“The Preservation of National Morale”
Washington, D.C., mid-December 1941
Archibald MacLeish and his wife Ada spent the morning of December 7, 1941, in Sandy Spring, Maryland, where they had met friends for a picnic. The MacLeishes left early in the afternoon so Archie could keep an appointment in Washington. Fifteen minutes into the drive to the capital, the radio program they were listening to was interrupted with news that the Japanese had attacked Pearl Harbor.
The following day, President Roosevelt made what would become one of the most famous speeches in American history—the “date of infamy” address seeking—and receiving—a declaration of war from Congress. Four days later, Hitler’s Germany declared war on the United States.
It’s hard to comprehend the palpable and widespread fear in the days following Pearl Harbor that the American mainland, and particularly New York and Washington, would be next. Not since 1814 had the capital city faced such danger from a foreign power. “I hold the view that we are in very grave danger in Washington,” declared a prominent member of the Committee on Conservation of Cultural Resources at a December 11, 1941, meeting, four days after Pearl Harbor and the very day Germany declared war on the United States. “I feel that we are going to be bombed in Washington and we may be bombed very, very much and it might be very, very soon.”
Archibald MacLeish’s massive undertaking now seemed entirely worthwhile; because of his team’s tremendous efforts during the previous eight months, the Library of Congress was ready.
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THE PREVIOUS SPRING, UNDER MacLeish’s direction and with the full support and encouragement of President Franklin D. Roosevelt, 700 Library of Congress volunteers had worked more than 10,000 hours over ten weeks to identify, inventory, collect, and carefully pack the nearly 5,000 boxes of irreplaceable documents, music, maps, rare books, and artifacts that now needed moving. Workers took meticulous notes on the records that had been packed and cross-checked those with the box numbers in which documents were stored for easy reference later.
Then, in the early summer, MacLeish had dispatched Alvin W. Kremer, the Library of Congress’s keeper of the collections, on a mission to find suitable locations for the vast majority of library documents. This had come about only after MacLeish and his team had searched in vain for an appropriate storage location in the Washington, D.C., area and had been unsuccessful in convincing Congress to fund construction of a bombproof, waterproof, climate-controlled underground shelter within the borders of the capital.
MacLeish had discussed with President Roosevelt and Supreme Court justice Harlan F. Stone the possibility of linking a shelter with the planned construction of a memorial garden dedicated to the late governor Oliver Wendell Holmes Jr. MacLeish had proposed that a large shelter be constructed beneath the Holmes Garden and linked by an underground passage to the Supreme Court and Library of Congress buildings, which were already connected by tunnel.
Among the benefits of such a plan, MacLeish believed, was that the vault “could be used without the knowledge of its use being brought to the attention of the public or press to further aggravate public tension.” Also, by keeping the documents in close proximity, Library of Congress staffers could examine them regularly to assess their condition. Further, by linking the cost of the Holmes Garden and the underground shelter, MacLeish thought Congress would be more amenable to funding the entire project.
Unfortunately, the elaborate project did not see the light of day—legislators had balked at the potential cost of subterranean storage, especially since the United States was not at war at the time.
Thus, MacLeish needed to look elsewhere to store the library’s documents.
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IN TOTAL, KREMER VISITED more than thirty locations in Virginia, West Virginia, and Kentucky. He selected three spots as most favorable: the University of Virginia at Charlottesville and, in Lexington, Virginia, the Virginia Military Institute and Washington and Lee University. The Lexington locations, especially, were ideal, Kremer reported, since they were “situated less than 200 miles from Washington, in the Shenandoah Valley, practically surrounded by mountains,” making an approach by enemy bombers difficult. Further, the population of the town was only 3,000 people, and “there are no industries of any importance,” meaning Lexington was unlikely to be regarded by the enemy as a strategic target. Military officials had assured Kremer that the Lexington locations “contained no objectives upon which aircraft attacking this country from abroad might be expected to center their attentions.” In addition, all of the buildings at the University of Virginia and at the Lexington locations were “excellent” in terms of storage facilities, “fireproof, with ventilation by automatic fan control,” though none were actually air-conditioned, Kremer noted.
MacLeish had also sought a legal opinion from the attorney general to confirm that he had the authority to move the documents without congressional approval. If that turned out the way he and FDR thought it would, the library staff would begin the daunting task of relocating the documents. He viewed this as a national priority, every bit as important as the military ramp-up for war.
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IF AMERICA’S KEY DOCUMENTS were damaged or destroyed, so, too, would be its national morale. But what of the Declaration of Independence, the Constitution of the United States, the Gettysburg Address? If these priceless, irreplaceable documents were lost to the enemy, would this not only shatter the national psyche, but its essence, its very identity?
