The Winds of War

received an unexpected word from on high which, to his seasoned appraisal, had probably blown a well-planned career to rags. Now he had to consult his wife about an urgent decision; yet he did not al

n 1915, when the World War was on, and uniforms had a glow. This was 1939, and she had long since forgotten those words. He had warned her that the climb would be hard. Victor Henry was not of a Navy family. On every rung of the slippery career ladder, the sons and grandsons of admirals had been jostling him. Yet everyone in the Navy who knew Pug Henry called him a corner. Until now his rise had been steady. The letter that first got him into the Naval Academy, written to his congressman while

ars, for all their moving about, wherever they landed, Rhoda had provided a house or an apartment where the coffee was hot, the food appetizing, the rooms well furnished and always clean, the beds propen, made, and fresh flowers in sight. She had fetching little ways, and when her spirits were good she could be very sweet and agreeable. Most women, from the little Victor Henry knew of the sex, were vain clacking slatterns, with less to redeem them than Rhoda had. His longstanding opinion was that, for all her drawbacks, he had a good wife, as wives went. That was a closed question. But heading home after a day's work, he never knew ahead of time whether he would encounter Rhoda the charmer or Rhoda the crab. At a crucial moment like this, it could make a great difference. In her down moods, her judgments were snappish and often silly. Coming into the house, he heard her singing in the glassed-in heated porch off the living room where they usually had drinks before dinner. He found her arranging tall stalks of orange gladiolus in an oxblood vase from Manila. She was wearing a beige silky dress cinched in by a black patent-leather belt with a large silver buckle-. Her dark hair fell in waves behind her ears; this was a fashion in 1939 even for mature swo ommaedne. Her welcoming glance was affectionate and gay. just to see her him feel better, and this had been going on all his life. "Oh, m there. Why on EARTH didn't you warn me Kip Tollever was coming? He sent these, and Luckily he called too. I was skipping around this house like a scrubwoman." Rhoda in casual talk used the swooping high notes of smart Washington women. She had a dulcet, rather busk), voice, and these zoomed words of hers gave what she said enormous emphasis and some illusion of sparkle. "He said he might be slightly late. Let's have a short one, Pug, okay? The fixings are all there. I'M PARCIIED." Henry walked to the wheeled bar and began to mix martinis. "I asked Kip to stop by so I could talk to him. It's not a social visit." "Oh? Am I supposed to make myself scarce?" She gave him a sweet smile. "No, no." "Good. I like Kip. Why, I was flabbergasted to hear his voice. I thought he was still stuck in Berlin." "He's been detached.""So he told me. Who relieved him, do you know?" "Nobody has. The assistant attache for air took over temporarily." Victor Henry handed her a cocktail. He sank in a brown wicker annchair, put his feet up on the ottoman, and drank, gloom enveloping him again. Rhoda was used to her husband's silences. She had taken in his bad humor at a glance. Victor Henry held himself very straight except in moments of trial and tension. Then he tended to fall into a crouch, as though he were still playing football. He had entered the room hunched, and even in the armchair, with his feet up, his shoulder,-, were bent. Dark straight hair hung down his forehead. At forty-nine, he had almost no gray hairs, and his charcoal slacks, brown sports jacket, and red bow tie were clothes for a younger man. It was his small vanity, when not in uniform, to dress youthfully; an athletic body helped him carry it off. Rhoda saw in the lines around his greenish brown eyes that he was tired and deeply worried. Possibly from long years of peering out to sea, Henry's eyes were permanently marked with what looked like laugh lines. Strangers mistook him for a genial man. "Got a dividend there?" he said at last. She poured the watery drink for

