1941 E-Book

Marc Wortman

• Herausgeber: Atlantic Books
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 635

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Beschreibung

In 1941: Fighting the Shadow War, Marc Wortman thrillingly explores the little-known history of America's clandestine involvement in World War II before the attack on Pearl Harbor. Prior to that infamous day, America had long been involved in a shadow war. Winston Churchill, England's beleaguered new Prime Minister, pleaded with Franklin D. Roosevelt for help. President Roosevelt concocted ingenious ways to come to his aid, without breaking the Neutrality Acts. Conducting espionage at home and in South America to root out Nazi sympathizers, and waging undeclared war in the Atlantic, were just some of the tactics with which America battled Hitler in the shadows. President Roosevelt also had to contend with growing isolationism and anti-Semitism as he tried to influence public opinion. While Americans were sympathetic to those being crushed under Axis power, they were unwilling to enter a foreign war. Wortman tells the story through the eyes of the powerful as well as ordinary citizens. Their stories weave throughout the intricate tapestry of events that unfold during the crucial year of 1941. Combining military and political history, Wortman tells the eye-opening story of America's journey to war.

Leseprobe

For my children, Rebecca and Charlie,thoughtful readers

“. . . public sentiment is everything. With public sentiment, nothing can fail; without it, nothing can succeed. Consequently he who molds public sentiment goes deeper than he who enacts statutes or pronounces decisions. He makes statutes and decisions possible or impossible to be executed.”

—Abraham LincolnFirst Lincoln-Douglas Debate,August 21, 1858

Contents

Map

Introduction: 1941

Chapter 1: Foreign Correspondents

Chapter 2: A New World

Chapter 3: “That Prophecy Comes True”

Chapter 4: Unneutral Acts

Chapter 5: Scooping Hitler

Chapter 6: Blitzkrieg Propaganda

Chapter 7: Shadowed by the G-Men

Chapter 8: The Roosevelt Brand

Chapter 9: Cassandra

Chapter 10: A Rising Sun

Chapter 11: Prairie Fire

Chapter 12: “Aviation, Geography, and Race”

Chapter 13: Indictments

Chapter 14: The Garden Hose

Chapter 15: How Do You Do?

Chapter 16: Intolerance

Chapter 17: Good Americanism

Chapter 18: Living in a Nightmare

Chapter 19: Volunteers

Chapter 20: The Strongest Fortress in the World

Chapter 21: Geographers

Chapter 22: Son of a Harness Maker

Chapter 23: The Obvious Conclusion

Chapter 24: At Last We’ve Gotten Together

Chapter 25: The Rattlesnakes of the Atlantic

Chapter 26: Tennō

Chapter 27: The Undeclared War

Chapter 28: Son of Man, Son of God

Chapter 29: East Wind, Rain

Epilogue: Rendezvous with Destiny

Acknowledgments

Endnotes

Picture Acknowledgments

Index

Map © 2016 by Martin Lubikowski, ML Design

Introduction

1941

On September 1, 1939, a million and a half Nazi German troops poured across the border into Poland. Two days later the United Kingdom and France declared war on Germany, and World War Two began. Two years, three months, and four days later, December 7, 1941, 353 Japanese aircraft launched from six carriers attacked Pearl Harbor. Much of the United States Navy’s Pacific Fleet lay in ruins, and 2,403 Americans were killed. The following day, December 8, 1941, President Franklin Delano Roosevelt told the world that “the United States of America was suddenly and deliberately attacked by naval and air forces of the Empire of Japan.” On a date which still lives in infamy, a shocked and aroused America was thrust into the Second World War.

Or so the most widely accepted and oft-told story of the start of the Second World War goes. In reality, the story of America’s entry into the war was complex, contentious, and portentous, a tortuous and rocky trail too easily overlooked in the dazzling light of the four years of war that followed. Long before the attack on Pearl Harbor, the United States had been caught up in the war, fighting in the gray zone between its self-imposed neutrality as a nation officially and lawfully at peace with every nation on earth and its president’s declared intention to destroy Hitler and Nazism, drive Japan’s military out of China and Indochina, and liberate conquered lands from tyranny. The Axis powers of Germany, Italy, and Japan, and their collaborating leaders and nations, would not roll back quietly within their prewar borders in response to FDR’s demands. Far from it.

Thus, at his behest, throughout 1941 American military leaders strategized for victory against the Axis, set up liaisons with unofficial allies in London and China, and began training American forces to fight overseas wars. The government started the process of building up its army, navy, and air forces in order to possess the firepower and heft capable of eventually winning global wars against massively mobilized, war-hardened great powers. The White House also pushed American military forces farther and farther into harm’s way and held summits with the leadership of unofficially allied nations, including Prime Minister Winston Churchill of Britain and Soviet leader Joseph Stalin. The country declared war after bombs dropped on Pearl Harbor, but well before then U.S. military personnel had come under fire, and had shot back. Americans had died in combat. America had been at war in all but name.

That story has not been told. Not in this way. That’s because Americans before Pearl Harbor refused to see themselves at war. In his famous and widely read February 17, 1941, Life magazine essay, “The American Century,” the powerful and influential Time, Inc., founder and publisher Henry R. Luce declared, “We are in the war. The irony is that Hitler knows it—and most Americans don’t.” Luce tried to pull the wool off his nation’s eyes. “We are not in a war to defend American territory,” he was brazen enough to admit. Even the term “defense,” he said, was “full of deceit and self-deceit.” Hitler understood this; so did Japan’s Imperial Council. Most of Luce’s countrymen did not.

While the United States became, through FDR’s astute leadership and at times constitutionally questionable maneuvers, “the Arsenal of Democracy” and its military engaged in undeclared combat, the large majority of Americans wavered over supporting, or refused to support, anything that ran the risk of full-scale war. Most had yet to choose sides— even as FDR sought to persuade the country that its fate depended on turning back Hitler and Japan. Most Americans hated Hitler, and most sympathized with the people of Europe and China who were crushed under his and Japan’s boots, but poll after poll made plain that they hated foreign wars even more. Most Americans hoped the Allies would win, but many more were unwilling to offer more than hope: They would not let the U.S. military do any of the fighting to ensure victory.

