A Favor for FDR
by Derek Hart
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Smashwords Edition
Published by
Derek Hart on Smashwords
A Favor for FDR
Copyright - 2004 Derek Hart
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the publisher.
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This book is also available as print
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Table of Contents
Chapter 2 - Failure to Communicate
Chapter 3 - “As a favor, Mr. President”
Chapter 7 - The Things Men Do for Love
Chapter 8 - Who Said Anything About a Mission?
Chapter 9 - Things Finally Get Serious
Chapter 11 - Toothpaste and Uranium
Chapter 12 - The Passing of a Great Man
Chapter 13 - Is it Really a Bomb?
Chapter 14 - How Far Did They Really Get?
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Dedicated to Michele Desjardins.
Friendship tried and true,
even during the most challenging times.
A compassion and understanding
uncommon in most relationships.
ALSOS - 1. Greek for sacred groves; a garden or park of amusement and athletics. 2. Codename for the Allied secret operation to locate the Nazi nuclear reactor somewhere in Europe. It was supposedly named after General Leslie Groves, head of the Manhattan Project for World War II US nuclear weapons effort.
It was Germany, not America, which first split the atom. The US didn't have a clue until Einstein warned the White House some years after the Nazi research began. The man in charge of German nuclear research was Werner Heisenberg, a founder of modern quantum physics. His American counterpart, Robert Oppenheimer, was a scientific novice compared to Heisenberg.
However, in the end, the difference between success and failure turned on the financial and political backing the two research teams received. The Americans were completely supported by their government, with millions of dollars spent to develop the national capabilities in nuclear science, while the German scientists suffered from lack of governmental interest, paltry funding and their own lack of vision.
Even with these handicaps, it is historically amazing how far the German effort progressed and many of their findings were instrumental in the success of the American bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki.
But just how far did the Germans really get?
That question may never be satisfactorily answered, for the Americans made certain that German research notes, documentation and test results were not only never published, but often destroyed or their existence actually denied. Much of what we do know is based solely on speculation and very little has been written about the subject, since there isn’t much evidence one way or another, except from certain biased individuals who participated. Besides, some of the story sounds more like science fiction, or the ranting of a desperate nation. Yet there is some underlying circumstantial evidence that gives one pause.
There were some very disturbing and fascinating indications that the German effort never really considered an atomic bomb as a practical weapon, since using such a powerful and not fully understood device might bring more destruction upon Germany than its use would justify. What is far more interesting were their theories regarding nuclear reactors and controlled fission applications.
Disputed facts coupled with incorrect interpretations provide a foundation for unsolved mysteries. Perhaps one of the most controversial and unsettled issues that has prevailed since the end of WWII is why, given the facts that German scientists discovered nuclear fission, worked intensively to build a reactor, had access to all the basic ingredients - heavy water, uranium and two cyclotrons, did they not proceed to develop a weapon of mass destruction?
Armed with these facts at the time, it became a matter of great urgency for the Allies to evaluate the status of German science as the war progressed. The Normandy invasion would have been a total disaster if an atomic bomb greeted the landing troops.
At the urging of Albert Einstein, who communicated directly with President Franklin D. Roosevelt - the Manhattan Project, the effort that would ultimately develop an atomic weapon for the Allies, was formed. It then became a matter of the most critical urgency to know what stage of research had been reached in nuclear fission in Germany. Did the Germans have the bomb? How close was the race?
In response to this situation, the US government through the OSS (forerunner of the CIA) commissioned a super-secret mission to evaluate the status of German science and to assess their progress in the area of nuclear fission. ALSOS was the code name for the joint military/scientific expedition sent into occupied Europe and they succeeded in capturing scientists, seizing uranium supplies and concluding that no such plans for a bomb were seriously underway.
So what were the Germans up to then? Werner Heisenberg, Niels Bohr, Lisa Meitner, and Otto Hahn were gifted German scientists, all great minds capable of reaching the same conclusions as the American team. Were they morally against the bomb’s development or did they just not understand the technical problems and concluded its development was not feasible? We may never know, because they publicly denied the possibility that such a bomb could be built, even after learning about Hiroshima and Nagasaki.
Yet certain evidence suggests that the German team not only knew how to build an atomic bomb, but also decided against using it. No matter what the reasons were for abandoning the project, it is startling to delve into the alternative choices. Atomic power took on an even more advanced role in the German plans, far surpassing the “simplistic” approach of just a bomb.
After the Americans dropped their nuclear bombs on the Japanese, the British interrogation team told the German scientists the news. Their initial reaction was complete disbelief, then anger and finally horror. Several of the members fell into deep bouts of depression, fearing that their work had somehow aided the Allies in their quest for this ultimate weapon.
Several weeks after Hiroshima and Nagasaki, Dr. Werner Heisenberg was recorded saying, “I went to see Dr. Bohr in 1941, to ask his help to convince scientists on both sides of the war to cease work toward this bomb. Now look what has happened?”
To David Burke, who was instrumental in the research required for this book, as well as his intimate knowledge of The Little White House, FDR’s presidential retreat near Columbus, Georgia. The author was granted several extensive tours of the site, as well as access to scores of documents and artifacts associated with President Roosevelt’s visits to the private cottage during the war years. David’s fascination and dedication to the legacy of FDR was critical in providing historical credibility for this novel.
To Carla Malerba, who continues to assist the author with her ongoing research, providing extensive material about the Italian theatre of war during WWII, specifically in regards to the Anzio invasion, Rome during German occupation, and a family narrative, which added immensely to the authenticity of this book.
To the Manhattan Project Heritage Preservation Association & David M. Vickio - Executive Director, who supplied answers to several hypothetical questions from the author, as well as providing timelines and details that added immensely to the historical aspects of this story.
