December 1941 (29 page)

The galleries, which could only hold five hundred people, were filled to capacity, but not with the general public, as the Capitol had been closed off to private citizens;
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they were gathered outside on the lawn of the Capitol. Instead, only VIPs and those receiving permission and a special pass could be there to see history unfold.

The Rotunda had been closed and barriers and cable ran everywhere on Capitol Hill, cordoning off the tourists and merely curious. The crowd on Capitol Hill was larger than eleven months earlier when FDR had been inaugurated for a third time, and many had been waiting since early in the morning to see him arrive. As many as five hundred District cops and the Secret Service were crawling everywhere.
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Seated next to Eleanor Roosevelt in the gallery, who was in a black dress that gathered at the neck and wearing her favorite silver fox furs, was Edith Wilson, the widow of Woodrow Wilson, in a maroon dress, matching hat, and white gloves.
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Their fashions were duly noted by society writers.

Twenty-four years earlier, on April 2, 1917, she had sat in the House chamber, listening to then-President Wilson solicit Congress in a long, long speech for a declaration of war on Germany.

Seated behind Mrs. Wilson was Mrs. Hull. Also in attendance were Harry Hopkins, the cabinet, and the Diplomatic Corps, excluding the Japanese envoys. The audience rose as the cabinet and members of the Senate filed in. “The atmosphere of the Capitol was grave, but for the first time in years there were no doubts.”
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The chaplain, Phillips, opened with a short prayer.

Since 1932, “There was in the United States a tradition of silence about the physical affliction of President Roosevelt, an implication that it would be tasteless ever to mention the misfortune that galvanized his energies, transformed his personality and therefore the subsequent history of the United States.”
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The newsreel cameras and the attending journalists never recorded that FDR had been wheeled to a side door leading to the House of Representatives, given a chance to lock in his leg braces, and then stood before Congress of the United States, the citizens of America, and the struggling peoples of the world.

“With infinite slowness, limping from side to side, Roosevelt came up the ramp to the dais, one arm locked in his son's, the other hand feeling every inch of the long sloping rail.” At the dais, he fiddled with his glasses and opened the binder of the short speech that would change the world.
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Then Speaker Sam Rayburn simply announced, “The President of the United States!”
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After a pause, Congress stood and cheered wildly and long, as FDR stood before them. “They cheered him again and again. Every space was filled. Every entrance doorway was jammed. People were standing packed into the corners of the House floor, in tiers, one row behind another, as at a parade. They were standing on chairs, on sofas, on the narrow ledge of the panels of the wall itself.”
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The ovation was unlike any the old building had ever heard before.

FDR asked for an American declaration of war against the empire of Japan. The room was deadly quiet as he began in a grim tone. His speech was broadcast live on every imaginable radio network, filmed and photographed by every imaginable news agency. His voice was sonorous, the cadence and pitch, perfect:

Yesterday, December 7, 1941—a date which will live in infamy—the United States was suddenly and deliberately attacked by naval and air forces of the Empire of Japan.

The United States was at peace with that nation and, at the solicitation of Japan, was still in conversation with its government and its Emperor looking toward the maintenance of peace in the Pacific. Indeed, one hour after Japanese air squadrons had commenced bombing the American island of Oahu, the Japanese Ambassador to the United States and his colleague delivered to our Secretary of State a formal reply to a recent American message. While this reply stated that it seemed useless to continue the existing diplomatic negotiations, it contained no threat or hint of war or armed attack.

It will be recorded that the distance of Hawaii from Japan makes it obvious that the attack was planned many days or even weeks ago. During the intervening time the Japanese government has deliberately sought to deceive the United States by false statements and expressions of hope for continued peace.

The attack yesterday on the Hawaiian Islands has caused severe damage to American naval and military forces. Very many American lives have been lost. In addition American ships have been reported torpedoed on the high seas between San Francisco and Honolulu.

Yesterday the Japanese Government also launched an attack against Malaya. Last night Japanese forces attacked Hong Kong. Last night Japanese forces attacked Guam. Last night Japanese forces attacked the Philippine Islands. Last night the Japanese attacked Wake Island. This morning the Japanese attacked Midway Island.

Japan has, therefore, undertaken a surprise offensive extending throughout the Pacific area. The facts of yesterday speak for themselves. The people of the United States have already formed their opinions and well understand the implications to the very life and safety of our nation.

As Commander-in-Chief of the Army and Navy I have directed that all measures be taken for our defense. Always will we remember the character of the onslaught against us. No matter how long it may take us to overcome this premeditated invasion, the American people in their righteous might will win through to absolute victory.

I believe I interpret the will of the Congress and of the people when I assert that we will not only defend ourselves to the uttermost but will make very certain that this form of treachery shall never endanger us again.

Hostilities exist. There is no blinking at the fact that our people, our territory and our interests are in grave danger. With confidence in our armed forces—with the unbounding determination of our people—we will gain the inevitable triumph—so help us God.

I ask that the Congress declare that since the unprovoked and dastardly attack by Japan on Sunday, December seventh, a state of war has existed between the United States and the Japanese Empire.
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Roosevelt's six-and-one-half minute address was interrupted several times with ovations and cheers and whistles and rebel yells from Congress and again, at the end, sustained applause was heard as he waved his hand to the members.