Americans fought among themselves at home, instead, caught up in an increasingly bitter war of words. The passionate isolationists had plenty of support in Congress, which passed legislation expressly forbidding direct trade with belligerent nations and, even while creating the first-ever peacetime draft army, prohibited conscripts from fighting overseas. To deal with trade, military, and geographical restrictions, FDR learned to interpret the Constitution and read a map in ways no president ever had before him. And through speeches, fireside talks, and press conferences, he pursued what he called “longtime education” to awaken his nation to the possibility of war and all that might entail. At the same time, he recognized the political realities of a balky Congress and a resistant citizenry, and refused, he said, to bind his nation to “anything which would require a definite response or action on the part of anybody.”

This repeated contradiction between foreign affairs goals and national means, a desire to see democracy and freedom triumph and an unwillingness to enter the world war, drove Americans to fight among themselves. Often secretly, the contesting forces overseas promoted their sides in the proxy fight for the hearts and minds of Americans still safe in their homes. These disputes were carried over the airwaves and in the press and were taken up at the ballot box, in the streets and arenas, and sometimes through violence—a shadow war of its own. On December 7, 1941, the Greatest Generation would finally step from the shadows into the explosive glow of real war, but before going to war, this was the Most Conflicted Generation, led by a president who was willing to do anything short of firing the first, decisive shot that would lead the United States into war.

This book tells the story of how America went to war while still caught up in its own bitter fight over its role in World War Two before Pearl Harbor. This shadow war darkened the American scene. Journalists who had witnessed the war firsthand, such as CBS radio correspondent William Shirer and fascist proponent Philip Johnson (the latter much better known for his architectural work) and political and government leaders (most famously the transatlantic aviator Charles Lindbergh and the president’s alter ego and personal envoy to Winston Churchill and Joseph Stalin, Harry Hopkins) came back from Europe to tell contradictory stories about the war and express opposing visions of the world’s future. Unsure which way to turn, a divided America stumbled, argued, and fought, while searching for its place in a world at war.

War on a scale never before seen finally came to America in 1941. To understand this turning point in human history, we must step back to the first days of the war, riding along with the mighty German army on its dash into Poland in September 1939.

1

Foreign Correspondents

Poland, 1939

The motorcade of trucks and cars roared and jolted over the ripped-up, unpaved road that cut like a jagged blade through the Polish Corridor. Even in bright daylight, the pall of war cast its gloom over the men knocking about inside the vehicles as they dodged the tread cuts and bomb craters in their path. Since leaving Berlin with its payload of foreign correspondents before dawn, the German Propaganda Ministry caravan had motored fitfully northeast toward the Baltic seacoast and the remains of the war. The blinking men looked out impassively at the seemingly endless, moving green column of Wehrmacht troops and grim-faced Polish refugees who choked the road. The soldiers were jubilant. It was September 18, 1939, less than three weeks since Germany’s invasion of Poland and Great Britain and France’s declaration of war against the Third Reich. Thousands of German troops were heading home. Many rode atop “tanks, tanks, tanks,” a soldier in those lines chanted, proudly hailing “the row of tanks [with] no end,” now grinding along beneath a locomotive cloud of exhaust, on the drive out of Poland.

As the press corps drove along the road to Danzig (today’s Gdańsk), the vehicles bucked and then stopped and then, gears grinding, lurched ahead again like fish running upstream. The reporters covered their faces and coughed against the swirling black exhaust, powdery dust, acrid smoke from smoldering bombed-out towns, and the urge to puke. One of the reporters recorded later how they held their noses against “the sickening sweet smell of dead horses and the sweeter smell of dead men,” the remains of a suicidal Polish cavalry charge against the German panzers strewn in the forest and fields along the road.

Paired together by the German Propaganda Ministry, two Americans among the foreign correspondents shared much in common as they looked out on the war zone four thousand miles from home. They were about the same age and shared similar American beginnings, and each had spent most of his adult life in Europe. They loved its life and culture, especially Germany’s; and both men had won fame by reporting on what they saw in Europe for Americans back home.

The slightly older of the two could easily have been taken for a middle-American banker or a college professor rather than a dashing, hard-bitten foreign correspondent, an image already firmly etched into the American consciousness. He was phlegmatic, tall, balding, and prematurely gray, round-faced and comfortably paunchy. Beneath his dark, carefully trimmed brush mustache, his small mouth clinched continuously on a pipe. A ski accident had blinded him in one eye, leaving the pupil a bit off kilter. He appeared to take in everything behind his round, thick spectacles as though through a gun sight. He spoke plainly and dressed conservatively in a pinstripe Savile Row three-piece suit and tie beneath a rumpled gabardine trench coat. His style was to have little style at all.

His companion in the press pool was all style. He looked straight out of central casting—slicked-back, dark hair with streaks of gray, clear hazel eyes, and angular cheekbones descending to a deeply cleft chin. A costly custom-made camera dangled from carefully selected bespoke fashion over a lithe frame. He bore a passing resemblance to his near contemporary, the English Shakespearean actor Laurence Olivier, and the register of his emotions covered almost as much range. His good looks and personal taste seemed as carefully and artfully tended as the words in his articles. However, he was anything but scripted. He talked on and on, nervously exhilarated at the prospect of seeing the world war up close.

The other reporter, much the stonier of the two, felt only cynicism about what lay ahead. He was repulsed at the prospect of reporting on a war that he knew had barely begun.

But each man had his job to do.

The day before, the Red Army had swept into eastern Poland, joining the Germans in filleting the former Polish nation, to be gobbled up like a pig’s haunch between them. The world watched as Europe, almost exactly twenty-five years after its first unimaginably cataclysmic war, leaped vertiginously into the bottomless chasm of a second great war. Being among the very first journalists to witness the start of the Second World War marked a momentous climax for the two men. The reporting trip to the front culminated parallel personal and professional journeys they had traveled for the better part of the past decade.

Not only were the two men nearing the end of a long day’s drive and a winding road through life, they had also started out from similar places in the industrial Midwest. The somewhat older of the two reporters was now thirty-six. Born in Chicago, he moved as a boy to Cedar Rapids, Iowa, where the simplicity of family life amid the endless surrounding acres of cornfields had left its mark on him. Three years younger, the other American correspondent grew up in a mansion overlooking Cleveland and at a private boarding school in the East. Both could point to fathers who had been successful city attorneys. Each held college degrees, still relatively unusual at the time. Like so many educated and restless young Americans of the 1920s, they were drawn like iron filings to the magnet of postwar Europe’s sophistication and its overthrow of tradition and reinvention of life and art.