Cover Art by David M. Burke
Franklin Delano Roosevelt built the Little White House in Warm Springs, Georgia, in the spring of 1932. FDR visited the area to bathe in its warm waters as part of his polio therapy for many years before building the home, which doubled as a presidential retreat. It was during his stays at the Little White House that FDR saw first-hand the concerns of his rural neighbors and conceived many of the visionary programs that lifted the country out of the Great Depression.
Roosevelt’s Little White House is a national treasure. All Americans should visit this historically important landmark, to learn more about its important role in shaping our nation’s history, and its contribution toward the modern political era.
The Little White House draws more than 100,000 visitors annually, more than any other Georgia state historic site. The historic park is located ¼ mile south of Warm Springs, Georgia on Highway 85/Alternate Highway 27.
For more information and a calendar of events, please visit
www.gastateparks.org or www.fdr-littlewhitehouse.org
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April 19, 2004
Warm Springs, Georgia
Secrets Revealed
The clouds were dark and hanging low, cutting off the mountain scenery with steady rain. It was a cold and dreary day. Michael Brock tried to relax, but he just couldn’t find a spot that was comfortable. He wanted to look out the window at the passing countryside, but the constant fog and drizzle blotted out any view.
Along the highway they came, a short caravan of black limousines following the long low hearse along Georgia Highway 41. The soaking steady downpour added to the dreariness of the funeral procession. Winding through the Georgia hills north of Columbus, the snaking parade of headlights headed past Pine Mountain, to shine eventually on the headstones of a church cemetery in the quaint town of Warm Springs.
The twin wrought-iron gates were open wide and Michael could see the traditional green awning draped over the burial site. There were several black umbrellas lined up near the church sidewalk, men waiting to offer protection to the few passengers. The cars all slowed and rolled to a stop, Michael’s door opening almost immediately.
“This way, sir,” spoke a pleasant voice, a hand outstretched.
Brock used it to pull himself out of the low backseat. Stretching slightly, he took a look around, especially noting the tiny cemetery. What possible reason could there be for his father to wish to be buried so far from home?
Mike was emotionally drained and the extensive funeral arrangements had taken their toll. His father had passed away at the grand old age of 86, making the trip to Heaven while asleep. His son was still dealing with the loss of his best friend and role model, when he discovered the stipulations of his father’s will were very precise. As the good son, Michael made every attempt to honor his dad’s unusual wishes. So here he was, in Warm Springs, Georgia, of all places, far from their home in suburban Chicago.
The memorial service was being held at the First Baptist Church and a plot had been purchased many years before. Robert Mitchell Brock was to be laid to rest near a stunning grand old oak tree, the ground always blanketed with shade or fallen leaves.
“Welcome, my son,” said someone standing nearby. “I’m Pastor Lawrence Cobb.”
Michael turned and was greeted with the solemn but pleasant face of the church pastor. He was probably in his mid-60’s, with gray at the temples, but looked a spot older with the horn-rimmed black glasses. They shook hands.
“I really appreciate all that you have done, Pastor Cobb,” Brock said with genuine gratitude. “It was all rather last minute and rushed.”
“We are honored that your father chose our little church cemetery for his final resting place,” said Pastor Cobb. “Please come inside. Everything is ready.”
There were only a few people in the narthex, where the open casket would be available for viewing for only a few hours. Following that was a memorial service and finally prayers and last rites at the gravesite.
Michael took one last look at his father. The embalmer had requested photographs to assist his art and the son was pleased. His dad looked asleep, at peace, but with just the slightest smirk, as if he was having a good dream. It was how he looked when alive, except his eyes were closed.
Michael listened as best he could to the memorial service, but he was lost in memories, remembering all the things he hadn’t told his father. Of course he battled guilt at harsh words exchanged in the past or unfinished business, but found himself smiling more often than not. They had a respectful relationship, which grew closer as they both grew older. Yet there had always been a part of his father’s past that seemed mysterious, unexplained, and perhaps even secret. His mother couldn’t account for her husband’s moments of dark brooding either, which didn’t last long, but were always initiated by certain news headlines. Those bouts of irrational anger were especially bad when the threat of nuclear terrorism or proliferation of “weapons of mass destruction” were discussed by the news media.
Then the mood would pass suddenly, as quickly as it had arrived, his father once again the practical prankster, full of humor and jest. Michael thought fondly of their times together, deciding that his father had been a fair and loving man, all things considered. Brock senior was an engineer by profession, where his son had opted for the public speaking circuit, eventually achieving the status of respectable expert in business motivational messages.
Even as the few locals shook Michael’s hand before departing after the graveside service, the entire funeral seemed unreal. When his mother had passed away several years earlier, friends and relatives gathered at the house by the score, where an almost party-like atmosphere took place. There was a ton of delicious food and people generally had a good time remembering Claudia Brock.
This was so different.
Then Michael realized he was alone.
He took one last look at the casket. “Goodbye, Dad. I’ll miss you. Just remember God has a sense of humor too.”
He bowed his head in a short prayer of farewell, and then gave a nod to the gravediggers. They lowered the coffin into the ground.
“Will you be heading back to Chicago now?” Pastor Cobb suddenly inquired.
Brock was a bit startled by the unannounced arrival of the minister at his side again. “No, I think I’ll spend the night here, before heading back to Atlanta sometime tomorrow. I might take in a Braves game while I’m here, if the rain lets up.”
“You should take time to see the Little White House while you’re in Warm Springs,” Pastor Cobb suggested. “You might find it very enlightening.”
“Little White House?” Michael wondered. “What’s that?”
“It was President Franklin D. Roosevelt’s private hideaway, which he built before he became president,” the pastor related. “There’s actually a lot of history surrounding the house, if you’re into that sort of thing?”
Michael nodded enthusiastically. “I love history, especially World War Two. My dad fought in Europe, though I don’t know much about what he did. I couldn’t ever get him to talk about those days.”
Pastor Cobb smiled and said, “Well then, I think you should take the time to tour the site. They have a brand new museum with wonderful displays and mementos.”