For those, MacLeish agreed with his staff executive, Lawrence Martin, who recommended that America’s most precious documents be relocated to perhaps the safest place in the country: America’s recently constructed gold bullion depository vault at Fort Knox.
“The fort lies southwest of Louisville and far enough inland from the Ohio so that the river would not be a guide for invading bombers,” Martin informed MacLeish. Not only would the underground steel and concrete vaults be impervious to bombing attacks, “the permanent military protection would obviate the necessity of such a force of guards as we would have to place at any other refuge.”
MacLeish hadn’t thought of Fort Knox, but he found it an ideal spot for documents that he considered far more valuable than gold bullion. In the early summer, he requested and received approval from treasury secretary Henry Morgenthau to use about sixty cubic feet of Fort Knox, roughly the size of a stand-alone home freezer, a mere fraction of what the Library of Congress would need to house all of its records but ample space for its most important documents.
For MacLeish, there were “two aspects” to the preparations to remove precious records from the Library of Congress in Washington to distant locations: “the preservation of cultural treasures and the preservation of national morale.”
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MEANWHILE, WASHINGTON WAS ABUZZ with war preparations by mid-December.
In the capital, a flurry of plans and ideas were floated or put in place to protect the White House, the Capitol, and the president, some more practical than others. Among those that were suggested but not implemented included the recommendation to paint the White House black to make it less visible (though many windows were painted black); to move the seat of government away from the coast and farther inland; and to literally change the directional flow of the Potomac and Anacostia rivers to prevent bomber pilots from using the waterways to draw a bead on the White House. “No camouflage of the White House is practical while the confluence of these rivers remains a mile from the mansion,” noted the head of President Roosevelt’s security detail. “A pilot would find it quite simple to hit the White House by flying up either river and getting his ‘fix’ at the confluence.”
Many steps were implemented, however, and quickly. America’s military planners reinforced buildings, placed antiaircraft guns on strategic roofs, and conducted air-raid drills at all hours. By December 8, 1941, U.S. Army, Navy, and Marine guards stood at twenty-four-hour posts around Washington’s government buildings, including the White House and Capitol; this had not happened since the U.S. entry into World War I in 1917—and before that, not since 1865. By December 10, the White House and the Capitol were darkened for the duration of the war; the floodlights that had illuminated the great buildings for years were turned off.
By December 15, eight days after the attack—Bill of Rights Day, 1941—the White House was in lockdown.
“Papers and passes were demanded,” author Craig Shirley wrote. “Cops and military police roamed ubiquitously stopping everyone, guns bristling. On the White House grounds, guard towers had been built and one-inch steel cables ran every which way, controlling the flow of foot traffic.” By Christmas, just as the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution were being prepared for transfer to Fort Knox, members of Congress were required to carry photo identification to enter the Capitol. “Washington [now] was ground zero for a world war zone,” Shirley said. “The town was radically altered, forevermore.”
Later, the Secret Service created ten safe houses in Washington where they could take FDR in the event of an attack, installed bulletproof glass on the windows of the Oval Office directly behind the president’s desk, and, in the most ambitious move, constructed an underground tunnel connecting the White House to a large subterranean vault under the Treasury Department that could serve as a temporary bombproof refuge for Roosevelt and staff members.
The Treasury vault, once used to store contraband opium and currency, was supported by walls constructed of heavy armored plates and reinforced with concrete. The Secret Service oversaw the construction of an office and a bedroom for the president, a large outer office for the staff, and the installation of bunk beds and emergency telephone facilities. The 761-foot-long tunnel, built in a zigzag route from the White House to the vault to lessen the impact of concussion in the event of a direct or near-direct hit, was stocked with water, food, beds, blankets, first-aid kits, and a portable toilet.
To this day, the Secret Service does not permit the release of classified photos of the tunnel.
FDR questioned the need for highly visible extreme-security measures, fearing they would turn the White House into a fortress and convey a sense of panic to the American people. He felt the same way about the hidden tunnel. He joked to the treasury secretary, Henry Morgenthau: “I will not go down into the shelter unless you allow me to play poker with all the gold in your vaults.”
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SECRET SERVICE AGENT Harry Neal was assigned to record the progress of the Treasury tunnel’s construction for historical purposes. With the help of a Treasury Department document expert, Neal “made photos of the entire protective area.” He noted that “certain rooms in the vault area were reinforced with steel, then plastered and painted for use as offices and staff sleeping quarters.”
Neal’s thoroughness and attention to detail would not have surprised his colleagues or superiors. He was considered one of the finest agents in the Secret Service—thorough, meticulous, relentless, loyal, and focused on detail; but also strategic, brave, highly principled, and occasionally rebellious. His skills and professionalism had helped him become one of Secret Service chief Frank Wilson’s most trusted agents.