Both loved the cosmopolitan, smart, highbrow, cynical, and uninhibited erotic life they made in Paris, Berlin, Rome, Vienna, and other capitals of Europe. Each quickly felt as at home there as in the United States. Voracious learners, they could read and speak several languages— and shared a particular fondness for German language, culture, and life. Both started out with artistic and literary ambitions, but then turned, in different forms, to journalism, passionate and committed to scouting out and being on hand for the latest turn of events. They were in love with the new. As a result they had managed to witness some of the Continent’s most momentous occasions over the past decade while cultivating ties among the famous men and women who shaped those events.

Each reporter in his way had traded on his love for Europe and his deep and intimate acquaintance with leading Europeans to win fame back in the United States. The two men shared a loose professional association, too, through the power of radio networks to reach inside American homes. The older reporter’s reedy, uninflected voice had grown familiar to millions of Americans through his frequent radio broadcasts on European tensions. The younger man had won renown, too, originally as a tastemaker in the world of the arts, bringing back news from Europe about the new and austere modernist aesthetic that had conquered contemporary design and architecture. He traveled to Poland as a freelancer for a national weekly magazine that served as the print voice for one of America’s most influential radio personalities.

That night, along the fast-eroding edge of the Baltic coast battlefields, their Nazi minders insisted that they share a room in the sumptuous beachfront Kasino Hotel in the Danzig Bay resort town of Zoppot (Sopot). It was a return there for the two men: Both had anticipated the war and, in August, had separately visited, driving through the Polish Corridor just days before the German invasion. Their return to the Hanseatic League port towns and cities, with their famous medieval Gothic guild houses lining cobbled streets as in some fairy tale made real, would serve as their personal farewell to an ancient and tottering Europe going up in flames.

And that brought them here together this day.

Any similarities between the two men ended with that. They took an almost immediate, poisonous dislike to each other.

* * *

Even the day before the war started, neither man could believe that Hitler would actually invade, until World War Two began at four forty on the morning of September 1, 1939. That was when twenty-nine Luftwaffe Ju 87 Stuka dive bombers came screaming from the sky over Wieluń, a small city of no conceivable military or industrial value near the German border. More aerial strikes followed, and when the first German troops streamed into Wieluń that afternoon, they found three quarters of the town leveled and twelve hundred people dead in their beds. The world war began with a terror bombing, fulfilling the special instructions Hitler gave to his generals before sending nearly a million and a half men, twenty-four hundred tanks, and twenty-five hundred aircraft into battle against a smaller, partially mobilized, and relatively poorly equipped Polish army. “Go, kill without mercy,” the German chancellor purportedly declared. “Only in such a way will we win the living space that we need.” He reminded any who might pause at such orders, “Who remembers the annihilation of the Armenians?” A war for territory marked the start of an unremitting campaign of racial destruction.

Within just days of the opening attacks, German panzers thundered through open country toward Warsaw. Poland, though, was not merely knifed; it was ripped in two. Under terms of the mutual nonaggression pact reached a week before the German invasion by Soviet foreign minister Vyacheslav Molotov and his Nazi counterpart, Joachim von Ribbentrop, the Red Army invaded. The day before the two correspondents entered Poland for the last time, Russia announced it would annex the eastern half of its territory.

The front lines advanced so fast that the foreign correspondents could not catch up with them that day. That was no surprise for the older of the two men, Berlin-based CBS radio’s chief continental correspondent, William Lawrence Shirer. Shirer had sardonically noted the night before that he was “off to the ‘front’ . . . if we can find one.”

Shirer’s reedy introduction—“Hello, America. This is Berlin.”—at the start of his weekly segment on CBS World News Roundup, and of late his frequent breaking-news reports on the rising tensions and outbreak of the war reached tens of millions of Americans. That was a great leap for a man who had worked his way to Paris pitching hay on a cattle boat a decade earlier. He landed a job in the Chicago Tribune Paris bureau and covered major events, including Charles Lindbergh and the Spirit of St. Louis’s arrival at Le Bourget Airport at the end of his epochal transatlantic solo flight, royal coronations, Olympic games, and other sporting events. In 1932, Shirer became chief of the Tribune’s Central European bureau in Vienna. He married an Austrian woman. In 1934, CBS’s European chief, Edward R. Murrow, hired him to report for his radio network from the volcanic continent’s molten-hot center, Berlin.

Once there, Shirer made it his business to get to know this fast-rising strongman who had just become chancellor and then almost immediately, as head of state, consolidated all power in his own hands.

On September 5, 1934, not two weeks after Shirer’s arrival in Berlin, he watched the National Socialist leader in action for the first time. He went to the annual weeklong Parteitage, the Nazi Party rally, in Nuremberg. The week proved to be a “sort of baptism in Nazi Germany,” he wrote in a diary he secretly kept. At the outset, he was inadvertently swept into “a mob of ten thousand hysterics” gathered outside Hitler’s hotel. When Hitler stepped onto the hotel balcony, Shirer watched as “they went mad . . . their faces transformed into something positively inhuman.” He was baffled, seeing nothing in this small and haggard man prone to nervous tics worthy of such adoration and outright hysteria. However, before the week’s end, he better understood Hitler’s genius at orchestrating a theater of mass frenzy and blind loyalty.

The rally at Nuremberg was, he noted later, “like a scene in a Wagner opera. . . .” The grand spectacle reached its crescendo on the Zeppelin Field, the immense parade grounds where a quarter-million people gathered to show their undying support for their Führer. Brilliant as a speaker and at bolstering unity among his people, Hitler cast what Shirer called his “spell” on the thousands gathered before him. “Man’s—or at least the German’s—critical faculty is swept away. . . ,” he recorded, “and every lie pronounced is accepted as high truth itself.”

At the end of the week in Nuremberg, Shirer and other reporters met with the German chancellor. Shirer recorded that Hitler explained that the party-rally format was part of a deliberate, highly rehearsed “technique” employed to orchestrate the annual renewal of his followers’ emotional support. By the end, Hitler explained, they would go “back to their towns and villages [to] preach the new gospel with new fanaticism.”

He did not think much of Hitler, but after that week he understood far better the wellsprings of his power. He later wrote, “One had to remember though—and I sometimes forgot—that Adolf Hitler was a consummate actor.” After what he’d seen, the young reporter feared “that European civilization . . . might not survive Hitler’s dictatorship.”

