The Steel Wave (66 page)

“Sorry. Thought I’d toss a smile your way. Not appropriate, I suppose. But I’ve been chewing on this for a while now. I’ve not grumped as much about Monty as some of the others, you know that. It’s not a simple task to come down hard on one of our own.”

“Since when? Dammit, Arthur, one of the parts of this job I’ve grown used to is the bitching. I’ve heard it all, from your people and mine, and the French as well. Nobody’s happy, ever. We win this thing, they’ll be bitching about what happens next, who’s in charge of what, all that political crap.”

He paused.

“Monty has damned sure screwed up. We can’t keep launching these attacks and sucking up these casualties when we accomplish so damned little. Seven thousand tons of bombs for seven miles gained. If that’s how much this real estate is going to cost us, we’re not going to make it to Germany. Churchill is raising hell every day, pushing me to
use my judgment,
his way of telling me to get off my ass and do something. The newspapers in the States are raising hell about Monty, as though he’s losing us this war. Marshall’s soaking up a lot of that, but it’s still kicking me from behind, and I’m damned tired of it. I wish I could tell those jackasses that, by God, we
are
doing something to try to win this war, that Bradley’s people are on the move. Damned know-nothings with all the answers.”

“Ike, some of your own people are saying you have to sack Monty, and if you don’t you’re selling out to the British. I’m hearing more and more of that.”

Eisenhower had rarely been angry at Tedder before but he felt the burn, the explosion building. “Don’t you tell me what my people—” He grabbed the next words, pulled them back, spun around, and moved into the tent. Tedder came in behind him. Eisenhower sat on the cot, tried to hold his temper. “Dammit. I’m doing it too. Your people, my people. Sorry.”

“Ike, I’m your second-in-command. I know how much bull is floating around. I know all about rivalries and patriotic spirit. I also know you’re above all that, no matter how annoyed you get, with Monty or me or anyone else. I’m not suggesting you take any action with Monty one way or the other. But you have to know what the weather’s like in your command.”

“Look, I could fire Monty today. Churchill would raise a glass to me, every American general in this army would salute me—and then what? The British newspapers would spew out every invective that exists. Every damned story I get here refers to
Monty’s troops.
From the very beginning the British papers were calling this Monty’s invasion, Monty’s paratroop drop, Monty’s victories. I’ve had to take steam for that from the States and from right here. But, fine, I understand what the British papers are doing, how badly your people need him. If I sack Monty, your Parliament will erupt like a volcano. Churchill has enough problems as it is; he’d be facing a revolt.”

He paused, shook his head.

“Brooke would never speak to me again. And he’s my superior. And if Monty goes, who replaces him, Dempsey? He’s a good man, but he hasn’t set any records at Caen either. The best man might be Crerar, but he’s Canadian. There’s a laundry list of good people in the British command and, I guarantee you, every one of them would think twice about stepping into Monty’s shoes. And, what about
this
command? How effective would I be in dealing with anyone who thinks Monty got a raw deal? Damn it all, from the very beginning—in North Africa, in Italy—this command has always been about
cooperation.
It’s the toughest thing I’ve ever tried to do. We are allies, but no matter how hard I try to change things we’re two separate armies with two separate goals. Churchill says he admires me because I’m
on the fence.
He thinks that’s a compliment, so I guess I should take it that way. I shouldn’t have to explain this to you. I’m up here because I have to be. It’s the most important part of my job.”

“What the British are trying to preserve, Ike, is more than a victory. It’s pride, survival of the empire, all that. It’s a damned chain around the neck of every British general. We’ve lost so much already, and now the cupboards are bare. Every division we lose is…lost. Every pilot, every tank driver. Every mother’s son.”

“And every general. Monty’s still a damned fine field commander, and despite what a jerk he can be, he knows how to win. Sometimes—hell, most of the time—his problem is that he’s too damned careful, has to pull his tail up behind him, get everything organized before he makes his next move. Sometimes that’s a mistake, and it’s my job to keep him from doing it again. I’ve spoken to him a half dozen times, and I even put it in writing: some pretty strong stuff, pushing him hard. I went through the roof when I heard he changed the scope of Goodwood without telling me. I still had a big red circle around Falaise on the map in the truck out there. But, dammit, he’s still holding a hell of a lot of Germans in place, which will help Bradley enormously. I promise you, the Germans aren’t as dismissive of Monty as our own people. They won’t just let him be and shift everybody out of position so they can confront Bradley.”

