Aide to Four Presidents

One day in 1926 when the world was quiet and no wars were in progress anywhere, Wilson Brown, a spare, erect and self-effacing captain in the Navy, reported to Washington, confidently expecting to pick up orders for his next job, as naval attaché in Paris. Instead, and without explanation, he was hustled over to the White House and subjected to a brief interview with Calvin Coolidge, President of the United States. In a few laconic questions Coolidge learned that Brown was an Annapolis man, Class of ’02, had staff experience and had commanded two destroyers in the Great War. Had he been through the Naval War College? “Yes, sir,” said Brown. “Well,” allowed Coolidge, without a smile, “I guess that’ll keep you from tripping over the White House rugs.”

Thus unceremoniously Wilson Brown found himself appointed Naval Aide to President Coolidge, and launched on a remarkable series of experiences. For while his purely naval career was not over (he was later head of the Naval Academy, and led carrier forces against the Japanese in 1942), he kept returning to the White House, serving also Hoover, Roosevelt and, briefly, Truman. An aide’s job, never formally defined beyond the ceremonial duties and the command of the presidential yacht, depends very much on the President himself. It amounted to most under F.D.R., whom Brown served twice, in the ’30s and in the war, giving him the daily war news and accompanying him on his travels, including the grueling trip to Yalta. No military man has studied four more different historic figures from such an intimate vantage point.

AMERICAN HERITAGE is privileged to present here excerpts from Admiral Brown’s forthcoming book, Four Presidents as I Saw Them.

At twilight on a pleasant August afternoon in the year 1926, Calvin Coolidge, thirtieth President of the United States, sat in a rocking chair at the side of his Vermont farmhouse. He had arrived at Plymouth only a few hours before, after a day’s journey from his summer camp in the Adirondacks. It was his first visit home since the burial of his father in the local graveyard the winter before. Then heavy snow in Vermont made all travel difficult, and piercing wind and cold lashed the funeral cortege. Today a green and smiling countryside welcomed Vermont’s most distinguished citizen. His purpose in this return was to revisit the grave of his father and his beloved younger son, whose recent tragic death also seemed only yesterday. Today, after all the hurly-burly of high office, President and Mrs. Coolidge could inspect the house he had inherited from his father, and they had it to themselves, attended only by an austere spinster neighbor who acted as their local housekeeper. Except for a few who remained in the neighborhood on duty, the presidential following of secretaries, Secret Service, telegraph and telephone operators, press and photographers had moved on another fifteen miles to the hotel in the neighboring town of Woodstock.

From where he sat, Calvin Coolidge could look across the country road to his pasture land that leads away to a green valley and hills beyond. He could also see what went on at the crossroads country store where he was born, fifty yards up the road—the only dwelling within half a mile. At the moment it had become the headquarters of the duty section of his Staff and there a curious crowd had quickly assembled beyond a cordon fixed by the State Police to prevent further encroachment on the presidential privacy.

The President had been very grumpy all day on the trip to Plymouth and had refused Mrs. Coolidge’s earnest pleas to address crowds that had waited hours for a single glimpse of him; and at times he refused even to stand up where he could be seen. It was clear to all of us that we should leave him alone unless we had something important to deliver. It fell to me, the new man, to be the first intruder.

It was a completely strange environment for me. I had taken command of the presidential yacht, Mayflower, and had assumed the duties of Naval Aide only a few months before. I had seen very little of President and Mrs. Coolidge. At the few White House receptions and during trips on the Mayflower I had found them friendly but very official and formal. On board the Mayflower I knew what my duties were and how to do them, but in the mountains of Vermont I had no intimation of what was expected of me beyond the generally accepted requirement “to be on hand in case something turns up.” The recent death of President Harding had put everyone around the White House on the alert for other possible emergencies and I was on my toes. My navy blue uniform with aiguillettes, which custom required me to wear, seemed particularly inappropriate to the surroundings. It collected all of the dust of all of the country roads in spite of most diligent brushing. I felt conspicuous and a little silly. I was staying with the nearest neighbor (Farmer Brown, the President called him) and, in order to be of some slight service, I had constituted myself a link between the President and our telegraph operators established in the country store with a direct wire to Washington.

The Coolidges had not enjoyed many minutes of quiet before the Washington operator reported that he had no further business and asked permission to sign off for the night. Reluctant as I was to disturb the tranquillity of the peaceful moment, I thought the President might be waiting for the all clear from Washington and I therefore passed through the police cordon, walked to the porch rail, made my report of all quiet and asked if he had any more business. “Come up and sit,” said the President. “Oh, no thank you, Mr. President,” I said, “I don’t want to intrude, but thought you might like to know there is no more business from Washington tonight.” “Come up and sit,” he repeated a little more emphatically.

Notwithstanding the command quality of his invitation, Calvin Coolidge, by some intangible quality of voice, expression, and gesture, made me feel that he did not resent my interruption, but, on the contrary, realizing perhaps my predicament, was glad of an opportunity to show me special kindness in a way that would be noted by others. We sat in silence for some time, but it was not an uncomfortable silence. The mere fact that Mrs. Coolidge did not feel it necessary to talk was reassuring. No one understood her husband’s moods as well as she, and she always came promptly to the rescue when the situation required. After a while Mr. Coolidge made an occasional comment—about the weather, the beauty of the view, and how fond he was of it. “Are you comfortable at Farmer Brown’s?” he asked, and I said yes. Later, as the light faded, he spoke again. “Perhaps you’d like to see the house. Most visitors do.” He led me through the lower floor pointing out where his father used to sit, where he used to study his lessons as a boy, where his father stood when he swore him in as President of the United States. After a few halting comments, I thanked him and said I’d better go. Was there anything I could do? We were passing through the kitchen toward the porch. Mr. Coolidge opened the icebox door, inspected its well-filled contents and said, “Well, Momma, anything you want Captain Brown to get from the store before they close?” But Mrs. Coolidge, it turned out, was all stocked.

We remained at Plymouth for several days during which Calvin Coolidge went tranquilly about the business of inspecting his heritage—house, barns, outbuildings, equipment and land. He allowed but few interruptions—now and then an occasional visitor too important to be refused the door and, as a sop to the press, posing for a few pictures. He put on dungarees and a large farmer’s straw hat for these and was shown doing farm chores in a rather unconvincing manner. At this time there was little in Calvin Coolidge’s physical appearance to indicate a farm background. He seemed too frail ever to have managed the tasks of farm labor or even ever to have taken part in school or college athletics. An oval-shaped head and clear-cut profile suggested Anglo-Saxon ancestry. A thin neck, sloping shoulders, rather shambling gait, suggested a boy who had never found time to play rather than one accustomed to outdoor life. He may have chopped wood, fed the chickens and milked the cow as a young boy; but I could not see him handling the plow or the hoe. Yet there was no pretense in Calvin Coolidge’s make-up. He wished the American people to see him and his neighbors as they were. He was proud of a strain of Indian blood, of the hardihood of his ancestors in surviving the rigors of northern winter, of the God-fearing principles of their lives.

While the Coolidges were intent upon their own affairs, the Staff and members of the press loafed in the shade of a fine old tree just outside the country store—pitching pennies, spinning yarns, discussing everything under the sun. For all of us there were many dull hours. One afternoon I took off down the lane away from the crowd, within sight of the house and store where I could be called if needed, to become completely absorbed in reading one of the four long volumes of Beveridge’s life of John Marshall. I was aroused from my concentration by a familiar voice at my elbow saying in clipped tones, “Well, Captain, studying navigation?” As I started to climb down from the rail fence where I was perched, he headed me off with, “Don’t disturb yourself. I’m just looking around and wondered what you were so interested in.” When I told him, his comment was, “A fine book. Every American ought to read it. You couldn’t spend your time to better advantage. Go ahead with your reading,”—and walked off. Years later when I praised the Beveridge work to Franklin Roosevelt, he disagreed completely, denouncing the books as “fusty volumes that thought only of property rights and worried little about human rights and public welfare.” This opposite judgment of the merits of Beveridge’s work is an excellent example of the basic differences in the political philosophy of Calvin Coolidge and that of Franklin Roosevelt.

When their affairs had been put in order at Plymouth, President and Mrs. Coolidge and the retinue returned to the Adirondacks and took over the main building in the Rockefeller Camp. The camp was five or six miles from the nearest railroad station, and approached by only one road, easily guarded by a squad of Marines and Secret Service. The camp itself, a fish and game preserve, comprised hundreds of acres of woodland and lake country and possessed, in addition to the main camp building, a half dozen or more guest cottages; so that, had Mr. Coolidge wanted to have friends about him, he could have entertained them with little or no trouble.

But he had come to the mountains to get away from people for a time; he wanted privacy and he got it. His secretariat, the press and the rest of us occupied quarters at a famous old caravansary called Paul Smith’s, while a nearby cottage was fitted out as the summer Executive Office, with direct telegraph and telephone lines to Washington. The President drove in to his office about ten o’clock every morning except Sundays and usually finished business in about an hour—signing what was prepared for his signature, scanning reports and taking away with him whatever required careful study. The job in that placid era was not the killing labor it has since become. There appeared to be no serious national problems. Business was still ticking along nicely and President Coolidge considered it his major responsibility not to rock the boat. Instead he intended to balance the budget, and to see that each branch of the Government ran its own affairs as directed by Congress.

Soon the reporters found that the monotony which had prevailed in Vermont had followed Mr. Coolidge to the Adirondacks; no one could make less news when he set his mind to it. The newsmen could find nothing at all to write about until, by pure chance, it was learned that the President fished for his trout with worms. Out of that relatively minor piece of intelligence the press managed to produce a storm of controversy all through the country between the angry advocates of fly-fishing and the defenders of the worm. Even this flurry of excitement soon played itself out, however; so that when that great showman, Al Smith, governor of New York, suddenly appeared in our midst, he was greeted with open arms by the press and corresponding chill by President Coolidge, who jealously withheld the limelight of the presidency.

