At Ike’s direction, Butch had managed to get his hands on three Arabian horses, gleaming chestnuts with silken, flowing manes and tails, and had them stabled at the farm. Ike had seen a lot of horses in his long army career, but he had to admit that these were quite remarkable. They were massive stallions, strong and high-spirited, and required a rider who had the strength and spirit to control them. The horses that he and Kay had ridden at Richmond had been docile enough for even Mamie to ride, and when he first saw the Arabians, he’d hesitated to let Kay get aboard. But she quickly demonstrated both her strength and her mastery, and the two of them rode together whenever he could get away from the damned desk, sometimes as often as three or four times a week.
The area around the farm was isolated and open, making it ideal riding country. The fields were bright with the blooms of red poppies, orange nasturtiums, and pink wild roses. The air was fresh and clear, and the clifftop gave a marvelous view of the blue Mediterranean, gilded by the late-afternoon sun. Unlike Algiers, where trouble was around every corner, the farm was safe. Beetle had posted sentries at the only entry and assigned a security guard armed with a Thompson submachine gun to ride thirty or forty yards behind them. Ike often thought that if he wanted to yank Kay off her horse and ride off into the sunset with her, like the heroes in his Wild West magazines, the security guard would be watching every move. If he had harbored any ulterior motive—a stolen kiss, an embrace, something more—the realization that they were under constant surveillance would have been enough to cool his ardor.
But that was not going to happen. He was simply enjoying the girl’s lively company, which lifted his spirits and brightened his day. On balance, he reflected, it was probably good that they were watched. Let the rumormongers understand that he and his driver were under the eyes of his staff and his guards every minute of every day. Let Patton and his friends repeat whatever ridiculous jokes they liked. He lived in a goddamned goldfish bowl. They could put that in their pipes and smoke it.
The tide had turned after Kasserine, and finally, on May 6, the Allies got what they came for. The British retook Tunis, and American troops reached Bizerte. On May 13, the Axis forces surrendered. The Germans continued their nighttime bombing of Algiers—Mickey had picked up a dozen pieces of shrapnel in the courtyard at the villa, and nearby explosions had cracked the plaster. But it was a minor harassment. The campaign was finally over. North Africa was in the hands of the Allies.
On May 20, the end was marked by a victory parade at Tunis—not something Eisenhower enjoyed, but it was obligatory. Victories had to be celebrated so that the victors could remind themselves—and the vanquished—of their power. As parades go, this one went well enough, he supposed. He and the French and British commanding generals took eyes-right salutes from the twenty-eight thousand troops that marched past the reviewing stand in the broiling desert sun.
The Americans were tough and rugged in dirty, sweat-stained battle dress with steel helmets and weapons at the ready. “Vive l’Amérique!” the spectators cried as Mitchell bombers and Spitfires roared overhead, rocking their wings in salute. The British—Brits and Scots and Kiwis and Aussies and Sikhs—wore khaki shorts and knee socks, with berets or forage caps, their shirts unbuttoned at the throat and the sleeves rolled to the elbow, showing tanned, muscular arms. “They made a marvelous show,” Beetle had to acknowledge later. “Better than our guys.”
But the French—the Foreign Legion, the Chasseurs d’Afrique, the Tirailleurs, and the Zouaves—stole the show, which was ironic, Eisenhower thought, since they hadn’t been particularly effective in the campaign. Sometimes they couldn’t even decide whose side they were on. Their exhibition reminded him of a Shriners parade back home: scarlet pantaloons and narrow-waisted blue tunics with crimson and gold epaulets; les blancs képis, bright turbans, and black woolen berets; polished knee boots, field boots, sandals, even bare feet. Most extraordinary of all were the bearded Goums in their camel-hair robes with bulging leather pouches, which the American GIs whispered were full of enemy ears.
After the parade, Muhammad al-Amin, the Bey of Tunis, summoned Eisenhower to the palace. The Bey was wearing a dress uniform with gold cuffs and gold epaulets as big as dinner plates and was seated on a gold throne flanked by white-robed attendants. He presented Eisenhower with the highest Tunisian order, the Nichan Iftikhar, the “Order of Glory.”