“How many more mistakes will he be allowed to make?”

Eisenhower stood—needing to walk, to stretch out the frustrations—but stopped at the opening of the tent. “I’ll know that when he makes them.”

He stepped outside, still annoyed, a hot weight he was too tired of carrying around, and saw Butcher coming down the path, more papers and none of the usual smile.

“Chief! I have word from General Bradley.”

“It’s awfully quick for that. What’s wrong?”

Tedder emerged from the tent behind him, and Butcher moved close, saying in a low voice, “We might want to step back inside, sir.”

Eisenhower felt the weight increasing, slipped back into the tent. Butcher followed, Tedder staying just behind them, standing at the opening. Eisenhower turned to Butcher and saw hesitation, even dread, unusual.

“What the hell happened?”

“Sir, General Bradley reports that he has scrubbed his attack for one more day. The weather in his sector was just too lousy for the advance air assaults. But the bombers didn’t get the word until they were airborne. The recall order was given, but some of the planes reached what they thought was their target zones and dropped their loads. It seems a good many of the bombs fell short and hit our people. The Thirtieth Division took some heavy casualties.”

Behind Butcher, Tedder whispered, “Good God!”

Eisenhower felt a hard twist inside him. “How bad?”

“Not sure yet, sir.”

“All right. Let’s go. I’ve sat here long enough. Bradley’s about to get some company. Find me a plane that can fly or a destroyer that’s ready to go. If you can’t, I’ll swim the damned channel.”

T
he B-17 swooped low, seeking a small opening in the heavy clouds. Eisenhower felt his stomach pulling up, fighting the dive of the plane. The trip across the channel was brief, made shorter by Eisenhower’s own thoughts, his brain spilling over with rambling tirades to Montgomery, rebukes to Leigh-Mallory and Churchill and Bradley, furious words he knew he could never actually deliver. There is only so much a man can take, he thought. I never dreamed I would be more agitated by my own command than by the enemy. Dammit, I have no patience for this, not anymore.

He looked out the small window—a glimpse of water, the coastline, the plane still dropping—France. He searched through the overcast for the beaches, some sign of the enormous buildup of matériel, all that power creating an enormous traffic jam, held in place by the inability of his army to break open a hole. Eisenhower had seen the bocage from the air many times and short glimpses of it on the ground, in fast-moving staff cars and nervous guards. Not enough, he thought. I need to get out there and see more. Drive Butcher nuts, and Beetle Smith. My two nannies. Marshall won’t be too happy either. But damn it all, I’m sick of sitting back in my own headquarters, listening to bellyaching from generals who should be above all that. God, I’d love to see the real war, one damned firefight. What would that be like? Hedgerows and machine-gun nests. Hell, do I even remember how to toss a grenade?

For weeks now he had felt a nagging emptiness, an aching hole inside, no matter his exalted position atop the command ladder of SHAEF, all the attention from politicians and generals, so many plans and maps and reports. With so much happening in the field, so many battles, and so many casualties, the feeling was growing that he had missed the most important part, the part that mattered.

I know why Patton’s going nuts, he thought. He already knows what it’s like to ride a damned tank into battle, and he’s punching the walls because he wants to do it again. My job is to stay the hell out of the way of those people and stick with the papers and maps, the bitching and the egos. My job is to
administrate
the fight. Ridiculous. There’s no such thing. This is a GIs’ war. Those damned hedgerows, every man fighting his own battle against the guy on the other side of the bushes. Generals have damn little to do with that. And I’ll never know what it feels like: death…a buddy going down. Well, no, I know what it feels like to lose someone close. Sometimes it doesn’t take a bullet to do that job.

In all the shuffling of new commands, several names had risen to the top, men who were being moved along the chain of command, replacing those who weren’t up to the task. Teddy Roosevelt, Jr., was one of the good ones, a close friend to both Eisenhower and George Marshall. During his first major command, Roosevelt had served as assistant division commander of the Big Red One. He had been popular with his troops, but he hadn’t brought himself many accolades from the top. In North Africa, the First Division had seemed to fall apart after their successes in Algeria; there were violent lapses in discipline and, as always, the top brass had to accept the responsibility: Roosevelt had been relieved, along with the division’s commander, Terry Allen.