The arrival of Governor Smith had particular news interest then, because he had refused to say whether he would call or not, even when reporters pointed out to him that George Washington and the governor of Massachusetts had established the precedent that when the chief executive of the United States makes a visit to one of the states of the Union, courtesy requires the governor of that state to call on him officially. Governor Smith had skilfully kept everyone guessing about what he would do and finally went to Paul Smith’s on less than 24 hours’ notice, thereby focussing public attention on the meeting of a Republican president and a potential Democratic rival at the next election.

The Smiths came on stage literally in a cloud of dust. With a squad of state police on motorcycles leading the procession, a caravan of a dozen or more cars bounced at high speed over the unpaved country roads to a sudden halt directly in front of our hotel. The squealing of brakes and the blowing of sirens and horns had an electric effect on everyone within hearing distance. Crowds rushed to the drive to see what was going on. The Governor and Mrs. Smith, a son and daughter, a delegation of in-laws, a clerical force, the governor’s own following of reporters and photographers debouched from the cars as if by signal and immediately went into action. Golf bags, fishing gear, tennis racquets and enough hand baggage to last a week were unloaded and whisked to the local yacht club house, which we learned only then had been commandeered in its entirety. The governor was immediately surrounded by his own photographers, quickly reinforced by our group, and posed for nearly an hour—swinging a golf club with more energy than skill, and displaying trout rod and tennis racquet. He did it all with enthusiasm and an infectious grin that was in marked contrast to the grave Coolidge demeanour. “How am I doin’?” he kept saying. “How’s this?”

While this scene was being enacted at the hotel, we telephoned news of it to the President at his camp. I soon received instructions to call on the governor, to invite him and Mrs. Smith to lunch at the President’s camp and to make it clear in the most tactful manner I could that the invitation could not be extended to other members of the party, owing—well—to the limited resources available at camp. When the photographers had finished at last, the governor withdrew to his quarters. I followed and tried to find someone to deliver my message, but the New York staff insisted, “The governor will want to see you himself,” and they hustled me into the nearest bedroom, crowded with the Smith family. No time had been lost in unpacking the most important part of the baggage, a lavish supply of fine liquor, which in those Prohibition days was an impressive sight. The governor’s voice could be heard from the adjoining bedroom joshing the occupants of our room about the show he’d just staged, while, judging from the sounds of splashing water, giving himself a thorough scrubbing. When told that I was there with a message from the President, he came in just as he was—stripped to an undershirt, suspenders dangling from the hips, energetically towelling face and hands. He looked dashed when I delivered my message. “But what about the other members of my party? They’ve come all the way up here to see the President. Presidents don’t visit New York State every day.” I explained that President and Mrs. Coolidge lived a very quiet life, that they had received little warning of the Smiths’ visit, that it was almost time for us to leave for camp now, that there would not be time for Mrs. Coolidge to alter her luncheon arrangements, that I would explain to the President about the other members of the governor’s party when we reached camp; and I asked the governor if he and Mrs. Smith could be ready to leave in the White House car in ten minutes. He accepted the invitation with the best possible grace and during the drive to camp talked with enthusiasm about re-forestation. When we arrived the meeting of the Coolidges and the Smiths was not photographed. Mr. Coolidge greeted his guests in the hallway without much enthusiasm, although Mrs. Coolidge tried to make them feel at home. And when the right moment arrived the hostess, with her usual tact and good sense, sent invitations to others of the Smith party for coffee and inspection of the Rockefeller Camp after lunch. When they returned to the hotel, they said they’d had a fine time; but the governor and party left for Albany that afternoon, week’s baggage, in-laws and all. The New York papers next day showed the governor going through his athletic paces but the President of the United States was not shown as one of the audience.

When Mr. Coolidge was Vice-President he and Mrs. Coolidge were obliged by the social requirements of the office to attend official or semi-official dinners nearly every night. His puritanical bearing, forming as it did so amusing a contrast to the gayer members of the free and easy Harding administration, led to many anecdotes. One, for example, had it that a lady who commiserated with the Vice-President for having to endure so much dining out got this laconic comment from him: “Gotta eat somewhere.” I suppose this tale was manufactured, like most of the world’s best “true” anecdotes, although I have heard it countless times.

But when Mr. Coolidge became President his habits changed. Henceforward he was at pains to avoid private social engagements—and all the entanglements they might involve—and keep everything official. At the same time formal entertaining at the White House reached a new high level, and so it was when I first had a part in it. Presidents Harding and Coolidge had reinstituted the full schedule of White House formal dinners and receptions initiated during the administration of Theodore Roosevelt but interrupted for a time by World War I and the illness of President Wilson. Every month there were about five dinners and an equal number of receptions. This meant a big party about every week during the winter, so that the main floor of the White House was in a constant state of activity, with furniture and rugs and flowers steadily moving in and out. There was a correct and established way of doing everything in the White House and everything had to be done according to that code. Each move for every ceremony was rehearsed with West Point precision by the Protocol Officer of the State Department, the Head Usher, Ike Hoover, and the Army and Navy aides. All hands, including President and Mrs. Coolidge, were made to toe the line. Strangely enough, that plain Yankee, with all of his real love for simplicity, approved the ritual.

The gossip around Washington was that Mr. Coolidge ate his dinner in bored silence and refused to be drawn into conversation by the most charming ladies. One favorite story dealt with a Washington hostess, occupying the seat of honor at the President’s right, who was supposed to have confided in him that she had made a large bet that she could make him talk or at least get three words or more out of him, and begged him to let her win the bet. His alleged reply and only comment of the evening was, “You lose.” That story I think was probably made up out of the whole cloth, for Coolidge was not a man to be deliberately rude to a dinner guest. I have sat at his table at a good many formal dinners and even more smaller luncheons and I have never seen him ignore his partners. He was of course never loquacious and when pressed—especially by gushy matrons—would clam up completely. Nor was he niggardly, as many wits suggested. The Coolidge board fairly groaned and there were many courses. According to present-day standards there was too much to eat. Wine was, of course, never served as Calvin Coolidge would not temporize with the law even though he did not approve of Prohibition. An invitation was much sought after by all who did not, like the Cabinet, get too much of it.

State receptions were carried out with the same pomp as the dinners—lavish floral decorations, Marine Orchestra, aides in full uniform. The guests would begin arriving a full hour before the time set for the reception, for several thousand would have been asked. Except for a few seniors who led the line, the others would form in the order of their arrival—filling the East Room, the lower corridor and the stairway leading to the main floor from the lower corridor. The Cabinet and their ladies assembled in the Blue Room. At the appointed hour the President and Mrs. Coolidge would make their formal appearance to the strains of “Hail to the Chief!” Preceded by the aides, they would descend the stairs, normally kept closed with iron gates, to enter the lower hall in the midst of the assembled guests. The stairs are wide and graceful and their use lent a faint air of royal pomp or, at least, Viennese opera to this republican soirée. The President and his lady then passed through the crowd in the main hall by a passage kept clear by the junior aides, into the Blue Room where the Cabinet was assembled and up to the ropes that fixed the position of the receiving line. The President’s job of the evening would then begin—shaking hands with more than 2,000 guests. It was quite evident to all that Mr. Coolidge wanted only to get this manual marathon over with as quickly as possible, and he combined with his handshake a perceptible pull toward Mrs. Coolidge on his right. If the passer paused to chat, as many would, the pull was more powerful. But any apparent lack of cordiality in the President was counterbalanced by Mrs. Coolidge’s charm and friendliness. She really appeared to enjoy seeing people, calling by name without prompting all she had ever met before. Mrs. Coolidge never seemed to tire and would be as gay and sparkling at the end as at the beginning. This was frankly not so with the President or his two aides. Genera] Sherwood Cheney and I alternated every fifteen minutes, standing on the President’s left and announcing to him the name of each passerby. The guest would give us his name and we would repeat it to the President. We would turn the head to the left; concentrate on hearing and grasping the name; turn the head to the right and announce the name; then turn back to catch the next name; and so continue without pause until relieved. The faster the line moved the faster we had to turn, listen, turn, speak, as if in a squirrel cage. The head would get dizzy, the neck would ache. It all appeared very serious to Mr. Coolidge and we could sense his annoyance when we bungled a name. When I had the job to do years later with Franklin Roosevelt, who had the added torture of standing for a long time on braces, he was the gayest of us all and joshed General “Pa” Watson and me when we called a wrong name.

After one reception General Cheney and I had preceded the President and Mrs. Coolidge in their march to the second floor, which was always the finale of the evening. We started down the stairs as they turned toward their apartment; but, suddenly remembering that we had a question to ask about next day’s duties, we turned back just in time to see the President and his wife, believing themselves to be alone, solemnly dancing a minuet with exaggerated bows and curtsies. Perhaps he didn’t take his receptions as seriously as we thought.

Once I remember hearing an earnest lady admirer tell President Coolidge that she did not see how he could bear up under all his pressing responsibilities and that she prayed often for his health and guidance. Did he not often find his burden more than he could endure? “Oh, I don’t know,” said the President. “There are only so many hours in the day and one can only do the best he can in the time he’s got. When I was mayor of Northampton, I was pretty busy most of the time and I don’t seem to be much busier here. I just have to settle different kinds of things.”

