The telegrams arrived one after another, stacked so high on Roosevelt's desk that his trembling hand could no longer brush them aside.
Aides came and went like ghosts, laying down new folders, new reports, new casualty estimates.
The lamps burned low in the Delaware command villa, casting jaundiced light across the room and making the fatigue carved into Roosevelt's face look almost corpse-like.
He had not slept in thirty-six hours, he doubted he would sleep again.
A soft knock at the door.
"Mr. President?" It was Undersecretary Hall. His voice carried that brittle edge Roosevelt had come to dread. "The latest intelligence from the War Department. Sicily… North Africa… the Philippines…"
Roosevelt did not look up. "Set them down."
Hall placed the folder carefully on the desk, as though its contents were something venomous.
A moment passed.
Then Hall whispered, as if saying the words too loudly might collapse what remained of the nation:
"Sir… they know."