As Ike stood to attention, he couldn’t help reflecting that it had been almost exactly a year—just a year!—since he had arrived in London, a two-star nobody to whom the British generals gave the cold shoulder. And here he was, receiving a big silver medal from a foreign potentate who acted like he was some sort of savior. He wasn’t letting it go to his head, though. When he got back to Abilene, he and his brothers and their friends would have a big laugh about it. Still, as victory celebrations go, this had been a pretty good one—except for one thing. A small thing, really, and he had tried to dismiss it. But it rankled, and he was still thinking about it as he boarded the plane to fly back to Algiers.
His personal staff had traveled with him to Tunis for the parade, and he’d made sure that they had seats in the bleachers next to the reviewing stand. At one point, he had turned to look for them and had spotted them, sitting all together on the top row. Tex, Beetle, Butch, Mickey, Kay—and seated beside her, a tall, good-looking, dark-haired officer.
Arnold, Eisenhower thought, startled. Colonel Richard Arnold. The man Kay was going to marry in just a month. He had a possessive arm around her shoulders and she was looking up into his face and laughing. And then he bent to kiss her.
Eisenhower felt his gut tighten. “A man to be envied,” Georgie had said. He was right.
• • •
For Kay, seeing Dick in Tunis was an unexpected delight. After the parade, they had found a quiet corner in a little café, where they sat for an hour, talking over glasses of strong Turkish coffee and a plate of date biscuits. There was news: Dick would very soon have his own command, the Twentieth Engineers. If he could get a day or two of leave, he would stop in Algiers and they could have a little time together.
“It won’t be much,” he said ruefully, reaching for her hand. “But better than nothing. And maybe we’ll be able to talk about wedding plans.”
Wedding plans, she thought with a little thrill of pleasure. “Now aren’t you glad I’m here in Algeria?” she asked lightly.
“Oh, you bet,” he said. He picked up her hand and kissed her fingers. “Even if it means that you’re sleeping with Eisenhower.”
She stared at him, horrified. She had written to him about the VIP tent at Tebessa, and she’d hoped he would understand. “Oh, Dick,” she whispered, “surely you don’t think—”
“Right. I don’t think,” he said firmly. “I’m sorry, Kay—I shouldn’t tease. That was stupid of Eisenhower, though. That kind of thing just feeds the gossip.” He glanced at his watch. “Dammit, I have to catch a plane.”
“Ships passing in the night,” she said with a regretful laugh. “But it won’t always be this way.”
“No,” he said, “it won’t. And June 22 is just around the corner. Kathleen Arnold. I like that.” A smile crinkled his eyes. “Mrs. Richard Arnold. I like that even better.”
At the airfield, they kissed goodbye and boarded different planes. Dick was on his way to Oran and Kay was flying back to Algiers, where the AFHQ would be hosting a round of visits by Prime Minister Churchill, General Marshall, and (later) General de Gaulle. Tunisia had been won, but the invasion of Sicily lay ahead and planning was already underway for the Italian campaign that would begin in September.
And by that time, she thought, she and Dick would be married and her new life would begin.
• • •
The special guests arrived, one after another, over a period of several weeks, and Kay drove Eisenhower to the airfield to meet each of them. Marshall was his usual frosty self and de Gaulle was the unbending aristocrat, both of them militarily proper. But whe
n Churchill arrived, he bounded across the airfield to greet her, waving his cigar.
“Not a bit surprised to find you here, holding up our banner among the Yanks.” His pudgy face wore a cherubic smile. “How do you like driving on the wrong side of the road?” He made sure that she was invited to the dinners at Ike’s villa, where she enjoyed bantering with the PM, who wore his siren suit and embroidered slippers just as he did at Chequers.
