by Jeff Shaara
He focused, stared at the doorway, heard a burst of chatter from the offices beyond. He thought of calling out, knew that Smith was probably in his office. No, don’t just holler your brains out. Show some decorum. He reached for the black phone.
“Put General Smith on the phone.” He waited, knew he had been gruff, thought, Dammit, I can’t always be nice to people. I’m the boss, after all. He heard Smith’s voice.
“Sir?”
“Beetle, I want you to tell Patton to get his ass up here. He might not like what I have to say, but at least he’ll still have a job.”
SHAEF, BUSHEY PARK
MAY 1, 1944
“George, you have gotten yourself into a very serious fix. What the hell were you thinking?”
Patton said nothing, just kept himself at attention, helmet and pistols, a show Eisenhower didn’t need. He stared hard at Patton, saw no flinch in the man’s expression.
“I’ve told you before: You talk too damned much! You can’t just shoot off your mouth about anything you want, especially when it concerns politics. You spend too much time posing for cameras and crowds, and for reasons I do not understand, you insist on breaking out in these tantrums…at the worst possible time. Sit down! At ease, for God’s sake.”
Patton moved to the chair, eyeing him intently, Eisenhower trying to avoid Patton’s piercing stare. Finally Patton cleared his throat.
“Sir, I want you to understand that I am very well aware that your job is more important than mine. If, in trying to save me, you are hurting yourself, then throw me out.”
Eisenhower frowned. Theatrics, he thought. When was the last time he called me sir?
“Look, George, I have all the headaches this army can give me. This has nothing to do with hurting me. You’ve put me in the position of having to choose whether or not I must deprive myself of a fighting army commander! I’ve already gotten several cables about this from General Marshall. You have seriously hurt yourself at the War Department. Your permanent promotion has been put on hold, and might never be reconsidered. There’s a whole flock of people in Washington who think you’re unfit to command. Tell me how I’m supposed to disagree with that.”
“I disagree with that most vigorously, sir. I believe I am the most capable and most experienced American battlefield commander in this theater of the war.”
Eisenhower thought, Yes, I’m sure that’s exactly what you believe. And you may be right, dammit.
“General Marshall has left the matter in my hands. He is fighting like hell for you in Congress, George. You’ve called in every favor you ever had. What do I do here? Can you convince me this won’t happen again? You’ve been told to keep your mouth shut, and still—off you go!” Patton seemed to sag, his shoulders drooping. “If I keep you here, how can I be sure this won’t happen again?”
Patton stood suddenly and moved around the side of the desk. Eisenhower was amazed to see tears. He couldn’t help himself but stood as well, amazed that Patton kept coming, his arms out, wrapping them around Eisenhower’s shoulders.
“Dammit, Ike, I am so sorry about this.”
He put his head on Eisenhower’s shoulder, the silver helmet rolling off his head, tumbling with a loud clatter onto the floor. Patton was sobbing noisily now, and Eisenhower felt helpless, had no idea what to do. Then Patton stood back, red-eyed, wetness on his cheeks.
“I will not let you down, sir. If you allow me to keep my place in Operation Fortitude and my command of the Third Army, I will give every effort to the job. I am grateful to you and to General Marshall for standing behind me. There are forces at work around us, forces that would undermine our good efforts—” Patton stopped short, seeming to know he had taken it too far.
Eisenhower thought, That’s right, George. Shut the hell up. But there still were the tears, Patton’s amazing show of contrition. This is bull, Eisenhower suddenly realized. All of it. This is pure drama, a well-rehearsed speech. He put a hand on his own shoulder, felt the wetness, saw Patton composing himself, the helmet still conspicuously on the floor.
“Control yourself, dammit. The fact is I need you. There are too many weak links, too many variables in this operation that could destroy it. I’m worn out from wrestling with the Bomber Barons, and I’ve got to go see Churchill about God knows what. For now, you’ve kept your job. But don’t get comfortable. The vultures are circling, and for all I know the president might find the need to toss you out anyway. It’s an election year, you know.”
