Race to Radar

By Richard Black

In September of 1940, Ned Smith, Professor of Physics at a small men's college in Illinois, gets a telegram inviting him to join a secret project at MIT. He jumps at the chance, even if it means parting from attractive and intelligent Dorothy Wilson, just as they are getting to know each other. In the next few months, while Franklin Roosevelt runs for his third term and Britain seems ever more likely to succumb to a Nazi invasion, Ned feverishly works on the Radar project in Cambridge, Massachusetts while Dorothy explores unanticipated opportunities back in small-town Illinois. There is fire, murder, and a mystical revelation as Ned works with the wealthy and politically powerful before his team can deliver this technology which affects the outcome of World War II.

• Language: English
• Publisher: eBookIt.com
• Release date: May 23, 2017
• ISBN: 9781456628550

Richard Black

I live in Great Britain and I'm an avid reader. Sometimes I'm fascinated with sensational style journalism and the 24 hour news cycles on cable TV. I'm left amazed by how tabloid reporters and cable Networks choose to chronicle the times of our lives. I own a typewriter but it might as well be for decoration. I prefer using computers as they are a lot more user friendly. Among my other possessions are a shelf full of books, an e-reader and a fruit blender.

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Amy

Acknowledgment

I wrote this book to help understand the world into which I entered in 1941 and of course, to help understand myself. If it serves as quasi-historical orientation for the reader I can take considerable satisfaction.

It is not a work of history. The reader may find the following two books good references: Tuxedo Park: A Wall Street Tycoon and the Secret Palace of Science That Changed the Course of World War II by Jennet Conant and Douglas B-18 Bolo—The Ultimate Look: From Drawing Board to U-Boat Hunter, by William Wolf.

I would like to acknowledge the careful review of my work by the Datura Writers Group of Oakland, California (Jesus Sierra, Robert Pressnall, Laura Riggs, Adele Mandelson, Susan Murray and Rees Sweeney-Taylor). Lorna Partington of Ideal Type of Pasadena, California was a consummate copyeditor. John Reardon of Lafayette, California graciously reviewed the manuscript and pointed out where my very limited understanding of Physics might lead the reader astray. Jessica Rose helped with the title.

Always and overall I am indebted to my wife, Donna Arganbright, for her editorial comments and sustained encouragement.

Part One: Carmen Coughlan

Chapter 1: Labor Day Picnic

Grand County

September 2, 1940

On Labor Day, 1940, Coughlan College associate professor Edward Smith (Ph.D. University of Chicago 1938) drove west on Highway 107 from the college town of Stutsville, Illinois at forty-five miles an hour. As he steered his 1936 Plymouth Coupe, he was aware of the occasional billboards––Win With Willkie, Christ Is Coming, Morton’s Salt, It Pours––and aware of the tall late-summer corn, which grew so close to both sides of the road that it occluded the curving road ahead. He was aware, too, that classes began tomorrow, but he was particularly aware of the young lady seated next to him, a woman in her mid-twenties who wore a broad-brimmed white straw hat and whose red polka dot dress ended just above her calves. Perhaps Ned Smith should have focused a bit more on the road, because as he came around a curve, his right front fender smashed through a twine-bound bale, sending a thick cloud of straw and dust over the car.

Stop! Aaagh, yelled a tall farm boy from the roadside, his fists clenched at his side as if his will alone could arrest events. Ned felt his rear wheels swing to the right before his car came to a halt fully across the eastbound lane. A farm wagon that had shed its load of bales across the highway was stationary at the side of the road. For a moment there was complete silence.

Miss Wilson, are you all right? Are you injured? Ned spoke with soft urgency, as if he feared his words could compound any injury.

I’m fine, really. The young woman retrieved her now crushed hat from the floor. No, I’m quite all right. What about you?

Ned opened his door, glanced at Dorothy Wilson in acknowledgement, then ran to the youth. Get these bales off the road, he called. Good heavens, you made an awful mess. He then ran back to the passenger side of the car. Miss Wilson, would you get back around the curve and stop the cars? Wave your hands, anything.

Dorothy got out and ran with surprising speed, the clicking of her shoes against the pavement the only sound in the summer afternoon. I’ll use my hat, she called back, one hand protecting her hair and the other holding the big white hat out into the road.