But for Kay, the most important visitor was a man who traveled in great secrecy, under the pseudonym of General Lyon: King George the Sixth. After several days of frenetic preparation, the King arrived at Maison Blanche airfield in his Lancaster. The plane circled the field twice, then touched down smartly and taxied behind a jeep with a yellow flag to the end of the field, where it came to a stop in front of the assembled brass and a bevy of cameramen from the Army Pictorial Service. A few moments later, the King, slim and stiffly erect in dress naval whites, came slowly down the stairs. After a round of salutes and handshakes, the King and the General got into the Cadillac, with Kay behind the wheel and Butch in the front seat beside her.
I am actually driving the King! Kay thought with breathless excitement. But because of the extra-tight security—nobody was supposed to know that royalty was in town—she had only the usual two-motorcycle escort to clear traffic. She drove up the hill to the villa of General Gale, where the King would be staying, and parked in the curving driveway in front of the impressive house.
Once out of the car, Eisenhower paused to introduce Captain Butcher, his naval aide. Butch stiffened and saluted smartly. The King gave him a thin, aristocratic smile and held out his hand. Then, to Kay’s enormous surprise, Eisenhower turned to her.
“Your Majesty, this is Kay Summersby. She is a British subject, on duty at my headquarters as my personal driver. I am grateful for her service.”
Kay hadn’t expected to be introduced to the King, and she fumbled nervously for the right response. She was wearing an American uniform, so she couldn’t curtsy as a subject; she was a civilian, so she couldn’t salute. After a moment’s blurred hesitation, she bobbed a half curtsy and hesitantly put out her hand, saying, “How do you do, sir?”
The King ignored her hand, nodded a curt dismissal, and turned away. Kay was chilled by his rebuke. She had been so excited about being with the man whose modest, unflinching courage had won British hearts—and hers—during the awful days of the Blitz. She couldn’t help feeling hurt that he hadn’t found even a small smile for her. She stayed out of his way at the dinner the General gave in his villa, and for his part, he pointedly ignored her. Of course, while it might be argued that he should at least have been polite, she felt she was asking too much to think that he might have paid her any attention at all. She was only an ordinary British citizen of no special standing, and he was the King. She should count herself lucky just to be seated at the same table with him.
And she did. After dinner that night, she went back to her billet and wrote a letter to her mum. “Guess what, Mum!” she wrote. “I had dinner with the King tonight!!!”
Then she sat back and looked at what she had written. The King’s visit was top secret and the censor would black it out. She wadded it up and threw it away.
In war, everything was secret. Even the good news couldn’t be shared.
• • •
Dick had been disappointed that his command hadn’t come through while the fighting was going on in Tunisia, but Kay had been secretly glad he was back in Oran, and safe. And now that the fighting was over, she was delighted, too—and even more, when he was able to stop off in Algiers on his way to his new post in the Tunisian desert.
Generously, Eisenhower gave Kay the day off and sent her and Dick off to the farm where they could play tennis and swim. Butch loaned Dick a pair of swim trunks and Mickey packed a picnic lunch for them. When Kay opened the basket at the hidden beach, she found a bottle of wine and an unexpected note from the Boss: “Hope you and Dick enjoy your time together.” It was signed “DE.”
Dick stretched face-down on the blue-striped cotton blanket she had brought. “Gotta say that your general is an all-right guy.” He turned his head to face her, opening one eye. “And for the record, I have never believed a single word of all those crappy rumors.”
Overhead, a pair of storm petrels sliced through the crystalline sky. Kay leaned over to brush the sand out of his dark hair. “Oh, those rumors. I wish—”
“Just forget them.” Dick turned over on his back and pulled her down against him. “The thing is, I know you, Kay. Eisenhower is a great guy. He’s a powerhouse, and maybe he’s made a move or two. I mean, it’s pretty obvious that he likes you, and I sure couldn’t blame him if he made a try. But I know you’d never go for somebody like him.” He ran a playful finger down her nose. “Number one, he’s practically bald. Number two, he’s old enough to be your father. A guy that age . . . he’s probably no good at all in the sack.”
Kay thought of New Year’s Eve and Ike’s arms around her. She pushed herself up and gave Dick a playful slap. “And number three, why would I want anybody else when I have you?”
