by Jeff Shaara
All along most of the West Wall, the Germans had made a good fight of it, making good use of the enormous defensive advantages, the bunkers heavily armed and manned with troops grateful to be out of the open woods. Though the armies had struggled over this line for several weeks, particularly along Patton’s position in the south, ultimately the Germans could not sustain their defensive shield with the diminishing manpower and matériel they could bring to the fight. Despite Hitler’s stubborn reluctance to give any ground at all, Model and von Rundstedt understood that no concrete wall was mighty enough to hold back what the Allies were pushing their way. The German commanders continued to insist that the army should be pulled back completely, that their best opportunity for a successful defensive fight lay along the east banks of the Rhine, but Hitler would not concede so much German territory without first making a stand. And so the Allies could not be content with their conquest of what SHAEF called the Siegfried line. The enemy was still dangerous, and even though the Allied armies were continuing to drive them farther back into their own territory, no village was safe, no fence line or cluster of forest could be ignored. The war was not yet over.
SHAEF, RHEIMS, FRANCE
FEBRUARY 16, 1945
The new headquarters building was what any small-town American would describe as a little red schoolhouse. It seemed an odd choice to some of his staff, but Eisenhower had no interest in anyone’s opinions of how his office should present itself. He had grown weary of palaces and mansions, and if some of his senior commanders continued to insist on surrounding themselves with someone else’s artifacts of a glorious past, that was fine with him. His requirements were far simpler: an office that had at least one wall for his maps, and a phone that worked.
The argument had grown, the two Englishmen standing a few feet apart, Eisenhower sitting between them. He had been caught off guard by the heat that poured out of each man, though Tedder seemed more in control. It wasn’t surprising, the man able to weather most storms he had to suffer through at SHAEF. But Eisenhower had already endured a gutful of the blustery temperament of Arthur Harris, the man everyone called “Bomber.” More often now, the staff had adopted a new nickname for the British chief air marshal. They were referring to him as “Butcher.” Harris was speaking, a flow of hot words aimed at Tedder through a pointed finger.
“By damn, Tedder, this war is being won, and I am bloody well sick of the backbiting I’ve had to listen to. If not for the bomber command, this war would continue for another decade, maybe two. You cannot tell me that the heavy bombers haven’t been our most valuable asset. Our raids upon the German’s most vital strategic targets have cost him much of his vaunted ability to make war. Is that not appreciated by every fighting man in our collective armies?”
The speech did not back Tedder down. He was as angry as Eisenhower had ever seen him. Eisenhower wanted to interrupt, felt suddenly like a referee in a boxing match, but Tedder’s furious expression kept him in his chair.
“Strategic targets? Yes, by all means, I completely agree that we should bomb hell out of every strategic target we can find. Take on every transportation hub, every rail line, every gasoline depot, every ball-bearing plant. Erase them all and this war is over. No argument, there, Arthur. But you are quite glossing over the point!” Tedder’s voice was breaking, and he stopped, seemed to choke slightly.
Harris rocked back on his heels, seemed always to strut even when he was standing still. He tried to seem bored, a tactic Eisenhower had seen before, the air of superiority meant to disarm anyone who disagreed with him. With a slight sneer, he said, “What point is that?”
Tedder turned to Eisenhower. “Dammit, Ike, you’ve seen the daily reports from bomber command. Over the past three days, we have utterly annihilated the city of Dresden. Someone decided that incendiary bombs would make for … what? A more spectacular bonfire? That’s precisely what that city has become. I have no idea what strategic targets we were able to destroy but the cost in civilian casualties has to be extraordinary.”
Harris sniffed. “German civilians. Let us not be blind to the cause of this war, and those who have enabled Hitler’s armies to take the field. Let us not be blind to all it has cost us.”
Eisenhower flinched, eyed Tedder, knew that Harris was dangerously close to crossing a line that might result in his receiving a broken nose. Tedder reddened further, his hands in a tight clench, and Eisenhower said, “Air Marshal Tedder knows quite well the cost of this war.”
