The Steel Wave (22 page)

13. EISENHOWER

SHAEF FORWARD COMMAND POST, PORTSMOUTH
MAY 31, 1944

H
e nursed the eye with a warm cloth, pressed gently against the swollen redness. He glanced at the tube of ointment, something the doctor had given him, thought, To hell with that. If warm water won’t fix this thing, I’ll just put on an eye patch. Pirate Ike.
Arrggh.

The eye had been bothering him for several days now, coming as so many other afflictions had come, erupting from the overwhelming exhaustion of mind and body. He had been plagued by this kind of thing before, during the Sicilian operation and after; he knew the reasons then, as he understood them now. Eisenhower had driven himself to the point of utter collapse.

He sat on the narrow bed, the brief flash of humor wiped away. It was easier to be angry at himself, to curse this new plague, the eye tormenting him with burning misery. It’s your own fault, he thought. You don’t sleep enough, that’s for sure. The staff has given up nagging you about it, Harry especially. They don’t know what this is like, what kind of—he searched his brain for a word—swamp? Cesspool? Up to my knees in mud, trying to run a marathon. All right, stop this. You’re doing the job, just like the rest of them. Well, most of them. No one expects this to be a piece of cake. You wanted command, now you’ve got it. You know damn well how miserable you’d be if you were stuck back in Washington. Stop whining, for God’s sake.

He dabbed at the eye again with the cloth. Don’t even look in the mirror. It looks bad enough to the staff, no need to remind yourself you’re not invincible. It’ll pass in a day or two.

He tried to relax, find some kind of calm, and heard a soft breeze blowing against the wide canvas around him. He put both hands down beside him, propped up his slumping shoulders, and felt the nagging pain in his right arm. Another ailment. What the hell is this? You’re falling to pieces. Hang on, old boy. You’re the man at the top. No time for this crap.

The tent was Eisenhower’s home, at least for now. Several weeks earlier he had ordered a command post to be set up in the far south of England, mobile, a large boxlike room hoisted up on the bed of a deuce-and-a-half, the reliable two-and-a-half-ton truck the Allies now used for so much of their ground transport. He called it his circus wagon. With his office perched on a truck, his command center could be hauled quickly to any point he needed to be. Close beside the truck were tents, makeshift offices and sleeping quarters for his key staff. It was far from anyone’s notion of quarters for a supreme commander, but Eisenhower never paid much attention to the griping of anyone who thought war should be comfortable. Back at Bushey Park, Bedell Smith was dealing with the ongoing barrage of administrative matters, the offices there a constant rush of activity. Smith continued to ruffle feathers, especially among the British. Eisenhower enjoyed having a bulldog as his chief of staff, but Beetle had trouble reining it in, and both men knew he might end up causing some kind of diplomatic flap that might require too much of his boss’s energy to unravel, energy Eisenhower simply didn’t have. Marshall doesn’t get along with people either, he thought. He wants to come across as a soldier, all that stiff-backed stuff, the thing that made Black Jack Pershing stand out in Washington. That works pretty well with congressmen and reporters, I suppose. Eisenhower recalled the story, how, in some meeting, the president had actually addressed Marshall as George. Marshall had responded that he preferred to be called General Marshall, pointing out the importance of chain of command. That took some brass, Eisenhower thought. Even Churchill calls me Ike. But it’s Marshall’s way. Fortunately for him, Roosevelt doesn’t have a raw nerve about it.

He set the wet cloth aside, tested the eye, blinked hard several times. The tent flaps were billowing inward, pushed by the wind, and he looked that way and blinked again, relieved that the swelling had not impaired his vision. But the itchiness was still there, the constant tears. Live with it, dammit.

He knew it would be dark soon and glanced at the small pillow. You came here to take a nap, he thought. So, take a nap. Just a few minutes maybe. But the wind was picking up now, the tent shaking, another spear thrust into this one quiet moment. The weather briefings were scheduled regularly: 9:30 each night, 4:30 in the morning. They’re terrified of me, he thought, seem to think that if they bring me bad news, someone’s going to get blistered for it. But they’re meteorologists, after all, and right now I need them to spend every minute studying…whatever it is they study. I don’t need them to tell me how their best estimates are only guesswork or some kind of intuition. Rather not hear that. There has to be some science at work here.

