The General's Women

by Susan Wittig Albert

  Butch was also in charge of feeding the newspapermen who hung out at the Hotel Savoy bar, eager to snatch up every crumb of war news or tasty bit of staff gossip. He knew Edward R. Murrow and Eric Sevareid of CBS Radio, which had its studios in the basement of the BBC. And Quentin Reynolds, of Collier’s magazine, and Pete Danielle, London bureau chief of the New York Times. Butch said it was important for the Boss to get the best press he could, which was a challenge, because Eisenhower preferred to stay out of the limelight. But higher-ups in Hitler’s command read the British newspapers, and while battles weren’t won in print or pictures, what the General said—and how he looked when he said it—was important.

  And finally, there was blue-eyed and black-haired Sergeant Michael McKeogh, who called himself a proud Paddy from Queens. Mickey shined the Boss’s shoes and did the Boss’s shopping and wrote regular letters to the Boss’s wife, who had asked him to keep her posted. He confided to Kay (Irish compatriots, they hit it off immediately) that he couldn’t tell Mrs. Ike everything, for she was . . . well, sort of nervous and jumpy, with her husband being so far away. Mickey didn’t like to worry her. All she wanted to hear was that her Ike was eating right and wasn’t smoking too much and was getting enough sleep and at least some relaxation. All of which Mickey duly reported.

  But relaxation wasn’t a priority on the General’s schedule, as Kay discovered her first week on the job. He hated the stuffy elegance of Claridge’s (“That whorehouse-pink bedroom makes me feel like I’m living in sin,” he snorted), so he moved to a first-floor suite at the Dorchester with windows looking out on Hyde Park. The Dorchester was supposed to be one of the safest buildings in London, with extra concrete between the floors, but the General liked it, he said, because it “wasn’t fancy.” Kay met him there with the Packard promptly at seven a.m., seven days a week, and drove him to Grosvenor Square, where he put in a full morning on conferences and paperwork. He usually had lunch at his desk—a sandwich, coffee, peanuts. In the afternoons, she drove him to meetings in London or at military installations outside the city.

  The General’s night drives were handled by “Lord Gilbey,” an upright fellow who affected the aristocratic manner that earned him his nickname. But Gilbey was wobbly and slow and after he ran the car up over a curb in the blackout, the General used him less often. So on Tuesday nights, Kay drove Eisenhower to Number Ten Downing Street for dinner with the Prime Minister, and on Thursday nights to the Treasury building in Whitehall, where the bomb-proof underground Cabinet war rooms were located. If it was late when they got back to the Dorchester, the Boss would invite her to the suite, where Butch or Mickey (both permanent residents) would stir up a quick cup of soup from a powdered mix the General’s wife sent from the States. That—with a Spam sandwich and a chocolate bar—was their supper. As the commander of the Allied forces, Eisenhower was deluged with a storm of social invitations, but he turned them all down: “I’m not fighting this goddamned war over tea and crumpets,” he’d growl. “We’re not here to be wined and dined.”

  But he couldn’t turn down an invitation from Churchill to spend the weekend at Chequers, the Prime Minister’s country house, a sprawling brick pile that dated to the late 1400s. He hated to go there, he said, because it was a “goddamned ice box. I wear two suits of underwear and I’m still cold.” When the General was staying just one night, Kay stayed, too, to save petrol. On those occasions, she was invited to dinner. The General would be seated to the PM’s right, even when he was outranked by other guests, and she was seated to the General’s right. But while the setting and service might be quite formal, there was always plenty of laughter, sparked by the irrepressible host himself, who usually wore his “siren suit,” a comfortable one-piece affair that could be pulled on quickly if the air-raid siren blew. (Once, he wore one of black velvet, which Mrs. Churchill told Kay she’d had made for him for formal occasions. “It’s about as dressed up as he’s likely to get, except for the King and Queen,” she said ruefully.)

  After dinner, the Prime Minister would hurry the General off to his study, where they talked war talk until two or three in the morning. When Kay met Eisenhower with the car the next morning, she saw that he looked tired and haggard. She didn’t wonder. The PM was a whirling dervish, always in motion, brandishing ideas like razor-edged swords.