Harris seemed to understand where he had gone, retreated, nodded slowly. “Sorry, old chap. Of course you understand.”
Eisenhower felt the tension cooling, but only a little. Tedder was still under control, and Eisenhower thought, yes, Bomber, you’ve shot yourself in both feet.
Tedder had already suffered the death of a son in combat, and soon after, his wife had died in an air crash that he’d witnessed firsthand. The tragedies had seemed to stay with Tedder as a heavy blanket that tempered his moods. But his fury was obvious now, and so, that much more unusual.
Eisenhower had never liked Bomber Harris. He agreed with most of his staff, and many of his generals, who considered him somewhat thickskulled, a rigid and inflexible man who placed far too much weight on his own importance. Eisenhower’s only handicap was that he had to be discreet about it.
After a somewhat calmer moment, Tedder said, “What possible strategic advantage have you handed us by burning the city of Dresden to ashes? What will that say about us to the German people? There are Germans who will survive this war, you know, the people who must eventually replace Hitler. There will come a time when humanitarian concerns rule the day. I fear that by such actions as this Dresden mess, we shall have a far more difficult time making the peace. It cannot possibly be of benefit to us if we are hated by every German civilian.”
Harris’s arrogance returned. “Those, sir, are your opinions. I have assumed the duty assigned to me by carrying out our primary goal: to end this war by any means necessary, including the killing of as many Germans as we are able. By raining hellfire down on every German city, laying them to ashes if need be, we shall convince the German people that their war is hopelessly lost. I have always maintained that we required little else to win this war, and I believe that now more than ever. If we demonstrate our might, and our will to effect the utter destruction of their cities, we shall disembowel their very will to fight.”
Harris seemed pleased with his metaphor, rocked back on his heels again.
Tedder looked at Eisenhower, frustrated, and Eisenhower said, “I cannot dictate the strategic goals of your command, Air Marshal. But fire-bombing German civilians will not sit well with any civilians down the road, be they German, British, or American. I can imagine the newspapers are already finding out about Dresden, particularly all those reporters who have an ax to grind with the prime minister or President Roosevelt. None of us needs the kind of grief that will cause.”
Harris seemed disgusted, shook his head.
“You are suggesting that one of our chief priorities should be to maintain some sort of artificial moral high ground, and thus, we should fight a gentleman’s war, a kind war. Bombs do not have eyes, General. We seek out targets that have meaning and allow the bombs to do the work. There is chance in that. My people have been roundly criticized too often that our targets are struck with minimal damage, or missed altogether. It is greatly distressing to me that the loss of our planes and crews continues at a horrible rate. We are changing all of that. The long-range fighters have saved many a bomber crew, and my new policy of area bombing will take much of the chance out of the equation. When we blanket an area completely, when we use incendiary bombs, a direct hit is not required. It must be a glorious fright to those on the ground when the firebombs erupt in a virtual carpet of destruction. And that, sir, is quite the point. If you are not comfortable with killing German civilians, then perhaps both of you are in the wrong business. If I may remind you, the German has had no qualms whatsoe
ver about killing the civilians of every country he has engaged in this war, including our own.”
The lecture from Harris had gone beyond annoying, and Eisenhower knew it would go on as long as he allowed it. He stood, said, “Air Marshal Harris, I appreciate your taking the time to present your report in person. It is always a pleasure to see you.”
Harris took the cue, seemed satisfied that his explanation was understood.
“Very well. I shall take my leave. You can be sure that this war will end soon, and we who serve the bomber command shall claim our proper share of the credit. Good day, gentlemen.”
Harris spun around, marched crisply out of the room. Tedder began to pace, still angry. He glanced toward the door, seemed to wait for Harris to be far out of earshot.