As Shirer continued to report from Germany, restrictions grew more severe and violent, and he was obliged to accept the German Propaganda Ministry’s strict oversight and censorship of his radio broadcasts. They controlled the feeds and could cut him off at any time. His broadcast scripts were read by three censors and two German-Americans listened in as he read them out for transmission. To describe what he was witnessing to Americans who might not believe the truth even if he could tell them, he said later, he “used every ruse of voice and double meaning to dodge the Nazi censorship.” American listeners often heard him say, “The German people are reading today in their papers,” which were well known to be tightly controlled by the government, conveying in his deadpan manner that he could only tell half-truths about life under Hitler. Even on his rare trips back to the U.S., despite his wishes to speak out, he could not report more, if he was to get permission from Berlin to return to his job.

In a veiled attempt to convey to his American listeners the dangers he foresaw, he also translated from Hitler’s own harangues about the need to suppress Jews, Slavs, and other so-called inferior peoples and their nations. He described the military buildup and the huge war industry Germany possessed. He shared Hitler’s intention to overturn the Great War’s Versailles peace limitations placed on Germany. Many people at home discounted what he reported, either in sympathy to the Nazis or out of lack of concern about those they oppressed or any potential threat they represented to American interests and security. “This is a truth obvious to all of us here,” he noted privately, “but when we . . . report it we [are] accused of making [anti-]Nazi propaganda.”

The censorship steadily tightened, to the point that microphones were covered to prevent the sounds of British bombing raids and return antiaircraft fire from reaching American audiences’ ears. Frustrated by his inability to report fully and truthfully, Shirer jotted down his daily impressions of life in Nazi Germany. After his early-morning broadcasts for the evening news at home, he’d stumble through Berlin’s blacked-out streets to his room at the Adlon Hotel, neighboring the Brandenburg Gate, the Reichstag, and other government buildings. Here he’d scrawl out a diary on small sheets of paper. After making each day’s entry, he carefully tucked those pages within stacks of other papers, magazines, and books piled high on his desk. He knew the maids and porters worked for the Gestapo and sifted through his belongings while he was out. If the Gestapo found his diary, filled as it was with the daily truth censored from his radio broadcasts, he’d be tossed out of the country or put in a Gestapo prison, or worse. However, he found that the spies “didn’t have the patience to dig through my stuff.” Day by day, his secret diary grew.

Every few weeks he gathered up its loose pages and passed them to a friendly diplomatic courier who smuggled them to Washington, D.C.—though even in later years he never revealed just who carried or sent out the diary. Among those who may have helped him for a period were the former American ambassador William Dodd and his pretty and vivacious daughter, Martha, who thought of Shirer and his Viennese wife, Tess, as “my closest and dearest friends” during her final year and a half living at the embassy in Berlin. Thanks to some unnamed conspirator, hundreds of smuggled pages reporting about life in Germany under Hitler’s murderous totalitarian rule awaited Shirer’s eventual return to Washington, D.C.

One day he expected to return home for good. Once there, no longer forced to submit to German censorship, he could tell his countrymen the truth. That truth was indeed frightening. He was certain that war with the Third Reich was coming for America. “The clash,” he secretly recorded, was “. . . as inevitable as that of two planets hurtling inexorably through the heavens towards each other.” He needed to warn his countrymen. America remained caught up in a political struggle at home over its role in the European war, the menace Hitler posed for Americans thousands of miles overseas, and whether fascism might ever prove a true danger to the nation. Shirer thought the United States should mobilize for war. Now. The dangers of waiting were all too obvious to him.

Just how obvious became clear during an encounter with a haughty, high-ranking German military official. When Shirer asked him about Hitler’s ultimate intentions toward the U.S., he coyly asked Shirer back: Would not “‘a master at timing . . . choose the moment for war with America—a moment which he thinks will give him the advantage?’” War, Shirer feared, “may come sooner than almost all Americans at home imagine.”

He feared war for personal reasons, too, particularly with his wife and young daughter still living in Berlin. If war came before they got out, they would likely be interned. He knew what that might mean.

The press contingent racing after the German army in Poland reached the final Baltic battleground. From the German command post on a Gydnia hilltop, Shirer surveyed the front along a ridge two miles distant—“where the killing was going on,” he told American listeners in a broadcast a few days later. He had refused the offer of a German helmet, he wrote down in secret, finding it “repellent” and “symbolic of brute German force.” The battle was too far off to spot individual fighters, but he could see the Polish positions and that the Germans surrounded them on three sides and cut off escape with their artillery fire on the fourth. The din of battle, the shocking detonations of the big German shells, the flash-bang of artillery and rattling of machine-gun fire, echoed and reechoed through the city. With “nothing but machine guns, rifles, and two anti-aircraft pieces which they were trying desperately to use as artillery,” the Poles slowly fell back into buildings where other fighters had taken up positions. German infantry moved toward them behind advancing tanks. Overhead a seaplane spotted for the Schleswig-Holstein as the battleship, anchored off Danzig ten miles to the rear of Shirer’s viewing post, lobbed huge, sibilant shells overhead that burst against the Polish positions. Flames shot up from the roof of a building that burned down upon the defenders within. Polish troops kept hidden, not daring to expose themselves to the Stukas bombing and strafing their lines. The screaming airplanes dove within 150 feet of the ground and soared away unmolested. It was, said Shirer, “as if they’d been target practicing.”

Shirer broadcasting to America for CBS Radio from Berlin. The metal canister contains his gas mask.

Shirer covering the election of a new Pope from St. Peter’s Square, Rome, in 1939.

He could not help feeling awed seeing the Nazi military in action. Sea, air, and land arms “all seemed to work as a precise machine,” he said. The officers in the observation post “remind[ed] me of coaches of a championship football team who sit on the sidelines and confidently watch the machine they’ve created perform as they knew all the time it would.” That night, he saw the Polish Corridor’s last fifteen thousand Polish fighters surrender.

Normally happiest and most at ease in the company of his many friends among the press corps, Shirer instead felt uneasy on this trip. It was not only the day’s events that disturbed him. He was worried about his assigned traveling companion in the press pool.

The German Propaganda Ministry forced him to share a room with Philip Cortelyou Johnson. Despite the two men’s similar age and American pasts, shared love for Europe, and the overseas camaraderie war reporters might normally enjoy, “None of us can stand the fellow,” Shirer noted at the end of the day, in one of his rare diary entries critical of a fellow reporter. He wanted only to slip away from Johnson. The reporters in the pool felt more than an intense dislike for the talkative and frenetic Johnson, already among the most prominent evangelizers for modernism in architecture, though not yet among the most famous architects in the world. They had reason to fear this flighty, off-putting American who seemed uncomfortably close to their German Propaganda Ministry minders.