dsome face, and his cobalt "Fine arts! Italy!" one heavy eyebrow went up in Tollever's gaunt I tic. Say, Pug, since when do you indulge?" Tollever inquired, accepting a martini and seeing Henry refill his own glass. "Why, hell, Kip, I was drinking in Manila. Plenty." "Were You? I forget. I just remember what a roaring teetotaller you were in the Academy. No tobacco either. "Well, I fell from grace long ago." Victor Henry had started to drink and smoke on the death of an infant girl, and had not returned to the abstinences his strict Methodist father had taught him. It was a topic he did not enjoy exploring. With a slight smile, Tollever said, "Do you play cards on Sunday now, too?" "No, I still hold to that bit off-lishness" "Don't call it foolishness, Pug." Commander Tollever began to talk about the pOSt of naval attache in Berlin. "You'll love Germany," were his first words on the topic. "And so will Rhoda. You'd be crazy not to grab the chance." Resting his elbows on the arms of his chair, legs neatly crossed, he clipped out his words with all the -old articulate crispness; still out of the Academy, while officer of the deck of a destroyer, -Two years the handsomest men in Pug's class, and one of the unluckiest one Tolliver had rammed a sub at midnight in a rainsquall, during a fleet exercise. The submarine had surfaced without warning a hundred yards in front of him, It had scarcely been his fault, nobody had been hurt, and the ri general court-martial had merely given him a letter of rep mand. But that letter had festered in his promotion jacket, sapping his career. He drank two martinis in about fifteen minutes, as he talked. When Victor Henry probed a bit about the Nazis and how to deal with them, Kip Tollever sat up very erect, his curled fingers stiffened as he gestured, and his tone grew firm. The National Socialists were in, he said, and the other German parties were out, just as in the United States the Democrats were in and the Republicans out. That was the one way to look at it. TheGermans admired the United States, and desperately wanted our friendship. pug would find the latch off, and the channels of information open, if he simply treated these people as human beings. The press coverage of the Germany was distorted. When Pug got to know the newspapermen, he would understan(new) d why- disgruntled pinkos and drunks, most of them. "Hitler's a damned remarkable man," said Tollever, poised on his elbows, one scrubbed hand to his chin, one negligently dangling, his face flushed bright pink. "I'm not saying that he, or Goering, or any of that bunch, wouldn't murder their own grandm

he way I read them our battlewagons are falling below the safety margin. I wrote a report recommending that the blisters be thickened and raised on the Maryland and New Mexico classes. Today C.N.O called m, d"wr, to his office. My report's turned into a hot potato. BuSbips and BuOrd are blaming each other, memos are flying like fur, the blisters are going to be thickened and raised, and-" "And by God, pug, you've got yourself another letter of commendation. Well done!" Tollever's brilliant blue eyes glistened, and he wet his lips. "I've got myself orders to Berlin," Victor Henry said. "Unless I can talk my way out of it. C.N.O says the White House has decided it's a crucial post now." "It is, Pug, it is." well, maybe so, but hell's bells, Kip, you're wonderful at that Sort of thing.e monkey. I don't belong there. I had the I'm not. I'm a grease myself, that's all, when the boss man was misfortune to call attention to my german. Now I'm in a looking for someone. And I happen to know some Ge crack." tch. "Well, don't pass this up. That's my Tollever glanced at his watch rtant, and sorneadvice to you as an old friend. Hitler isvery, very impo thing's going to blow in Europe. I'm overdue at the embassy." Victor Henry walked him outside to his shiny gray Mercedes. Tollever's gait was shaky, but he spoke with calm clarity. "Pug, if you do go, call me. I'll give you a book fun of phone numbers of the right men to talk to. In fact-"-A twisted grin came and went on his face. "No, the numbers of the little frauleins would be wasted on you, wouldn't they? Well, I've always admired the hell out of you." He clapped Henry's sho

with her mother about the student radio station at George Washington University, her main interest there. The houseman, an old Irishman who also did the gardening in warm weather, walked softly in the candlelit dining room, furnished with Rhoda's family antiques. Rhoda contributed money to the household costs so that they could live in this style in Washington, among her old friends. While Victor Henry did not like it, he had not argued. A commander's salary was modest, and Rhoda was used to this better life. Madeline excused herself early, kissing her father on the forehead. The somber quiet during dessert was unbroken except by the hushed footfalls of the manservant. Rhoda said nothing, waiting out her husband's mood. When he cleared his throat and said it might be nice to have brandy and coffee on the porch, she smiled pleasantly. "Yes, let's, Pug." The housema light in the artificial fireplace. She waited and set the silver tray there, turning up the red flickering until her husband was settled in his favorite chair, drinking coffee and sipping brandy. Then she said, "By the bye, there's a letter from Byron.""What? He actually remembered we're alive? Is he all right?" They had not heard from him in months. Henry had had many a nightmare of his son dead in an Italian ditch in a smoking automobile, or otherwise killed or injured. But since the last letter he had not mentioned Byron. "He's all right. He's in Siena. He's given up his studies in Florence. Says he got bored with fine arts." ?l "I couldn't be less surprised. Siena. That's s