  But there were a few relaxing evenings at the Dorchester, which the Boss spent playing bridge with Butch and a few others—often, General Al Gruenther, his deputy chief of staff, who was a world-class bridge player and had written a couple of books on bridge. As it happened, bridge was Kay’s favorite game. When they were children, she and her brother and sisters had played bridge on rainy days in the schoolroom at Inish Beg, where their games inevitably ended in a shouting match and tearful accusations of cheating.

  Eisenhower’s first invitation to play was tentative, as if he wasn’t sure she was up to playing with him and Butch. But she took the game seriously and played well, and after a few evenings, she became his regular partner—a great compliment, she thought. Eisenhower was an excellent player. He had an innate ability to conceal his misdirection and deceptions behind his genial glance and the seeming candor of that all-American grin. He appeared so entirely open and transparent and so naturally friendly that his opponents found it easy to trust him, to take him at face value. And then he pounced. Kay found herself studying him intently, watching his face, listening to his voice, warning herself that if she didn’t read his signals, she could be as seriously fooled as his opponents.

  It was a warning she would remember when it was all over, and think about for a long, long time.

  • • •

  A week or so later, another invitation surprised both of them—Ike even more than Kay, perhaps.

  It was a Friday afternoon in late August. He was alone with her in the car on the way back to the Dorchester from the War Office, where he had spent the day in a particularly contentious meeting with the British Chiefs of Staff. They had been working on plans for Operation Torch, which was designed to gain control of French North Africa. American forces would push east into Tunisia and then join up with Montgomery’s Eighth Army, which was chasing the Germans out of the deserts of Libya and Egypt. The fall of the Allied garrison at Tobruk in June had been deeply demoralizing, and Rommel was threatening to push on to the Suez Canal, the British lifeline to the oil-producing Arab countries and Britain’s overseas dominions.

  Ike sighed. Mediating transatlantic disagreements between Washington and London was a goddamned tough job, and the Brits and Americans were still an ocean or two apart on strategy—and fundamental philosophy. Churchill’s Chiefs of Staff believed that the Americans had a lot to learn, while the men in FDR’s War Department felt that the British had very little to teach them. If he couldn’t pick his way through the political and military minefield, it would be impossible to get Torch underway before the Mediterranean winter set in. He sometimes felt like a football coach trying to field a squad of players who didn’t speak the same language, refused to read signals, and hated each other’s guts. Meanwhile, the Japs had taken the Philippines and Burma and were threatening India. Their navy had been soundly whipped at Midway, but the U.S. fleet had suffered serious losses off Savo Island. Ike knew the Pacific well. It was going to be a long, hard slog.

  Glumly, he stared out the window as Kay maneuvered the heavy car expertly and at a fast clip in and out of a roundabout. He had told his old friend George Patton that the past six weeks had been the most trying of his life, and that was one hell of an understatement. When he was a kid, his mother had given him Pilgrim’s Progress to read. These days, he sometimes felt like that poor clown, Christian, slogging through the Slough of Despond with the White House and Number Ten Downing Street on his shoulders, and that new monstrosity, the Pentagon, piled on for good measure. FDR and Churchill both thought they were military geniuses, but both were swayed by political pressures at home. Operation Torch itself—strung out across three different landin
gs along the coast of North Africa—was a desperate undertaking. He put the odds of success at no better than fifty-fifty. If the weather turned against them or the French decided to resist, it would be more like forty-sixty. Or worse.

  He sighed again, thinking ahead to his evening meeting about air support with Air Chief Marshal Tedder, the commander in charge of the RAF in the Mediterranean. He raised his voice. “I have to be back at the War Office at eighteen thirty, Kay. You’re welcome to come up and have supper in the suite. Butch can rustle up something for us.”

  “Gilbey will be driving tonight, sir,” she said over her shoulder. “My sister Evie is working in Manchester this month and I’m spending the evening with Mum.” She added, “Sorry, sir. I hope you don’t mind. It’s the first night I’ve had off in a couple of weeks.”