It often seemed that Calvin Coolidge’s main pleasure in life was the privilege of taking weekend cruises on the old Presidential steam yacht, the Mayflower. As part of his duties Admiral Brown commanded this luxurious old craft, which had originally been built in the Nineties as a private yacht for Ogden Goelet and had been taken over by President Theodore Roosevelt after the Spanish-American War. The Admiral’s account of Coolidge’s seafaring routine recalls the tranquility of the time:

On board the Mayflower we would have little preparation to make except to check that all was shipshape, to order a huge supply of flowers from the White House greenhouse and large quantities of food. On sailing day we would give everything a final polish, and get our stores aboard, including a supply of newspapers, magazines, and books. Then we would single up the lines to the dock, and be ready to get under way the moment the President stepped aboard. Sailing was generally at eleven thirty, but by eleven we would all be on deck in dress uniform, the crew manning the rail, band and Marine Guard paraded clear of the gangway, sideboys within hail, stewards on the dock ready to bring baggage on board for the passengers. The commandant of the Navy Yard would come on the dock with a supporting cast of reporters, photographers, and a group of curious onlookers. The guests would then begin to arrive. Members of the Cabinet receive the honors prescribed by Navy Regulations: attention on the bugle, the side piped, ruffles and the appropriate march, guard at present arms, sideboys and all hands at salute. Most wives are visibly pleased and excited by this demonstration of their husband’s importance. Most husbands pretend to be bored, but are secretly delighted. I would shake hands with the guests at the gangway, escort them aft and turn them over to a junior officer to be shown their rooms. All guests then assembled on the spacious afterdeck to await the arrival of President and Mrs. Coolidge. When we got word from the Navy Yard gate that the President’s cars had passed through, ship’s company would jump to stations and, as the cars drew alongside, would render full presidential honors—except that the 21-gun salute was usually dispensed with. The presidential flag would then be broken at the main truck, the gangway hauled aboard, lines cast off, and the Mayflower would steam majestically down river, graceful as a swan. The President would walk aft to greet his guests and sit with them for a time on deck, where all could see the shore lines unfold and the beautiful outline of the city of Washington fade away astern.

A most important incident of the departure ceremony was always the arrival of the head steward on deck with the President’s yachting cap. This had been purchased by Captain Adolphus Andrews, my predecessor, at Brooks Brothers, a smart and expensive outfitter which Mr. Coolidge had never patronized—he visited a modest tailor and was scandalized to learn that Andrews would pay $150 for a suit of clothes. It was a well-designed, plain yachting cap with simple black visor, but the best that money could buy. Mr. Coolidge was very much pleased with it and wore it on deck at all times. When it was first presented by Andrews with the assurance that it was just what the President should wear, Mr. Coolidge was delighted and told a story. He’d always had a fondness for hats. He remembered distinctly how in his early days, a poor boy in a wealthy college, he saw a straw hat in a store window that he coveted greatly, but could not afford. He started to save enough to buy it, and watched the window for many days in fear that someone else would get it before his savings were enough, but no one did, the price was reduced, and Calvin bought the hat and enjoyed it all his college days. As in this case, Mr. Coolidge’s anecdotes were pitched at a rather low key.

Because the Mayflower dining saloon was below decks, the President usually delayed luncheon and kept his guests on deck until after we had passed Mount Vernon. Thus they could take part in the ceremonies prescribed by the Navy for all American ships passing Washington’s tomb—parading the guard, attention on the bugle, tolling the ship’s bell, all hands at salute. The simplicity of Mount Vernon as seen from the river, the fine sweep of the shore line at that point, the emotional effect of the ceremony will not be forgotten by many who have cruised on the Mayflower.

After quite a hearty tea, when conversation would begin to lag, Mrs. Coolidge generally announced that it was time to dress for dinner. Sometimes I was invited for dinner but more often not, as I had responsibilities on the bridge. I would say to the President that, if he approved I would anchor for the night off Piney Point at the mouth of the Potomac. He always said, “Very well,” as I knew he would, for that was the routine he liked. Then, quite early, he would go to bed, as would most of the guests. The ship then set a security watch and the Secret Service would keep close guard at the presidential cabin door. All enjoyed the sea breezes and all except the watch standers would have a good night’s rest.

While the Mayflower often enabled President Coolidge to escape the cares of state, I am sorry to confess that she and I caused him discomfort and embarrassment on the occasion when he was persuaded to hold a Fleet Review. At that period in our history the Navy was very much concerned about the already evident effects of the limitation of naval armament. The military clique of Japan, attacking “the indignity of the 5-5-3 ratio,” was stirring up strong anti-American feeling. We believed that they were building ships and fortifying the Caroline and Marshall Islands in violation of treaties—and yet we continued to haggle with Britain about how many cruisers each should have and, to show our good faith, destroyed on the ways thousands of tons of ships which, had they been completed, might have deterred Japan from ever making her attack on Pearl Harbor. Fearing the worst, the Navy Department saw in a Fleet Review an opportunity to throw the spotlight of publicity on the need for more ships and more positive action. They also wanted to demonstrate to the President personally some of our most evident weaknesses.

I think President Coolidge never had much faith in limitation of armaments as an instrument for peace; but he felt that, having gone so far, we must give it a fair trial. He was therefore reluctant to encourage any naval building at that time. Also, being a poor sailor, he was very fearful of being laughed at if he had the bad luck to be seasick during the review. But, after a good deal of discussion and with the aid of some members of Congress, he was finally persuaded that if we anchored the Mayflower in Lynnhaven Roads, well inside the Virginia Capes, there was very little chance of any motion and the fleet could parade by on its way to anchorage farther up the Roads. I pointed out that we could leave Washington as usual and make our customary two-day trip, except that instead of anchoring for the night at Piney Point we would keep under way at night and be anchored the second day for review. Finally President Coolidge reluctantly consented. There was a good deal of preliminary publicity. Weather conditions looked favorable. We left on schedule; but, alas, during the night a heavy ground swell began piling in through the Capes and when we anchored, the Mayflower had a roll—not a heavy roll, but heavy enough to embarrass others besides Mr. Coolidge—the one possible weather condition we had dreaded. The President was cross (as who isn’t when he’s seasick?) and stayed in his bunk most of the morning. In accordance with his instructions I entertained a specially selected group of press and photographers in the President’s dining room, and, at his expense, gave them a very superior stand-up luncheon. We told them that they had the run of the ship except for a small portion of the deck which was roped off to provide privacy for the presidential party. They were asked to keep clear of that space and I assigned an officer and two Marine orderlies to be sure there was no slip-up.

When the Fleet Flagship came in sight leading the column, a queasy Coolidge roused from his misery and his bunk and came to the bridge with his binoculars and yachting cap. During a full half hour he posed for the photographers, looking sternly through the long signal glass, pointing to each ship as she came abeam, returning salutes endlessly while trying to stand at attention and steady himself against the roll with the unengaged hand. He played his part correctly throughout the picture-taking ordeal. Then, when all the battleships had passed, Mr. Coolidge said he would go aft to the roped-off area and watch the rest from there. Behind the afterdeck house and out of sight of prying eyes, he sank into a sofa. Presently the fleet commander, Admiral Hughes, came aboard with a considerable staff, and a photographer slipped along with them unnoticed as the procession moved aft. Thus he was able to sneak a snapshot of Mr. Coolidge seated disconsolately on the sofa, grim-lipped, clearly dreaming only of terra firma and an end to his malaise. That rather comic stolen picture was given greater publicity than almost any other. Calvin Coolidge never uttered one word of reproach to any of us for causing his embarrassment. But neither did he give any support to a naval building program.

The man who, undoubtedly above all others, shared President Coolidge’s innermost thoughts and worries was his old friend, adviser and supporter, Frank W. Stearns, a successful Boston merchant. It was he, of course, who first singled out Calvin Coolidge as a man of destiny; conferred with him all through the famous Boston police strike; and with the help of Dwight Morrow, Thomas Cochran, and others engineered Coolidge’s election to the governorship of Massachusetts and later to the vice-presidency of the United States. As one success followed another, Frank Stearns spent the last years of his life applauding and encouraging his successful candidate.

Mr. and Mrs. Stearns were frequent visitors at the White House. They apparently had a standing invitation to visit whenever they liked and for as long as they liked. All of us on the Staff were always glad to see them, for they were charming, cheerful, friendly people and they gave each of us the feeling that they were fond of us and interested in our welfare. When they knew us well enough to feel sure we would not repeat confidences that might annoy the President, they told us some of the things the President told them. Some of these showed the Coolidge method of discouraging even his best friends from taking liberties with the President of the United States. “I’ll have you know, Mr. Stearns,” he said once—and it was always Mr. Stearns and Mr. President, “I will have no Colonel House in my administration.”

But if no one got too close to Mr. Coolidge, some of his friends understood him very well. One such, for example, was the late Major Coupal, an Army doctor who had served with Coolidge when he was lieutenant governor and governor of Massachusetts. He gave the President his daily physical check up; perhaps in some mysterious way it is easier to read a man’s character when his braces are down and his shirt is off. I remember that it was Coupal who pointed out to me one interesting idiosyncrasy of Mr. Coolidge: he liked the jingle of certain words and would often frame a sentence just for the pleasure of uttering them. He was particularly fond of an occasional military or naval expression that would catch his ear: psychiatrists, aware that Mr. Coolidge had no real military experience, may read into this what they will. Normally the military and naval aides wore side arms when accompanying the President—not pistols that might have been of some value against assassins but the old-fashioned saber for the Army and straight sword for the Navy, more badges of office than weapons. One day when we were to attend Mr. Coolidge when he went to the Capitol to deliver his annual message General Cheney and I decided, without bothering the President about it, to leave our swords at home. The law forbids the military from appearing on the floor of Congress under arms and we would have had to find some place to get rid of them. Just as the President got in his car, with photographers shooting pictures and reporters alert for something to write about, he turned to us with his best poker face and said, “What! No side arms, gentlemen?” and drove off before we could reply. We had to hustle to jump in our following car. On our return we were seriously debating whether to explain or wait to be asked, when Coupal came along and said, “Don’t be silly. He doesn’t give a damn whether you wore side arms or not. He simply wanted to hear himself utter ‘side arms’ before an audience.” Nothing more was ever said about it.

While I think the late Chief Justice Hughes was wrong in persisting in the limitation of naval armament experiment when he was secretary of state, I am sure that the success of his Pan-American efforts spoke for themselves in World War II. The first positive step in his campaign was the conference of all the Americas at Havana, Cuba, engineered by Secretary of State Kellogg with the powerful support of his distinguished predecessor, Mr. Hughes. These two felt that the President should address the conference as a gesture of friendliness and as an indication of the importance the United States gave the meeting.

