Now, she took Ike’s letter into the bedroom and closed it away in her handkerchief drawer. She had the disquieting sense that, in scolding him about Colonel Arnold, she had revealed herself as a lesser person, too concerned with the way things looked to others. She had disappointed her husband, had failed to live up to his high expectations. He had more courage than she did, a stronger, more enduring sense of what it took to do the right thing. Beside his strength, his moral conviction, she felt small and inconsequential. And ashamed.
Blinking back the tears, she went to the bedroom window and pressed her head against the glass, staring at the cars moving briskly along Woodley Road in the bright afternoon. Not many, because gasoline rationing was in full force now, but there was a truck loaded with used tires and bearing a sign: “Slap the Japs with Rubber Scraps.” A woman with a baby carriage waited to cross the street. On the other side, a sailor in naval whites strolled along the sidewalk, his arm around a pretty girl. People going about their ordinary lives on an ordinary day in wartime Washington, far from the battlefields of North Africa and the South Pacific.
She leaned her forehead against the cool glass, and a new thought—unwelcome, prompted by the sight of the sailor and his girl—pushed into her mind. Like so many other women caught in the cataclysm of this fearful war, Kay Summersby had lost the man she loved, the man she had been planning to marry. How would her life be changed?
And then, with a sense of relief so swift and sharp that she felt ashamed, it occurred to her that Mrs. Summersby would likely go back to England. With her fiancé dead, there would be nothing to keep her in North Africa. She would want to go home. And if she didn’t, surely Ike would see the wisdom of sending her home instead of letting her hang about headquarters, giving idle tongues something more to wag about.
Yes. She was sorry to hear about Colonel Arnold, but his death settled the matter. And if Ike himself didn’t see it, she would suggest it. Not right away, perhaps, but soon. Soon.
CHAPTER TWELVE:
Secrets
North Africa
September 1943
Afterward, Kay would wonder how she had managed to live through that awful summer of loss and pain. But in the end, it was work that had been her refuge, her answer to Dick’s death. And with the invasion of Sicily underway, work had been constant.
The people at home were impatient for the Allies to crush the Nazis, and Operation Husky—the invasion of Sicily—might have seemed to them like a sideshow. But Husky was strategically important, the largest amphibious operation in history and a dress rehearsal for the invasion of Europe, which the planners were saying would happen in eight or nine months. Everybody at headquarters was keyed up and anxious to see how the troops would perform against the Germans and Italians. Montgomery and his British Eighth Army had gotten unexpectedly bogged down in the rugged hills south of Mount Etna, but Patton pushed the U.S. Seventh with his usual cocky audacity, forcing the Germans off the island and rolling into Messina in advance of the British.
The Sicilian invasion meant a summer on the move for Kay and the rest of the staff, flying back and forth from Algiers to Ike’s advance command post at Amilcar, on the Bay of Tunis near Carthage. Tex, charged with finding a place for the General and his staff to stay, had appropriated the imposing villa previously occupied by Rommel at El Marsa. La Maison Blanche, the White House, hardly looked like a field camp with its high-ceilinged rooms, intricate mosaic floors, and open terrace with a wide view of the sea. Ike objected that it was much too large and grand. But even he had to admit that its palatial dining room and many bedrooms came in handy when they hosted important guests, like the Prime Minister and, later that year, President Roosevelt.
The alternate headquarters, code-named Fairfield Rear, was an hour’s drive. Kay regularly drove Ike between Amilcar and Fairfield, a harrowing trip over narrow roads congested with supply vehicles ferrying fuel and bombs to the Tunisian airfields. If she didn’t want to drive the General into a ditch, she had to pay careful attention to the road. The work helped to keep her mind off what she had lost and what lay ahead.