Michael Brock shook Pastor Cobb’s hand again. “I will. Thank you again for everything. It was a lovely eulogy.”
“I’m pleased that it was meaningful for you, my son. I’m sure your father was quite proud of you.” With that the minister strolled back to the church, keeping under his umbrella.
The limousine driver was very cooperative with Michael’s change in plans, since he was paid for the day. After asking for directions from some local townspeople, the big black car drove to the entrance of the Little White House. Along the scenic road they went, to end up near a parking lot, which actually had quite a few cars and tour buses filling many spaces.
The limousine pulled up to the curb at the visitor’s entrance to the historical park.
“I probably won’t be that long,” Mike told the driver. “Do you want to see the museum too?”
“No, sir, that’s okay,” the man replied. “You take your time. I’ll just take a nap under that big tree.”
“Okay,” Brock said, climbing out, the rain slacking off to nothing more than mist.
Michael went to the ticket window and purchased admittance, entering directly into the modern new museum. He spent several hours winding his way past the various displays, reading and absorbing the history with relish. Exiting outside again, Mike took a deep breath and appreciated the beautiful site, surrounded by lush green trees, a peaceful quiet permeating everywhere. He strolled leisurely along the paved path, while looking at his pamphlet to get his bearings. Up ahead was a magnificent display of native rocks shaped to represent the outline of each of the 50 states. He spent time at each marker, marveling at all he was learning in such a short time.
Like a magnet, however, the Little White House beckoned to him. He walked past the bump gate, peered into the guest or servant’s cottage and looked up at a series of giant spotlights camouflaged as trees amidst the Long-Leaf Pines that surrounded the site. What suddenly caught his attention, however, was a metal plaque by a Blackjack Oak, glistening from the fresh rain. Michael went to take a closer look.
He was in for quite a surprise.
The bronze plaque was secured firmly to a black-iron post by the base of the tree.
It read:
In honor of Captain Robert M. Brock
This plaque is dedicated to his promise to
The President of the United States
Franklin Delano Roosevelt,
Which he kept!
(1943 – 1945)
Michael stared at the metal plate, wondering if it referred to his father.
“May I help you, young man?” asked a pleasant female voice from behind him.
Michael turned around to discover a sprightly woman of perhaps seventy years or more, snow-white hair and fair complexion making her look almost like an angel. She was peeking out from under her umbrella with genuine interest.
Brock thumbed over his shoulder. “I was just wondering about that plaque. I knew my father trained at Fort Benning, but I wasn’t aware he had ever met President Roosevelt.”
“You’re Robert Brock’s son?” she asked with nervous excitement.
“Yes, Ma’am, I am,” Michael replied, uncomfortable with her reaction. “However, if it’s the same Robert Brock on the plaque, I’m not sure.”
She smiled, though it was reserved and uncertain. “You look like your father, in the photographs I’ve seen of him, so I think it is. He was a wonderful man.”
Michael was surprised. “You knew my father?”
“Well, I didn’t actually know Captain Brock,” she replied. “But your father made quite an impression on the President and he never forgot his contribution. We just dedicated that plaque a few months ago. As hard as we tried, we couldn’t get your father to join us for the ceremony.”
“He was not feeling himself this past year, I’m afraid,” Brock said. “In fact, he passed away just last week. We buried my father in the cemetery at the First Baptist Church in Warm Springs this morning.”
Tears welled up in her eyes and she reached for a handkerchief from her purse. “I am sorry for your loss, young man.”
“Thank you,” Michael said, holding his hand out to steady her if need be. “Would you like to sit down or I can get you something to drink?”
“No, no, I’ll be all right. The news just made me sad.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
She patted his forearm. “Now never you mind. I’ll be just fine.”
Michael had to ask. “Did my father really know FDR?”
She smiled at him with just a hint of pity, taking hold of Michael Brock by the elbow. “Come with me, young man. We have some things to share with you.”
Mike did as he was told, always respecting his elders. They walked past the Little White House and up the paved walk towards the new museum. She paused to look down on the parking lot, now almost filled with vehicles of every size and description.
“I’m May Stevens, by the way,” the woman introduced herself. “I’m one of the locals that still remember some of those days. I worked here during the spring of 1943, assisting physical-aid nurses at the pools. That was over sixty years ago, mind you. Perhaps I was a bit of a busybody too, since I was always snooping around, but you know how young schoolgirls can be?”
Brock chuckled at her candor.
“My auntie was a favorite of President Roosevelt’s, because he loved her nut cake,” Miss Stevens went on. “They were neighbors, you might say.”
“I see,” Brock said. He was pleased at the good fortune that had brought him in contact with someone who actually lived during those tumultuous times. So he stood still and drank in all the history she shared.
“The park grounds are operated by the Georgia Department of Natural Resources. The six-room Little White House, casual in style and furnishings, reflects FDR's desire to rest and be comfortable during his visits to Warm Springs. With its easy chairs, mementos and paintings, the house still looks much like it did the day he died, on April 12, 1945.”
After her thumbnail description of the site, Miss Stevens took Michael Brock to meet someone. A park employee rolled up in his wheelchair, a big man with huge hands, dressed in the ubiquitous green uniform. His hair was cropped very short and a mischievous smile lit up his face.
“David Parke, I want you to meet Michael Brock,” she chirped.
“Pleased to meet you,” Parke said, shaking hands warmly. “Welcome to the Little White House.”
“Thank you, David,” Michael replied. “Ms. Stevens has been very generous with her time showing me around.”
May was so excited to tell Parke the news that she nearly burst. “David, Michael’s father was Captain Robert Brock.”
David Parke’s intelligent brown eyes widened considerably and sparkled with delight. “You don’t say? Now this is an honor.” He held out his hand again, which after another even more enthusiastic grip, he hesitated breaking. “What brings you to our Little White House this rainy afternoon?”