Needless to say President Coolidge was hard to persuade. He was too cautious—not to say timid—to make such a decision without careful thought and consultation with Congressional leaders as well as his Cabinet and other advisers. He questioned whether the voters would approve; the sea trip raised the old problem of seasickness and ridicule; and he was doubtful how he would be received by the Latins.

He finally consented. I was instructed to make all travel arrangements, in co-operation with the Secret Service, for a distinguished group of about a dozen U.S. delegates, including Hughes and Kellogg and an unspecified number of reporters and photographers. Everything started off as scheduled. The President was edgy and held everyone at arm’s length. He and Mrs. Coolidge kept to themselves in the presidential armored railroad car and never invited the Secretary of State or any other delegates in for a meal or for tea. Some of the delegates were a little miffed. Several hours before we were due at Palm Beach, Mr. Kellogg asked the White House First Secretary, Everett Sanders, what the President would wear for the drive around the city. Everett said he didn’t know and wasn’t going to ask, as he had had his head bitten off every time he’d gone near the President since we’d left Washington. I volunteered to find out.

I found Mrs. Coolidge knitting tranquilly while the President hid behind a newspaper. When I told him that Mr. Kellogg had asked whether the delegates should wear top hats and tail coats, for the drive through the city, or straw hats and summer clothes, he answered without looking up from his paper, “That’s his hunt.”

“Now Calvin,” Mrs. Coolidge said, “that’s no message to send to the Secretary of State.”

Mr. Coolidge angrily lowered his paper, glared at me and said, “What are you going to wear?” When I told him, he said, “What do you think I should wear?” I advised straw hat and summer clothes. He snapped, “Tell Kellogg to wear a top hat.”

I thought at the time that it was pure cussedness, but learned later that he usually angered at being asked to make a trivial decision that should have been made by someone else. If I had said, “If you approve, Mr. Kellogg will instruct the delegates to wear straw hats,” he would have agreed without a moment’s hesitation. The ill temper lasted all the way to Havana.

The sea was never kind to Calvin Coolidge. The morning we embarked at Key West we had a high wind and choppy sea instead of the dead calm which usually holds through the early morning. To get from the tug to the Texas we all had to choose our time to cross a rather insecure gangplank, for when the two vessels rolled in opposite directions there was risk that the plank might be pulled away from the Texas’ deck in spite of holding lines. Mrs. Coolidge skipped across without help and without the slightest hesitation; but Calvin balked. After several false starts he crossed at just the wrong moment and caused us all deep concern until he was safely over. After that all was plain sailing.

As we neared shore the ship performed a spectacular feat of seamanship by holding her speed until it looked as if she would surely pile aground, backed full just in time, let go the anchor, out booms and boats all in one smart evolution. A roar of applause went up from the waterfront, which was black with people crowded all along the mole and thick as flies on every house top. “Dear, dear,” said Mr. Hughes, “this is discouraging for the statesman who works for years trying to make friends and along comes the Navy and carries off all the honors.” “Oh, I can’t agree,” I said, “I’ve been ashore in uniform in this city when they’d spit at you in the street and there was constant risk of being mobbed. I think they are not cheering the Navy but, rather, your new policies.” “How very profound,” said Mr. Hughes, wagging his beard and looking at me as if he were seeing me for the first time. “I hope you’re right. I do hope you’re right.”

President Coolidge returned home with the firm conviction that he had well served a good cause. The press, at home and abroad, sang his praises. For a time he was friendly and smiling with everyone. It even seemed to me that for a few days after his return to Washington, he walked with a slight swagger.

Mr. Coolidge had been a faithful custodian of his office and residence. He knew the history of the White House, the gossip of the easygoing, mint julep days of U. S. Grant, and particularly of Harding and his poker parties and the Teapot Dome scandal. He was determined that there should be no critical gossip about any of his household. He would not allow his son John, when home on vacation from college, to entertain any of his friends or even to accept invitations to parties lest it lead to stories of a White House clique as had happened in many previous administrations. We felt that he would not allow Mrs. Coolidge to have her friends feel free to visit her for the same reason. None of the previous Presidents whose portraits look gravely down from the walls of reception rooms and halls ever tried more faithfully to preserve the prestige of the presidency. And now the thirtieth President was about to leave; if only the party convention at Chicago, rushing to nominate Mr. Hoover, had taken time to say in some way to the man who did not choose to run, “well done,” I think he would have been content.

By the morning of March 4, all of the Coolidge belongings had been shipped to Northampton except the overnight bags. Mrs. Coolidge had conducted Mrs. Hoover on a tour of inspection from basement to attic. They agreed there were not enough closets just as Mrs. Eisenhower and Mrs. Truman are said to have agreed recently. Immediately after the Hoover inauguration, Colonel Latrobe (who had succeeded Cheney as Military Aide) and I escorted Mr. and Mrs. Coolidge directly from the steps of the Capitol to a private car at the Union Station. They did not stop at the White House. Mr. Coolidge was pale, drawn, and emotionally upset. He seemed to us almost on the point of collapse. We said good-bye. It must have seemed strange for them at first to be left to themselves after so many years of being attended by a retinue wherever they went. I don’t know why there were none of his Cabinet or others at the station to see them off. I suppose he wanted it that way. I never saw Mr. Coolidge again.

When the Hoovers moved in there was no hushed reverence—they came with a host of relatives and friends, smiling and excited. There was a great deal of rushing in and out. Many stayed for buffet lunch—more than were expected. In poured a whole group of strange faces for the guards and ushers to identify, some without proper credentials, and in the confusion an uninvited crackpot got through, entered the dining room and accosted the President. Fortunately the intruder was harmless and was hustled out in short order. For the Hoovers it was a disturbing incident that shouldn’t have happened, and there was a great to-do the next morning to fix responsibility. The law gives it to the Secret Service, but these officers have no real authority over the footmen and ushers, nor over the Park Police who surround the White House. The Military Aide had no authority over any of them but was responsible only for seeing that the servants were properly organized and did their jobs as directed by the housekeeper, and he was liaison with the War Department in case of threatened riot or disorder. There was some pretty fast footwork by all accused of being to blame, until someone suggested Colonel Latrobe, who of course was with me at the railroad station at the time, seeing the Coolidges off. Latrobe was a comparative newcomer whom Coolidge had brought with him from the Black Hills; he had never been on duty in Washington before and found all the ceremony very silly. Nobody likes to be made the fall guy, but I think when he was found to blame he was secretly pleased to get out of Washington.

There were rumors at the Washington Navy Yard that while he was Secretary of Commerce, Herbert Hoover had spent a good many weekends fishing in Chesapeake Bay. We accordingly expected he would continue to amuse himself in this fashion. Bay fishing had never interested President Coolidge; and since none of us on the Mayflower knew much about good fishing spots, favorable season, tide and proper bait, I went to the Bureau of Fisheries soon after the Hoover nomination and asked them to prepare for me a chart with all helpful fishing information written on it. They did a fine job. The professional and amateur fishermen all over the bay divulged their most treasured secrets under promise that the information would be used only for the entertainment of the new President and given to no one else—exact ranges that had been kept as family secrets for generations and all the lore that good fishing requires.

I showed the chart to President Hoover one morning and told him if he could give me a few hours to get bait, we could be ready to leave at any time for whatever fishing grounds he liked. He seemed interested and much pleased. Consequently at his press conference that afternoon I was dumbfounded to hear him announce that as an economy measure he had directed that the Mayflower be put out of commission and the White House stables closed. The press immediately played it up as a joke on Coolidge—Coolidge economy outdone. Calvin broke his rule of silence to say in effect that he guessed the sailors and horses would still have to eat at government expense. There was a good deal of harmless amusement for a few days, but in the long run the de-commissioning had a bad political effect. We had hundreds and sometimes thousands of visitors each day who were shown about the living quarters and lower decks. The President’s suite, with an oversized marble bathtub installed for William Howard Taft, the handsomely brocaded saloon and dining rooms, the spit and polish of the upper deck were all greatly admired and approved. To get aboard, it was necessary to bring a letter from a member of Congress. The abrupt ending of this easy way of entertaining visiting constituents was resented by many members of Congress.

After the Mayflower was de-commissioned, the Navy Department started to convert her into a survey vessel. During the alterations, however, a fire occurred, so intense that the old yacht sank at her dock from the weight of water pumped into her. She was then sold for junk, but she proved too tough a bird to endure such a fate. Someone raised her and, as I understand, she has since then had a most adventurous career—as a private yacht, as a floating nightclub and gambling hell in the inland waterways and even, some say, as a rum runner. I never knew what happened to President Taft’s fine old bathtub; the amount of gin which could have been manufactured in it staggers the imagination.

Shortly after the good old Mayflower was abandoned at the Philadelphia Navy Yard, I got word that the President wanted me to be ready to leave the White House with him the next day and to bring an engineer officer of the Marine Corps with me. We were to be gone all day, Mrs. Hoover would bring lunch for everyone, and we were advised to wear leggings. The Secret Service were the only ones who knew what it was all about and Colonel Starling enjoyed keeping us guessing.

We drove to the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia to a spot previously scouted by the Secret Service. Some local agents with horses were awaiting us. President and Mrs. Hoover mounted their horses promptly and started up a trail that followed a stream called the Rapidan up a mountainside, leaving word for the rest of us to ride or walk as we saw fit—we would all meet for lunch at one about a mile up the trail. President Hoover in the saddle on a prospecting mission, I saw at once, was a different person altogether from the rather hesitant, wool-gathering man we were used to seeing at the office. He sat his horse with assurance, his eyes were alive with interest, he went about his survey as if he knew exactly what he wanted and how to get it. In the course of the day he made his decisions quickly and clearly—main cabin here facing so and so; guest cabins here, here, and here; mess hall and galley there; put in dams here, there, and there and stock with trout. In a few hours the whole project was laid out and many details settled. It only remained for my Marine colonel to prepare his drawings for final approval and get the work done.

I never saw the completed camp. I understand that a great deal of the Mayflower’s equipment was sent there—rugs, china, linen and furniture. Also the Navy cooks and stewards. For the first time in the annals of the Navy, without the necessity of shipwreck, a naval vessel was replaced by a shore station, but this did not disturb President Hoover.

