It wasn’t fair. It was just not fair!
• • •
In November, Mamie heard a new rumor that was beginning to ripple through official Washington, even reaching her Wardman Park cave. The Allies were planning the long-anticipated cross-Channel invasion of Europe, the “second front” that was supposed to take the pressure off the Red Army. The central question: who would be named Supreme Commander? General Marshall was the most senior officer in the American army. If he got the nod, Ike would be brought back to Washington to take Marshall’s place as Army Chief of Staff. And Mrs. Summersby, Mamie thought with satisfaction, would be left behind. There was no place for a British civilian in the Pentagon.
Mamie knew very well that her husband would prefer the top field command to the top staff job, and she knew that she ought to be rooting for him. But she couldn’t help praying that Marshall would be named and Ike sent home. He would be once again with her. He would hold the highest position in the Stateside army and they would move back to Fort Meyer, into the Marshalls’ big house on Generals’ Row.
That hope expanded like a gaudy helium balloon, filling all her thoughts. In her imagination, she began to unpack her china and crystal and silver, for there would be entertaining and parties and gala times. She would wear her frilly dresses, and Mickey and two or three others would manage the cooking and housework and drive her where she wanted to go.
But when she asked Ike about it in a letter, he replied that he had no idea what might happen or when. “We’ll find out soon enough,” he wrote, with an infuriating calmness. “Until then, I can only do whatever job they give me to do, wherever it is, as well as I can do it. I hope you will do the same.” Mamie felt she had been rebuked, but that didn’t dampen her eagerness.
And then her friends began reporting that General Marshall had secretly been named to the job. He was said to have sent his executive desk to Allied Headquarters in London, while his wife was packing up the house on Generals’ Row and moving the furniture to their country house in Virginia.
“Really, Mamie, it’s a sure bet,” Cynthia told her. “Katherine Marshall told General Richard’s wife that she’ll be glad to turn over entertainment duties to you. She said that since you have sixty crates of china, you deserve to use it.”
“I don’t know about that,” Mamie said uncomfortably. It was true, of course, but it didn’t quite sound like a compliment.
“Well, I do,” Cynthia said. “The Marshalls haven’t entertained since the war started. I’m sure you’ll change that, Mamie dear. I can’t wait for your first party!”
Mamie couldn’t either. In fact, she had already planned the guest list for Ike’s welcome-home celebration, and the menu was almost complete in her mind. She tried once again to get Ike to give her some clue to when he was coming back to Washington. But he didn’t, or couldn’t, or wouldn’t. So she was completely in the dark.
Until the day before Christmas.
• • •
John—now a cadet sergeant in his third year—was down from West Point for the holiday. He was standing on a chair, attaching the traditional golden angel to the top of their traditional Christmas tree, when Mr. Bracegirdle, the Wardman Park manager, knocked at the door.
“There’s a big crowd of reporters in the lobby, Mrs. Eisenhower,” Mr. Bracegirdle said with great excitement. “They’re asking to see you.”
Mamie frowned. “It’s Christmas Eve, for pity’s sake! Whatever can they want?”
Mr. Bracegirdle’s bow tie bobbed over his Adam’s apple. “They’re saying that the President has named General Eisenhower Supreme Commander of Allied Expeditionary Forces, that’s what! They want to know what you think of it.”
“Supreme Commander?” Mamie whispered. But General Marshall already had that job. Ike was supposed to come home—to her.
“Supreme Commander?” John jumped off the chair and grabbed Mamie’s hands, swinging her around. “Wow! Isn’t that swell, Mother! Just swell! Dad must be so pleased.”
“Stop, John,” Mamie said crossly. “You’re pulling me.” So Ike would be managing the European invasion from London. And he would need a driver.
“Supreme Commander.” Mr. Bracegirdle beamed. “What do you think of that, Mrs. Eisenhower?”
There was a long silence.
Finally Mamie spoke. “I . . . I think it’s wonderful,” she said, wondering how many times she would have to tell that lie. She straightened her shoulders. “But you can send the reporters away. It’s Christmas. I don’t want to talk to them today. Or tomorrow, either.” She picked up a package of silver tinsel. “Here, John. Put this on the tree.”