“I just finished burying my father in the First Baptist cemetery, Mr. Parke,” Michael said. “After he passed away, I discovered he wanted to be buried in Warm Springs, of all places. I didn’t have a clue as to why, until Ms. Stevens told me my father spent some time here.”
Parke frowned, his furled eyebrows expressing his sorrow. “I’m sorry to hear about your father, Mr. Brock. From everything I’ve read, he was a very special man and President Roosevelt grew very fond of him in a short period of time.”
Michael was more than just fascinated, but before he could pursue a line of questioning, Miss Stevens took care of the preliminaries. “I think it’s time you filled Michael in on the details, don’t you, David?”
Parke grinned and spun his chair around on a dime. “If you’ll be so kind as to follow me, Mr. Brock, I wish to take you on a journey back in time.”
“David is one of our resident historians, Mr. Brock,” May explained. “He was instrumental in researching and planning many of the exhibits in the new museum, as well as discovering several long-lost historical treasures. I think you’ll find what he has to tell you not only interesting, but perhaps even monumental. I leave you in capable hands.”
“Thank you, Ms. Stevens,” said Brock. “I think fate has placed me in some caring hands indeed.”
She smiled, her face beaming. “My auntie met your father at dinner one evening in 1943. She said he was the most handsome man she had ever seen in uniform, not to mention the most dashing. As you’ll soon discover, your father might have had a lot to do with how World War Two turned out, just because of a favor he did for President Roosevelt.”
With that closing comment, the elderly woman patted Michael’s wrist and went back up the walk towards the main entrance. Her step was full of life and she whistled too, the umbrella bobbing up and down in the drizzle.
“Meeting you has made her feel young again, Mr. Brock,” Parke commented. “I thank you for that. She’s a fixture here at LWH and it’s good to see her so chipper.”
Michael smiled.
Parke waved for Brock to follow him, as David rolled his chair along the paved path. They went together in silence, both respectful of the other’s thoughts.
“My little hideaway is back up here, Mr. Brock,” David said over his shoulder. He pushed his chair on an incline towards the Archives & Library Building, through a little wooden gate marked Employee Entrance.
“Please, David, just call me Michael or Mike,” Brock requested. “You make me sound so old.”
Parke chuckled as he pulled open the door, which Brock held. The wheelchair just made it through the space. David rolled over to his workstation, where a computer sat surrounded by books and documents about FDR.
“This is home, Mike,” David said. “I work on all sorts of projects from here. It’s too bad you missed the grand opening ceremony for the new museum.”
Brock nodded, looking around and taking in not only the surroundings, but also the feel of the place. Michael could just sense the history coming alive around him.
“Grab a chair and scoot on up here, so you can relax,” Parke suggested.
Brock did as he was told, sliding over a chair from a nearby table. He sat down and smiled at Parke, wondering what tales he would hear this day. He was excited, for perhaps some of the mystery surrounding his father would finally be cleared up. Parke handed him a cold soda, which seemed to materialize from thin air.
“Okay, Mike, what I’m about to tell you is not exactly top secret, I think,” Parke began with a sly smile. “Even if it is, I’m still going to tell you everything I know, because it’s about your father and you deserve to hear it. However, none of what I’m about to relate is common knowledge. Much of it can’t be proven either. FDR didn’t keep records of certain events, but I’ve been able to piece together a startling moment in history. I’m a detective, I guess and when some interesting coincidences arose, I tried to solve the mysteries. Still, it was just theory and fantasy, until I found this buried at the bottom of one of the suitcases kept in the basement of the house.”
David grabbed his briefcase and from inside pulled out an old leather-bound campaign logbook, the type army officers carried all through WWII.
“What’s that?” Michael asked.
“Shh,” Parke whispered. “I’m not supposed to have this. I plan revolving exhibits for the museum, but I was supposed to return this to the preservation labs, instead of bringing it back here. It was your father’s.”
Michael reached out and touched the surface, worn smooth over time.
“I have quite a story to tell you,” Parke said with a dramatic flair. “Sit back with that ‘coke’ and listen to the tale I’m about to spin. It’s a grand one, full of action, suspense, intrigue, violence, and even some juicy stuff. Just what a good story should have, don’t ya’ think?”
Michael nodded, pushing his back into the seat and taking a sip of cold cola. He felt like a child in a movie theatre just minutes before the beginning of a long-awaited blockbuster.
David Parke rested his big hands on the arms of his wheelchair and started to relate his story, “Well, it all began back in April of 1943, at nearby Fort Benning…”
April 13, 1943
Ft. Benning, Georgia
History Unwritten
Captain Robert Brock was not pleased, not pleased at all. He had been patient far too long, always believing his superior officers when they assured him the US Army did recognize his abilities and would transfer him to where the action was. However, the war was definitely turning in favor of the Allies and Brock was convinced it would be over before he got a chance to get in the fight.
He stood straight as a post, standing at attention before the Camp Commander. Instead of his orders containing transfer papers to a combat unit, Captain Brock was once again being assigned to the identical training role. Brock just wasn’t going to stand for it any longer.
“I know you’re not happy about this, Captain,” Brigadier General Francis Woolfley stated quietly. He could see Brock’s face contort to maintain control. “You’ll just have to accept that the need for your skills is paramount to any invasion of Europe next year. It’s simply a case of pressing demands and you’re too damn important to get your butt shot up right now.”
“Begging the General’s pardon, sir,” countered Brock. “When will they find someone else to do this job? You’ve promised me transfer to a combat unit seven times, sir.”
Woolfley smiled. “Yes, Captain, I’m aware of my assurances. But I answer to higher authorities too and you’re just too valuable right now. There are very few men who have your background, your qualifications, and your naturally ability to train. We are trying to fill an incredible outcry for men throughout the theatres of operation and you are critical to their success and ultimate survival.”
