17 April 2008
Besten Dank
King Christian X of Denmark
The Secret Service was gone by four, as was the security detail from the Arlington Police Force.
I had been checking in on them every couple hours with mild curiosity as they loitered across the alley from our glittering new building and the down-at-the heels former government glass cube the Candidate rented fifteen months ago when this awful process started.
I imagine she thought that things would be wrapped up long ago. There are orange flyers from the County taped on the various poles and meters around the building announcing that whatever scheme the developers had for the site have been abandoned, and the permits have expired.
I don’t know precisely when the Candidate got to her office suite- I was across town at Bolling Air Force Base talking to some slightly confused government people who are muddling through like the rest of us.
I took the slow way back to the office, top down on the Hubrismobile under brilliant skies. Flags and bunting were on the bridges, commemorating the visit of the Holy Father from Rome. The briefing books must already have been out at the Candidates headquarters, the prospective questions being proposed, spinning them in the air in preparation for the big debate in Pennsylvania that night.
I first noticed the little convoy of vehicles a little before lunch, after a phone conference. The Secret Service detail across the alley seemed relaxed, as though a Movement was not imminent. I thought it was sort of crazy. Civilians were all out in the Spring air, walking back and forth through the security perimeter without a care, taxis pulling up to the Westin Hotel, trucks from Office Max and the Tom’s Restaurant Supply pulling up and idling in front of the building.
If they were filled with anything other than reams of paper or meat-slicers, the load could level a block. It must drive the Security Detail nuts.
One of the smokers in front of the building is an old Hippy, based on the gray ponytail. He was telling a story from a war he was too young to remember to a knot of young smokers from his office on the 6th floor.
He announced that Denmark had fallen to the Germans in a day. Shortly thereafter, a Wehrmacht Officer was taking in the sights in occupied Copenhagen. Seeing a tall man with proud bearing riding a handsome gelding, he asked a passing boy who the imposing figure might be.
“It is our King, Christian X,” the Hippy said, becoming a Danish boy. He gestured with his cigarette to show the astonishment of the German officer, who said: “Where is his entourage? His bodyguard?”
The Hippy concluded his story grandly, “All Demark is his bodyguard.”
I looked across the street at the Candidate’s entourage, unwilling to get dragged into the discussion. As a collective bodyguard, Denmark had been strikingly ineffective. The government surrendered exactly two hours after the German invasion had commenced, ignoring warnings of clear and present danger from its intelligence service.
There was not enough time for the government to declare war on the invaders. Sixteen Danes died opposing the arriving Nazis, which was about double the number of Secret Service agents in the security detail across the street.
There might be more security in anonymity, I thought, before going back upstairs to join a conversation about pricing a contract that included provisions for weapons training and overseas deployment.
As I listened, I checked on King Christian. The story appeared to be true, and his habit of riding alone through his occupied capital appeared true enough, although the story of his wearing a Star of David as he did so in solidarity to his Jewish subjects may not have been.
It is certainly true that he knew how to put a commoner in his place. In 1942, the Fuhrer of all the Germans sent Christian a long telegram of congratulations on the occasion of his 72nd birthday.
The king's reply telegram was brief to the point of rudeness: “Meinen besten Dank. Chr. Rex.” Rendered in English, it would be “My best thanks, King Chris.”
Apparently Hitler was incensed, and the King was removed from power as the Nazis began to collapse. He got to come back to his throne, though, and outlived the Fuhrer by twenty-three months and twenty days.
By the time I got down to the street again, thinking about what to cook for dinner, the Candidate’s motorcade had departed. The drive to the site of the debate in Philadelphia is 137 miles, or just short of three hours by motorcade. Assuming, of course, that the Candidate was ahead of the rush hour traffic.
Having invested a significant part of the day vicariously prepping for the debate along with the Candidate, I felt obligated to watch that evening, even those the Red Sox were taking on the Yankees.
She looked sunny and confident, so I guess our prep session went pretty well. Her opponent looked a little haggard, and definitely not at the top of his game. Apparently the big issues confronting us in the twilight of the American Century are gaffes, flag pins and association with members of the 1960s Weather Underground.
The Candidate admitted that she had fibbed on occasion, and he said he wouldn’t though he regretted his phrasing. Both were careful not to say anything you could hold them to.
As best as I could determine, he refused to promise that he would not lift the cap on Social Security taxes, which does not affect most of the bitter people in the small towns across America. She did, she promised right there, big as life, that if I make more than the cap, I get to keep my money.
Meinen besten Dank, Senator.
Copyright 2008 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
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