2

A New World

America and Germany, 1939–1940

For Philip Johnson, following the German army as it wiped out the last resisters in Poland seemed like he was living within a dream. As with Shirer, witnessing Poland’s death throes climaxed Johnson’s life’s journey. He, too, had watched Hitler clasp the German people’s heart to his own and the Third Reich rise as a relentlessly aggressive military power. In fact, he had come to report on the German scene and first encountered the Führer’s spellbinding rhetorical brilliance even before Hitler became the country’s leader. His reactions were as different from Shirer’s as night from day: Shirer’s nightmare scene was fantasy come true for Johnson.

Articulate and passionate about anything modern, new, artful, and monumental, Johnson was stunningly brilliant, socially incandescent, and passionately opinionated on all matters of taste. He had a coruscating, irresistibly arrogant wit, and relished table talk and wicked gossip about art and ideas and the people who made them. Margaret Scolari Barr, the wife of the influential art historian Alfred Barr, Johnson’s mentor and founding director of the Museum of Modern Art in New York City, recalled him in the period as “handsome, always cheerful, pulsating with new ideas and hopes. He was wildly impatient, could not sit down. . . . His way of speaking, of thinking—that quickness and vibration” brought him many friends, wide attention and early success. Whatever faults he may have had, penny-pinching wasn’t one of them. While still in college at Harvard, his prominent Cleveland lawyer father gave him a large cache of Alcoa company stock shares that would skyrocket in value. He never worried as he spent freely on the luxuries he loved, like European fashion and American Packards and Cadillacs, and supported numerous less-well-off friends.

That fortune endowed Johnson with endless opportunity and the ability to make and entrance friends not only with his charm and intellectual gifts, but with his material ones, too. He knew everyone in the art world who mattered and made a home among Manhattan’s artistically minded high-society crowd. At most gatherings, that scene centered on him.

Enamored of Europe as the result of boyhood summers spent there with his mother, Johnson returned often to the Continent’s great cities and monuments to deepen his college education in ancient Greek culture and European philosophy. Along with rich artistic and intellectual exposure, those trips gave him his first chance to explore his sexual longing for men. The smartest of the smart set, Johnson never lacked for offers to attend society’s finest salons or to share his bed with lovers.

Consumed by the idea then foreign to most Americans that architecture and design were fine arts in their own right, he used his own money to establish the new Museum of Modern Art’s Department of Architecture, making it the first major American museum to exhibit contemporary architecture and design. At age twenty-six, he collaborated in curating MoMA’s landmark 1932 show “The International Style: Architecture Since 1922.” The groundbreaking exhibition introduced Americans to masters of modern European architectural style, such as Walter Gropius and Berlin’s Bauhaus school and the French master Le Corbusier, along with a few American practitioners, including Frank Lloyd Wright, Richard Neutra, and Raymond Hood. The exhibit and accompanying book would set the course for world architecture for the next forty years—above all, American adoption of modernism as the leading home and corporate building style.

Dashing, rich, precocious, the dazzling young Johnson—then a self-taught architect—dabbled in design and continued to pursue his role as a tastemaker in modern art. But, like a devouring flame, he longed for something greater, even more monumental. Devoted to his passions, body and soul, he had read deeply in the writings of the ancients and their nineteenth-century German interpreters, especially the works of his foremost philosophical inspiration, Friedrich Nietzsche. His notion of the superman, the hero able to fulfill his will without regard for modern society’s conventions of right and wrong, fit Johnson’s conception of the master builder, in architecture and perhaps more.

Not long after the MoMA exhibit upended American architectural thinking, Johnson traveled back to Europe. In the summer of 1932 he went to Berlin, where he stayed on into the fall during a period of revolutionary ferment and political struggle, an era when some of the same Nietzschean ideas that had obsessed Johnson took on a new currency within a nation upended by economic and social turmoil.

At a friend’s urging, Johnson drove in early October to a Hitler Youth rally being held in a large field in Potsdam, outside Berlin. It would be the first time he saw Adolf Hitler, charismatic head of the insurgent National Socialist Party. That day, he experienced a revolution of the soul, a revelation he later described as “totally febrile.” Decades later he recalled to his biographer, Franz Schulze, “You simply could not fail to be caught up in the excitement of it, by the marching songs, by the crescendo and climax of the whole thing, as Hitler came on at last to harangue the crowd.” He could not separate the energy of the orchestrated frenzy from the day’s sexual charge, either, feeling thrilled at the sight of “all those blond boys in black leather” marching past an ebullient Hitler.

Johnson returned home after that summer certain his life had been transformed in Potsdam. He found in fascism a new international ideal. The aesthetic power and exaltation he experienced in viewing modernist architecture found its complete national expression in the Hitler-centered fascist movement. But here was a way not merely to rebuild cities with a unified and monumental aesthetic vision for the machine age, but to spur a rebirth of mankind itself. He had never expressed any interest in politics before. After this, however, the Hitler-intoxicated Johnson was determined to “preach [the Führer’s] the new gospel with new fanaticism” to Americans.

Over the next two years, he moved back and forth between Europe and New York City. At home, he mounted shows and promoted modernist artists whose works he considered the best of the new. All the while, he kept an eye on the Nazis as they consolidated power. Being gay, he had slept with his share of men in the sizzling demimonde of Weimar Berlin; now he turned a blind eye to Nazi restrictions on homosexual behavior, which brought imprisonment and even death sentences for homosexuals. He was taking a chance that his homosexuality would not surface.

Yet it was in modern art and architecture, the scene of his greatest personal triumphs, that he overlooked the most obvious discrepancies between Nazi policy and his own views. While arranging for Bauhaus friends to flee the increasingly dangerous attacks against their “degenerate” art by antimodernist Nazi forces, he saw the apparent contradiction in their plight only as a momentary falling back in order to leap that much farther ahead. “If in the arts,” he wrote in an essay entitled “Architecture in the Third Reich” for an arts quarterly called The Hound and the Horn, “[Germany] sets the clock back now, it will run all the faster in the future.”