“I’ve heard that all before, sir,” Brock said. “I suppose you’ll tell me I’ve got to show the Greeks how to build the Trojan Horse next.”
General Woolfley looked uncomfortable all of a sudden.
Brock spotted the discomfort immediately. “What is it, sir?”
This time Woolfley stood up and rested his hand on Brock’s shoulder. “Actually, Captain, you’re going to be assigned the unique role of whipping an entire battalion of Greek Americans into a special unit being sent to their native country.”
This piece of news almost sent Brock into a tirade. However, just as he opened his mouth, General Woolfley shut it.
“When you’re finished with them, you will accompany the battalion overseas,” the general added.
Brock stood up straighter and replied, “Yes, sir.”
Woolfley grinned. “I thought you might like that.”
Suddenly the screen door opened and in stepped another senior officer, General Ridgley Gaither. Captain Brock came to attention again, while Woolfley and Gaither shook hands.
“At ease, Captain,” Gaither said. “Is this him?”
Woolfley nodded, realizing he hadn’t told Brock about the ‘other’ orders yet. “Yes, General, this is Captain Robert Brock.”
Gaither jutted out his right hand and snagged Brock’s. The general’s grip was very firm, with a snap delivered to each pump. “I’ve heard a lot about you, son. It seems that most of the infantry passing through this post have gained a lot of deadly skills from you and your instructors.”
“Thank you, General, sir,” Brock replied. “I’m just doing my job.”
General Gaither nodded. “Yes, yes, I’m sure you are. We all do that, but some of us do it better than others. I’m here to reward your dedication with a special assignment.”
Brock was excited, in spite of the little voice in the back of his head that warned him. “Yes, sir.”
Gaither grinned. “Eager, eh? Well, that’s good, because I’m detailing you to escort the President of the United States when he arrives to tour Fort Benning.”
Brock’s throat seized up and he stopped breathing. He did manage to gasp, “The President, sir? Franklin Delano Roosevelt, sir?”
Gaither and Woolfley both laughed.
“Yes, that’s the President I’m referring to, Captain,” Gaither said.
Brock swallowed and with his blue eyes wide in wonder, he said, “It will be an honor, sir.”
“The President’s hurried visit is to be kept very quiet,” General Gaither said. “President Roosevelt has been on a tour of southern military bases. He will, of course, stop here.”
“Excuse me, sir?” Brock asked hesitantly.
“Yes, Captain?” General Gaither replied.
“You’ve just assigned me to escort the President of the United States, sir,” Brock said. “Is there any protocol I need to be aware of?”
Gaither grinned widely. He had already gained instant admiration for the young captain, who was highly spoken of by Brigadier General Woolfley. Captain Brock had the natural talent to go places in this man’s army.
“The President’s visit will not be mentioned in the Columbus or Atlanta newspapers, Captain,” Gaither said. “Georgia Governor Ellis Arnall will meet and ride with the President on his tour of Fort Benning. That’s where you come in. President Roosevelt has expressed an interest in attending several officer-training classes and we would like him to witness some combat maneuvers. You will stay with him at all times, until he boards the train to return to Washington DC.”
“Yes, sir,” replied Brock, still in a bit of a daze.
“On the evening of the 14th, President Roosevelt will arrive by train at the Warm Springs depot, have dinner with and give a brief talk to the Institute companions, then take a swim in the pool,” General Gaither continued outlining the planned agenda. “The next day he wants to drive his car around the countryside before enjoying a picnic lunch on Pine Mountain. The President has his own people for security and driving. There will be the usual Secret Service agents, but the President wants an Army officer to be his companion, with military expertise and the gift of conversation. I understand from General Woolfley that you can be quite entertaining.”
Captain Brock wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or not, until Gaither placed his hand on Michael’s shoulder. “You have been recommended over any other junior officer from Fort Benning, Captain. This might be your chance to make such a good impression on the President that your request for combat might get approved on the spot.”
Captain Brock should have looked at this opportunity in a positive light, but he did not. “Or it will provide the perfect platform to get me shot, sir.”
Gaither laughed out loud. “I doubt that, son. Just be close at hand when the President wishes to talk about the war and provide him with your point of view. I should think FDR would be very interested in your small-unit tactics, especially the commando-style satchel-charge assault you specialize in.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Keep one thing in mind, Captain.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Any part of the agenda I just outlined might change without notice,” the General said. “Just keep on your toes and focus on serving the President.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Dismissed then, Captain,” Woolfley excused Brock. “You may return to your instructors and we’ll make the necessary arrangements.”
Brock came to attention again. “Yes, sir.” He walked purposefully to the door, but once outside he had to really refrain from running to the latrines to puke. His stomach was doing barrel rolls.
Less than two hours later, Captain Brock was standing alongside a group of high-ranking officers at the train depot in Warm Springs, Georgia. Things had already changed entirely, for the President wanted to see his Georgia first. There was no fanfare, the typical warm reception prevented from materializing by the fact that very few people knew President Roosevelt was arriving.
Brock could hear the engine making the grade, watching the plume of steam rise over the trees as the front of the locomotive chugged around the corner. Not even the traditional red, white and blue banners adorned the train this time, so the trip would remain shrouded in mystery. There was a surge of pride in Brock’s heart as the big locomotive passed and Brock just grinned as he even recognized the engine.
The Southern Rail Special pulled into the train station, the last Pullman car coming to a stop right before the road. The powerful black engine shuddered to a stop, the shiny wheels slipping for a moment. A blast of steam escaped in every direction, briefly smothering the station in clouds of vapor.
Captain Brock was ushered aboard by several Secret Service agents. The eleven cars were quite something to witness in person. The President had a specially designed car all to himself, of course, with easy chairs and a thick blue rug on the floor. He also had a private dining room, with a huge radio and many telephones across the expansive executive desk, which was made from gorgeous black walnut.