n a leather frame on , Contemplating three pictures the desk: Warren, in uniform and bristle-beaded, a stern boyish candidate for Rag rank; Madeline, at seventeen much, much younger than she seemed now; Byron, in the center, with the defiant what sloping large mouth, the half-closed analytic eyes, the thick ful hair, the somber face peculiarly mingling softness and obstinate Byron owed his looks to neither parent. He was his strange self. Dear Briny: Your mother and I have your long letter. I intend to take it seriously. Your mother prefers to pooh it, but I don't think You've written such a letter before, or described a girl in quite such terms. I'm glad You're well, and gainfully employed. 'That's good news. I never could take that fine arts business seriously. Now about Natalie Jastrow. In this miserable day and age, especially with what is going

children. This could end up as hell on earth. Now I'm just telling you what I think. Maybe I'm old-fashioned, or stupid, and out of touch. It doesn't matter to me that this girl is Jewish, though there would be grave questions about the children's faith, since I feel you're a pretty good Christian, somewhat more so than Warren at the moment. I'm impressed by what you say about her brains, which her being the niece of Aaron Jastrow sure bears out. A Jew's Jesus is a remarkable work. If I thought she could make you happy and give you some direction in life I'd welcome her, and take pleasure in personally punching in the nose anybody who upset her. But I think might become a second career for me. Now, I'm reconciled to letting you go your own way. You know that. It's hard for me to write a letter like this. I feel like a fool, elaborating the obvious, expressing truths that I find distasteful, and above all intruding on your persona

is friend that Italian painting was garish, saccharine, and boring with its everlasting madonnas, babes, saints, halos, crucifixions, resurrections, green dead Saviors, flying beared jehovahs, and the rest; that he much preferred moderns like Mire and Klee; and that anyway, painting was just interior decoration, which didn't really interest him. He scrawled several pages in this cornered-rat vein, mailed them off, and then went vagabonding around Europe, forsaking his classes and his hope of a graduate degree. When he got back to Florence, he unda cheering letter from the professor. ... I don't know what will become of you. Obviously art was a false lead. I think it did you good to get hot or, some subject. If you can only shake off your lethargy and find something that truly engages you, You may yet go far. I am an old traffic cop, and standing here on my corner I have seen many Chevrolets and Fords go by. It's not hard for me to recognize the occasional Cadillac. Only this one seems badly stalled. I've written about you to Dr. Aaron Jastrow, who lives outside Siena, You know of him. He wrote A Jew's Jesusp made a pot of money, and got off the miserable academic treadmill. We used to be friends at Yale, and he was very good indeed at bringing out the best in young men. Go Ind talk to him, and give him my regards. 'That was how Byron happened to call on Dr. Jastrow. He took a bus to Siena, a three-hour run up a rutted scary mountain road. Tmice before he had vi ted the bizarre S' little town, all red towers and battlements and narrow crooked streets, set around a gaudy zebra-striped cathedral, ona hilltop amid rolling green and brown Tuscan vineyards. Its main claim to fame, aside from the quasi-Byzantine church art he had studied there, was a peculiar annual horse race called the Palio, which he had heard about but never seen. At first glance, the girl at the wheel of the old blue convertible made no strong impression on him: an oval face, dark enough so that he first Italian, dark hair, enormous sunglasses, a pink sweater took her for an over an open white Shirt. Beside her sat a blond man covering a yawn with a long white hand. "Hi! Byron Henry?""Yes." "Hop in the back. I'm Natalie Jastrow. This is Les bassy in Paris, and He's visiting my uncle." i works in our em girl either. X"at Natalie Jastrow saw I Byron did not much impress the American, through the dark glasses was a slender lounger, obviously with red glints in his heavy brovm hair; he was propped against the wall of the Hotel Continental in the sun, smoking a cigarette, his legs loosely crossed. The light gray jacket, dark slacks, and maroon tie were faintly dandyish. The forehead under the hair was de, the long slanting jaws narrow, the face pallid. He looked like what he was-a collegiate drone, a rather handsome one. Natalie had brushed these off by the dozen in earlier years. As they wound through narrow canyons of crooked ancient redbrown houses and drove out into the countryside, Byron idly asked Slote was s d about his embassy work. The Foreign Service man told him he pote a section and was studying Russian and Polish, hoping in the political sc w or Warsaw. Sitting in the car, Sic)te appeared for an assignment to Mo 0 very tall; later Byron saw that he himself was taller than Slote; the Foreign Service officer had a long trunk but medium-sized legs. Slote's thick blond hair grew to a peak over a high fore