Neal had been transferred from the Secret Service’s New York City office to its Washington headquarters in early December 1939. It was a difficult time; his father was quite ill from complications of a heart attack and related circulatory issues. Wishing to bring his wheelchair-bound father along, Harry consulted with his doctors, who assured him that his dad “could withstand a train trip to Washington, and might even enjoy it after being cooped up for a long while.”
The elder Mr. Neal did indeed survive the train trip, but his illness would soon catch up with him. On Christmas Eve, 1939, Harry insisted that Helen attend a party with her family while he stayed with his dad. Harry’s father died that night. “I remember only that I sat on the bed, held one of my father’s hands, and cried,” he wrote later. The Neals spent a somber Christmas Day at a Washington undertaker’s parlor making arrangements to transfer Harry’s father’s body back to Pittsfield, Massachusetts, for a home-town funeral service. After the funeral, Harry, just thirty-three years old when his father died, returned to Washington to resume his Secret Service career.
This was not Harry Edward Neal’s first trip to Washington, D.C. The path that led him to a career as a Secret Service agent began in a most unorthodox manner. He had started his working life as a stenographer with General Electric in Pittsfield. At the age of nineteen, he took a civil service exam and accepted a similar job with the Post Office Department at an annual salary of $1,320. He was assigned to the post office in the nation’s capital. “When I walked out of the Union Station in Washington, I was transfixed and awed by the sight of the lighted dome of the Capitol,” he recalled. “I just stood and looked at it for probably four or five minutes. Not only did I feel proud and excited, but I also felt as though I were now beginning some kind of great adventure.” He met his future wife, Helen Armstrong, during his stay in D.C. They were married on May 8, 1929.
A year after arriving in Washington, Harry, bored with work at the post office, applied for a stenographer’s position with the Treasury Department’s Secret Service division. A month later, he was told he could have the job if he was willing to transfer to the Albany office, which was only about thirty-five miles from Harry’s hometown. There, he was assigned to work for the agent in charge, James H. Brady, for an annual salary of $1,800, and visited Helen in Washington whenever he could.
Harry spent his days taking dictation from the agents, who made detailed reports of their daily activities, writing special reports on counterfeiting and forgery investigations, and handling correspondence for senior agents. One day, he was asked if he would be willing to participate in a raid on a counterfeiting plant in Yonkers. When Harry accepted, the agent gave him a revolver and asked, “Ever used one of these?” When Harry said no, the agent replied: “Well, I don’t think you’ll have to, but it’s just as well to be prepared.” The Yonkers raid was the first of several on which Harry accompanied agents.
In January 1931, Harry joined a midnight raid on a Brooklyn row house. As Harry stood shivering in the darkness, waiting with agents to burst in the back door of the house, another contingent of agents prepared to smash through the front door. On a signal, both groups stormed the house. Harry heard a woman shouting “Cops! Cops!” Just then, the inside basement door flew open and Harry saw a man rush to the furnace in the corner, open the boiler door, and toss something onto the glowing coal embers. Instantly, Harry opened the door and reached for the object, burning his gloved hand. When he pulled it out, he and the other agents saw that it was a photographic negative used to make counterfeit bills; it would turn out to be the most important piece of evidence in the case.
Harry received accolades from his fellow agents and superiors and was immediately recommended for a promotion. Washington approved it without hesitation.
Five years after joining the Secret Service as a stenographer, Harry Neal became a full-fledged agent, earning $2,500 a year. The story of the fearless stenographer who thrust his hand into a coal-fired furnace to retrieve evidence became the stuff of Secret Service legend.
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IN THE PAST DECADE, Harry Neal had enjoyed a meteoric rise in the service and achieved senior agent status, his reputation burnished by sound thinking and hard work. The respect with which he was viewed can be seen in his assignments; he was given responsibility for the security detail that protected the king and queen of England when they visited the New York World’s Fair in 1939 (where the Magna Carta was exhibited). He led the Secret Service’s efforts against counterfeiters, traveled west to arrange for the service’s exhibit at the San Francisco World’s Fair in 1940, was the lead inspector for Secret Service offices in California and Texas, and became the service’s lead budget preparer.
He was so committed to the Secret Service and so convinced of its capabilities that he also began the effort that eventually led to the service’s independent jurisdictional authority as the U.S. Secret Service, outside what Harry Neal considered the less prestigious status as a division of the Treasury Department.
Now, with Christmas approaching and the United States at war, Frank Wilson assigned Neal another mission that would not only add to his cachet among fellow agents and assure his place in the proud annals of the Secret Service, but also number him among the stalwarts of American history who helped create, preserve, and protect the nation’s most important national treasures.