“This is Captain Robert Brock, Mr. President,” a Secret Service agent introduced Robert as they entered the bulletproof Ferdinand Magellan Pullman car.
FDR was sitting in his custom-designed traveling wheelchair, a faded shawl draped across his lap. He smiled broadly and held out his hand.
The handshake was warm and genuine.
“An honor, Mr. President,” Brock said.
“This is my cousin Margaret Suckley,” Roosevelt introduced the young woman standing nearby. “We call her Daisy.”
“A pleasure, Miss Daisy,” Brock said, still holding his hat under his arm.
She giggled a little and came forward, immediately resting her hand on Robert’s forearm. “I’m so excited to be on this trip with Franklin, I mean the President. I’ve never seen his Georgia or his little white house.”
“Now don’t fawn all over the captain, Daisy,” FDR pretended to scold her. “He’s an officer in the US Army and has to be on his best behavior, lest I cashier him.”
The words almost rattled Brock. If it hadn’t been for both the President’s huge grin and Daisy’s even warmer attention, he might have passed out.
“Now Franklin, you stop that teasing this instant,” Daisy replied, wagging a finger at her famous cousin. “Here Captain Brock has been ordered to accompany us and you’re making him uncomfortable before he’s even started.”
FDR pushed back the rolling chair, his braces already on. He stood up while grabbing the edge of the desk for balance, then stepped forward dynamically. “Based on his file, Daisy, I think Captain Brock is quite capable of handling himself under fire.”
Roosevelt’s eyes sparkled, recognizing that the officer had never once lost eye contact with the President. He patted Brock on the shoulder.
“Thank you, Mr. President,” Robert said, not sounding at all like himself. Little did anyone realize how a river of sweat was just pouring down the back of his shirt.
“Let’s go see my lovely Georgia for awhile,” FDR stated. “I need to breathe some fine Southern air for a change.”
With practiced finesse, the Secret Service agents stood in line at the bottom of the ramp, no man willing to move unless the President slipped, tripped or fell. It was understood that FDR could make it every step of the way on his own, no exceptions. Captain Brock held back and watched, marveling at how strong the President’s arms must have been to fling himself down the incline like that. There were no cameras in attendance and not a single reporter stood by.
The transportation was waiting, FDR’s specially equipped automobile parked right where it needed to be for the President to get behind the wheel. The first order of business was a drive through the countryside, with the Commander-in-Chief deciding what route was his favorite.
On the back of the car was situated a beautiful special license plate, deep red background with FDR 1 in black block letters. Harry Hopkins sat in front, the women and dogs in the back. Roosevelt drove around showing cottages he had a hand in building, telling his guests about different stages in the building of the Foundation.
Captain Brock held on tightly to the window frame, his shoes shoved up against the door on the running board. Everything he heard and saw was certainly a monument to FDR’s compassion and dedication. The man obviously felt very close to his fellow polio sufferers.
Even though his balancing act was sometimes precarious, Captain Brock enjoyed the trip immensely. The surroundings were peaceful and beautiful, with little cottages and houses, mainly white, tucked back in among the trees.
They then went to the big pool and swam for perhaps a half hour. Even Captain Brock was forced to join them, though he tried to resist. The Secret Service agents got a good chuckle from that, as the women all tugged and prodded Robert to the very water’s edge, the President laughing all the while. The springs that fed the pool were 88 degrees Fahrenheit the year round, so it was almost like taking a bath.
However, once Brock had promised he would go swimming and retired to a dressing room to change, the group all applauded. He reemerged with trunks and before he even had a chance to test the water, FDR’s cousin Daisy gave him a shove. He hit with a big splash. The group laughed and cheered as he resurfaced, spewing out a mouthful of water.
The pools were exhilarating and Brock really enjoyed the experience. His skin felt like someone had applied a layer of bathing salts, soft and healthy. It seemed to make him tingle. The ladies had to scrounge to find suits that would fit, but several safety pins did the trick. The President, with his Scottish Terrier Fala, sat in the sun afterwards, soaking up the rays and telling jokes. From the pool, the party went up to his Little White House and sat on the back porch in the sun. Nothing was in sight but the trees, the sunlight, the sky and a wonderful view of the valley.
From the house the President led everyone in a caravan up to Dowdell’s Knob, which was the President’s favorite picnic spot. As the cars parked in a semi-circle, Captain Brock hurriedly opened doors, but everything was well in hand. The Secret Service agents deployed themselves throughout the woods, forming a skirmish line of security.
A picnic lunch had been prepared on the train and was served by the President’s personal stewards. The feast included fish chowder, sandwiches, deviled eggs on toothpicks and cold drinks. FDR showed everyone the extent of the Foundation property, which now included his farm. There were tree plantations and a forest on what used to be a cotton field. The view was magnificent, in every direction. Roosevelt asked Cornelia Dewey, who was a young polio patient living in Warm Springs to sit next to him. She was in seventh heaven! All the doctors and their wives took turns as well. The women had a marvelous time wandering, chatting and giggling.
“Come here by me and chat for awhile, Captain Brock,” FDR commanded from his resting place.
“Yes, Mr. President,” Brock replied, hurrying over to sit on a huge flat boulder that obviously had been used for just that purpose before.
Roosevelt grinned and said, “Some day we should erect an outhouse up here. It is especially tough on the womenfolk, when they need to pee. Men all around, lurking in the trees, I shouldn’t wonder that Eleanor has scolded me on this very issue more times than I care to remember!”
Brock didn’t know what to say, so he changed the subject. “You look especially happy to be up here, Mr. President.”
“Oh, I am, Captain,” FDR replied, but his eyebrows dipped almost immediately.
“What troubles you, if I may ask, Mr. President?” Robert asked openly, worried by Roosevelt’s obviously disgruntled face.
“I’m afraid the medical community here cares nothing about patients for more than a few months,” FDR said coldly, his anger barely repressed. “There isn’t enough money in their care for the doctors, which upsets me. I wish I could give the time to it myself.”