d to Byron, 'Leslie thinks my uncle should go home. We've had a running argument for three days." "I see." Jastrow was peeling a pear with elderly deliberate gestures, using an The use of the word 'Being a hybrid of sorts myivory-handled knife. "Yes, Byron, I'm being mulish." was accidental, for he grinned and added, self, I guess. This is a comfortable house, it's the only home I have now, and my work, is going well. Moving would cost me half a year. If I tried to sell the house, I couldn't find an Italian to offer me five cents on the dollar. They've been dealing for many centuries with foreigners who've had to cut and run. They'd skin me alive. I was aware of all this when I bought the villa. I expect to end my days here." "Not this fall at the hands of the Nazis, I trust," Slote said. "Oh, hell, Slote," Natalie broke in, slicing a flat hand downward through the air. "Since when does the Foreign Service have such a distinguished record for foresight? Since Munich? Since Austria? Since the Rhineland? Weren't you surprised every time?"Byron listened with interest to this exchange. The others seemed to have forgotten he was at the table. -Hitler has been making irrational moves With catastrophic possibilities," Slote retorted. "Anybody can pull a gun in the street and shoot four people down before the cops come and stop him. Until now that's been Hitler's so-called foreign policy brilliance in a nutshell. The surPrise of an outlaw running wild. That game's played out. The others are aroused now. They'll stop him over Poland." JastTow ate a piece of pear, and began to talk in a rhythmic, mellifud and lecturing in a classluous way, something between meditating alo harles the Twelfth, room. "Leslie, if Hitler were the Kaiser, or a man like you think I'd admit I'd be worried. But He's far more competent than Fortunately the old ruling class is destroyed. They unleashed the World War tted incompetence, those preening, posturing, sleek royalwith their dry-rod sodomites ties and politicians of 19'4t those bemedalled womanizers an out of Proust-They never dreamed that the old manners, the old paperwork, the old protocol, were done for, and that industrialized warfare booked through a dollhouse. So would shatter the old system like at kic they went to the trash heap, and new leadership came up out of the sewers, where realism runs and change often starts. The early Christians haunted the sewers and catacombs of Rome, you know," Jastrow said to Byron Henry, clearly relishing a fresh audience. "Yes, sir, I learned about that." "Of course you did. Well, Hitler's a vagabond, Mussolini's a vagabond, and Stalin's a jailbird. These are new, tough, able, and clever men, straight up from the sewers. Lenin, another jailbird, was the great originator. He made it all up, Leslie, you realize-the jesuitical secret party, the coarse slogans for the masses and the contempt for their intelligence and memory, the fanatic language, the strident dogmas, the Moslem religiosity in politics, the crude pageantry the total cynicism of tactics y it's all Leninism. Hitler is a Leninist, Mussolini is a Leninist. The talk of anti-communism and pro-communism is for fools and children." "Oh, for Pete's sake, Aaron-2 "Just a moment, now! Lenin was all prudence and caution in foreign affairs, and that is my whole point. Glory, and honor, and all those tinselly illusions of the old system that led to wars, were to Lenin the merest eyewash. So it is to Hitler. He has never moved when he couldn't get away with it. The outlaw running wild with a gun is the exact effect he wishes to create. I'm surprised that you're taken in. He is really a very, very prud