About the Author:
Steve Vogel is a veteran military reporter for The Washington Post. His coverage of the war in Afghanistan was part of a package of Washington Post stories selected as a finalist for the 2002 Pulitzer Prize. He covered the September 11 terrorist attack on the Pentagon and subsequently reported in-depth on the victims of the attack and the building’s reconstruction. The winner of several journalism awards, Vogel covered the war in Iraq and the first Gulf War, as well as U.S. military operations in Rwanda, Somalia, and the Balkans. A graduate of the College of William and Mary, he received a master’s degree in international public policy from the Paul H. Nitze Johns Hopkins University’s School of Advanced International Studies.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:
CHAPTER 1
DYNAMITE IN A TIFFANY BOX
Stimson looks for the right man
Henry Stimson was agitated. At age seventy-three, the secretary of war was the elder statesman of President Franklin D. Roosevelt’s cabinet in both age and demeanor, known for his dignity, wisdom, and Yankee reserve. To his staff at the War Department, Stimson seemed “like the Rock of Ages.” But he also was imbued with a deep streak of Old Testament temper, and an agitated Stimson was a fearsome thing. “Everybody always seemed to think of Stimson as a wonderful old gentleman,” one officer later said. “He was old all right, but he was a tough guy. If he had to, he knew how and when to use profanity.”
Stimson was swearing regularly in the fall of 1940. The largest peacetime military mobilization in American history had begun that spring, and it was bogged down. France had fallen in May, the Low Countries were overrun, and Britain was in grave danger. Roosevelt responded with a call to dramatically build the armed forces, and Congress answered with legislation raising the authorized strength of the Army eightfold, from 174,000 to 1.4 million. But before this great Army could be raised, it needed a roof.
Dozens of military camps had to be built immediately around the country to house and train hundreds of thousands of draftees. Work was flowing into the Army Quartermaster Corps’s once-sleepy Construction Division at unprecedented levels; the division’s monthly budget of less than $10 million soared to a figure eventually seventy times that amount. Orders to construct camps, munitions plants, housing projects, airfields, and ports were piling up. Construction headquarters took on the air of a Middle East bazaar, with some offices so crowded that workers had to hop over desks to move around. “The halls teemed with visitors, as contractors, materialmen, equipment dealers and a good many others beat a path to the men with a billion dollars to spend,” the Army’s official account of World War II construction in the United States notes.
The men with a billion dollars struggled and spent mightily, but soon fell on their faces. “They had gotten into desperate confusion,” in Stimson’s view. The mobilization of the entire Army was dangerously delayed by the construction mess. Almost nothing could be done until the facilities were built. General George C. Marshall, the Army chief of staff, had set ninety-day deadlines to build the camps, an order that proved hopelessly unrealistic. By November 1940, good weather for construction was vanishing, and the pressure was increasing. With few camps finished, Marshall’s ambitious schedule had to be drastically revised, and only token numbers of draftees called up. Guardsmen had quit jobs, vacated apartments, and left families to find they had no place to report. The Army was being portrayed by the press as an organization of dunces. “Even sadder than the delays were some of Mr. Stimson’s excuses,” scolded Time magazine, which laid the blame on “the bumbling quartermasters.”
Stimson was on his second stint as secretary of war, having served in the same job almost three decades earlier for President William Taft during the years leading up to World War I. Back then, he had seemingly endless time to get the Army ready for war, but no money. Now, Congress had appropriated fantastic streams of money, but there was no time.
“I am not satisfied [the Construction Division] is doing as rapid work as I think should be done,” Stimson noted in his diary. As the delays stretched on, the secretary grew “more and more agitated,” observed John J. McCloy, the “gnomelike” assistant secretary of war often at the old man’s side. McCloy, an astute Wall Street lawyer, had been recruited by Stimson earlier that year and quickly earned a reputation as the secretary’s top troubleshooter.
Stimson told McCloy they needed someone with the “necessary drive” to speed up the construction program. “If only a good man could be found the problem would be solved,” Stimson said. But who? The secretary’s attention was directed to a dynamic Army Corps of Engineers lieutenant colonel, Brehon Somervell, who had turned around the Works Progress Administration program in New York City in four years as administrator. Stimson instructed McCloy to check with his New York connections about Somervell’s temperament and ability. McCloy found Somervell had a “reputation as a driver and almost fearless energetic builder. . . . They all added up to the conviction that whatever the form of the organization, he was the man to head it.”