“There are a great many things on your plate, Mr. President,” Brock said quietly. “You can only do so much. I think the country’s security, as a whole, must take precedence right now. The patients will benefit in the long run from a strong and safe America.”
FDR grinned, leaning back a little to get a better look at the captain. “You’re missing your calling, young man. You should be my speech writer, for you have a gift.”
Brock shook his head. “I think not, Mr. President. I’m a soldier for a reason, but training men for combat happened by accident. I’d rather teach them how to work as a team building something useful for mankind, rather than killing their fellow man.”
FDR had listened very carefully. “Based on what I’ve read about you Captain, you are exceptionally gifted in training men to survive. We are fighting a great evil that threatens to engulf all of mankind in tyranny and slavery. Americans have been called to stamp out this malignant disease and you are vital in equipping our men with skills to win the fight. No more nobler mission could befall you.”
Brock had never thought of his job in such grandiose terms before. Still modest, Robert shrugged. “If anything I do makes a difference by giving our boys an edge on either the Nazis or the Japs, then I’m happy.”
The President seemed to be lost in deep though for a moment, even though he kept looking at Captain Brock with a critical eye. He must have made up his mind about something, however, because he began a new line of questioning.
“What did you do before this horrible conflict, Captain?” FDR asked.
“I was an engineer with Fairbanks Morse, Mr. President. I helped design some of the engines in their locomotives before the war, but then transferred my knowledge to the engines used in the Grant and Lee tanks, many of which were sent to the British.”
FDR was once again intrigued by what he heard. “The engine that pulls my train is a Fairbanks Morse locomotive.”
Brock beamed. “Yes it is, sir. Engine 978.”
The President was impressed. “You checked it out as soon as my train pulled into the station, didn’t you?”
Brock nodded, but proudly replied, “Yes, sir, Mr. President. I worked on that very locomotive in fact.”
“By the gleam in your eye, Captain, one would guess that you enjoyed your work immensely.”
“I did indeed, sir. There was nothing more satisfying then watching a finished shiny black locomotive roll out of the plant onto the yard. We celebrated every single one.”
“It’s a shame the war had to ruin all that.”
Brock was quick to respond. “We felt the same pride when each tank was completed, sir. It was only when we started constructing bomb casings that the feeling of accomplishment seemed tainted a little.”
That tiny bit of information changed the conversation dramatically.
“You have experience with the construction of bombs?” Roosevelt tried to ask casually.
“Only briefly, Mr. President,” Brock replied. “I enlisted after the fall of Bataan.”
“I see,” FDR said.
“Fairbanks Morse kept me involved with every possible contract that came their way,” Brock went on. “I have a degree in applied mechanics and mechanical engineering while specializing in statistics. I also read and speak German, which helps immensely with all the manuals written by German engineers.”
It turned out that FDR had heard all he needed to begin hatching one of his famous plans. Before the day was done, his plotting would forever change the scope and depth of a certain Allied strategy.
They stayed there getting sunburned until about 3:00, when they returned to the cottage via the back “Fernery Road.” It had recently been graded, but even so, was about as rough as three cars could manage to drive over.
As they crossed one rickety wooden bridge, FDR warned, “This old thing will probably collapse right under us!”
He laughed, but the old structure held fast. The President drove around Camp Roosevelt where the Marines who guarded him were billeted in tents. A dozen or so men were lying around on the grass, but jumped up and immediately came to attention. They relaxed and even waved when FDR smiled at them as he drove past in his little car.
The entourage entered the Georgia Warm Springs Foundation campus, which was owned and founded by FDR. There were nearly three dozen cottages surrounding the hospital, school and rehabilitation center.
They all went down the hill to Georgia Hall for supper. There were almost 200 patients in all, the great majority in wheel chairs. Roosevelt stood up with his braces, holding on to his chair and cleared his throat.
President Roosevelt reached forward to hold on tightly to the podium, smiling broadly at his friends. He began his speech with a huge smile.
“I don't have to tell the Warm Springs family how very happy I am to be back with us again. I have really stolen these few moments -- just twenty-four hours. I am not here. You may read about it in another week. In other words, I am perpetrating what the newspapers call a 'scoop' for your benefit -- seven or eight days ahead of time.
“I am awfully happy in the knowledge, in the White House, that all goes well in Warm Springs. I haven't got much time, as you may realize; and I was thinking today, as we motored from Fort Benning, that the last time I was here was on the thirtieth of November 1941. At that time, because of certain things that happened in Washington and Tokyo, I had failed to arrive on Thanksgiving Day. I came a week later, and we had a family party in this room.
“The next morning, one of those psychological things happened -- what you and I would call a hunch. I telephoned to Washington to the Secretary of State, and I said to him, "You know, I am worried. I don't know why I am worried, but I am too far away from Washington.
“And he said, ‘I know just how you feel, because I am worried too. There has been no news in the past twenty-four hours to cause additional worry, but I am just worried and I wish you were here in Washington.’
“And so the next day I left here and went back. And when I got him on the phone, I said, "You know, I think we are all rather silly, but I had a feeling that something is hanging over our heads.
“And just one week later came the unwarranted surprise attack on Pearl Harbor.
Well, things have gone a lot better since then. And one thing I think we can make a pretty good guess about, and that is that here at Warm Springs we are going to have, in the days to come, a great many more men in uniform. After all, infantile paralysis is not a respecter of age and in the Army, Navy, Marine Corps and Coast Guard, including the WAACs, WAVES and the other girls; we are going to have, out of more than seven million Americans, a good many cases of infantile paralysis, even if we don't have any great epidemic in this country.
“And Warm Springs is preparing to do it all it can to undertake to care for our boys in uniform, and our girls in uniform, even if we have to take -- what -- half a hundred more patients than we think we have room for? And in doing that, we must always remember that we still have a duty to the civilian population of the country; because after all, the work we are taking part in -- doctors, patients, physiotherapists, management, and everything else -- is creating a very profound effect, not just here but all over the United States.