But with so many new divisions coming across the Atlantic, the need for experience overshadowed the need for perfection, and, of course, Roosevelt had powerful friends. For Overlord, he was assigned the position of assistant commander of the Fourth Infantry Division, and Eisenhower was gratified to learn that the old shadows had been swept away. Roosevelt gained the respect of his men and every senior officer around him and had been the only general to go ashore with the first wave at Utah Beach. It was the sort of act that always endears a commander to his men, and ultimately his name climbed high on the list of those chosen to fill the gaps left by generals who had fallen flat. One of those gaps was at the top of the Ninetieth Division and so, in early July, Roosevelt was given that command. The day before he was to report to that duty, he suffered a fatal heart attack.

Eisenhower kept his stare out the window, mulled over Lincoln’s words,
fitting and proper,
that one small piece of the Gettysburg Address. Yep, it’s fitting and proper that Teddy be buried right here, alongside his men. That’s what he deserves. Dammit, I’ll miss him. Miss him now. We need every good man, every man who can get those damned reporters to tell a different story rather than constantly bellyaching about Monty.

The plane banked sharply and he pushed back in the seat, one hand on his stomach. Okay, I’m ready for this one to be over with. What the hell did I eat today? It’s swimming around, that’s for sure. His hand touched a piece of paper in his shirt pocket, the Ultra report that revealed the stunning details of the assassination attempt on Hitler. What the hell was that like? He had often thought of Hitler, his day-to-day routine, the strangeness of the man, wondered if Hitler even had a routine at all. Eisenhower felt the plane lurch, slowing. Do you fly much? he thought. They ever take you up in some big damned Heinkel, so you can watch the bombs drop? What kind of things keep you awake at night? Or do you sleep like a damned baby? You can’t possibly have a conscience. But there’s weight on you, no matter who you are or how nuts you might be. Even a damned dictator has to answer sooner or later, and you have to know your time is coming. Your own people tried to kill you, for God’s sake. They’ve probably tried a dozen times. Don’t think that’s happened to me yet. Churchill, maybe. FDR, yep.

There had been raucous cheering at the news of the attempt on Hitler’s life, Churchill echoing what many were saying: “They missed the old bastard. But there’s time yet.” But Eisenhower hadn’t shared anyone’s elation, had stiffened the mood of his own staff, a sharp reminder that on the front lines across from Montgomery were the SS panzer divisions, the most fanatical units in the western theater. How do you expect they will react? he had asked them. Their boss almost got assassinated. Don’t you think that might just invigorate them to fight with a little more…gusto?

He looked out the window again, fog and open fields, trucks and supply depots. But the assassination attempt was still in his mind. That took some serious guts. Heaven help you folks who had something to do with the plot. Not only will the Gestapo hunt you down, there are whole divisions in your army who would do the same thing. The only plot I want to hear about is the one they bury him in, when someone actually kills the son of a bitch. We’ll make sure we put his whole High Command in there with him, every damn one of them. Wish I could be a part of that, but that’s not my job either. Damn shame. I’d volunteer for it, though. Hell, it might end up being the Russians. The way things are going, looks like they’ll get there first. And, of course, I have to deal with stupidity like Monty and his big mouth. And bombardiers who can’t hit the side of a damned barn, unless it belongs to their own people.

BRADLEY’S HEADQUARTERS, NEAR ISIGNY
JULY 25, 1944

Bradley was fuming, pacing, one fist pressed into his other hand.

“Dammit, I told them. I made it very, very clear. Bring the bombers in parallel to the road, and drop your bombs on the south side of it. Very damn simple. The road was the boundary, our boys on the north, the enemy on the south. Then I find out from my own people that, no, they flew in perpendicular to the road, came in right over our heads. Exactly wrong, exactly what I knew could cause problems. So, with the weather bad, they made blind drops, could only guess where the enemy was. And they guessed wrong! Leigh-Mallory says, Well, it would have been inconvenient to make the change in their flight path, would have taken a couple hours to rebrief the pilots. This has been on paper for
five days.
For
five days
the air command had their instructions! They made their own change and didn’t say a word to me or anyone else. Leigh-Mallory tells me that the air commanders are scrambling around, telling each other, Well, of course General Bradley was informed of the change. We could never agree to fly in parallel to the road, that’s just not how we would do it.” Bradley pounded the fist into his hand.