Somervell was already slotted for a humdrum assignment with a training command in the Midwest, but Marshall intervened. “Have him assigned for temporary duty here in the office of the Chief of Staff,” Marshall instructed his chief of personnel on November 8, 1940. “. . . Confidentially, the Secretary of War wants to get a look at him without Somervell being aware of this.”
Stimson wanted to see this man for himself.
I suppose the fellow who built the Pyramids was efficient, too
None of Brehon Somervell’s seven predecessors had fared well trying to tame New York City’s work-relief system. “Several had resigned in despair or disgust, one had died, probably of overwork, and none had lasted a year,” the New Yorker noted. There was no doubt that the New York office of the Works Progress Administration—the New Deal agency providing emergency public employment for the nation’s jobless—was in dire need of assistance. The New York WPA was one of the largest employers in the nation, providing jobs for 200,000 workers, and it spent one out of every seven WPA dollars in the nation. The program was grossly inefficient, in part because of its immensity but also because the city was home to powerful unions and left-wing parties that drew their support from the huge ranks of unemployed. WPA head Harry Hopkins had turned to the Army Corps of Engineers to bring some military discipline and engineering expertise to the agency.
Hopkins appointed Somervell Works Projects Administrator for New York City in the summer of 1936. “I consider it to be the most difficult WPA job in the nation,” he said. Funding cuts that spring forced thousands off the WPA payrolls in New York, sparking almost daily picketing and sit-in strikes. Somervell’s immediate predecessor, Victor Ridder, a philanthropist and liberal, had ended up foaming at the mouth about “Communist rats and vermin.” He suffered a nervous breakdown and resigned. The communist newspaper Daily Worker, which had campaigned against him under the slogan “Get Rid of Ridder,” crowed in victory. A similar fate was widely predicted for Somervell.
The only one not worried was Somervell. His first public comment on the fate of his predecessors was to cheekily suggest a new slogan for the Daily Worker: “Sink Somervell.” Somervell found the idea of workers on relief going out on strike “just fantastic” and tried a different tack from his predecessors. Instead of sending police to forcibly eject the protesters—a step that guaranteed screaming headlines—Somervell simply locked the bathrooms. Strikers held out as long as their bladders did, then filtered off one by one.
Somervell imposed Army discipline on the WPA, threatening to fire any workers who interfered with the program. Leaving his office one day to find protesters had laid down in the pavement directly in front of his car, the colonel did not hesitate. He ordered his driver to start the car, hopped in, and slammed the door. When they realized Somervell was not stopping, the protesters leapt to their feet and fled. His war against shovel-leaners so aggrieved the Workers Alliance —the major WPA union—that it distributed cartoons depicting Somervell as Simon Legree, whirling a huge blacksnake whip above a terrified WPA worker. But Somervell soon made peace with labor; picket lines grew infrequent, and strikes a thing of the past. He cut administrative costs by two-thirds, bringing the WPA in line with private construction. Somervell transformed the sprawling, dysfunctional office into a quietly efficient billion-dollar business enterprise that laid sewers, built parks and playgrounds, battled child malnutrition, and constructed enough roads to reach Denver, by one estimate. “Charges of boondoggling, once the order of the day, have been rare during the Somervell administration,” the New York Times reported. The local union head was obliged to admit Somervell had done an able job getting the WPA’s management in hand, adding bitterly, “I suppose the fellow that built the Pyramids was efficient, too.”
Somervell cut a dapper figure in his mufti and trademark bow tie, and his dry and carefree sense of humor won over the New York press. “Well, girls, what’s wrong today?” he’d ask reporters, generally all men. He even chatted amiably with the Daily Worker reporter. “His manner is pleasant and shrewd, and there is a touch of Will Rogers in his public personality,” the New Yorker said.
His amiability could not always mask his ferocious temper, made all the more striking by his otherwise elegant ways. “Dynamite in a Tiffany box,” was how one industrialist would later describe Somervell. “He is out of the tradition of the Elizabethan Englishman, all lace and velvet and courtliness outside, fury and purposefulness within,” a journalist wrote.
Somervell was one of only two men who could hold his own with New York City Mayor Fiorello H. La Guardia using the “Little Flower’s” weapon of choice—a pair of lungs. The other, Robert Moses, the city’s powerful redevelopment czar, would actually outyell La ...
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