The Last of the Stanfields(39)
Robert’s fate had been sealed one evening at a Washington, DC, gala dinner in the winter of 1943. His parents had come to mingle with other wealthy American families being solicited for contributions to the war effort. While the Stanfields were eager to maintain appearances, at that point their riches had all but disappeared. Robert’s father, who was afflicted with an all-consuming gambling addiction, had squandered the entire family fortune. Yet the proud family carried on their lavish lifestyle, living far beyond their means and racking up crippling debts that dug them deeper into financial ruin. Robert was twenty-eight years old at the time. He was well aware of the consequences of his father’s recklessness, which strained their relationship to a breaking point. Robert harbored dreams of saving the family, restoring the Stanfields to their former glory and wealth.
That night, as Robert was scanning the faces of the guests around the table, he noticed an understated man, slight of frame, with a gaunt face and receding hairline. It was Edward Wood, British ambassador and the Earl of Halifax, who found himself sidelined by Churchill and Roosevelt’s habit of direct communication. Wood hadn’t stopped staring at Robert throughout the entire meal, including during the inaugural address. Everything that night was exquisite: the grand hall, the gleaming china, the impeccably dressed women, the heaping platters of delicacies, the magnificent address. Yet Wood was transfixed by Robert, because his own son had been about the same age when he’d died in the war one year earlier. Eventually, the two began speaking at their table in hushed tones about the war effort.
“I’m not talking about giving money,” Robert whispered to the older man. “I’m talking about devoting myself to the cause.”
“Then enlist. Isn’t that what people your age do?” Wood asked.
“Not in families like mine, not with my parents. I managed to avoid the draft due to some obscure, made-up medical issue. My father’s doing, I’ve no doubt.”
“Assuming that’s true, that he could exert such influence, you shouldn’t hold it against him. I’m sure your father simply acted out of fear of losing his son. Quite a burden to bear, watching one’s children go away to war.”
“And what of the child’s burden? Being branded a coward. Is that somehow better?”
“Ah, to be young again. Such intensity, such idealism. It is truly commendable. But do you have any notion of what war is, my boy? I railed against the march of war with every fiber of my being. I even went to Hitler personally in hopes of averting the conflict.”
“You met Hitler? The man himself?”
“Indeed, I did. Although ‘man’ may be too lofty a title for such a creature. Actually, Hitler came to greet me on the doorstep of the house where I was staying, and like a fool, I went to hand him my coat, mistaking him for the butler! Imagine that. It was very nearly a massive diplomatic incident, caused by yours truly!” he snickered.
The Earl of Halifax certainly was an elusive and complex figure. He viewed racism and nationalism as two natural forces that weren’t necessarily immoral in nature. When in service to His Majesty as the Viceroy of India, Wood had had all members of the Indian Congress arrested, and even threw Gandhi behind bars. While Wood was a bigot, an arch-conservative, and a staunch supporter of Chamberlain, he refused any level of compromise with the Third Reich, and even turned down the post of prime minister, contending that Churchill was a better choice to lead Britain through its darkest hour.
“Perhaps we should continue this conversation in private, if you’re interested,” Wood told the young man at the end of the meal. “Come to my office, and I’ll see what I can do for you.”
A few days later, the ambassador greeted Robert in Washington and connected him with a friend working in the secret service.
By Christmas Eve, Robert was aboard a cargo ship set for distant lands, watching Baltimore’s twinkling lights fade into the distance.
The Lysander had been torn apart by a storm over Limousin, and now the pilot was barely able to maintain trajectory. With the propeller seriously damaged, it was a dangerous gamble to try and maintain altitude above the canopy of clouds. Yet dropping any lower would expose them to a whole host of other dangers. Agent Stanfield wasn’t faring much better than the plane. He clutched his harness so tightly his knuckles were white, and his stomach dropped every time they hit an air pocket. The leading edges of the wings were so battered, they seemed ready to tear at any moment. The pilot had no choice but to seek refuge at lower altitude, the outcome inevitable. The Lysander plummeted a thousand feet through the thick curtain of rain, the needle on the fuel gauge quivering frantically. Suddenly, the motor sputtered and died altogether just another thousand feet above the ground, leaving seconds to maneuver a crash-landing.
The pilot jerked the plane toward a flat strip of land near a patch of woods. The wheels first grazed the surface of the wet marsh, then took a nosedive straight into it. The propeller, still spinning, shattered as it hit the ground, and the plane’s tail was thrust up into the air. Robert felt himself being thrown forward, slamming hard in his seat as the plane flipped. He was the lucky one. The canopy over the cockpit was crushed flat on impact, killing the pilot instantly. Robert was miraculously unharmed, aside from a deep gash on his face and intense bruises from the harness. But he wasn’t safe yet. Upside down, Robert felt gas dripping onto him from the fuel tank below the seat.