Patton stood straight. “Yes, sir. I will do what I am called upon to do.”
“Yes, you had damned well better do exactly that. Now pick up your damned helmet and go back to work.”
After long weeks of debates and absurd haggling with the Allied chiefs of staff, Eisenhower was finally given command over the tactical and strategic air forces, at least those forces that would be directly involved in the bombardments that affected Overlord. But a new debate arose, which had far greater consequences. There had been two primary schools of thought on how best to wage the ongoing air campaign. One side, led primarily by American general Carl “Tooey” Spaatz, called for the bombers to concentrate in an all-out effort to destroy Germany’s capacity to produce oil and gasoline, any petrochemicals that fueled the German military. Spaatz’s argument was that if Germany’s refineries and fuel plants were destroyed, the German army would grind to a halt. For Overlord, this meant that reinforcements would not reach key battlefields in time to prevent a solid Allied foothold.
The second argument focused on enemy transportation hubs and mobile facilities. This argument, championed by Eisenhower’s assistant commander, British air marshall Arthur Tedder, called for all-out destruction of rail lines, bridges, and key roadways, especially those routes that led from German industrial depots to the coastline. Tedder believed this kind of disruption would be far more effective in stopping the Germans from bringing their forces into play.
Eisenhower realized that both plans had considerable merit, though it was highly likely that the Germans had stockpiled enough fuel and oil to move the bulk of their armor and mobile weapons into an effective confrontation with the Allied landing forces. Though Spaatz’s plan was certainly an effective long-term strategy, Eisenhower realized that, for Overlord, a short-term plan was far more desirable. The most important priority was to secure beachheads on the French coast, and the best way to achieve that would be to keep any sizable German armor and infantry units away. If the transportation links were cut, the Germans would be slowed down considerably.
Tedder’s argument had prevailed, but Eisenhower was suddenly confronted with political reality. Though Tedder’s plan seemed to be of greater benefit to the Overlord operation, bombing the French rail hubs and transportation centers, including major traffic intersections, meant that Allied bombers would dump their loads on or near French towns. The certain result would be the killing of French civilians, quite possibly in enormous numbers. The cost could be catastrophic, and not just in terms of human life. The French underground had been enormously helpful in sabotaging German installations, and their assistance would continue to be a vital asset to Allied plans. By bombing targets without regard for civilian casualties, the Allies risked creating a new enemy: the French themselves. The argument raged, with Churchill and the British cabinet coming down hard against the plan. But Eisenhower received support from an unlikely source. Even Churchill was stunned to receive word from French general Pierre Joseph Koenig, Charles de Gaulle’s liaison in London. Koenig seemed to grasp what every military commander had to accept.
This is war, and it must be expected that there will be deaths. We will accept great loss to be rid of the Germans.
Within days, Tedder’s Transportation Plan went into effect and Allied bombers began their work. Because of the urgent need to maintain the integrity of Operation Fortitude, Patton’s phantom invasion, the bombers focused far more on the Calais area than they did on the transportation lines behind the Normandy beaches. Des
pite the diversion, Allied bomber strength had become so overwhelming that even with a fraction of the air power focused on Normandy, the devastation there was quickly apparent. Though the increased level of bombings could certainly give the Germans a major clue that an invasion was imminent, Eisenhower knew that British intelligence was continuing to do everything in its power to convince the German High Command that Calais, and not Normandy, was the target.
Throughout the spring, Allied fighter planes had accompanied the bombers, the normal procedure to protect the vulnerable bombers. As the range of the Allied fighters increased, so too did the number of opportunities to confront the Luftwaffe’s devastating screen of Messerschmitts and Focke-Wulf fighters. By filling the skies with greater numbers of planes, the Allies were hoping to confront the Luftwaffe whenever possible. Intelligence had shown that German munitions factories were already stretched thin and the pace of replacing fighters had slowed considerably. On the Allied side, the situation was exactly the opposite. Enormous numbers of new and better planes were being introduced into action every week. The mathematics was obvious to everyone. The Luftwaffe had begun to withdraw many of its squadrons closer to home, to protect crucial industrial sites within Germany itself. The result was a lack of German air power along the French coast, something Eisenhower knew he couldn’t take for granted. The benefits of air superiority had already proven itself in both North Africa and Sicily. There, the inability of the Luftwaffe to dominate the skies had done much to ensure Allied victories.