“I’m sorry.” Mr. Bracegirdle looked downcast. “They’ll be so disappointed.”
“That’s just too darn bad,” Mamie snapped. “Now you go tell them.”
But seven hours later, a young woman from one of the wire services was still perched on a chair beside the elevator. As each hotel resident approached, she said brightly, “If you happen to pass Mrs. Eisenhower’s apartment, please let her know the Associated Press is still waiting.”
Tired of answering her doorbell to yet another relay of the reporter’s persistent message, Mamie had to relent. There were the usual questions, of course, ending with “You must be very proud of the General.”
“Oh, yes,” Mamie said, trying to look pleased. “From the first, he has been in there to finish the job, and he always does his duty. But I didn’t expect this,” she added, lapsing into candor. “I wasn’t in on the secret.”
Eyes widening, the reporter looked up from her notebook. “You mean, it was a surprise to you?”
“Of course.” Mamie forced herself to laugh. “When it comes to my husband, I’m always in the dark.”
• • •
Which was not quite true. A few days after Christmas, General Marshall’s secretary called to alert Mamie to expect a visitor. Ike would be arriving secretly, to confer with President Roosevelt and the Joint Chiefs and spend a few days with his family. Mamie could hardly wait see him, of course—it had been eighteen months since her husband had kissed her goodbye and left for London and a whole new life on the other side of the earth.
But if she had dreamed of a romantic homecoming, she was disappointed from their first and very brief embrace, which was interrupted by the frisky black Scottie puppy her husband had brought. Junior, one of Telek’s puppies, was all done up with a Scotch-plaid collar and leash and intended as her late Christmas gift. But the puppy piddled on Mamie’s prized Oriental rug before Ike even got his coat off. As she ran for a towel, he pooped on her pale green velvet sofa, and then threw up on her pink-and-green chintz bedroom chair.
Mamie managed a shrill little laugh, but she couldn’t help being annoyed. What in the world made Ike suppose that she wanted a dog, of all things? A dog that wasn’t house-trained, in the Wardman? What in the world was he thinking? She shut Junior in the bathroom, where he whined and cried and scratched at the door. Ike—at Mamie’s insistence—called his brother Milton, who agreed to adopt Junior.
Ike, as it turned out, wasn’t quite house-trained, either. He had gained a few pounds and his face was lined and weary, but there was much more to it than that. The man she had loved for nearly thirty years—her sweet, affectionate, gentle husband—had disappeared. In his place was a stranger who barked orders with the confidence of a commander who was used to being obeyed, promptly and without question. He was restless and edgy, pacing back and forth, scattering ashes from the cigarettes he chain-smoked. He asked staccato questions and—when he bothered to answer at all—was terse and abrupt. He had no patience with small talk, but what else was there? Even in peacetime Mamie had never wanted to know about his work, and now it was all so secret. He talked a little about the Algerian farm—“Sailor’s Delight,” he called it—and the Arabian stallions he rode as often as he could get away from the office. He mentioned that he had seen the President and that he had attended an important conference in Cairo, takin
g a day or two off to tour the tombs in Egypt’s Valley of the Kings and visit the city of Jerusalem. He didn’t mention his driver, and Mamie didn’t dare ask.
It wasn’t long before they ran out of conversation altogether. Mamie was relieved when, after a few stiff, uncomfortable hours, Ike was called to the White House to meet with the President. He spent the next day going over war plans with the Joint Chiefs at the Pentagon, and that evening, Mamie went with him to a dinner party with the chiefs and important congressmen and their wives. Ike was at ease, affable and assured, but Mamie felt nervous and uncertain. She managed to laugh and chatter gaily, but she couldn’t help scrutinizing each face for hints that the person she was talking to had heard the rumors about Ike and Mrs. Summersby. And of course she saw what she was looking for and felt as if she was being measured against the “beauteous Kay.”