“Damn right. You got the best, right here.” Dick flung his arms out, squeezing his eyes shut against the bright sun. “You know, I’ve decided something, Kay. When this war is over, I’m getting out. I’m leaving the army.”
Surprised, Kay sat up straight, pulling up the top of the one-piece bathing suit she’d borrowed from Ethel. “Leaving the army?” She was suddenly struck by the thought that what she knew of Dick was entirely framed by his identity as an army officer. She had never seen him wearing anything but his uniform—and now Butch’s bathing trunks. What other life had he led, outside of the army? What other interests? What other hopes and dreams? Who was he?
Wonderingly, she asked, “What will you do instead?”
“Dunno, but I’ll figure it out. My mother has a place in Florida. Maybe we’ll go there. Sunshine and blue skies and palm trees along every street.” He opened his eyes and smiled dreamily at her. “Florida, that’s it. You’ll love it, Kay. We’ll have a house with a big green yard—lots of grass to mow—and kids. Two kids, a boy for me, a girl for you.” He put up a hand and touched her cheek. “Maybe even three, huh?”
“Florida,” she mused, clasping her arms around her knees. “Florida.” It sounded exotic, wonderful. It reminded her of how much she wanted to go to America, where it seemed to her that the future was just around the corner. “Florida and a house and a yard and . . . and children.” She had wanted children, but Gordon didn’t. It was one of the wedges that had driven them apart. “It sounds like heaven, Dick.”
Dick sat up too, then pushed her down on her back, flinging his bare, sandy leg over hers. “What’s heaven for me is you, Kay. Being with you, having you.” She felt herself arching against him. “Just you, only you, always. You know that, don’t you?” His hands were rough on her bare skin and the beach was a gritty bed, but she didn’t care.
They swam and ate and then went up to the farmhouse and slept through the heat of the afternoon in one of the little bedrooms. When they woke up, they made plans for their wedding, only a few weeks away. If Dick couldn’t get to Algiers, she would go wherever he was, and the company chaplain would marry them in a simple ceremony. That night, the General invited Butch and Molly and Beetle and Ethel and Mickey and Pearlie to a dinner party in their honor, and opened a bottle of French champagne to toast their future. The next morning, Dick left for Sedjenane to take up his new command and Kay—sunburned, content—returned Ethel’s swimsuit and Butch’s trunks and went back to work.
• • •
It wasn’t just Kay and Dick who were planning a wedding. At the General’s Villa dar el Ouad, things had taken a romantic turn. Butch had made a two-week visit to the States in March, and when he came back, he brought with him another black Scottie, a bride for Telek. Her name was Caacie (short, Butch said, for Canine Auxiliary Air Corps), and pronounced “Khaki.”
The puppies brightened life at the General’s villa, which was becoming more easygoing now that the Tunisian campaign had come to an end. The planning for Husky (the code name for the invasion of Sicily, the next part of the Mediterranean campaign) was underway, but there was time for riding in the afternoons and bridge in the evening. To the staff’s relief—and especially Kay’s—the General was more relaxed and cheerful than he had been since Operation Torch was launched. Not even the scheduled return of General de Gaulle—a difficult, autocratic man who bitterly resented the Allies’ occupation of French territory—could darken his mood.
One June day, though, Kay thought that there must have been a military setback that hadn’t yet been announced. She knew Eisenhower well enough to read his moods, and as the day wore on, she saw that he was becoming more withdrawn and troubled. The weather had turned threatening, too. The afternoon had been hot and sultry, and now a thunderstorm was gathering. As she drove him back to the villa at the end of the workday, the sky over the sea was glazed with a deep purple and a rumble of thunder echoed against the green hills. He was silent throughout the ride, but as she pulled to a stop in front of the villa, he said, “Come in and have a drink with me, Kay.”
He made their usual Scotch and water. Then, glass in one hand, he put the other hand on her shoulder.
“Kay,” he said gruffly, “There’s no easy way to tell you this, so I’m going to say it straight out. I’m sorry. Dick is dead.”
The General's Women Page 18