He looked again at the pillow, thought, Just a few minutes—

“Sir.”

He looked toward the tent flap, saw one of his MPs, the telltale white helmet, the men Butcher called Eisenhower’s snowballs.

“What is it, Corporal?”

“Air Marshal Leigh-Mallory has arrived, sir. He insists on seeing you. I didn’t want to bother you, sir, but Commander Butcher is not here at the moment.”

“Don’t worry about it, Corporal. I’ll see him in here. No need for both of us to traipse out into this weather.”

The MP disappeared, and Eisenhower felt the chill of the wind. Dammit. Has the sun forgotten how to shine in this place? The man’s face poked through the tent flaps, the neat mustache: Leigh-Mallory, his coat glistening from the rain.

“Ah, there you are. Very sorry to intrude, sir.”

“Pull up a chair, if you don’t mind getting your butt pinched. I decided the cushions could stay at home.”

Leigh-Mallory seemed to take him seriously and sat slowly, testing the hard slatted surface of the small folding chair. Leigh-Mallory rarely engaged in useless small talk, and Eisenhower waited, knowing he’d go right to the point. Leigh-Mallory made a hard frown, looked down for a moment.

“Something wrong?”

“Well, yes, I’m afraid. I feel the need to go on the record, as it were. You know I have always had deep misgivings about the plans for the airborne assault. I must state officially that my feelings have not changed. I have studied this matter in detail and have concluded that your paratroopers will suffer a casualty rate as high as fifty percent, and a loss of glider strength as high as seventy percent. You have more than a thousand transport aircraft that must traverse the waters occupied by a portion of the invasion fleet. The danger of catastrophe from friendly fire is significant. There will be full moonlight, and once the first waves of transports reach land, the German searchlights and antiaircraft batteries will certainly gain accuracy in locating them. You know, sir, that the C-47, for all its marvelous advantages, has been described by some of its pilots as a flying bomb. There is no shielding, no armor to protect the fuel tanks. My analysis of the maps has indicated that the landing grounds are completely unsuitable, and the enemy’s opposing forces will present a formidable hazard that your troops cannot overcome. Should this occur, those units will lose their tactical power, and their effective role in this operation will be negated completely. I cannot allow this operation to go unchallenged, when I feel you are risking the futile slaughter of two fine fighting divisions.”

Eisenhower studied the man’s dour expression and absorbed the message. “You didn’t mention the British paratroopers. Is this just an American problem?”

“Oh, my, no. I mean no slight to Americans. The British operation will take place on far better ground, with objectives that are far more practical to achieve. I do not anticipate such difficulty there.”

Eisenhower believed him. He ran a hand over his scalp, the eye itching more than before. “I respect your views. But if the Eighty-second and Hundred-and-first do not attempt their operations behind Utah Beach, the landing on that beach itself could become a disaster. At this point, we are committed to the plans. Why in hell would you bring this up now?”

“I have mentioned this previously to General Ridgway and General Taylor. They did not respond with…appreciation. I understand their need to protect the prestige of their divisions—”

“This isn’t about prestige! This plan has been ripped up, shredded, chewed, spit out, ground up, stomped on, and ripped up again. The finest strategists in both armies have spent months—hell, a year!—going over every last detail. I don’t expect this operation to go perfectly, but I expect it to
go.
We all have doubts! We’re all concerned about losses, and I for one am damn well concerned that the Krauts might roll us right back into the ocean! Those paratroopers know what we’re asking them to do, and regardless of Ridgway and Taylor, regardless of their
pride,
this strategy is the best we’ve come up with. We need those paratroopers behind Utah Beach. Bradley supports this, Montgomery supports this, this is the plan, and this is what we’re going to do!”

He stopped, felt too angry, tried to hold it in. Leigh-Mallory looked down again, a slow nod.

“I could not, in clear conscience, allow this operation to go forward without expressing—”

“Fine. Put it on paper. Write me a letter. You want it on the record, that’s on the record. I know you’re sincere, I know it’s what you believe, so do what you have to do. When this is over, your position will be documented. If there is a slaughter, you can say you warned me.”