The next day, they took General Marshall’s private Pullman car to West Point to see John—also an uncomfortable visit. Ike was as terse with Johnny as he had been with her. In fact, she was so dismayed when Ike spoke curtly to their son that, for the first time, she protested. “Really, Ike. Must you be so abrupt?”
Her question provoked a dark look, only half-masked by a crooked grin. “Hell,” Ike growled. “I’m going back to my command where I can do what I want.” Johnny laughed, but Mamie could only turn away and swallow her hurt. She knew Ike wasn’t joking.
After West Point, General Marshall arranged for them to have what he genially called a “second honeymoon” at the Greenbrier Hotel in White Sulphur Springs. But for Mamie, it was nothing short of a disaster. Ike was preoccupied and the wary stiffness between them never went away. When she said “I love you, Ike,” he returned it with an absent, almost automatic “I love you, too, honey,” although once he added, “I hope you know how much I’ve missed you.” She hadn’t expected any intimacy (that hadn’t happened for years) and his goodnight embrace—while it was still affectionate—felt more like habit than desire. She comforted herself with the reminder that theirs was a mature marriage, and that affection was more important than sex. But she wasn’t sure she believed that.
And then he called her Kay.
The first time, she whirled on him in an uncontrollable, high-octane rage. “That’s not my name!” she cried. “That’s not my name!”
His apology was sheepish. It meant nothing, he said. He was just tired, just inattentive. Kay Summersby was always in the office. He was used to telling her to do this, get that, go there. He was sorry. It wouldn’t happen again.
But it did. Twice. Each time, she wanted to scream at him, to beat him with her fists. But everything inside her had turned to ice, and she could scarcely catch her breath. She knew she ought to confront him with her fears—they spun like a black whirlpool in her mind, pulling her down and down, drowning her. But she simply did not dare. If he dismissed the rumors as idle gossip and malicious lies, would she—could she—believe him?
But worse, she was afraid that he would say it was true. That he was in love with Kay Summersby. What would she do then? Offer him a divorce?
But that was as unthinkable as hearing him say that he wanted a divorce. Better to leave the question unasked than to risk an answer that would utterly destroy her. Better—far better—to live with deception than to lose him, lose their marriage, lose her place in the world. Lose everything that gave her life meaning.
She was relieved when—after just a day and a half at the Greenbrier, he left her and flew to Kansas to see his mother and brothers. The trip lengthened into an unexpected several days. He said it was because his mother was ailing but Mamie thought it was because he didn’t want to be with her. And when he came back to Washington, he was summoned to another long round of meetings at the Pentagon, a routine checkup by a couple of army doctors, and one last evening appointment with the President.
When it was finally time for goodbyes, she found she had just one thing to say. She squared her shoulders, met his eyes, and said it as stoically as she could.
“Don’t come home until the war is over, Ike. This is just too . . . difficult, for both of us.”
He held her then, and kissed her forehead. “I’m sorry,” he said, and brushed his lips across her cheek. “Goodbye, honey.”
Then he was gone, and Mamie was left alone, drowning in her whirlpool of fears.
• • •
At first, Ike found his visit with the President disconcerting. Wearing striped pajamas, FDR was in bed, propped against pillows and ill with what his secretary, Grace Tully, called influenza. But his shoulders were slumped, his face was gray, and the famous Roosevelt grin was missing. Eisenhower had heard rumors of a cardiac condition, even cancer. But he knew that the truth of the President’s health, whatever it was, would be concealed—from the media, from the nation, perhaps even from his family. In war, lies were the name of the game, deceit the cardinal rule. Ike understood that the Commander in Chief couldn’t let his enemies—or his friends, or even his family—know he was sick.
The President’s blue eyes had lost none of their glint, however, and his voice held its accustomed authority. “Pull up a chair, Ike. I trust you’ve had a good visit with your family.”
Eisenhower placed a straight wooden chair beside the bed and sat down. “Yes, sir, I have,” he lied. If Marshall hadn’t ordered him, he wouldn’t have taken the time to come to the States. On balance, he had enjoyed the visit to Abilene, seeing his mother and brothers. But Mamie—he caught himself. Mamie was another story. “Yes, a very good visit,” he lied again. “It’s been great to be home.”