For the first few days after she learned of Dick’s death, Kay had groped through a despairing fog, trying to come to terms with what had happened. She had always been strong, able to deal with setbacks and obstacles, and she had become stronger and more self-reliant during those awful days of the Blitz. But Dick, who had once been her wide, wonderful future, was now her past. He was gone, and she faced the future alone: no lover, no husband, no children, no Florida, no America. Instead, she would go back to whatever was left of civilian life in chilly, bleak London and try to make a place for herself there.
But not right away. On her first day back in the office, Eisenhower had offered to release her from her service as a civilian with the American army. “I know how hard this is for you.” He was shuffling papers on his desk and didn’t look up. “I’m sure there’s war work to be done in London, Kay, and I know your mother will be happy to have you home. I’ll be glad to speak to the Prime Minister. He’ll find you a place.”
“That’s very kind of you, sir,” she said, “but I’d like to stay—if you want me.”
He raised his head, looking at her over the tops of his reading glasses. He was silent for a long moment, his eyes searching her face as if he was trying to gauge the depth of her intention. “You’re sure? You’re a civilian, for chrissake. Nobody’s going to criticize you for going home.”
“Yes, sir,” she said firmly. “I’m sure.”
She had already thought it through. Butch and Beetle and Tex and Mickey were like brothers to her, while the WACs in the office—Sue, Margaret, Ruth, Louise, and Nana—were not just roommates, but sisters. All of them, the whole team, shared the certainty that what they were doing was vitally important, not just to them or their countries but to the world. They had a purpose and a mission. This work, this war, these people, were the center of her life.
And there was Ike. She couldn’t leave him—although what that meant, exactly, she wasn’t quite prepared to say, even to herself.
“Well, then.” Eisenhower took off his glasses. “If you’re staying, I’ve got a new job for you. The WACs manage the military correspondence, but the mail from the public has gotten beyond anything I can handle. I want you to keep on driving, as usual. But when we’re here in the office, I’d like you to serve as my personal assistant, answering those letters and dealing with the gifts. How about it?”
Kay didn’t have to think. “I’d love to,” she said eagerly. “When do I start?”
She had already helped him with his personal correspondence, even typing a letter to his wife after he’d sketched out what he wanted to say. “This is perfect,” he’d said when he read it. “You’ve made me sound like I’m enjoying myself, for a change.” He’d added a few quick lines with a pen, and Kay had sent the letter off to Mrs. Eisenhower. It had made her angry, though.
“She gave me what-for,” Ike said ruefully. “She wants me to write in longhand, so we can’t do that again.”
But there were plenty of other letters to be written, and as the Sicilian campaign continued through July and into August, Kay dug into her new assignment, glad to stay busy and grateful for the work. The Boss got a basketful of mail every day: letters from anxious wives who hadn’t heard from their soldier husbands; from a mother asking the General to make sure that her son was wearing his long underwear; from someone complaining that a husband or boyfriend was overdue for a promotion; from people in England or the United States wanting a signed photograph of the General. There were also gifts—dozens of hand-knitted scarves, mittens, and socks; cartons of cigarettes; magazines and books and boxes of candy, mostly homemade fudge, which Kay sent out to the troops. Letters that required investigation or some official action, Kay handed over to Tex. She answered everything else, some with a short note, others with a more detailed response, all of them over the General’s signature.
For the first few weeks, Kay took
the letters and photos to Ike to be signed, but that soon became impossible. He told her sign the letters that went out over his name. It wasn’t long before she was able to reproduce his signature so skillfully that nobody in the office could tell it from the real thing. She loved seeing his name flow out of her pen and earning an approving nod when he saw the stack of envelopes ready for the mail pouch.
And if her thoughts went back to the afternoon on the train to Scotland, or their goodbye at Telegraph Cottage or the Christmas kiss from which they had both pulled back . . . well, what was wrong with that? Richard Arnold had been her lover, the man she planned to marry. She had loved him and been loyal in all the ways that mattered. But he was gone and she was alone. There could be no harm in holding to herself those moments with Ike—those few moments, still as intensely vivid as lightning in a black sky and as fleeting and unsustainable. She thought of Dick and the little time they had had to love one another. In war, everything was fleeting and unsustainable. Nothing was permanent. You could only seize what was offered and hold on to it until it was gone.