“I assure you, sir, I would never use this as a means to embarrass this command. I am deeply worried, that’s all.”

“Good God, man, we’re all deeply worried. No army in history has ever attempted this before. This whole damned island is one giant military base. No, correct that—it’s one giant parking lot. I’ve never seen so much equipment and armor. I didn’t know it was possible to assemble so many bulldozers, railroad engines, and coils of barbed wire. Every damned open field is a supply dump. Some lieutenant told me his men had seen so many barrage balloons floating over this damned place, they figured it was the only thing keeping England from sinking into the ocean. Every day, I wonder how in hell the Germans don’t know exactly what we’re planning to do, how we’ve kept any secrets at all.” He paused. “I haven’t studied a single map in any planning center or anyone’s headquarters without knowing that all those lines and dots and colored flags—those are soldiers. Men are going to die, possibly a great many men. Right now, I can’t be concerned that your conscience is bothering you. My conscience bothers me every time I lie on this damned bed, every time I think about what’s about to happen. But I believe in the plan, in what we have to do, and I believe in the people who will carry it out. Go write your letter. I won’t advertise your views to anyone else. This command requires unity of purpose right now, and you’ll understand if I don’t air your concerns. But you’ll be on record. I’ll respond with a letter of my own. You already know what it’s going to say.”

“That is certainly acceptable, sir. I hope to God I am wrong. But I would not be doing my duty if I did not share my doubts. May I take my leave, sir?”

“Fine. Get some sleep. While you’re at it, get some for me.”

Leigh-Mallory moved out of the tent. Eisenhower lowered his head and held the cloth against his eye. The greatest amphibious operation in history, he thought, and I have generals who care first and foremost about covering their asses. The rain was falling harder now, a rattle on the tent. He heard a low voice outside, knew it too well.

“What the hell do you want, Harry?”

Butcher appeared, wearing a raincoat, dripping wet. “Sorry, Chief. Just got back. Couldn’t help hearing the hubbub in here. I kept the guards at a distance, thought you’d not want anyone to hear what you were saying. I spoke to the air marshal briefly, but he’s gone now. How’s the eye?”

“Forget the damned eye. I was that loud?”

“Afraid so. I’m sure the air marshal had it coming. No one around here cares much for that man.”

“I’m not sure he had it coming at all. He has doubts and felt he should let me know. His timing wasn’t the best. Guess I blew up at him.”

“Well, Chief, you might blow up at this too.”

Eisenhower set the cloth aside, looked up at Butcher, saw a scowl. Unusual, he thought. Has everybody around here forgotten how to smile?

“What’s happened now?”

“Uh…it seems a London newspaper has a crossword puzzle, pretty popular actually.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Yesterday, one of the answers—uh, fourteen down—was OVERLORD.”

Eisenhower felt a stab of cold.
“What?”

“Might not mean anything, Chief. It didn’t say
code name for the Allied invasion of Europe,
nothing like that. Just the actual meaning of the term. Could be a coincidence. An amazingly bad coincidence.”

Eisenhower felt for the pillow, lay back on the narrow bed. “Or some code sent to German agents.” He put his hands across his chest—could feel his heart beating—and closed his eyes. “So, do we start arresting newspaper editors as spies?”

“It could be nothing, Chief.”

“Nothing is
nothing,
Harry. There’s meaning in everything that’s happening now. I can’t even ignore a stupid crossword puzzle. All we can do is hope to God you’re right and it’s just a coincidence.”

“I spoke to some reporters earlier, Chief. Thought you might enjoy this. Word is circulating among the press people that all this talk of invasion is just a hoax.”

Eisenhower opened his eyes. “A hoax?”

“That’s what they’re saying. They think there have been too many hints that something big is up, so they’re starting not to believe it.”

“Are you telling me that our nose-to-the-ground newspapermen are so bad at their jobs they can’t smell all the machinery on this damned island?”

Butcher shrugged. “I heard it first from Howard Whitman.
New York Daily News.
He says word is spreading. Some of ’em figuring we’re pouring on the propaganda so Hitler will get scared and give up.”

Eisenhower put his hands behind his head and stared up at the canvas above him. “Best news I’ve heard all day, Harry. If we can keep this big a secret from our own reporters, what chance do the Germans have?”