“Bloody arrogant moron. He’s going to cost us far more than he’s gaining us. And not just him, mind you. Quite a few of those damn bomber barons have no conscience and no sense of history. What they are doing is wrong. I don’t care who started this bloody war or how many atrocities Hitler has committed. One day in the future, you and I, and every other commander, air, sea, and land, will have to look himself in the mirror and wonder if what he ordered his men to do was acceptable, just a part of war. I have never questioned my role here, Ike. I’ve never questioned yours, or any of your people’s actions. And I promise you, I am not growing soft. If it were possible, I would stick a bayonet into Hitler’s entrails myself. But the mass slaughter of civilians … no soldier I know signed on for that.” He paused, shook his head. “Doesn’t Harris recall what we did in 1919? He was there, for God’s sake. We decided it was prudent to punish the Germans for their bad acts, and that meant punishing every German. We crushed them in every way, in the name of revenge. All we did was open the door for a man like Hitler.”
He stopped, moved to a chair, and Eisenhower saw sweat in the man’s uniform. Tedder sat, continued, “This will be worse than before, Ike. If we obliterate every German city, just because we can … how will the German people regard us? How many more Hitlers will we spawn?”
“Dammit, Arthur, I can’t be concerned with that. You know full well that my orders are to steer clear of politics, and so far, I’ve done a pretty damn good job of it. Besides that, I don’t have the authority to tell the bomber barons what they can and cannot target. A year ago, before Normandy, we convinced them to accept your plan, to target the transportation hubs, and it worked. By preventing the Germans from moving their railcars and trucks to the forward lines, we probably saved tens of thousand of Allied lives. And despite Harris’s sledgehammer attack on German civilians, our raids on the fuel and transportation centers are still effective. The enemy failed to sustain his drive in the Ardennes as much for a lack of fuel as our ability to stop him. Credit the air people for that. They’re your people, for God’s sake.”
“I’m not like Harris. I don’t agree that we’re winning this thing just because of heavy bombers. And I will never accept that extinguishing enormous cities is the most effective way to win a war. It’s bad enough that I disagree with his strategy. But it helps not at all that I cannot stand to be in the same room with the man. He’s nothing more than a swaggering blivet.”
“A what?”
Tedder seemed slightly embarrassed, turned suddenly sheepish.
“Um … sorry. Not the most dignified observation I’ve made here. A blivet is best described as a one-pound bag filled with two pounds of horse manure.”
Eisenhower couldn’t help the smile, reached for a cigarette, saw the stack of folders on his desk.
“Arthur, I have too much to think about right now. And one thing I cannot do is weigh the morality of every decision we’re making. That blivet is right about one thing. The enemy … hell, both enemies, the Germans and the Japanese … they’re waging war with a complete disregard for what we believe is basic human behavior. So what the hell do we do about that? There’s no turn the other cheek here, Arthur. My job is to end this war as quickly and as completely as I can. That’s why Patton still has his job, and why Monty still has his. If we have to answer to some higher authority down the road, so be it. But I guarantee you, Hitler and his pals will be answering first.”
FEBRUARY 17, 1945
Churchill had come again, this time after returning from Yalta, an obscure coastal city in southern Ukraine, on the shores of the Black Sea. What had taken place at Yalta was already the source of every reporter’s speculation, and the news that flowed westward was a curious mix of joyous political backslapping and dark warnings of what might follow.
Optimism had followed the participants who attended, the leaders most obviously labeled the Big Three: Roosevelt, Churchill, and Stalin. Their purpose was to begin the specific planning for what would follow the inevitable collapse of Germany. Obvious questions had been raised in diplomatic circles for months, the optimism among civilians far more glowing than what Eisenhower knew to be reality on the battlefields. But the leaders did meet, a weeklong opportunity for all sides to have their say on their expectations and, in some cases, demands for what should become of Germany. Topics ranged from the seriously diplomatic to the most mundane, from concern for the disposition of Germany’s leaders to concerns about the German economy and the country’s future capability as an industrial and military power. The most optimistic returned to their own capitals with the satisfied sense of accomplishment, that what had been contemplated at Yalta would mark the first step in what would become a New World Order. Eisenhower had been curious about just what kinds of plans the heads of state considered so worthwhile, and how much of that would actually be borne out by the events to come. He was, after all, still fighting a war.
Eisenhower poured the brandy snifter nearly full, reached it carefully across the desk. Churchill did not look up, slid thick fingers under the bowl of the snifter, then paused, motionless, seemed completely lost in thought. Eisenhower didn’t know what to say, and so he said nothing at all.