Roosevelt often wrote his own speeches, or at least provided substantial edits. Reading the president's original manuscript of his address revealed the sheer power of words. He initially wrote December 7, 1941, would be a day that would live in “history,” but he later crossed out that word, inserted a proofreader's carrot, and scribbled “infamy.”
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As Mark Twain once said, “The difference between the almost right word and the right word is really a large matter—'tis the difference between the lightning bug and the lightning.”
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In his speech to Congress on December 8, the president had captured lightning in a bottle. Churchill, who had long lobbied for America's entry into the war, was jubilant. And the American media was breathless.

The United Press reported, “Democracy was proving its right to a place in the sun with a split second shiftover from peace to all-out war.”
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Journalist Louis M. Lyons of the
Boston Daily Globe
was on hand, one of the few privileged reporters allowed to sit in the eighty-six seats in the press gallery that five hundred other journalists were denied. Of the crowd in the House Chamber, Lyons wrote, “All rose in a mighty crash of supporting applause as he asked in one simple sentence that Congress declare a state of war exists between the United States and Japan.”
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The war resolution (in language identical to 1917, with the exception of substituting Japan for Germany)
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passed the Senate thirty-two minutes after FDR's speech to the joint session began and less than fifteen minutes after he concluded his impassioned remarks.
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The refrain “Vote! Vote! Vote!” echoed throughout the chamber.
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It passed the House twenty-two minutes after that.
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The Senate vote was 82–0 for war with Japan. The House vote was 388–1 for war with Japan.
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In 1917, Congress had debated for four days to go to war with Germany. This time, they did so in a little over forty minutes.
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There were still some in Congress now, who had been in Congress then, who had voted against war with Germany. Not this time. Even the most rabid isolationist, anti-Roosevelt Republican voted to go to war with Japan. Save one. The one dissenting vote was Jeannette Rankin from Montana. She had voted no once before, in 1917 when Congress was asked to vote on the Declaration of War. At that time she stood weakly, and said, “I want to stand by my country but I cannot vote for war.” Then she broke out in tears.
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This time there were no tears. But boos and hisses rained down on the silver-haired woman. A Democratic member could be heard saying sarcastically, “Sit down sister!”
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Speaker Rayburn gaveled for the chamber to come to order.

Rankin had remained seated, along with Congressman Clare Hoffman, Republican of Michigan, while everyone else stood as the president entered the House. Hoffman was a vocal opponent of government-initiated fluoridation and polio immunization. Rankin was the daughter of a rancher, a Republican, a pacifist, a suffragette, and utterly principled. She'd first been elected in 1916 and in 1917 and had voted against entry into the European War. In 1918, she lost a primary bid for the U.S. Senate. She kicked around for twenty years, working on social causes, until once again elected to the House in 1940. After her vote against war with Japan, she was essentially hounded out of office and did not bother to seek reelection in 1942. Following the vote, she told reporters, “As a woman I can't go to war and I refuse to send anyone else.”
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Both houses of Congress adjourned almost immediately after passing the war resolution. Very little discussion had taken place in either body prior to the vote. Of the thirteen senators and forty-two representatives who missed the vote due to distance or illness, all declared they would have sided with FDR to go to war. Several rushed back, only to walk onto the floor as the voting had finished.
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At 4:10 eastern standard time that afternoon, Roosevelt signed the declaration of war against Japan at his desk in the Oval Office. In cursive he wrote, “Approved—Dec 8th 4:10 p.m. E.S.T. Franklin Roosevelt.”
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Also signing the Declaration of War, as stipulated by the Constitution, were the vice president and Senate president Henry Wallace, at 3:23; and Sam Rayburn, Speaker of the House of Representatives, at 3:15.
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Roosevelt was photographed surrounded by congressional leaders while he signed the document.

As the
New York Times
reported, “The United States went to war today as a great nation should—with simplicity, dignity, and unprecedented unity. The deep divisions which marked this country's entrance into the wars of 1776, 1812, 1861, 1898 and 1917 were absent. Overnight, partisan, personal and sectional differences were shelved.”
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After the leaders departed, Roosevelt took an hour-long nap on the sofa in the Oval Office. “When he arose he checked reports again (still piled with bad news).”
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And then, everything changed in America.

All troops out on passes were immediately recalled to their posts. All leaves and furloughs were canceled and men ordered to return to their duty stations immediately. Military posts were closed to civilians. Nationwide, recruiting offices were flooded with applications for all three branches. “Young boys of ‘teen age' and grizzled veterans of the last war—swamped Army, Navy and Marine recruiting stations here today, ready to give their lives if need be to whip Japanese. White and colored, the uneducated and professional men, joined together.”
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The recruiting office of the navy in Washington usually had three applicants on an average morning, but this morning, two hundred young men showed up. The phones of recruiting offices across the country began ringing Sunday afternoon. The navy was accepting candidates from the ages of seventeen to fifty, the marines sixteen to thirty.
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The first elected official to volunteer was Senator Albert “Happy” Chandler, Democrat of Kentucky, who was a veteran of the last war.
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Recruiting offices also offered training for women in “first aid, diet and canteen ambulance corps.”
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Boston Red Sox slugger Ted Williams had been classified 3-A, but his draft board in Minneapolis announced that he would shortly be reclassified as 1-A.
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Every newspaper carried photos of young men gathering outside of recruiting offices. Women descended in the droves onto defense training centers in New York, asking, “What can we do?” “You can wash dishes,” answered a member of the American Women's Voluntary Services. Shortly, the contributions of American women would become more substantive. “A police instructor for women air raid wardens opened his usual Monday morning meeting with the words, ‘our subject for today is incendiary bombs.' His class was most attentive.”
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