In war, nothing lasted, nothing.
Not even love.
• • •
The door opened and Butch put his head through. “Busy, Ike?”
Eisenhower looked up from Omar Bradley’s report about the worn-out artillery, especially the 155 mm Long Toms, he’d had to work with during Husky. Some of the barrels were so badly worn, Brad wrote, that the shells were exploding right out of the gun. The barrels had to be relined or the guns replaced before they could be used in the upcoming Italian campaign. The guns would have to be dealt with, he knew, but it wouldn’t be Bradley’s job. Marshall wanted him for the Allied invasion of Europe, planned for the following spring.
Ike put the report down. “What’s on your mind, Butch?”
“Got a swatch of that material you wanted.” Butch put a foot-square piece of olive-drab wool on Eisenhower’s desk. “Tropical-weight worsted. Farouk—he’s the tailor—guarantees the wear. He can take your measurements tomorrow at the villa and have everything ready for fitting when you get back from Sicily.” He grinned. “Patton recommended him, so we know he’s good.”
Eisenhower nodded wryly. Georgie was a fanatic about his uniforms, always the best, money no object. But the fabric was exceptionally nice: soft, supple, densely woven, better than anything that came from America these days. It should do quite well.
He leaned back in his chair. “I’ll want two full uniforms.” He lit a Camel, then added casually, “Any chance you can get enough of this same fabric to make up a couple more?”
“Probably.” Butch gave him a sly grin. “But if I’m the one getting new uniforms, it’ll have to be navy blue.”
Ike grunted. “Just check it out, will you?”
Butch eyed him curiously, and Ike knew that he guessed. But that was no surprise. Butch was his closest friend and confidante. He understood.
“Yessir.” Butch gave him one of his snappy navy salutes. “Give me twenty minutes and I’ll get back to you on that.”
Ike went back to Bradley’s report, thinking that it wasn’t just the artillery that had to be replaced. There was Alexander’s C-47, which the maintenance crew called “Patches” because that’s what it was—nothing but patches. The plane was pretty much held together with baling wire and had to be grounded. Hell, everything was falling apart. But that was war. You couldn’t expect things to last forever. People fell apart, too. Look at Patton, losing control and slapping those shell-shocked soldiers, something that wouldn’t have happened if he hadn’t been exhausted. Battle fatigue—that’s what the people back home didn’t understand and couldn’t appreciate. During a military campaign everybody, even the staff behind the lines, was pushed to the breaking point and beyond.
Butch reported back. Ike thought about it for a few minutes, his fingers tented under his chin, and then buzzed for Kay. She came in with her notebook and pen and stood in front of his desk. Her rich auburn hair was pulled back smoothly behind her ears, emphasizing her high cheekbones. Her face looked thin, he thought, and shadowed. She had lost weight, poor kid, in the nearly three months since Dick Arnold had been killed. He knew she was working long hours. He guessed she wasn’t eating right.
He looked at her critically. “I’ve been noticing that uniform of yours, Irish. Seen better days, hasn’t it?” Her uniform was a replacement for the one that had been ruined by seawater when she was torpedoed. The jacket elbows were worn nearly through and the skirt had a glossy shine on the seat from sliding in and out of the car.
“I’m afraid so, sir.” She smoothed her skirt ruefully. “The quartermaster says it’s hard to get anything decent right now. The material—well, you’ve heard what they say when you ask for something.” She smiled, and a dimple came and went in her cheek. “‘Don’t you know there’s a war on?’”
“I hear that every so often,” he said with a chuckle. “So how about this?” Still seated, he opened a drawer, took out the fabric swatch Butch had brought, and pushed it across the desk. “I’m having a couple of uniforms made for myself. Butch has rounded up a tailor, the best in North Africa, according to Georgie Patton. Do you like this fabric?”