Admiral Brown served Hoover only a few months, leaving before the crash which brought the relatively carefree Republican era to a close. After his regular sea and shore commands, including a tour of duty in charge of the great submarine base in New London, Connecticut, where he could watch Hoover’s depression economies chipping away at American naval strength, he was to return to the White House in 1934 to become aide to a man whose ideas on sea power were very different. Brown served Roosevelt longer than any other President and his account of their personal relationship, which goes back many years, throws fresh light on a number of historical episodes.

On a bright sunny morning in the spring of 1913, I stood beside the coxswain of the commandant’s barge as we made our way up the East River. I had been detailed by the commandant to pick up the newly appointed assistant secretary of the Navy at the New York Yacht Club landing, and bring him to the Brooklyn Navy Yard. It was a half hour’s trip up the busy East River, and we passed by all the bustling harbor traffic, past piers loading and unloading, past ships from all over the world. Back of it the skyline of New York reared up like some mountain city, a sight that never fails to stir the pulse of even the most hard-boiled seaman. The barge was one of the smartest in the whole Navy. Its mahogany hull shone like a mirror, its brass work could decorate a Tiffany window, and a hand-picked crew showed their pride in the boat by some of the fanciest woven mats, hand lines, and boat cloths the eye of seaman ever beheld.

The story was young at that time about the prairie congressman who, upon visiting his first ship, stared down an open hatch in genuine astonishment. “By gum,” he exclaimed, “it’s hollow, ain’t it!” Would the new assistant secretary prove to be as ignorant as this? Probably not, I decided, for he was a Roosevelt and a Harvard graduate. We were almost the same age—just thirty. Like nearly everyone else in the Navy I had become a staunch admirer of Theodore Roosevelt, not only for his leadership, but his showmanship, flamboyant though it was.

All I knew of Theodore’s young cousin, Franklin, was that he’d stepped into politics not long after leaving Harvard. I’d met few Harvard men and shared some of the prejudices against them. In the mind of a Navy man, there was also the usual curiosity about a political civilian executive. Would Franklin Roosevelt be friendly or aloof? Would he be an effective leader in developing a strong Navy or would he actively resist that effort? All of us were fearful that the entire Wilson Administration, just elected to four years of power, would be hostile to the armed services. The new Secretary of State, William Jennings Bryan, had lectured throughout the country on the virtues of pacifism and the need for total disarmament. Our new Secretary of the Navy, Josephus Daniels, was believed to be a fervent disciple of Mr. Bryan. Would his assistant, this young Roosevelt, likewise follow in those pacifist footsteps? Such thoughts ran through my mind as we made our way up the East River. Then the coxswain put over his helm. The barge eased alongside the New York Yacht Club wharf and tied up.

I can see to this day the new assistant secretary-to-be as he strode down the gangplank to the club float with the ease and assurance of an athlete. Tall, broad-shouldered and smiling, Mr. Roosevelt radiated energy and friendliness; his physique would have caught the eye of every crew coach in the country. We shook hands, and he introduced me to some friends with him; then we all made our way back to the barge. Most sailors are accustomed to the gushing enthusiasm of visitors aboard ship. We take it for granted, and we take for granted, too, an enthusiasm which leads them either to muster a misplaced vocabulary in an attempt to show themselves at home or to maintain a guarded silence in the hope of avoiding mistakes.

As we stepped aboard the barge I wondered just how much young Mr. Roosevelt knew about the sea and ships and the naval establishment over which his new office would give him authority. I didn’t know then that he was a good yachtsman, a skilful pilot, and an expert small boat handler; nor that he was already an authority on naval history in general and of United States naval history in particular.

Once aboard the barge the prospective assistant secretary showed immediately that he was at home on the water. Instead of sitting sedately in the stern sheets as might have been expected, he swarmed over the barge from stem to stern during the passage to the Navy Yard. With exclamations of delight and informed appreciation he went over every inch of the boat from coxswain’s box to engine room. When she hit the wake of a passing craft and he was doused with spray, he just ducked and laughed and pointed out to his companions how well she rode a wave. Within a few minutes he’d won the hearts of every man of us on board, just as in the years to come he won the hearts of the crew of every ship he set foot on.

In that first inspection of the Brooklyn Navy Yard, made impetuously before he was even sworn in, Franklin Roosevelt learned a great deal about its building and repair capacity and the possibilities for expansion, things he never forgot. He demonstrated then that he had the invaluable quality of contagious enthusiasm—a quality which Calvin Coolidge did not have, and which Herbert Hoover showed only occasionally.

When I put him ashore at East 23rd Street I felt that the Navy had drawn a fine assistant secretary.

No study of Franklin Roosevelt is complete without considering what his service as assistant secretary of the Navy did to prepare him for his job as President in World War II. I was privileged to watch this development and saw much that now has greater significance than I realized at the time.

When Roosevelt took office in 1913 he found the Navy Department in a turmoil. Trouble was blowing up in Mexico. British oil interests, in an effort to gain control of the fields in the Tampico area, were stirring up anti-American feeling with a violence that threatened the safety of our nationals on the spot. The United States Fleet was dispatched to Mexican waters in the hope that its mere presence would prevent violence, a gesture which was weakened, to put it mildly, by the declaration of our secretary of state that we would never use force. Such irresolute behavior on the part of a republic, which most chancelleries regarded as a second or third class power at best, naturally convinced the European nations that it might be a good time to test the Monroe Doctrine. Indeed, a German seizure of Haiti was averted only by the outbreak of the first World War.

Eventually, of course, we landed at Vera Cruz, in the spring of 1914, but this convulsive final action was preceded by a confusion so classic in its proportions that it taught many of us, including the young assistant secretary, valuable lessons for the future. At the time I had not yet gone on duty in the Navy Department but instead was lying off Tampico myself, as gunnery officer of the fleet flagship Connecticut, sharing the general exasperation of men awaiting word to go into action. Fully dressed and armed, I slept on deck with the landing party, ready to pile into the boats and make for shore whenever the orders came from Washington. But, when that then primitive contraption worked at all, what did the wireless bring? Get ready! No, wait! Get ready! No, don’t make a move!

Not only was President Wilson undecided, but there was plenty of plain old-fashioned bungling at the Navy Department. To advise him about the instructions he should issue, Secretary Daniels had chosen a group of three senior officers headed by old Admiral Fiske. Then, instead of taking their combined judgment, he began playing one off against the other, consulting with them separately. The advice was often conflicting, and given in ignorance of action that had gone before, but Mr. Daniels took it. So unsatisfactory was this experience that a group of naval officers at length conspired with members of Congress to create a central naval authority with the power to make decisions—the present Office of the Chief of Naval Operations. To Secretary Daniels this smacked of Prussianism, of the German General Staff, but it was established despite his bitter opposition. Fiske was retired and Admiral Benson appointed the first “CNO.”

When I came on duty in Washington, and Admiral Benson gave me a part in the work of setting up the new office, I found the assistant secretary quite out of sympathy with his chief. We sometimes discussed my experiences in the Mexican campaign and the problem of giving our growing military forces modern organization. Mr. Roosevelt could not, of course, openly oppose his chief, but as time went on he showed his political adeptness, his ability to get things done in spite of obstacles. Consider, for example, the need for preparedness, which the assistant secretary saw much more clearly than Daniels and, apparently, Wilson himself. Striving for neutrality, the President forbade us to repair our ships, even when a refit was overdue, as though the very act might be interpreted as a preparation for war. For the same reason, nothing whatever was done to develop naval aviation, nor were any plans perfected to build anti-submarine craft.

Meanwhile from all over the Navy flowed in urgent messages pleading for equipment and repairs and permission to prepare for what so many of us, including Franklin Roosevelt, saw was inevitable. Time after time our naval representative in London, Admiral Sims (who had, incidentally, once been Naval Aide himself), reported that the rising fury of the Kaiser’s U-boat campaign was bringing England face-to-face with starvation if help did not come soon. I brought these gloomy dispatches to Mr. Roosevelt daily. He shared the Navy’s view that preparation should be started at once, whatever any belligerent might think about it, but there was little enough he could do except to keep pressing the President and the secretary. At least, he urged, let us repair a few of the ships that need it most! But the faithful Daniels searched every letter and dispatch for the slightest deviation from neutrality or his policy of inaction. When all other methods of delay failed, he took correspondence home and left it there. Every afternoon at one I had to wait upon him in his anteroom, ready to explain naval problems or technicalities contained in his mail, and this went on for a year. Never have I seen a man so indefatigable at delay, so dedicated to doing nothing.

After a while, however, Roosevelt found a way around his boss which helped us a little. When Daniels was away, he would seize his pen and sign orders to which the secretary had refused his assent. To my surprise Daniels never seemed to resent such action and the two remained the best of friends all their lives, but it was an embarrassing state of affairs…

If I have made young F.D.R. seem a fire-eater, spoiling for a fight, I must point out that, while he condemned our failure to prepare for war long before we did, he always held that President Wilson was right to delay joining the Allies until public opinion demanded it. He cited it as a fine piece of timing—a consideration he held to be of greatest importance in all democratic processes. In fact, in those neutral days, Franklin was one of the mildest Roosevelts in town, quite overshadowed by strenuous Cousin Theodore and his beautiful daughter Alice, who was married to Nicholas Longworth, Speaker of the House of Representatives. Despite the differences in political faith, young Franklin stood in some awe of his famous cousin; there was no doubt about how Colonel Roosevelt, as he best liked to be called, stood on the issue of intervention. I still recall vividly one day when Assistant Secretary Roosevelt and I were going over the mail and Louis Howe burst into the office, a strange gleam in his eye, to lay a calling card down on F.D.R.’s desk. It read “Colonel Roosevelt.” Franklin took one look at the card and sprang to his feet as though Howe had exploded a bomb. “What!” he exclaimed in alarm, and it was obvious he thought his belligerent cousin had come to the Navy Department to breathe fire at Wilsonism and demand some impetuous action.