“Excellent. You look fit and ready to go back to work.” FDR slipped a Camel into his long plastic holder and offered one to Eisenhower. “Do you have an idea of what you need, once you get to London?”
“I do, sir.” Eisenhower took the cigarette, lit it, and lit FDR’s. “We need landing craft. LSTs, LCTs—as many as we can get. And we need more men. On the double.” This was January, damn it. D-Day was planned for early May. There was no time to lose.
“You’re going to have to arm-wrestle MacArthur for both,” the President said matter-of-factly. “We’re supplying two theaters of war, you know.” He pulled on his cigarette. “I’ll do the best I can, of course. War production—” A fit of coughing interrupted him, and he paused to wipe his mouth. “Our war production program is going great guns. We’re inducting two hundred thousand men a month. But there’s a limit, you know. We all have to do the best we can with what we’ve got.”
Eisenhower knew damned well that there weren’t two hundred thousand men a month in the pipeline, but he wasn’t going to correct the President. “We’ll take whatever we can get,” he said somberly. “We have to hit those Normandy beaches hard enough break through the German lines.” He knew his mission by heart: “You will enter the continent of Europe and, in conjunction with the other Allied Nations, undertake operations aimed at the heart of Germany and the destruction of her armed forces.”
Well, it was a damned long way from the Channel beaches to Berlin, the heart of Germany. The landings would open a door to the continent, but if they didn’t make it through on the first attempt, it would be slammed in their face. They needed all the help they could get. “Men and landing craft,” he repeated emphatically. “Anything less than—”
“I hear you, Ike.” The President sighed. “I hear you and I’ll do what I can.” He quirked an eyebrow. “Now, tell me about General Patton. I understand that he’s being brought in from the woodshed. You have a new assignment for him, I’m told.”
Eisenhower was aware that Marshall had briefed FDR on the slapping incident (recently leaked in the American press by Drew Pearson) and knew why Patton had been sidelined in Sicily for the past four months. Now it appeared that he knew about Operation Fortitude as well.
“That’s right, Mr. President. His new command—Fortitude South—is part of Operation Bodyguard. Do you know about—?”
“Oh, you bet.” That brought out the famous F
DR grin. “Winston is so pleased with his pet project that he has to tell me the latest twice a week.” The President blew out a stream of smoke. “I understand that Bodyguard is designed to deceive the Germans about the timing and the location of the Normandy landings.” He paused, reflecting. “The name comes from one of Winston’s own speeches, doesn’t it? ‘In wartime, truth is so precious that she should always be attended by a bodyguard of lies.’ I’ve been tempted to steal the line myself. It could come in handy with the folks in the Congress. They are under the misapprehension that a president ought to tell them the whole damn truth.”
Eisenhower returned the grin. Bodyguard was the umbrella code name for a series of major ruses that the Allies came up with when they began planning the cross-Channel invasion. Directed out of a half-dozen different agencies, the complex operations involved spies, double agents, false radio and signal communications, and misleading information and lies leaked to the newspapers. Operation Bodyguard was designed to make the Germans think that the American and British fighting forces were much larger and better equipped than they were and that the landings on the Normandy beaches, when they occurred, were only a feint. Hitler was meant to believe that the real invasion, planned for a few days later, would be aimed at the Pas de Calais, 150 miles to the north. If the trick worked, that’s where he would position most of his force, leaving the beaches more lightly defended.
“Patton’s not going to like it,” Eisenhower said, “but he’s being put in command of a paper army—FUSAG. First United States Army Group, a fictitious force of fifty divisions and a million men. It has to be Patton, because our intelligence tells us that the German High Command—the Oberkommando der Wehrmacht—is convinced that he is our best Allied general. They’re sure he’ll be the spearhead for the invasion. So we’re giving him a phony army and aiming him at Calais. His real job won’t begin until after D-Day.”
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