Help me clear the road, the youth called. Praise God we are all safe.

It wasn’t God who overloaded the wagon, Ned thought. After he threw his suit coat across the hood of his car, he began to stack straw bales back onto the vehicle. Presently a great black sedan, obviously forewarned, advanced cautiously and came to a halt well back from the two men. That car was joined by another and another until shortly there was a line of cars, like a great segmented snake, stretching back around the curve. Men came from several of the cars, jogging up to heave bales back onto the wagon. One of them advanced down the highway to slow the traffic coming from the west.

That’s enough. Keep that pile stable, Ned warned. Put the rest by the road and come back for them.

Thanks, Mister, said the tall youth. My name’s Lyttle Hughes. I’m much obliged. My father will pay to fix your car.

Ned Smith looked at the youth’s patched overalls and the ancient rusted tractor pulling the wagon. He didn’t know if his insurance covered collision with a bale of straw, but he knew that although he could manage the cost of any repair, it would take bread from the farmer’s table.

Thanks, I can manage. Ned turned to the small group of men who had left their cars to help. I’ve got to find my lady friend and get to a picnic.

That’s what I would do for sure, said one of the men with a bit of a smirk. Ned strode back to retrieve Dorothy.

Miss Wilson, Ned began when they were in the car again.

It’s Dorothy, she said, retouching her blond hair. I have a rule that any man who busts bales can use my first name. And can I call you Ned? she asked as she picked pieces of straw from Ned’s hair.

I hope you can enjoy this event, Dorothy, Ned said, softening his voice but now careful to focus on the road ahead. My older brother is in Republican Party politics, and my family always goes to this picnic. It’s a nice afternoon, but we’ll be a few minutes late.

Well, do I have to promise my vote to Wendell Willkie? she asked with a tone of mock seriousness.

Ned smiled. The speeches will be mostly over when we get there. It’s just a picnic lunch and games of horseshoes. Just a fun Labor Day afternoon.

For Ned, taking a woman to a family picnic was an awkward first date. He had met Dorothy Wilson at the coffee hour after church and thought her absolutely striking. As his father would have said, She filled out her clothes right nicely. If he was being honest, she was a bit taller than he was. The fact that she was a new teacher at Stutsville High School in his field, physics, was the clincher for him. The few female physics majors he had met were plain things who never wore makeup, and here was one who looked like she belonged in the movies. He had offered her the choice of this family picnic or a movie over in Glastonbury, the nearest town of any size. To his surprise she chose the picnic.

Well you know, Ned, directing traffic at the scene of an accident was a bit of country adventure for a Chicago girl like me, she said as she smoothed her skirt. So tell me something about yourself. How did you get to be a professor at Coughlan College? Did you grow up around here?

Associate Professor, Ned corrected her. We’ll see about full professor. And yes, my dad’s farm is not far from here.

Ned explained he received a scholarship to the University of Chicago to study physics and then a fellowship to study for a doctorate with a brilliant man from Hungary, Professor Isaac Sorken. We did research in weather radio location. We proved that amplitude-modulation radio waves don’t bounce off storms. Their wavelengths are too long and they go right through storms, but we could learn something by timing the lightning strikes. My thesis committee liked the precision of my work, even though I couldn’t bounce radio waves, so they gave me a doctorate—and that’s how I became professor of physics at Coughlan College.

Ned didn’t tell Dorothy that teaching undergraduates at a small Episcopal college was a letdown. He thought his work at Chicago under Sorken earned him an appointment at one of the Ivy League schools, or Berkeley or Cal Tech out in California.

So, Professor Smith with the straw in his hair. Who is coming to this picnic?

There’s my mother, Margaret, you’ll like her. She likes everybody, and there’s my father, James, who might tease you, and my older brother Sam and his wife Lucile and their three kids. There’s Martha, she’s two, and seven-year old twins, Walter and George. Oh, and my younger brother, we call him Sonny.

Um. I see, she said. She studied her hair in her compact mirror and then fell silent. Ned glanced at her profile. Her blond hair waved in gentle curves almost to her shoulders. Put a robe on her and she could be Helen of Troy, Ned thought. She wore her make-up well. Ned wondered whether, with a tall looker like that in front of them, the boys in her class could learn physics.