Then the door opened and in strode—not Teddy—but Harry Roosevelt, still another cousin, with a grin on his face stretching from ear to ear. As the shouts of laughter and Howe’s guffaws subsided we learned that Harry, who was in fact a captain in the Marines, had become, albeit technically and briefly, a colonel in the Haitian Gendarmerie. He had cards printed up at once, purposely confusing him with Cousin Theodore, and in this guise was doing the town.*

* Harry Roosevelt himself later became assistant secretary of the Navy under F.D.R., and I suspect nominated me for my second tour as Naval Aide.

War came soon enough, although few will remember the unusual way in which word of the declaration was flashed to the Navy Department. It was common knowledge, of course, that the moment would come soon and, following the famous example of von Moltke, we had all the necessary instructions to the forces afloat prepared and ready for issue at a moment’s notice. Several hundred dispatches were coded and ready to go except for the addition of dates and times. Our offices in the old State, War and Navy Building overlooked the White House grounds. In readiness to signal us as soon as the President’s message requesting a declaration of war was approved by Congress, an officer was stationed in the President’s ante-room. The day came, and the hour. Tensely we watched through the windows the figure of Commander Byron McCandless. Suddenly he began to wave his white handkerchief up and down in our direction for the prearranged number of times. War was on! Our dispatches were sent on the instant, but never before, I imagine, has the customary token of surrender been used as a signal to start the fighting.

Orders for sea duty came to me in December, 1917: command of a destroyer out of Queenstown. Roosevelt too wanted to go to sea, and wanted it badly, taking his requests right up to President Wilson. But there was no hope for him; the assistant secretary had proved himself too valuable. He it was who had been primarily responsible for the yacht conversions, the subchaser building, the construction of new ship yards. Condemned to civilian life, Roosevelt nevertheless discovered one urgent matter after another which called him to the battle areas. There were European naval and air bases to be inspected personally; he had to visit our Marine forces fighting with the Army in France. And he had a pet project to oversee. At the time when the Germans threatened Paris with the famous Big Berthas, which outranged all Allied land artillery, Admiral “Cy” Plunkett, an ordnance enthusiast whom Roosevelt admired, insisted that we had high velocity naval guns which alone could match the Berthas. His argument was that, if we couldn’t take battleships to Paris, “by God, we could take the guns there on railroad cars!” And it was done, with flatcars and 14-inch naval guns. All obstacles were hurdled, including strong and, I suppose, well-founded Army opposition. Plunkett was a picturesque character, reminiscent in some ways of the late General George Patton, given to odd uniforms and plain speech. Young Roosevelt enjoyed twitting the determined, if land-locked old salt, and the quixotic audacity of two seafaring guns charging into the thick of Europe’s biggest war appealed to his always well-developed sense of the dramatic.

Although when Franklin Roosevelt accepted his naval asignment in 1913 he was a carefree, rather inexperienced young lawyer, when he left office in 1920 he was a veteran office-holder of the then greatest war in history.

After I left White House duty with President Hoover in 1929 it never occurred to me that I might some day return, as no naval officer ever had been ordered back for a second tour; but return I did. I did not seek the reappointment and, wishing to hold to straight line duties, did not at first welcome the assignment; but, after reporting for duty in 1934, I realized that serving under Roosevelt was a great adventure. Soon I became one of his most devoted followers and admirers. It was impossible not to be impressed with the whole-hearted devotion of every member of the Staff, no matter how humble or exalted, personal loyalty more ardent than any I have ever known, and I have been part of some very loyal and enthusiastic naval commands. President and Mrs. Roosevelt made me feel at once that I was being received as an old friend; the secretaries hailed me as a member of the team. My service colleagues, the late beloved General Edwin Watson, U.S.A., Military Aide, and Vice-Admiral Ross T. McIntire, M.C., U.S.N., the President’s physician, and I soon formed a harmonious triumvirate. We enjoyed working together and managed, what is more, to escape every pitfall of palace politics.

I found President Roosevelt a very different man from the carefree assistant secretary. While at times, with an audience present, he showed the old élan and told his stories with zest, when alone in repose his expression was serious and thoughtful. Physically he was a much more powerful man except for his damaged legs. He had put on weight; but so long as he had time for his swimming exercises it was hard muscle in shoulder and trunk. He could lift himself about wherever he could grasp anything strong enough to hold his 190 pounds. When skylarking in the pool the most powerful swimmers had to be cautious of grappling with him, for he could duck any of them with a half-nelson few men could throw off. In those early years Roosevelt and his doctors still hoped that swimming exercises might restore the muscles of his knees—vainly, it turned out. His ever-increasing responsibilities left little time for play. Swimming hours became less and less frequent. By remaining in office Mr. Roosevelt sacrificed any chance of walking unaided again, just as later he gave his life to finish the war.

Because President Roosevelt was confined to a wheel chair we all felt a special sense of responsibility for him. There have been too many attempts to assassinate presidents, three of them successful. The size of Roosevelt’s Secret Service contingent kept growing throughout the war, and I suppose the results justify that growth. Yet some of us in the Army and Navy were a little irked to have him surrounded by an entire squad on board ship, at army posts and at Malta, even while receiving the highest military honor the British Army can give. Mr. Churchill also survived enemy attack with only a single Scotland Yard inspector as guard!

Once the Secret Service asked Mr. Roosevelt not to stand under the heavy chandelier in the Blue Room when he received guests. They thought the chandelier might drop on him, through accident or design. He scoffed at such a danger and thereafter made a point of standing directly under it. Meanwhile, Doctor McIntire kept picking away at all of us to do all we could to hold down the President’s schedule and to guard him against fatigue. The President, however, never felt much concern about nursing his strength until he had nearly reached the limit of his endurance. When air, motor, train, or sea trips were being planned he took the keenest interest in drawing up a schedule: where we were to go; what we were to see; whom we were to meet. Risks to his personal safety never occurred to him.

It was evident to me that the suffering he had endured, the shock of finding himself a cripple while at the threshold of a vigorous life, had brought their compensation in spiritual and intellectual development. He had taken time to read and to think, giving special attention to history, to geography and to social reform throughout Europe. All this exercise further developed a memory which had already been outstanding. He kept himself fully informed of every detail that affected the Army and Navy. At a moment’s notice he could accurately cite how much money had been appropriated for any major service project. I was supposed to have in mind all of the figures about the naval appropriations, but often I would be confounded by the President’s more accurate recollection. Facts imprinted themselves on his memory like a stencil. Suffering had filled him with an understanding sympathy for the suffering and underprivileged of the world and a crusading ardor to do something about it.

At the same time it always seemed to me a pity that he caused so much bitter hatred among businessmen and people of property, not just for what he did but even more for what he said. When the newspapers criticized him, his early advisors spurred him on to retaliate with ever more bitter attacks on the Republican Party and the “economic royalists.” It was none of my business as Naval Aide, but one day, when a favorable opportunity offered, I said to him that I didn’t think he realized how bitter businessmen were becoming because of his repeated charges that all of them were selfish and greedy exploiters of labor. I added that although he and I knew that business had many ruthless slave drivers, we had to admit that the great majority of executives were too intelligent not to be concerned with the welfare of their people, and that many of them were models of social responsibility. Didn’t they spend millions on housing, recreation, schools and hospitals? I said I thought he should differentiate between the good and the bad. He said indignantly that he had never accused business as a whole; that he had said time and again that he was attacking only the exploiters, and if the shoe pinched, let it pinch. How many times did I want him to explain? The guilty would only think he was beginning to hedge.

I recall in this connection how, in the early years of his presidency, some of his advisors would urge him not to make cruises with his friend Vincent Astor because, they said, it was bad politics to fraternize with the very rich. The President indignantly rebuffed this advice and went his own way. I went along on the escorting destroyer to serve as the communication link between Washington and Astor’s Nourmahal, and to act as secretary pro tem. “Why shouldn’t I cruise with Vincent?” he asked me plaintively. “The rest on board are all boyhood friends. None of them has an ax to grind. Why should I give up old friends I’m fond of?”

Notwithstanding his crippled legs, the President and Mrs. Roosevelt carried out the old Coolidge schedule of official parties with even more private entertaining on the side. Because he tried to conceal how much discomfort and suffering it caused him to walk or stand, only his intimates knew how helpless he was without his braces and someone or something to hold on to.

Normally he depended on his wheel chair for getting about the house and office, and put his braces on only when he wanted to stand in public. He could move from one chair to another and in and out of the wheel chair without help by lifting himself by the arms of the chair and swinging over to the new seat. When standing or walking he was completely dependent on his leg braces and on someone to put them on. Someone had to help get his trousers on over the braces, and lend a supporting arm in walking. He had devoted and competent valets. At receptions, dinners, and most public appearances, General Watson and I took turns walking with him. He liked best to walk with one of his sons, but they were frequently away on business of their own.

The receptions were carried out just as they were in the Coolidge and Hoover days, and likewise the formal dinners, except that the guests filed by the President instead of the President walking around the circle to shake hands. At the table he had a struggle to get in and out of his chair. Sitting required him to release the catch on the braces in order to bend his knees; then when he wanted to walk he had to straighten his legs and throw the catch back in. Once in an upright position he seized his escort’s right arm just above the elbow, grasped his walking stick in his right hand and began to walk. For the escort it was exactly like trying to steady a beginner on stilts. Roosevelt walked stiff-legged with a slow swinging motion that went without effort for the escort as long as balance and timing were good. If some distraction upset the President’s balance, or we hit uneven pavement, the escort had to be alert and braced to hold him up. We were in constant fear of his falling backward, and the Secret Service men were always on hand to jump to the rescue.