Sharing the Protestant social elite’s then-common disdain for Jews and fear of organized labor, he had no problem with the Nazi scapegoating of Jews or excoriation of communists. He wrote of a visit to Paris: “Lack of leadership and direction in the [French] state has let the one group get control who always gain power in a nation’s time of weakness—the Jews.” He added to that bigotry a personal snobbery toward mass democratic society. In an age of social collapse, Germany had figured out solutions he thought right for the crisis of democracy.

Philip Johnson in January 1933, photographed at his New York City apartment by Carl Van Vechten.

He was sure fascism could transform America, if perhaps occasioning some temporary dislocations for certain “alien” groups, much as it had Germany. As with his translation of European aesthetics into the American context, he felt ready to embark on an effort to import fascism to America.

To that end, he became a devoted follower of Lawrence Dennis, a Harvard graduate thirteen years his senior—and began to support him financially. A light-skinned African American who passed his life as white, Dennis was a former Foreign Service officer and brilliant economic analyst, and was deeply alienated from American society. He had attended Nuremberg Rallies and met with Italian fascist leader Benito Mussolini. He wrote several theoretical works on the decay of capitalism and on the fascist alternative, including The Coming American Fascism in 1936. Five years later Life magazine described him as “America’s No. 1 intellectual Fascist.” Johnson and longtime friend Alan Blackburn, a fellow MoMA official, were drawn to Dennis. The three gathered regularly at Johnson’s apartment to explore how, in practical terms, to bring about America’s fascist future.

The press could not help but take notice of the prominent young men’s switch from the art world to the political arena. The New York Times reported on their newfound mission in an article headlined “Two Forsake Art to Found a Party.” Blackburn told the Times, “All we have is the strength of our convictions. . . . We feel that there are 20,000,000 to 25,000,000 people in this country who are suffering at present from the inefficiency of government. We feel that there is too much emphasis on theory and intellectualism. There ought to be more emotionalism in politics”—emotionalism, he meant, of the kind Hitler had tapped so successfully in Germany.

First, though, they needed their country’s Hitler. They thought they might have found him in Huey Long, the Kingfish.

The populist former Louisiana governor and now United States senator was already famous, and among many notorious, for his rabble-rousing charisma and autocratic grip on his impoverished Southern state. The New York intellectuals thought Long was their man; Johnson said he needed only “a brain trust,” like the one FDR brought with him to Washington, to win audiences throughout the land with his message. Johnson and Blackburn donned gray shirts—a restyled version of those worn by Hitler’s brown-shirted paramilitary followers—placed pennons emblazoned with a flying wedge of Johnson’s design on his Packard’s fenders, and nosed the big car south to Baton Rouge.

Their footloose political convictions exuded a whimsy in venturing beyond society’s norms. “I’m leaving . . . to be Huey Long’s Minister of Fine Arts,” Johnson said to friends, a risible version of Albert Speer’s role as Hitler’s personal architect in Berlin. Perhaps with tongue in cheek, the New York Herald Tribune article covering their planned escapade noted that the pair thought not only about politics, but about firearms: “Mr. Johnson favored a submachine gun, but Mr. Blackburn preferred one of the larger types of pistols.” Blackburn was quoted as saying in earnest, “Of course we are interested in firearms. . . . I don’t think it will do any of us here in the United States any harm in the next few years to know how to shoot straight.” According to Johnson’s friend Lincoln Kirstein, later a leading American cultural figure, he and Johnson stopped speaking for several years after he learned Johnson kept him and others on a list slated “for elimination in the coming revolution.”

Johnson and Blackburn tried to meet with the Kingfish, who was considering a possible run for president. Before they could put their talents into his service, though, one of the Kingfish’s many political enemies shot him dead.

Despite this setback, Johnson was not done with the possibility of bringing Nazism to America. He shifted his allegiance to a man even more in tune with his personal political agenda. In February of 1936, he moved briefly into Father Charles Edward Coughlin’s Royal Oak, Michigan, parish house.

Every Sunday, the Roman Catholic “radio priest” preached a secular “mass” over the airwaves during his wildly popular Golden Hour of the Shrine of the Little Flower, broadcast from his parish house. At its peak, Coughlin’s listenership reached some thirty to forty million people each week over William Shirer’s own CBS Radio network—about one third of the country’s entire population, and the largest audience of any regular program on the planet. Eventually Coughlin forged his own sixty-eight-station, coast-to-coast network.

After church Sunday mornings, families tuned in afternoons to hear his weekly on-air sermon, a florid combination of religious homily, politics, storytelling, and economic theory—delivered in his honeyed brogue with musical interludes on the organ and appeals for donations. Drawing on scriptural revelation and sensational secret sources placed deep within the enemy camp, he offered answers to the causes of his listeners’ struggles and solace for their misery—together with a wrathful finger of blame pointing at elites, bosses of all kinds, and anti-Christian and communistic culprits. As the Depression deepened into a seemingly bottomless pit and federal intervention in the economy broadened, he accused FDR of having turned his back on the little man and aggrandizing his own powers, driving the nation toward ruin, dictatorship, and enslavement.

Coughlin excoriated Wall Street bankers and the Federal Reserve, men he called “the international money changers in the temple,” for fleecing millions of average Americans. As the years went on, he honed in on a single Janus-faced culprit he called the “international conspiracy of Jewish bankers” and, without seeing any contradiction, the “closely interwoven relationship between Communism and Jewry.” Listeners who might never have met a Communist or a Jew understood that there were stateless, conspiratorial, hook-nosed, money-grubbing villains working their evil designs upon the nation—and plotting worse.

Audiences worshipped Coughlin as prophet and celebrity. At his frequent public appearances, men and women fought to touch the hem of his cassock. A special post office had to be set up in Royal Oak for letters, often carrying listeners’ precious dimes and dollars. These letters arrived at the rate of as many as one million weekly.

The money and popularity encouraged ambitions that grew beyond preaching to his national flock. Out of the Little Flower parish house, Coughlin launched a political organization he called the National Union for Social Justice, which backed candidates for office in several elections. Social Justice, the National Union’s weekly news and opinion broadsheet, published his sermons, long disquisitions by theologians about evil loosed upon the world, texts of speeches by sympathetic politicians, articles about economics and world events, other news that would matter to Coughlin followers, and even sports coverage.