With a clear understanding of the value of their increasing air superiority, Allied commanders ordered their pilots to do whatever they could to bait more German fighters into a brawl. But the air forces’ enthusiasm for increasing the number of dogfights had resulted in one enormously difficult moral dilemma for Eisenhower, a dilemma he had to discuss with Churchill.
TEN DOWNING STREET, LONDON
MAY 8, 1944
“You knew about this?”
Churchill pulled hard on the cigar, smoke billowing around him. “Of course I did.”
“You knew your intelligence people were telling the Germans where we were going to hit them next? We gave them dates and times?”
“That we did. Damned effective, those intelligence boys. They have an entire network of German agents working for us. Remarkable, that. But from time to time we have to ensure that the enemy still believes the information we’re giving them is accurate. The Nazis are a crafty bunch, and unless we toss them a biscuit to chew on, the whole thing might blow up.”
Eisenhower shook his head and stared at the cup of coffee in front of him.
Churchill leaned forward. “Dammit, Ike, have some brandy. You can’t run your motor on that swill.”
“Not now, thank you. It’s hard to fathom. We tell the enemy where and when we’re going to strike, so he can prepare to meet us.”
“Worked too. Bloody marvelous. Nuremberg must have been lit up like a festival.”
“How many planes did we lose?”
“Don’t like that question, and you shouldn’t ask it. We shot down a goodly number of Jerry fighters.” Churchill took the cigar from his mouth, raised his glass, tossed back the remnants of his drink. “It’s war, Ike. How many lives have we saved by convincing the Germans that the intelligence network is still in their pocket? Isn’t that the point? It’s war!”
Eisenhower knew it was an argument he couldn’t make; Dammit, he thought, he’s right. He stirred in his chair, driven by the caffeine, watching as Churchill reached for the squat black bottle and refilled his glass.
“May I?” Eisenhower said.
Churchill smiled, pulled himself out of his chair, moved thickly toward a cabinet, withdrew a glass.
“I knew you’d come around.” Churchill returned to the table and poured too much brandy into the glass.
“It’s damned tough, that’s all,” Eisenhower said. “Damned tough. I can’t help thinking about our pilots, sent to do a job, with no idea that back here somebody’s given them up. It’s criminal.”
“It’s war. And it worked. You want to lose sleep about men dying, you shouldn’t—”
“Yes, I know. I accepted that a long time ago. Part of the damned job.”
Eisenhower swirled the brandy in the glass, stared into the golden warmth, caught a whiff of the sharp smell. The room was empty, no one else attending the dinner, unusual. He had been concerned about Churchill’s health; the man was close to seventy now, and Eisenhower knew that he pushed himself hard—too hard, perhaps, especially with all the travel. Within the last few months there had been conferences and meetings from Quebec to Teheran, and Churchill never seemed to stop, even when pounded by a vicious case of pneumonia. Eisenhower took a sip of the brandy. It’s not just politics, he thought. He wants to win this thing, maybe all by himself. I just wish he wasn’t so damned negative about Overlord.
Churchill emptied the bottle into his own glass. “Joe Stalin’s been crowing like the feathered cock he is.”
Eisenhower saw a smile. He knew Churchill too well and appreciated the change of topic. “The Russians are doing well,” he said.
“You’re a bloody master of the understatement, Ike. I admit I was just a wee bit uncomfortable telling Uncle Joe about the invasion dates. Had to, though. Didn’t tell him anything about the actual landings of course, the locations. I knew you’d have indigestion about that. But if this is going to work at all, we need them to hit the Jerries hard, help take the pressure off. They’ve done a hell of a job all along the Eastern Front. Never thought that would have happened. Hitler was so close to Moscow, he could smell their sewers, and then he botched it up. Now, the Russians are damned near Poland.”