One of the daily events I like to remember was my first greeting and talk with him each morning. He began his working day in his bedroom as soon as he had finished breakfast. Dr. McIntire and the secretaries went there to plan the day’s work. Admiral Leahy and I waited in the Map Room on the ground floor near the foot of the elevator for the warning bell signal that the President was on his way from his bedroom to his office. When the elevator arrived at the basement floor, there followed an amusing parade. Several husky Secret Service agents led the march along the colonnade toward the office. Another emerged with arms laden with baskets of mail that the President had worked on during the evening and night before. The President’s wheel chair was pushed out smartly by his valet and moved toward the office at a rapid gait. The President’s “Good morning” managed subtly and intentionally to reflect his state of mind to all of us. By his expression and tone we had come to know whether they indicated satisfaction with the day’s news, annoyance at persistent difficulties, or grim determination to tackle and overcome them. With his long cigarette holder clamped in his mouth at a jaunty angle, his Navy boat cape—a gift from Mrs. Roosevelt—thrown about his shoulders, he rode his wheel chair proudly erect, more like the winner of a Roman chariot race than a confirmed cripple. Admiral Leahy had to hustle to keep abreast of the chair on one side, and I was equally hard-pressed on the other. Leahy gave a brief of progress as we walked, and I got in a word now and then. Fala, the President’s Scottish terrier, fully aware of the important part he played, dashed ahead of the procession chasing imaginary squirrels, while harried on by his master. Any visiting grandchildren used also to tag along, and while Harry Hopkins lived at the White House, his nice little daughter, Diana, was often a shy observer.

Once we reached the President’s office that was so unlike an office, with circular walls covered with Mr. Roosevelt’s photographs and pictures, its domed ceiling, and the large desk littered with dozens of mascots, toy souvenirs and little gadgets, all doors were closed and Admiral Leahy and I had the floor to ourselves until we had finished with urgent war affairs. Admiral Leahy had a sheaf of out-going dispatches ready for the President’s approval; I had a batch of in-coming dispatches and a last-minute summary of action on all fronts. We were given little time, however, for General Watson, standing first on one foot and then on other, would make desperate signals to us to cut it short to allow in the first of the day’s official callers.

The President’s routine day had begun. He would be a tired man when he came to Dr. McIntire’s dispensary for massage and check-up at six or seven o’clock or later, when I showed him the crop of the day’s dispatches, and the at times exciting intercepted dispatches of the enemy, who were blissfully unconscious that their codes had been broken. I then went home for a restful evening. After his dinner the President usually worked on his mail until late hours.

In their attitude toward the sea and sea going, Presidents Coolidge, Hoover and Roosevelt could not have been more different. Coolidge distrusted the sea, Hoover was bored with it, Roosevelt loved it. This love of the sea was the spur for his enthusiasm in serving as assistant secretary of the Navy, in acquiring knowledge of world strategy, and his acquaintance with the needs of our naval establishment. He would have made a superb naval officer.

But I could never persuade him to get a proper yacht to replace the Mayflower. When I joined him he had a small converted Coast Guard patrol boat named the Sequoia. She had a fairly sizeable sleeping cabin and bath on the main deck, adjoining a dining saloon where as many as eight could be seated comfortably. There were two very small double cabins and three tiny single cabins on the deck below. A comfortable lounging deck aft and a sun deck over the after cabins tempted passengers to spend most of their time on deck. This was all very well, but she didn’t have a single watertight bulkhead, she was a gasoline burner, and if she had ever been hit in a fog by a vessel of any size, she’d have probably burst into flames and sunk with little warning. But Roosevelt had his reasons for refusing a larger and more seaworthy craft. If he had more cabins, for instance, he would have to invite more guests. He wanted a shoal-draft craft for fishing and for exploring the many interesting coves of Chesapeake Bay from the water side as the early colonials had done. He was not willing to go in for a luxury yacht at a time when so many were on relief. If he had any ocean trips to make, he said, he would travel on a man-of-war as he was entitled to do in his role of Commander-in-Chief. This proved to be a very wise prophecy, for he spent 120 days aboard ship while I was with him, not counting Chesapeake Bay week-end cruises and those he made during the six years I was not with him. When I persisted in urging a safer craft for Chesapeake Bay cruises, he compromised by replacing the Sequoia with another converted Coast Guard patrol boat of about the same size but of more modern design. He named the relief the Potomac. She had Diesel engines and a stout hull. The cabin arrangements were an almost exact duplicate of the Sequoia’s and she had only slightly greater draft. She was a fine craft for Chesapeake Bay, but not a good seagoing vessel since her original stability had been marred by the additional topside weight of cabins and an elevator.

During the pleasant days of peace we used to make a Chesapeake Bay week-end cruise about twice a month during spring and fall, leaving Saturday noon from the Washington Navy Yard or Annapolis, returning Monday morning. These expeditions furnished the President a change of scene, rest and recreation, combined with an opportunity to clear up any mail that had accumulated. The President’s loyal helpers, Louis Howe and “Missy” LeHand, went along for a time until ill health caused both to be hospitalized. Mrs. Roosevelt also came when she was free from her ever-increasing burden of engagements. Pa Watson, Ross McIntire and I were the most regular companions. The President got a good nap after lunch, came on deck when he felt like it, worked for a time sorting out additions to his stamp collection, and finally summoned Miss LeHand to clear up the mail before we reached the fishing spot he had selected. Once the anchor dropped, work was abandoned and five rods were put in action. We had pools for first fish, biggest fish and most fish. Franklin Roosevelt won more than his share of the pools because he had the patience not to let his attention wander. Sunday was a restful day, too—cruising, exploring the landings of colonial estates, fishing. When we returned on Monday morning the presidential energies had been restored.

The Chesapeake Bay cruises taught us how to get the President aboard and off ship, standing on his own feet and not parading his lameness. This was required by his absolute edict to the Secret Service, press photographers and the rest of us that he was not to be photographed while being helped to his feet or struggling with his braces to sit down. So far as I know, the registered photographers never tried to evade that request, but there was no assurance that some plain citizen with a camera might not try for a scoop. Therefore, whenever he appeared in public, all of us in attendance grouped around him as he was getting to his feet or sitting down. The special problem was getting him aboard ship. After some experimenting we designed a gangplank for the Potomac with handrails just high and far enough apart so that he could walk aboard without help by bearing most of his weight on his arms. His car simply drove close to the end of the gangway—he then straightened his legs and locked the braces as he eased himself out of it. Seizing the handrails, he had no further difficulty in walking up the gangway by himself, provided the state of the tide did not make the grade too steep. Once aboard, there were handrails near the gangway on which he could steady himself after taking the honors. There he would stand at the rail facing the curious crowd on shore and smiling broadly for the photographers. Once we were clear of the dock he went to his cabin and removed the braces. Until our return he depended on his wheel chair for getting about.

It did not require much ingenuity to rig gangways from ship to wharf so that it was possible for the President to walk aboard. It was a very different matter to get him over the side into a small boat for a day’s fishing when the sea was choppy. Usually we rigged the ship’s gangway ladder. The ship’s boat came alongside. The President was wheeled to the gangway. The ship’s company were sent about their business to avoid the assembly of a curious audience. Two helpers stooped on either side of the wheel chair, F.D.R. put his arms around their shoulders, they locked hands under his knees, picked him up and walked down the gangway ladder to hand him to two of us in the boat. Then we settled him into his fishing seat, where he sat happily all day, rain or shine, smooth water or rough. As long as we caught fish he did not worry, as we did, over what the weather might be like by sunset when we would have the job of getting him safely back on board. Of course we always sought a sheltered anchorage and quiet water, but such conditions did not always offer themselves near the fishing area, and quiet water in the morning may be very different in late afternoon. Sometimes the ship had to get underway to make a lee, and even then there were times when we faced a hazardous undertaking with the boat bouncing around and the ship rolling. Our timing had to be just right in lifting him from the boat to the waiting hands on the ladder. There was always a moment of suspense, and the grave risk of misjudging the sea and the correct instant for action. It would be a strain to get any helpless friend on board under such conditions. To be responsible that the President of the United States should not be dropped between boat and gangway was quite a different matter. We found consolation in the knowledge that, if he once got hold of the ladder he could hold on, or, if he went overboard, that he was a strong swimmer. The real danger was that he might be caught between boat and gangway and injured should the two crash together. Occasionally we tried hoisting him over the side in a boatswain’s chair swung from a boom. He did not like that, nor did I, for any roll of the ship might drop him hard in the boat and jerk him back in the air on the return roll, before he could be released. Neither did he like being put in the boat at the rail and hoisted out with a crane.

The outstanding feature of all our small boat ventures was his unfrightened acceptance of the risk. He was as good a small boat sailor as any of us and was quite aware of what weather and sea might do. He showed no concern that we might bungle the job. Fortunately we had no accidents, and he was never hurt.

Once at Roosevelt’s direction we stopped at Cocos Island to enjoy the sail fishing for which that island is famous. But he also remembered some supposedly trustworthy accounts of piratical raids on the treasures of Peru in the Seventeenth Century, and persistent rumors that the loot had been buried at Cocos. He had told us about it before we reached the island, and when we arrived, sure enough, an English treasure hunting expedition was already there. Since the island had been wholly uninhabited most of the time for centuries, these visitors aroused the latent treasure hunting instinct in everyone. The Englishmen had cut their way from the only good landing place to the center of the ten-mile-long island through some of the most dense tropical vegetation imaginable, and had succeeded in doing this only by following the bed of a stream which led to a plateau several hundred feet high. They were trying to locate the treasure with a secret electric finder in which a good many English men and women had bought stock. President Roosevelt pointed out to them, and to us, that they were going about it the wrong way, maintaining that no pirate would blaze a trail to his hiding place by hacking his way through the forest. A much more probable method for sailors of tall-masted sailing craft, skilled in the use of block and tackle, Roosevelt contended, would have been to bring their ship alongside the island, where high cliffs dropped straight away to deep water, get a line ashore from a yard arm, and hoist out the treasure. Then the pirates would have set trusted hands to burying it right there, “bumped off” the trusted hands and sailed away, leaving no trace of their visit. We figured that there were several spots on the shore line where that could have been done. But no treasure was found—if it had been, Costa Rican guards were on hand to take their share.