  “No, of course not,” Ike said quickly, and felt an odd twinge of something like disappointment. He should be the one to apologize. The young woman—a civilian volunteer—hadn’t missed a single day since she joined the team. Her ability to navigate the labyrinthine British bureaucracy made life easier for all of them, and she did what she was asked without complaint. Just the day before, he’d heard Butch remark that the office needed more like her.

  Ike agreed. He had already put in a request to Colonel Oveta Hobby, the new WAC commander, for as many WACs, trained as typists and stenographers, as she could give him. Five or six, she’d promised, maybe more by the time they’d established their headquarters in Algiers, where they’d be moving in November, if all went according to plan.

  Kay was no WAC and her typing wasn’t the greatest, but she was making a difference in the office—and making a personal difference to him, too. She was well informed about British politics and history and usually had an answer to his questions about current political issues. What’s more, she was witty and funny, with a sense of humor that livened the long hours they spent in the car together, but not in the least featherheaded. He had to admit to wanting to have her around.

  And that was when that surprising invitation occurred. He wasn’t a man to act on a whim, but he found himself leaning forward, one arm across the back of Kay’s seat.

  “Speaking of your mother, I’ve been thinking that I’d like to meet her, Kay. Tomorrow’s Saturday. Butch will be gone for the evening and there’s nothing on the calendar. How would it be if I invited the two of you to the suite for dinner? Nothing special, just hotel room service, but we’ll have a bottle of wine.” He paused, now rather astonished by what he had just said and uncertain about whether he should have said it.

  Behind the wheel, Kay was as surprised as Eisenhower. She kept her eyes on the road unspooling ahead of them, giving herself a moment to think. The Boss wanted to invite her and her mother for dinner? When just last week he had turned down Lady Astor’s invitation to dine with the inimitable George Bernard Shaw? Surely it was an unusual invitation, especially now, when he was struggling to resolve a host of touchy issues between the Americans and the British over Torch. The mission was top secret, but she couldn’t help overhearing discussions of it among the officers who came in and out of headquarters and rode in the backseat of her car.

  She had to consider something else, too. She and Dick had agreed that they would keep Saturday nights free, on the off chance that they might be able to steal a few hours together. But she hadn’t heard from him all week, so it was probably safe to assume he wouldn’t be available tomorrow. And then, with a shiver of recognition and a sharp stab of guilt, she understood that, even if Dick was available, she would rather spend the evening with Eisenhower. The realization was . . . unsettling.

  And the Boss himself? What was in his mind? But he was settling back in the seat and when she met his eyes in the rear view mirror, she could see nothing in them but the usual friendliness. He had been under a lot of stress lately. Maybe what he needed was a quiet evening in the company of people who had no special agenda, who weren’t trying to push him to come up with a plan of action that would take the troops of two nations into endless bloody battles. It must be terribly difficult for him, so far from home, with so much riding on his decisions. From that point of view, she told herself, a quiet dinner and conversation were simply part of her job, with her mother along to keep the conversation moving. If Dick asked, which he wouldn’t, she could tell him in good conscience that she had to work.

  She took a deep breath. “I’m sure Mum will be pleased,” she said, and gave him a bright smile. “It’ll be fun. Thank you, General.”

  “Very good,” Ike said, and went back to staring out the window, thinking about what he’d just done. Or rather, calculating. As a kid, he had learned to play poker from a fifty-year-old mountain man who had drilled into him that the game was nothing but percentages and probable outcomes, and he had trained himself to think that way about all the decisions he made, military and otherwise. Dinner with Kay Summersby . . . What were the probable outcomes?

  But he found that he wasn’t able to answer this question in his usual logical and coherent way, and he almost spoke up to withdraw the invitation, or at least put it off. He had made it impulsively, out of a desire to—a desire to what? Perhaps he simply wanted to talk, person-to-person, with Kay’s mother, who had soldiered valiantly through the Blitz and understood what the ordinary citizens of London (not the BBC or the big brass in the War Office or even the Prime Minister) thought about how the war was going. As for Kay, he had always taken a personal interest in those who served under him, making sure they had what they needed: help with housing, personal time off to attend to family, that sort of thing. An informal dinner was a convenient way of getting better acquainted.