When Ned pulled into the County Fair picnic ground, there was Sam’s new Nash, so he knew his older brother and his growing brood were there already. He slowed to a crawl across the wide parking field as he drove behind families toting picnic baskets with little kids flitting like barn swallows between parents, older siblings, aunts and uncles. Ned rolled down his window and called a hello over to his mother, who was throwing a red-checked tablecloth over a long picnic table. Why Ned, look at you, she called back. What kept you? Speeches are almost over. Now you park and introduce your friend.

When Ned and Dorothy approached the table, he said Mother, I’d like you to meet Miss Dorothy Wilson. She’s a teacher of physics at Stutsville High School.

Well now, we’re so glad to see you, Miss Wilson, Mother said. You call me Maggie.

Pleased to meet you . . . Maggie. The hesitation in her voice told Ned that Dorothy was a bit unsure about the familiarity. Ned has told me nice things about you.

All of it true, came James Smith’s voice from a few paces away.

Dorothy, Ned said, reddening, this is my father, James, and behind him is my older brother, Sam.

James Smith was in his new Sunday bib overalls, with a starched white shirt underneath. Sam was in a three-piece wool suit in spite of the heat. The family, at least the adults, took seats on the picnic table benches and let Maggie serve them all iced tea. Their conversation varied little from the conversations at the tables around them: the weather, the crops, and how the children had grown since everyone had last met. And then there was politics.

Say, Miss Wilson, did you hear about the fellow who had his name changed last week? Ned’s father asked.

Why no, said Dorothy willing to humor the older man. What about him?

The farmer’s weathered face assumed a look of mock seriousness. Well, he went before Judge Hemmings and said, ‘Judge, I got to change my name.’ And His Honor says, ‘Okay, what is your name now?’ And the fellow says, ‘Franklin D. Ass.’

James! Maggie’s voice came sharply from the end of the table.

Oh all right! The old man continued, The fellow said, ‘Franklin D. Behind.’ To which Old Hemmings replied, ‘What do you want it changed to?’ And the fellow answered . . .—a great grin lit the storyteller’s face—‘George S. Behind’! With that, James broke out into a hearty laugh and slapped his knee. Ned looked at Dorothy to see how she was taking all of this, but she had her reply ready.

Well now Mr. Smith, you know I’m reading a book on anti-gravity. She emphasized the last word. But you know that I can’t . . . (pausing for effect) . . . why, I just can’t put it down.

The older man looked pensive and then let out a great guffaw. Pretty good, Miss . . . what was your name again?

Dorothy Wilson.

Anti-gravity. Can’t put it down, he repeated. Then he got a serious look on his face. Miss Wilson, what do you think of Roosevelt signing that Draft Law this week?

Good heavens, Dad, Ned protested. Dorothy’s our guest. She’s only been here ten minutes.

Mr. Smith. Dorothy didn’t seem fazed. As you may know, I will teach boys this fall and your son teaches young men of draft age, so I am well aware of the stakes. But I feel, with the war in Europe, our nation has no choice but to have a strong standing army.

Well, better not send any of my boys over to bail them English out. French didn’t put up much of a fight is all I want to say, he replied.

Miss Wilson. Now Sam was trying to rescue Dorothy from his father. May I introduce my wife Lucille? I wonder if you can help Mom bring all this wonderful food she has from her car.

Dorothy smiled, offered her hand to Lucille, who did not respond but looked shyly at the ground before the two of them followed Maggie and Sam towards his car.

After the little group was out of earshot, James said, She’s a good one, Ned. Seems like she can hold her own.

We just met after church last Sunday. She surprised me. Said she would come on the picnic. There was silence between the two men. For Ned, talking with his father had always been as difficult as talking with his mother was easy. His mother was the one who took an interest in his homework, his piano lessons, and the tryout for the school play. She was the one who made his special fried chicken when he brought home a report card with straight A’s and made a large chocolate cake when he opened the scholarship letter from the University of Chicago. Now that Ned taught college men, he appreciated what she’d done, but growing up he had sometimes felt smothered by her continued attention. His older brother Sam was closer to their father. The two of them always seemed to know what each other wanted. The younger brother, whose given name was James Junior but everybody (even his high school teachers) called Sonny, seemed to float along on his own with the liberty that younger siblings often enjoy.