Almost every issue, though, contained articles about the “Jewish conspiracy” or about destructive economic forces led by figures with Jewish names. Coughlin personally possessed a large library of anti-Semitic works, and the pages of Social Justice became a widely read compendium of support for readers’ anti-Semitic beliefs. Social Justice serialized “The Protocols of the Elders of Zion,” a well-known nineteenth-century forgery about a Jewish conspiracy to take over the world through control of the media and finance and then use that power to weaken and enslave Christians. Coughlin blamed Jews and their role in the Russian Revolution and European communism for fomenting the anti-Semitic hatred now crushing them in Germany. In March 1939, Der Stürmer, an even more crudely anti-Semitic, semiofficial U.S. National Socialist Party newspaper, declared, “Father Coughlin in Royal Oak in the State of Michigan has the courage to speak his convictions.”

At Coughlin’s behest, the National Union’s Christian Front organized what he termed “platoons.” He urged that “American Christians . . . aid their Jewish fellow-citizens in shaking off Communism before it is too late.” Christian Front platoons sold Social Justice on the street and started a “Buy Christian” campaign. Roving bands picked out Jews in various cities to taunt and beat up.

Coughlin rallied his following with a call “for restoring America to the Americans.” However, he did not pretend to be democratic. According to one reporter on hand the night before the 1936 vote, Coughlin, who threw his weight behind a third-party right-wing candidate for the presidency, predicted, “America was seeing its last Presidential election.” He declared, “We are at the crossroads. One road leads to Communism, the other to fascism.” His own road was clear: “I take the road to fascism.” Germany took notice. Although his prediction fell far short as his candidate lost badly, the German press denoted him as a leading voice in what it called America’s “Front of Reason.”

Although not religious, Philip Johnson believed Coughlin could emerge as an American fascist leader. He relished the fascistic message underlying Father Coughlin’s movement, and shared the commonly held view that, wrote a reporter, “Coughlinism is the thread on which American fascism has been strung.” Drawing upon his many talents and ties to fascist Germany, Johnson was ready to bind those threads into a noose with which to hang American democracy.

In the 1930s Father Charles Coughlin built a national radio and publishing network. His public appearances, such as this 1936 rally in Cleveland, drew thousands.

A reported 80,000 paying supporters (Social Justice claimed “150,000 crusaders for Christian social justice”) turned out for a September 1936 rally at Chicago’s Riverview Park. Clad in white clerical collar and priestly black cassock, Coughlin stood alone before the vast throng high atop a stark white rostrum towering some twenty feet over the heads of his listeners. Directly behind him rose a five-story white wall topped by a row of enormous American flags fluttering from black posts. Silhouetted against the white, Coughlin bobbed like a shadow boxer fending off blows while punching back with his fists and raising his hands in slashing gestures toward the blue sky.

His voice blasted out of immense speakers at the base of the tribune through the cheering crowd. He commanded his thousands to “form your battalions, take up the shield of your defense, unsheathe the sword of your truth, and carry on . . . so that the Communists on the one hand cannot scourge us and that the modern Capitalists on the other cannot plague us.”

Some on hand that day may have already seen photographs or newsreel footage of a monumental white stage similar to one from which Coughlin spoke that day. The Chicago Tribune described the “special stand” with its “glaring white background . . . for the solitary figure of the priest” as “bordering on the modern.” Johnson had modeled his design for the Chicago rally platform on the already famous one from which Hitler spoke each year at the giant Nazi Party Rally on Zeppelin Field in Nuremberg.

Convinced that fascism would govern America’s future, Johnson returned to Germany in the summer of 1938. Fiery words and war tensions had been coursing through the Continent ever since Hitler’s annexation of Austria the previous March. Johnson arrived with twinned goals of taking a special course offered by the German government for foreigners interested in Nazism—during which he seems to have made contacts with German agents in the United States—and attending the Nazi Party weeklong rally in Nuremberg.

Shirer’s hell in Nuremberg was Johnson’s Olympus.

Like Shirer, Johnson found in the party rally much of the spectacle of Wagnerian opera—an artistic performance encompassing all the audience’s senses and beyond its power to resist being swept away by its orchestrated passion and grandeur. “Like the [Wagner opera cycle] Ring,” Johnson recollected to his biographer, “even if you were at first indifferent, you were at last overcome, and if you were a believer to begin with, the effect was even more staggering.” Here was a vision combining aesthetics, eroticism, and war, forces capable of sweeping away the past and building a new world. It was not lost on him that Hitler was trained in the visual arts and was obsessed with architecture and with constructing monumental works and carrying out gargantuan urban redevelopment plans for all the great cities of Europe to serve his vision of the Thousand-Year Reich.

Johnson believed, and hoped, that the tide of the future presently sweeping European democracies away might one day roll like a tsunami across the Atlantic Ocean.

On September 1, 1939, Johnson needed to pinch himself to be sure he was not dreaming. Sitting at a pleasant outdoor café in Munich, he kept repeating, “This is the first day of war.” Three weeks later, he went as Social Justice’s correspondent on the German Propaganda Ministry road trip to see the war close up in Poland. Sticking beside Shirer, Johnson kept grilling him. Shirer thought it odd that Johnson was the lone American reporter invited along on the press trip not affiliated with a major news outlet. Shirer noted that Johnson kept “posing as anti-Nazi,” but Johnson’s reputation preceded him and Shirer tagged his traveling companion “an American fascist.” He grumbled that Johnson kept trying “to pump me for my attitude” for more than an hour. He fended the importunate Johnson off with “a few bored grunts.” Shirer assumed Johnson would report back anything he heard to the German Propaganda Ministry.

Johnson’s views on the German invasion would soon appear in his articles for Social Justice. Johnson had visited the Polish Corridor, the Baltic seacoast, and Danzig in the last days of peace in August. At the time he described it as “the region of some awful plague. The fields were nothing but stone, there were no trees, mere paths instead of roads. In the towns there were no shops, no automobiles, no pavements and again no trees. There were not even any Poles to be seen in the streets, only Jews!” He found that “the longer I am here, the more I have to struggle to grasp once more what could possibly be the reason for Danzig’s not being part of Germany.”

One thing was clear to him: The resolution of Danzig’s and the Polish Corridor’s status, he wrote for Social Justice, would “not be solved by courts of law, on who has what right, where and for how long, but will be solved by the play of power politics.” The arbiter of Poland’s fate lay in the war for dominance among the powerful nations of Europe. Right and wrong meant nothing—only power did, in all its manifestations.