On our way to the Hawaiian Islands, the President noticed from a study of the chart on which he carefully plotted the ship’s position each noon, that a tiny spot in the ocean marked “Clipperton Island, P. D.” (position doubtful) was only a few miles off our great circle course. He directed that we sight it. The resulting visit was memorable to me for two reasons. During the war it was the subject of a dispute between British and American air interests which I persuaded President Roosevelt to straighten out with the help of Prime Minister Churchill. It was also the only occasion when the President showed anger with me.

When we hove to, the fragment of an island was some five miles away—the chart gave no assurance that it was not surrounded with shoals—and such a heavy swell was running, and the ship was rolling so deeply that even the President realized he could not possibly do any fishing. However, he was curious to learn more about the island and its marine life than could be seen from the ship and authorized three boats to explore. With a coxswain and engineer, I took Franklin Junior along in the motor whaleboat and two miles from the shore fish began striking our feather lures. I have never seen such fishing. The instant the lines hit the water we both had strikes. They were mostly ten and fifteen pounders that put up such a good fight we were soon physically tired before ever getting near the beach. So we hauled in our lines and stood in closer. Young Franklin put his line over about a hundred yards from shore and instantly got a strike; it took up most of his line before he could slow up the first rush. All of his oarsman’s strength was needed to inch the prize nearer the boat. After ten minutes or so, the ship hoisted the general recall. The other two boats responded promptly, but I was urging Franklin on to greater and greater effort. The ship then began blowing her whistle, hoisting signal flags up and down, and finally firing a gun, while we could see them putting out boats to come to our rescue. We then realized that it must look to observers aboard ship as though we were aground in the heavy surf, whereas actually we were well outside and in no danger at all unless the motor stalled. I said to Franklin, “You’ve either got to get that fish in, or we’ll have to cut loose and get back to the ship.” “Father would never forgive me if we don’t get this boy,” he muttered between clenched teeth. Providentially at that point our catch heaved over on his side and revealed himself to be a 250 pound shark. Our reaction was instantaneous and unanimous—we cut him loose and started full speed to meet the rescue boats half way.

The President was waiting for us in his wheel chair at the gangway, his face contorted with rage, his eyes blinking as they always did when he was angry. “Did you not see my signal?” he asked me. “Did you not hear the whistle and the warning gun? You gave me a very bad scare. I thought you were smashing up in the breakers.”

“Yes, Mr. President,” I said, “I did get your order to return, but we thought Franklin was on to the biggest tuna ever caught. If you had been in my place I think you would have done just as I did. I’m sorry you were worried, but we were never in any real danger.”

We both went to our staterooms in something of a huff, but an hour later at lunch time everything was serene, and we never spoke of it again. Anger after unnecessary alarm is a very human trait.

In the summer of 1936, in accordance with the normal alternation between sea and shore duty, I became due for service at sea. I was reluctant to ask to be relieved because I knew, no matter how capable my relief might be, the breaking-in of a new aide would involve some minor inconvenience to the President. I went to his bedroom one Sunday morning shortly after he had finished breakfast, and was fortunate enough to have a few minutes with him alone. I told him of my predicament, that I felt I should go to sea in order to carry on with my profession, but I hated to leave him and to add to his difficulties by putting him to the necessity of training a replacement.

His response was immediate. He would miss me very much, but of course I must go. That was what I had been trained for from my early days at the Academy. He asked what duty I would get. I told him that Secretary Swanson had said, if the President would release me, I might have command of the Training Squadron, the Atlantic Fleet of that day, and fly my flag as an admiral on board the battleship Arkansas. President Roosevelt’s reply was, “You are the luckiest man on earth. I would give anything in the world to change places with you.” And then he told me a story. Back in 1916 he had paid an official call one day on Admiral Osterhaus, then commander of the Fleet. Going aboard the flagship he discovered to his dismay that the admiral, having reached retiring age, was having to give up his command the very next day. He expressed his regret. “This must be one of the saddest days of your life, Admiral,” he said. To his astonishment the admiral replied, “I’m not unhappy, I’m delighted, Mr. Roosevelt. At last I’ll be able to realize a lifelong ambition. I’ll be able to raise canaries.” To command a fleet was Mr. Roosevelt’s idea of the greatest job in the world. And here was a man who was giving up that great responsibility almost with glee at the thought of breeding canaries!

Just as Louis Howe deserves most of the credit for the successful start of Franklin Roosevelt’s political career, so Harry Hopkins must be credited with being the person who helped him most during the war years. In those anxious years Roosevelt trusted Hopkins’ judgment more than that of any other person in the Cabinet, in the Congress, or in his own Staff. It was not so in the beginning of the administration, however. There were times then when Harry’s standing in the presidential favor was very insecure. On week-end cruises on the Sequoia, during the days of W.P.A., I heard the President and Louis Howe berate Hopkins more roughly than I ever heard them talk to anyone else. Harry smartly took the wind out of their sails by admitting that he knew nothing about their complaint, that he should have known about it, and that he had been just plain dumb. Although he disarmed further attack by pleading stupidity, we all knew he was not stupid.

From the beginning Hopkins worked with others to prepare the President’s speeches, but I think he might never have gained the position of chief counsellor, had he not gone along on the 1935 cruise aboard the Houston. During that month aboard ship he was amusing and not too talkative; we could see that he was wearing well. In that brief association Franklin Roosevelt found in Hopkins a man after his own heart, one who paid little attention to precedent and red tape and kept the goal always in mind; who was courageous, even audacious, in accepting the gravest responsibilities.

When I left the President for sea duty in 1936, Harry was still director of W.P.A. His influence with the President was growing, but he had access to the President by appointment only, just like any other administrative head. When I returned in 1943, however, Harry and his young daughter were living at the White House. He was installed on the ground floor in a newly built suite of offices, which became, so to speak, the cornucopia from which he dispensed the generous billions of Lend-Lease. Hopkins was now recognized at home and abroad as the President’s spokesman and, some thought, his heir apparent too. As far as I know, he was never given any authority over the rest of us, but he did not hesitate to interfere in any of our affairs whenever it served his purpose. He had a finger in every pie. I locked horns with him shortly after I returned to Roosevelt’s staff. Without saying a word to me or to anyone in our Navy Department, he got the President to sign an order directing us to follow British ideas about the size of convoys and the number of their escorts rather than American. The British, short of everything as they were, believed in large convoys guarded by just as few destroyers and corvettes as possible. The combined Staffs had been debating this matter for months. Since most of the merchant ships were American, carrying American crews, we realized that the resulting losses would be largely ours. Furious with Hopkins, Admiral Leahy and I convinced the President that it was wrong for him to assume responsibility for such a technical decision and that it was certainly no business of Harry Hopkins. The President promptly cancelled the order, but, unfortunately, one oversized convoy was already at sea. Ships were sunk, and men were drowned. The only Hopkins comment I ever heard was, “Those goddam admirals certainly took the hide off me.” In fairness to Hopkins, I must admit that the British plan was adopted again later, but only after our hunter-killer groups—planes from escort carriers working with fast destroyers—had the German U-boats on the run.

When Mr. Churchill visited the White House in 1943, Harry acted for the President, played host, and attempted to keep up with the Prime Minister’s late hours. I had a chance to see how they worked together one week end at Shangri-La. It was a very select party. The President invited only Mr. Churchill, Lord Beaverbrook and Harry Hopkins. Commander Thompson, Mr. Churchill’s secretary, and I were the working staff. We had our own detached cabin but ate our meals with the presidential party. The main points under discussion were who should command the Normandy landing, and what should be done about various phases of Lend-Lease. Mr. Churchill wanted to talk shop at meals. The President was not then ready to make decisions and was unusually quiet and reserved. Churchill and Beaverbrook did a little sparring to break a rather strained silence, but Harry carried the ball most of the time and kept the party from being dull by starting debates on social justice, finance and the war, about which he knew very little. He drew fire from everyone—as he intended.

In Volume Three of his Memoirs, Sir Winston Churchill has singled out Harry Hopkins as one of the brilliant figures of the war, and with this most of us who saw him in action will agree, but Sir Winston, with his usual acumen, also says: “Hopkins was, of course, jealous about his personal influence with his Chief and did not encourage American competitors.” Therein lies the fundamental difference between the loyalty of Louis Howe and the loyalty of Harry Hopkins. Howe’s one purpose was to build up an efficient organization to make the Roosevelt Administration a success. He had no personal ambitions. He wanted the best for the Boss. Hopkins’ actions, however, show that he was willing to sacrifice good teamwork in order to build his own political fences and to hold his position as chief advisor. He brought to the President’s favor men of his own choosing, and kept away as much as he could those who were unfriendly to him.

If Hopkins’ health had permitted him to keep steadily on the job, and if he had possessed Howe’s singleness of purpose, he could have been an outstanding chief of staff and an even more useful public servant. But he was in the hospital or on the sick list a great deal of the time. He had no more sense than a child in matters concerning his own health or that of Franklin Roosevelt. Instead of resting when he had a chance to, he looked about for diversion, and found it in cards, horse racing, café society and eager talk with interesting people. After Yalta, when completely played out, he stayed up all night playing poker and then took to his bed in a state of near exhaustion. He lacked the power to relax, a gift in which F.D.R. normally rejoiced. Hopkins lacked the common sense to conserve his energies. I was very fond of him during my first three years of association with him, but I grew annoyed toward the end because of his lack of consideration for the President’s well-being and his lack of co-operation with the rest of us. He was rarely in his office for any length of time and it was usually a mystery to the rest of us where he was or how he could be reached—except at the big conferences when he took charge of everything and made the President work until all hours of the night, as he did himself. I pointed this out to F.D.R. at lunch aboard a ship on our way to Yalta, and urged with some vigor that we hold to White House organization and schedule. The President’s only reply was the mask-like, blank stare that he used when displeased. As a result, although Hopkins spent most of his time in bed in a state of near prostration, this careless man controlled the President’s schedule throughout the Yalta visit and did it without the least consideration for conserving the President’s waning health. Mr. Churchill sensibly went to bed every afternoon as usual.

I soon found that the office of Naval Aide in war was a very different, and much more interesting, j