  Back in Abilene, of course, such an evening would earn a gasp of disapproval. But this was cosmopolitan London, where (according to Butch, that indefatigable gossip), Ambassador Gil Winant was having an affair with the Prime Minister’s married daughter, Sarah. And the Prime Minister’s daughter-in-law, Pamela—the wife of the Prime Minister’s son, Randolph—was sleeping with Averell Harriman, the American in charge of Lend-Lease. Not that Ike condoned that sort of thing, of course—he didn’t. But he was securely married to Mamie (in spite of that little flirtation with Marian, which had not gone nearly as far as his wife feared) and Kay was engaged to Major Arnold (who was not in his direct line of command). And her mother would be present. Surely there wasn’t anything terribly improper about the invitation.

  Was there?

  • • •

  On Saturday evening, Ike found that he was able to push his misgivings (whatever they were) to the back of his mind and enjoy himself immensely. The food was crappy—steak, underdone and cold—but the wine was fine and the company was excellent. Kay’s mother, Kul, struck him as a woman of the world, quite sophisticated but entirely natural. Ike could see where Kay got her independence and her sparkling sense of humor. Kul was a well-educated history buff who had many questions about the battles of the American Civil War, which Ike was glad to answer by lining up coins to represent military formations. Every now and then he would glance at Kay, who was wearing a bare-armed summer dress, white, with scallops of lace, the first time he had seen her out of uniform. He would smile, then, just for her, to show her how grateful he was for the happiest evening he’d had since he left home.

  “Thanks for making this such a pleasant occasion,” he said, as he saw them to the door at the close of the evening. He reached out to shake Kul’s hand, and then Kay’s. Her small fingers felt cool, and his tightened on hers involuntarily. The touch was jolting, electric, and he pulled back hastily, smiling to cover his confusion. “Let’s do it again, shall we?”

  “Certainly, sir,” Kay said. She raised her hand to salute, then seemed to remember, with a laugh, that she was in civvies. “Thank you, General. Goodnight.” She turned to wave and smile at him as she and her mother went down the hall.

  Ike closed the door and stood uncertainly for a moment, thinking, letting the faint scent of the women’s perfume settle o
n him. He had always been a highly disciplined man, holding honor, duty, and loyalty as his highest standards. Certainty was a habit of mind, even in uncertain circumstances. What had happened tonight left him uncertain, conscious that he might be standing at a fork in his personal road. And as he remembered Kay’s bare shoulders and the touch of her cool fingers, he suddenly understood which fork he wanted to take and had a tantalizing glimpse of where it might take him.

  But that was out of the question—entirely out of the question, impossible. With a shake of his head, he poured himself a stiff drink.

  • • •

  In the car—the Boss’s official car, which Kay, out of uniform, found a little uncomfortable—her mother pulled the door closed and settled into the front seat beside her.

  “Your Eisenhower is certainly a charming man,” she said. “Every inch the soldier and quite . . . masculine.” She was silent for a moment, then turned to Kay, frowning. “My dear, sweet Kathleen, are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

  “Doing? I don’t know what you mean, Mum,” Kay said, glancing over her shoulder, then pulling out into the darkness of the empty street. “What am I doing?”

  Her mother laughed her woman-of-the-world laugh. “If you don’t know, my dear, you should.” She sobered. “But then, your General may not know, either. Which makes it doubly dangerous. One of you, at least, should understand what’s happening. Before it does.”

  Kay’s hands tightened on the wheel. She appreciated her mother’s concern, but really, the idea was ridiculous.

  “Don’t be a goose, Mum,” she said sharply. “I’m just one of the team—his ‘family,’ Butch calls us—and I’m only doing my job. The poor man is away from home, he’s a target in everybody’s shooting gallery, and he needs cheering up. Anyway, he’s married to his Mamie, and I’m going to marry Dick. You see?” She raised her voice, lightening it. “There’s nothing ‘dangerous’ about it.”