and destroyers. The Germans claim to have sunk four light cruisers and four destroyers. The Germans have also identified the enemy force as being the attached cruisers assigned to the British battlecruiser force.”
“How do they know that?” Benson asked.
“Intel from some of the survivors,” Halsey replied. “Some of them were Irish nationalists, and they were annoyed that the British sent out the Battlecruiser Force’s light cruisers while their capital ships stayed in port.” Robert had to prevent himself from smiling at this. He figured his Grandpa Roland would approve.
“Anything else?” Benson said.
“Yes sir,” Halsey added. “Friendly neutrals picked up a radio distress signal from HMS Unity, that’s an Acasta-class destroyer. Its position is near a minefield that the German laid several weeks ago.”
“Is that all?” Benson said.
“No sir,” Halsey replied. “The British light forces managed to disengage, and Admiral Hipper decided to attack that squadron patrolling the Broad Fourteens. They report that they sank the entire force.”
“A good day for the Imperial Navy,” Fiske said softly.
Benson nodded in agreement. “The armored cruisers are no great loss in of themselves, but most of their crews were reservists, new recruits, or boys. That adds a political dimension to their loss. On top of that, losing four modern cruisers and a half flotilla of destroyers so close to home won’t be good.”
“Maybe the Germans will have settled things, at least at sea, by the time we’re ready to deploy.” Fiske joked.
“We don’t anticipate that being so,” Benson replied dryly. “Besides, the war by land looks like it will drag out. The Germans and the enemy keep trying to turn each other’s northern flank. Eventually, they’ll hit the sea. Already, they’re starting to dig field fortifications similar to what Aguinaldo did in the Philippines.”
“Is there anything else I ought to know regarding our own naval deployments?” Fiske asked, changing the subject.
“Not particularly,” Benson replied. “We’ve handed over our motor patrol boat squadrons to the Coast Guard, so they’re responsible for keeping the British from smuggling guns to Ben Tillman and those other lunatics. We’ll also be escorting prisoner transports to Navassa Island at the request of the Constabulary, but that will be handled by our detached forces in the Caribbean. We might even station an old battleship or two there. The last thing we need is a mass prisoner escape setting the supervisory states aflame.”
“Very good,” Fiske said. “Well, we seem to have completed our business.”
“At least until Admiral Fletcher sees to the Japanese,” Benson said. “I’ll save someone else the trouble and escort you back upstairs myself. Besides, I spend too much time down here anyway. I’m beginning to understand how a gopher lives.”
“Or a submariner,” Fiske said, with a glance thrown at Nimitz. They followed Benson out of the room and up to the second level of the Map Room. As they exited and ascended the stairwell, Robert reflected on how much he had learned simply from following Fiske as an aide and bodyguard. He’d met several officers who’d done staff duty, but none of them breathed a word about the Map Room. He’d always thought that the Secretary of War’s office was the holy of holies, but he felt the Map Room could give it a run for its money.
They returned to the surface and exited the War Department. The Washington heat was starting to pick up, and they sweltered as they waited for the staff car to reach the other side of the sally port. The sentries at the gate waved them through, and they scrambled back in. The driver sped down the empty road towards Union Station, where it deposited them.
Fiske waited until they were in a private room in the passenger lounge before asking, “Well, what do you think?”
“I think,” Steiguer began, “that trying to slip BatDiv 2 into Wilhelmshaven will be more difficult than trying to get a battle fleet to Manila. The Michigans can manage eighteen knots tops, and the Brits have battleships that top that, not even mentioning their battlecruiser force. I think, sir, you should try to get the Navy to wait until the Saratogas are ready. They’ll be ready in five months and it’s not like we’re going to get to Germany much sooner. Admiral Fletcher will need time to redeploy his fleet after it engages the Japanese, and that will take weeks.”
“You’re not wrong Louis,” Fiske said. “but we’re needed sooner rather than later. The Germans are fighting a two front war and a protracted blockade. We may not be able to send an Army, but the White House and Congress both agree we can send a naval force.”
“I know sir,” Steiguer replied. “That’s what worries me,”
No one had a good answer for that.