She turned the material over in her fingers. “Do I like this fabric? Of course I like it. It’s absolutely—”
“Smashing,” he said with a grin.
“Yes.” The dimple came and went again. “Smashing.”
“Very well, then. I’ll tell Farouk—he’s the tailor—to make a couple of uniforms for you while he’s at it. Jackets, skirts, slacks. He can measure you tomorrow.”
Her eyes widened. “But, sir, I can’t afford to . . . I mean, I don’t have the money to—” She took a deep breath. “I’m sure your material costs heaps more than I make in a year. And a tailor—” She shook her head. “I know I must look rather seedy. I don’t think there’s a jacket to be had in all Algiers, but I’ll go back to the quartermaster and see if he can find a decent skirt for me, at least.”
“Hang on.” He raised his hand. “You don’t have to pay for it.”
Eisenhower knew exactly how much she was making, which was less than half of what the lowest-paid American clerk earned—and, as a civilian, she didn’t qualify for a uniform allowance. She needed to look presentable when she was out with him, especially when the brass came to town—the Prime Minister, for instance, or Lord Mountbatten or the American Secretary of State or the Ambassador to Moscow—as well as Hollywood luminaries. She needed a decent uniform and it pleased him to make it happen. Easy as that.
“Don’t . . . have to pay for it, sir?”
“It’s a gift, Irish. From me to you. Because you make my life easier and more pleasant and I’m grateful.”
“A gift!” Her face lit up. “Oh, sir, what a lovely—”
And then the light faded.
“But I don’t think . . . that is, I . . .” She pulled in her breath. “I’m afraid I can’t accept.”
“Can’t accept?” He scowled. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
She dropped the square of fabric on his desk. “I’m sorry, General. Truly sorry. It’s a lovely, lovely offer, and I appreciate it more than I can tell you. But I . . . I just can’t.”
“What do you mean, you can’t?” He pulled on his ear, not understanding. “I’m getting Long Toms for Bradley to replace his worn-out guns, and another C-47 for Alexander, because the wings are about to fall off his. That’s what I’m here for, to see that people get what they need so they can do their jobs.” Now fully irritated, he smacked the flat of his hand, hard, on the desk. “You want the damned uniforms, don’t you? You need them—right?”
“Yes, of course, I want them. And yes, I need them.” She pulled herself up straight, shoulders back. “But some people are bound to see them and think—”
“Some people?” He pushed back his chair and stood up, feeling the frustration mounting. All he wanted to do was give this woman something she obviously
needed—this little thing, not half as important as that dog he’d given her—and she was making a federal case out of it. “I don’t get it. Why in the hell would you turn down a new uniform? And what’s this about ‘some people’? Who? What the hell business is it of theirs?”
Coloring, she ducked her head. “Maybe it’s different in America, but in Ireland—and in England, too—a woman doesn’t accept personal clothing from a man unless they’re . . . well, you know. Engaged. Or something. And damn it, sir, you’re my commanding officer.” She took a breath. “People already seem to think I’m . . .” Her voice trailed away.
And then he understood. “Ah, hell,” he said, remembering Patton’s screwdriver joke, a joke he would have laughed at if it had involved anybody else but Kay.
She was looked straight at him, her blue eyes shiny-wet, and then half-turned her head, blinking hard. “Sorry,” she muttered. “Didn’t mean to tear up like that. I love the thought, truly I do, General. You’ve been so kind to me. First Telek, and letting me come to North Africa, and then . . . well, it’s all very . . . generous of you.” She swiped the back of her hand across her eyes. “But no.”
He stared at her, gut-wrenched by the sight of her tears and furious at himself for being the cause of them. Yes, of course she was right, and he was stupid for not thinking of it. Some people would see her new uniform and his and jump to the wrong conclusion. But he was suddenly angry at the idea that he should be denied the pleasure of giving her this inconsequential gift—something she needed and deserved and was within his power to give—because some people might think they were sleeping together.
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