Ned opened with what he thought would be a safe topic—the effect of the war in Europe on American crop prices: Corn’s forty cents a bushel, Dad. That looks pretty good.

Too late. The older man’s face was crestfallen as he looked down at his calloused hands.

Too late for what? Ned asked, annoyed that his father was dismissing his well- intentioned opening.

Even if I get thirty bushels an acre, I’m still short the February mortgage.

Ned didn’t know his father had mortgaged the farm.

August payment was short, and Pitzer at the bank told me that if I didn’t catch up in February, they’d have to foreclose.

Maybe I can help, Dad—

His father cut him off. You can pay Sonny’s tuition at that college of yours and get him off the farm, that’s what you can do. All three of you boys, stay off the farm. Sam’s got a nice start in town. You get Sonny an education too.

Coughlan College had not been able to pay Ned his full salary last year, and President Deacon wasn’t sure if this year would be any better, so he told Ned he could apply what the college owed him to his brother’s tuition. Sonny wanted to stay on the farm but would give college a try to please his parents.

Ned and his father fell into silence as the three women returned with picnic baskets and produced a cornucopia for the table: fried chicken, potato salad, three-bean salad, Jell-O fruit salad, and biscuits. For dessert there was berry pie, and an ice cream freezer was waiting to be cranked.

Where’s Sonny? Ned asked, when he finally noticed his brother’s absence.

He’s over with the Culbertsons, Maggie answered.

He think food tastes better over there? Ned asked, somewhat irked that his younger brother was not here to meet Dorothy.

He thinks it is if he can eat next to Rachel Culbertson, was Maggie’s answer. Dorothy smiled but didn’t say anything. Walter and George, Sam’s twins, slurped down their food and slipped away as soon as they could. When Sam called after them that there would be no dessert if they didn’t stay at the table, Maggie immediately contradicted him, which made Lucille blush and stare intently at her plate.

So, Sam, Ned said. Tell us about Philadelphia. What happened to you and Bob Taft? Sam had diligently worked for the Republican Party in the county and, for his efforts, was made a delegate to the Republican convention that year.

Ned, it was the darnedest thing. There were all these college boys in the gallery, and they kept hooting and hollering for Willkie. Dewey led with 300 votes on the first ballot, but Taft has 200 and this guy Willkie has only 100. So, on the next several ballots Dewey starts losing support, and Taft is gaining, but Willkie is picking up support too. Taft still looked good on the fifth ballot, but Dewey and Vandenburg wouldn’t bring what votes they still had over to him, like any real Republican would, and so we got Wendell Willkie as our candidate. The man was a registered Democrat a few years ago. But you know what, Ned? His voice now became firm and sincere. I believe, I really believe, the country will choose Willkie. I just don’t think they’ll elect Franklin Roosevelt as our first three-term president. After all, he’s nothing but a socialist.

I admire your exercise of civic responsibility. Dorothy broke into the conversation. Too many are content to let others make the effort.

Sam smiled and said, Well, I wouldn’t make too much of it. I just do committee work here in the county.

No, I think you are serving at a national level. I would call going to a party’s national convention ‘national service.’ Do you agree, Lucille?

Lucille seemed embarrassed at the direct question. Sam made no secret of his political ambitions. His job as manager of the grain elevator in town let him meet farmers from all over the county. Jobs with the county administration didn’t pay a whole lot, but a county commissioner, even a county clerk, had job security, and who knew where Sam might go in Illinois politics? Sam was a Republican (it was political suicide to be a Democrat in Grand County) and it was common knowledge that he would be the party candidate when the next office vacancy came up. Lucille was such a shy woman. Ned wondered how she would stand the round of party picnics, Lincoln Day dinners, and other glad-handing obligations.

After dinner, Dad and Sam challenged Dorothy and Lucille to a game of horseshoes. To Ned’s surprise not only Dorothy but also Lucille accepted the invitation, and the four of them headed across the picnic grounds. Ned gathered little Martha onto his lap where, to his avuncular pride, she sucked her thumb and was quickly fast asleep. Ned let sounds of the county fairgrounds settle around him. A hundred yards away, he could see Dorothy, her polka dot dress whirling as she took long graceful strides and launched a horseshoe, and then he could hear the distant clank of the horseshoe against the iron stake. Laughter and shouts occasionally rose from the other tables, but, every now and then, it was so quiet that the early crickets of fall could be heard. His mother gave a sigh as she took a seat beside him.