If this is going to work…
Eisenhower closed his eyes, took a long breath. Dammit. He felt the same annoyance returning, so many arguments, so much pessimism.
“Overlord is going to work. We’ve put every gear into motion, every commander knows his role—”
Churchill pushed his glass aside, cut him off. “I know all that. I know how much effort you’re putting into this, how much effort every damned officer in this country is putting into this. You know where I stand. There are some pretty damned smart people who think this entire operation is a crock, people I respect, people I rely upon. But I listen to you, and to Marshall, and to your president, and others of my own people, and everyone agrees we have to hit the Nazis hard. I still think it could be done with less pain if we went into the Balkans, but you don’t agree. Fine.”
Churchill stood. Eisenhower knew the look, knew the prime minister would hold nothing back. Churchill began to pace, then stopped and pointed the cigar toward Eisenhower’s face.
“Do you know what I go through every damned night? I wake up at five o’clock in the morning, and I see bodies floating in the English Channel. The cream of our youth gone, washed out to sea. That’s what I see! You tell me it’s going to work, and I can’t just accept it. I see the cost!” Churchill paused. “I know. All that drivel about generals accepting casualties. Sounds good, the stuff of textbooks. You have to think that way. It’s your orders that send men to die. I’m just the…what? I’m the one who has to answer to the people. I have to look English mothers in the eye and tell them why their boys aren’t coming home, why it was a good idea to send them into France. Again! How many Englishmen are going to die trying to save Frenchmen? Dammit! Tell me again it’s going to work! Tell me!”
Eisenhower heard genuine emotion in Churchill’s voice and realized Churchill expected an answer.
“It’s going to work. I know there are people against this; I know you have doubts. But we’ve done the organizing, we’ve put good people in the right places. Next week—”
“Yes, yes, I know all about next week. St. Paul’s School, the briefing. Yes, I’ll be there. Everyone will be there. Everyone will be on his best behavior, all sticking up for the cause, showing support. There’s a time for bitching and a time for shutting up. I know it’s t
ime to shut up. But I can still have my doubts, can’t I?”
Churchill seemed much calmer now, and Eisenhower took the cue, tasted the brandy, watched Churchill light another cigar. The smoke covered Churchill’s face, the room filling with the powerful smell. The lights were dim, the room warm, the chair beneath him soft, and Eisenhower, feeling a glow from the brandy, fought against sadness, the gut-churning anxiety he could never escape. No matter how good the planning, he thought, there is always the chance it will all go wrong. God help us.
Churchill said, “I’ve gotten more reports about their secret weapon, you know.”
The words were jarring.
“More reports?”
“Stronger confirmation. Rockets of some kind. Hitler’s telling his people the entire war is about to change.”
“All I know is what the air people have said about Calais,” Eisenhower said. “We started seeing what looked like ski jumps or something, scattered all over the place. We’ve been hitting them hard, but they’re easy to rebuild, apparently.”
“Scares hell out of me, Ike. What’s that damned Nazi cooked up?”
“Could be fabrication. Just propaganda.”
Churchill put the cigar down. “Could be. Can’t assume that. If there really is some kind of weapon, it could be very bad here. I’m not sure how much more people can take. It’s one thing to rally them around our boys in the sky, all of that. Worked miracles four years ago. Show them a fight in the air, blow some Jerry pilot to hell right over their heads. But rockets? We talking about explosives? Poison gas? What the hell does it mean?”
Eisenhower had heard the reports too, word coming through the Ultra intercepts, the system that had broken the German Enigma communication codes. But the reports weren’t specific, nothing about when, only loud talk of Hitler’s new secret weapon, and then those strange platforms suddenly appearing on the northern French and Belgian coastlines. Eisenhower had kept his focus on the impact some kind of new weapon would have on the invasion, the possibility of a major disruption at the gathering fields, the marshaling yards, the ports, anywhere troops and equipment might be assembled. It was obvious that Churchill was more concerned about the British civilians. As far as anyone knew, the schedule for Overlord’s D-Day was still a secret.