In his final report from his Polish trip on behalf of Social Justice, Johnson declared that the German victory amounted to an unmitigated triumph for the Polish people and that nothing in the war’s outcome need concern Americans. He termed press representations of the Nazis’ handling of the Poles “misinformed.” German forces had inflicted scant harm on the country’s civilian life, he wrote, noting that “. . . 99 percent of the towns I visited since the war are not only intact but full of Polish peasants and Jewish shopkeepers.” However, his private letters about the same visit indicate he witnessed a very different reality.

Not long after his articles from Europe ran in Social Justice, he sent off a chatty letter to a friend with whom he had toured Poland in August, the German wife of a Luftwaffe ministry official. He reminded her of their previous visit shortly before the war started, to “the country that we had motored through, the towns north of Warsaw.” A month later, he wrote, “it was unrecognizable.” Venturing into the very same towns he’d found previously blighted as if by “some awful plague,” he was delighted to report, “The German green uniforms made the place look gay and happy. There were not many Jews to be seen.” Moving on from there, he watched the Nazi coup de grace in its decimation of Poland: “We saw Warsaw burn and Modlin being bombed. It was a stirring spectacle.”

“By the play of power politics,” Johnson wrote for Social Justice, Hitler was on his way to solving both the issues of race and the lingering international questions that had for so long plagued Europe. He concluded that Germany’s triumph in this “minor war” proved the “truth” of Hitler’s racial idea for Europe. In Philip Johnson’s eyes, which saw a “stirring spectacle” where only weeks earlier he had found “no shops, no automobiles, no pavements . . . no trees . . . only Jews,” the crushing of Poland was a triumph of a leader and his nation’s will, proving its truth.

Shirer was back in Berlin a month when he met with another American reporter who had just come from Poland. Shirer noted in his private diary that the unnamed reporter told him of seeing thousands of Jews in Warsaw being forced at gunpoint from their homes and then barricaded into a walled-off sector of the city. That was part of planning for the war. A week into the invasion of Poland, on September 8, SS general and chief of the Reich Main Security Office Reinhard Heydrich was heard to say that “we want to protect the little people, but the aristocrats, the Poles and Jews must be killed.” The day after the start of the invasion, an SS regiment captured the first 150 Polish citizens, penning them into a specially constructed concentration camp about twenty miles east of Danzig in the town of Stutthof (Sztutowo), which of course the Propaganda Ministry did not include in Shirer and Johnson’s tour of the Baltic front. It was the first camp the Nazis built outside Germany.

The reporter who told Shirer about what he had seen in Warsaw said that “the Nazi policy is simply to exterminate the Polish Jews.” He had also observed thousands of additional German Jews being expelled from Germany and “sent to eastern Poland to die.” While stationed in Germany, Shirer could never get a report about the murder of Jews, or even their plight as a persecuted minority, past censors.

The world was again at war. “A new world,” Shirer realized, had arrived.

Back from witnessing the destruction of Poland. Shirer scratched out his notes and hid them in his room in the Adlon Hotel in Berlin. The war barely a month old, he despaired for the world as he penned in his secret diary: “Black-out, bombs, slaughter, Nazism. Now the night and the shrieks and barbarism.”

3

“That Prophecy Comes True”

Europe, 1939–1940

Back in the United States by the end of fall 1939, Philip Johnson was confident that the war would end soon. At the time, Johnson wrote in Social Justice that while London rattled its tin sabers and Paris shivered within its reinforced bunkers along the Maginot Line, Germany had raced forward, but the race was no longer to war. “[Berlin’s] war aims are already attained, which is consistent with her inaction in the military sphere and her peace offensive in the ‘talk’ sphere,” wrote Johnson. After Poland, Germany was intent on ultimate victory in “the moral war,” he insisted. That was a war Berlin was also on the verge of winning, he opined. Hitler wished only to conclude peace with the rest of the world, in particular England. England’s far more aggressive aims, on the other hand, could only be pursued through total war, according to Johnson. Who then, he asked, was guilty of fomenting war in Europe?

Johnson asserted that imperial London was unwilling to accept a rival power’s dominating Europe and responded by insisting upon “the destruction of Hitlerism.” To Johnson’s mind, Germany’s success was a fait accompli. He scoffed at the Allies’ bellicose gestures. England’s social and economic decay and moral decadence appeared in stark relief, he wrote, through this hollow chatter about her intention to wage “an extremely aggressive war against the best armed nation in the world . . . an aggressive war which she is not waging.” The windbags of England, according to Johnson, had nothing but their ability to bluff in the face of a virile Germany’s demonstrated willingness to fight.

Bellicose threats backed by inaction, Johnson wrote, offered ample evidence of the pitiful state into which the world’s most powerful democracy and history’s greatest empire had slumped. The wheels of history had been driven forward by Hitler. Facing no threat from Germany, America, he intimated, should support the formation of a new Europe dominated by the Third Reich.

However, Johnson overlooked a much larger, perhaps less widely reported battleground where war was already well under way and where England seemingly had the upper hand. Unlike the twilight war—soon known as the “Phony War”—on land, a shooting war between the two great powers began almost instantly at sea with the declaration of hostilities. England still ruled the waves. The Royal Navy, the world’s most powerful surface fleet and enduring symbol of the globe-straddling British Empire, offered London its swiftest way to slap down Germany. London’s preponderant naval strength provided the military basis for its vast colonial empire. Great Britain oxygenated its economy and sustained its domination of the United Kingdom entirely through maritime trade—and protected it with the vaunted Royal Navy.

At any given moment more than two thousand in- and outbound English merchants ranged global waterways, several hundred oceangoing vessels called in the nation’s ports each week, and thousands more traders plied British coastal waters. England possessed a naval fleet of 375 oceangoing warships, including 7 aircraft carriers, 15 battleships, and 184 destroyers. Most of her ships were modern and well equipped, and of post–World War I vintage, except the battleships. The Admiralty also could call upon more than 20 additional naval vessels from Commonwealth allies.

Germany set sail with what amounted to a bathtub navy by comparison. At first the commanders of the German navy, the Kriegsmarine, trembled at the prospect of a naval war with England. Told by Hitler not to expect sea war with the Royal Navy before 1944 at the earliest, Großadmiral Dr. Erich Raeder, the fleet’s commander in chief since 1928, despaired when the naval war came five years ahead of schedule. In a memorandum written at the start of the war, he laid out his assets. He noted that his fleet consisted of fifty-seven U-boats, only twenty-six of them suitable for duties in the heavy North Atlantic seas. He had no aircraft carriers, just two battleships (though two more, impressively advanced battleships, including the Bismarck