She’s awful pretty, Ned, Maggie said. She’s pretty independent, and she sure is pretty.

Ned let the words sink in and then said, She makes Lucille nervous. Lucille wouldn’t even answer Dorothy’s question.

A dog twitching in its sleep makes Lucille nervous. If you think Dorothy will make you happy, you go after her.

Ned looked at the sleeping baby in his arms and wondered if he could ever afford to marry. When Ned asked his Ph.D. advisor about a job at Chicago, or Northwestern, or any of the big East Coast universities, Sorken told him the time wasn’t right: no one was hiring, and now there were so many Europeans—Jews like me, Eddy, he’d said. Jews like me with publications, big-time papers. Now you teach in the sticks, Eddy. Later you publish and a big school hires you. Or the war. When the war comes, there is plenty work. That’s what the great Isaac Sorken, his thesis advisor at Chicago, had said. And so Ned was teaching at Coughlan College in Stutsville, Illinois, with almost no chance to do research in his specialty of radio location. The college was so small; he was the entire physics department.

Mom, it will be two years at best before I can support a wife, Ned said.

Two can live as cheaply as one, I always heard, but you know your finances. She paused. Tell you one thing. This Dorothy will have lots of other opportunities if you don’t act.

The horseshoe party returned in high humor, and Sam took the sleeping baby from Ned and sat next to Lucille. Dorothy was still full of energy.

Come on Ned! Dorothy exclaimed. That ice cream freezer is just waiting for us.

Somehow, at the words ice cream, the twins, George and Walter, materialized. Dorothy proposed a competition. Each team was to turn the crank a hundred times. Whichever team failed to complete its hundred turns lost. The prize was permission to lick the ice cream beater. Both boys wanted to be on Dorothy’s team, but George settled for Ned.

The competition ended and Dorothy’s team won. In a gesture of magnanimity she proclaimed that George could share the beater as well. Ned was impressed at how easily this city girl worked into a country afternoon. Was she really enjoying herself? Suddenly he saw that she was testing herself as well as him. She wanted to see if she enjoyed this downstate life. Ned was the vulnerable one. He then remembered something else Isaac Sorken had said: You learn as much from the experiments that fail as those which work.

Maggie cut the pie, James scooped the ice cream. The twins clamored for seconds, even after they had licked the beater and had a large first helping of ice cream and pie. After everyone had eaten, it was time to pack the dirty dishes in the baskets and return them to the trunk of Sam’s new Nash.

Once in his car, after Ned was sure the rattle in his right front fender didn’t mean it would fall off, he apologized to Dorothy for his father’s political humor. Dorothy replied that it was nothing she hadn’t heard often in Chicago and even in New York. Ned let the conversation lapse. And, with the sun at their backs, the combination of the warm afternoon, the filling meal, and perhaps the relief of a social obligation passed, Dorothy dozed. They were passing the curve in the road where Ned had hit the straw bale, when her head came against his shoulder. When he put his arm around her, she nestled closer, giving him a feeling of satisfaction and muted desire. He drove at a careful and steady speed, slowing only when he turned off the highway within the town limits. Even then he kept his arm around her.Did I doze? Dorothy asked, waking and looking up but not moving away from Ned.

For the last twenty miles.

I enjoyed the afternoon, she said. Now I’ve got lesson plans to write before school starts. Did I pass your test?

By a country mile. Did we pass yours? Ned replied. Dorothy had not answered by the time Ned stopped in front of the house where Dorothy rented a room. After a drowsy pause she said, I had a great time this afternoon. Thanks for inviting me. She paused, but she didn’t move.

Ned thought this was just a first date, if a picnic could be a date. Then he looked down at Dorothy’s head on his shoulder, took a breath, reached his left hand across her for an embrace, looked into her eyes, and put his lips to hers. It was a first kiss, but it was a full kiss, and he thought she must surely hear his heart thumping in his chest. Then she broke it off.

Ned, people watch in Stutsville, she said.

He took his arm from her shoulders for the first time in forty minutes, turned off the engine of the Plymouth and came around the car to open her door.