“We are doing pioneering work, and other people that haven't got the same advantages we have here are in large measure copying what we are doing in all the different localities, in counties and states all through the country. That means a very definite effect on the health and wellbeing of all the people throughout the nation -- grown-ups, boys and girls. And that is why I said in the White House I am very happy to know this constructive work is keeping on going at Warm Springs. I don't need to tell you that it makes my heart glad.
“I can be here only for dinner. I have to leave for other parts -- training stations, camps, and everything else, just to keep in touch with the great war effort that this whole nation is engaged in.
“I hope I can come back in the autumn, but that is no promise. I am not the master of my own calendar. So, I do hope to see you this autumn, and it doesn't make much difference whether it is Thanksgiving Day or not, as I find I can come here in April and still have turkey and cranberry sauce.
“So I do hope to see you all very soon. And may I suggest we carry out the old tradition. I am going over by the door and stand, and meet all of you boys and girls who have come here since I was here last, and all of you other boys and girls, and Dr. Ed Irwin, Mr. Fred Botts, Cornelia Dewey and all the gang -- and that will do my heart good, too. Thank you all.”
FDR’s address was over. He made his way to his wheelchair, speeding to the door in time to greet every single patient, doctor, therapist and family friend. He laughed and hugged the children, making eye contact with each of them, spurring them to get well fast and listen to the doctors. There were tears of joy in his eyes and Captain Brock was moved to see the genuine caring that such a great and powerful man could share with so many less fortunate. It was an experience for everyone, all of them thrilled to see him and touch him. After all, they were touching the President of the United States!
When the final guest departed, FDR was exhausted but pleased. Harry Hopkins came forward quickly, bending down to speak in the President’s ear. “It’s time to get up to the house, Franklin. Your special friend should be arriving at the depot about now.”
The President said goodnight to his traveling guests and secretary, sending them back to the train, which had moved down the track from the Warm Springs Station for the night. They all clambered into several cars and with dimmed headlights traversed back to the darkened depot.
Roosevelt’s face grew darkly serious and he motioned for their departure, signaling for one of the Secret Service agents to push his chair. He caught Captain Brock’s eye.
“I have enjoyed our time together immensely, Captain,” the President said. “I have a pressing engagement right now, but tomorrow you will come up to the house again.”
“Yes, Mr. President,” Brock replied. “I’d be honored.”
FDR flashed his signature grin and waved. “Until later, then, Captain.”
The Secret Service agents hurried him to the circle drive in front of the main hall, where at least five vehicles were drawn up waiting. There were men in suits everywhere.
The Royal Blue 1938 Ford pulled ahead and as FDR climbed into the backseat, it moved up the hill, following the winding dirt road to the Little White House. The President sighed, closing his eyes and breathing shallowly of the fresh Georgia air, filled with the scent of pine and wisps of the occasional aroma of cooking fires. He was content for a moment, even though the upcoming meeting carried with it incredible meaning for the world.
Yet no one would ever know of this secret rendezvous.
“He will be meaner than usual,” Hopkins whispered to the President.
FDR nodded slowly. “Yes, I suppose he will be, Harry. Maybe I should take him hacking around on a horse for an hour or two to calm him down.”
Both men chuckled.
The house sat on a hill overlooking a deep wooded ravine on the northern side of Pine Mountain. The warm springs were about 1000 yards below the house. Camp Roosevelt, where Marines trained and supplied guards when FDR was in attendance, sat between the springs and the Little White House. The camp had always been affectionately named after Roosevelt and once billeted Captain Carlson, who eventually would command Carlson’s Raiders. The courageous Marine force attacked the Japanese on the island of Makin, in August of 1942, destroying the enemy’s communication facilities.
There were eight green sentry posts surrounding the property, where a soldier could stand by himself in seclusion for hours at a time, but always with the house in view. The house itself had six rooms – the President’s room, secretary’s room, Eleanor’s room, kitchen, foyer and a living room and dining room in the center of the cabin. There were men in suits gathered all around the perfectly painted white fence.
The blue globe, or captain’s lantern, on the front porch, was normally turned on to announce when the President was at home. However, this time the cobalt-blue light was not glowing.
“He doesn’t want anybody to know he’s here,” instructed the lead Secret Service agent. “There’s to be a fairly quick meeting and then they’re headed back to the train.”
The other agents knew better than to ask questions. They took position in the narrow green guard houses normally staffed by the Marines. Before the President exited his car, the Secret Service detail pulled all the beds apart in the cottage, poking needles through the pillows & mattresses, and went into every nook and cranny with flashlights. Then the car was parked in the garage under the servant’s quarters.
About fifteen minutes after FDR had adjourned to his favorite chair in the living/dining room combination area, a black automobile pulled into the drive. At the bump gate the Secret Service agents closed on the vehicle from both sides. The window went down and a small flashlight cast a focused beam on the occupant in the back seat. The passenger was immediately recognizable, even without the official security pass.
The agent stood straighter and smiled. “He’s expecting you, sir.”
The car moved forward slowly, the bumper pushing the gate to swing open in the opposite direction. Tires crunched noisily on the gravel drive, a slight squeal as the vehicle braked. Another Secret Service agent opened the door and the special guest was hustled inside, his broad steps and bulky hunched form indicative of a powerful personality, despite the short physical stature.
Once inside, the door closed behind him, curtains all drawn in every room. The feint aroma of “Daisy’s Country Captain,” FDR’s favorite chicken dinner still permeated the air. Only a few lamps were switched on, poor light casting weird shadows along the bookcases on either side of the huge stone fireplace. The guest looked at the clock on the mantle, which sat just under an ornate wooden ship model. It was 7:30 PM, Central War Time.