Ned walked Dorothy to the front steps in the glow of the late afternoon and was returning to his car when a panting Western Union delivery boy rode up on his bicycle.

You Dr. Edward Smith? he called.

I am, Ned replied.

Your neighbor told I might find you here. Telegram for you, sign at the X.

As he signed the receipt, he wondered who the dickens would want to send him a telegram on Labor Day? He ripped the telegram open and read:

VANNEVAR BUSH REQUESTS PRESENCE WEDNESDAY SEPTEMBER 4 AT MIT CONFERENCE ON CONTEMPORARY PHYSICS EXPENSES PAID STOP

TICKET AND MATERIALS TO FOLLOW BY SPECIAL DELIVERY STOP

TELEGRAPH ACCEPTANCE TO MAJOR JAMES GRIMALDI US ARMY SIGNAL CORPS STOP

Will there be a reply? the boy asked.

For a moment Ned felt as if a beam shone down on him from the heavens. The head of the Carnegie Institution for Science, the former vice president of MIT, was paying his expenses to a conference in Cambridge, Massachusetts.

Please reply, Edward Smith accepts invitation stop.

Chapter 2: These Are the Times

Stutsville

September 2 – 4, 1940

Dorothy shut the front door behind her and was savoring the afterglow of the kiss, when Mrs. Barnes came into the front hall and peered through the front door’s patterned glass.

Looks like your Professor Smith is still there, she trilled. The woman had a high pitched, almost child-like voice. Shall I warm the coffee? It was fresh mid-afternoon.

I don’t think he’ll stay long. We said our goodbyes. Dorothy’s face felt a little warm. What more could the man want?

Dorothy, Dorothy! Ned called, banging the brass door knocker. Open up. Would you look at this?

When Dorothy opened the door, Ned burst past her into the front hall and triumphantly extended the telegram for inspection to Dorothy who then passed it to Mrs. Barnes.

They want me for a conference in Boston. They’re paying my way. Vannevar Bush––and some army major––want me in Boston on Wednesday. He bounced on his toes, like a kid showing off a perfect report card. But I have my classes. Dorothy, can you take my freshman Wednesday class and supervise the lab on Friday? Moore from math can do the advanced class, but I hate to ask him to do the freshman too.

Mrs. Barnes broke in. Would you like some coffee and perhaps some apple pie, Professor Smith?

Ned looked somewhat surprised. Oh, good heavens Mrs. Barnes, how rude of me for barging in. No. Thank you very much. We’ve just eaten, and now I have so much to do, but I did want to make this request of Dorothy.

Dorothy smiled at the situation. Ned had changed from professor and first-date suitor to a fellow teacher asking for help. Calvin Jacobs, the principal of Stutsville High School, had reservations about hiring a woman to teach physics. Now here was Professor Edward Smith asking her to teach in a men’s college.

Ned, what are you talking about? I can’t teach at that level. Besides, I still have my own lesson plans to write.

Oh, but you can Dorothy. These are freshmen and it’s only one class. They are just a year older than the kids you teach now. And the class is at three fifteen, after you’re done at school. I’ll have to speak to the dean of course, but I can do that in the morning. I’m sure we can set it up.

Dorothy looked at Ned’s exuberant face and then at Mrs. Barnes’ hospitable smile and felt matters swirling away from her. She inhaled, let the smile fade from her face and her hands drop to her side. Well it’s been quite a day—busting bales, meeting your family, and now this. May I think about it and call you later this evening? Say eight thirty or so?

Ned paused, seeming to take stock of the situation, then reached for the door handle. Yes, eight thirty it is. Good evening Mrs. Barnes, thanks for your kind offer. Talk with you later Dorothy.

As Dorothy closed the front door, Mrs. Barnes said, Now there’s a fellow who wants to be in two places at once. Wonder what’s so urgent at MIT? I bet it’s a flying bomb for the British. She paused to consider her own prediction for a moment, then said, I’m having coffee. How about you? Will you be joining me for supper?

No thank you, said Dorothy. I’m beat. We had a huge lunch. I’ll make a sandwich later.

She went up the stairs to her room and reclined across her bed in the room she rented from Beatrice Barnes, a widow in comfortable circumstances. Dorothy herself was the daughter of a once prosperous hardware wholesaler in Chicago. She had