After a long moment, Churchill raised the glass, looked at Eisenhower with deep sagging eyes, said, “I suppose we should offer a toast. To the New World Order.”
Eisenhower detected sarcasm, heard no enthusiasm in the words. He raised the glass.
“If you say so.”
Churchill tilted his head, a piercing stare.
“Why do you say that?”
“No reason. Not sure what you’re asking me. Just responding to your toast, I suppose. I meant no offense.”
Churchill drank from the glass, leaned back in the chair.
“No, I know you didn’t. You’re not the type of man to rub salt in the wound.”
Eisenhower tried to interpret Churchill’s mood, thought, nope, just shut up. He’ll tell you soon enough. Churchill seemed less interested than usual in the brandy, lit a cigar, pulled it from his mouth, looked at it closely, set it down in the ashtray.
“Nothing tastes good these days. Not since I got back anyway.” He squinted at Eisenhower. “You don’t know what the hell I’m talking about, do you?”
“Yalta.”
“Yes, for God’s sake, Yalta. Don’t play with me, Ike.”
“No … I assure you …”
“You know what happened at Yalta?”
“I’ve seen some of the reports. But you know I try to stay out of those diplomatic minefields. I’m not in charge of anything beyond this theater of the war. I like it that way.”
“Apparently, you’re in charge of a great deal more than I am. I spent a week in the company of your president and Uncle Joe Stalin, and the first observation I could make was that the British Empire has all the political influence of a tick on a dog’s backside. I’ve always tried to be blunt with you, Ike. I believe you’re an honest man, and I’ve never seen you involve yourself in the nasty side of this. All that good stuff that Shakespeare so relied upon, men who carry knives around, hidden away, awaiting that delicious opportunity to plunge the blade into the back of a friend.” He paused, still ignored the brandy. “I love
Franklin. Truly do. I don’t think he would ever betray me. He didn’t, actually. But I sat there, with Uncle Joe on one side and your president on the other, and watched them carve out the future of our world. I might as well have been the damn waiter, filling up their vodka glasses. It was a painful lesson, Ike. Painful. I knew better than to take it personally. No, it wasn’t intended as an insult to me, no one decided that I shouldn’t really be there. The problem is … England. It was apparent to me that those two men feel that England no longer has a place at the big table. The decisions made there were horrific, Ike. Horrific and stupid. Devastating to the lives of millions, and no one seems to understand that. And when I tried to tell them, to point out the flaws in what they were suggesting, I was … dismissed, ignored. Your president was captivated by Stalin, enraptured, seduced by him. That’s such a mystery to me, because, frankly, Uncle Joe isn’t anyone’s idea of a charmer. But Franklin went to Yalta carrying the advice of your statesmen in Washington, your diplomats, the men who believe that peace will bring … what? Happiness for all? Joy and flowers and singing birds? And Stalin knew just how to play that, saying all the right things, boosting Roosevelt’s pride. It was … distressing to watch.” He paused, sipped the brandy. “Hitler is certainly done for, just a matter of time. No one knows that more than you do, of course. Yes, yes, don’t give me any protests, General. I know all about your caution. Fine. It’s all necessary. God knows that Nazi maniac could still come up with some oddball secret weapon that tosses all our optimism in the dustbin. But I don’t believe it, even if you have to. This war will end, and it will end this year. And it will not be pleasant and it will not be glorious, and dammit Ike, we will have no right to be proud.”
Eisenhower felt overwhelmed by Churchill’s unexpected gloom.
“I’m sorry, sir, but I really don’t understand …”
“I’m not insulting our soldiers, Ike. They will have every right to wear their uniforms and their medals, and go home knowing they kicked hell out of the most evil sons of bitches the world has ever seen. Not here to insult your president either. I’m not stupid, you know. Don’t want to make you all defensive. But if you’d have been there, you’d have seen it for yourself. The Russians have an agenda that is far more … oh hell, what’s the word? Sinister? Yes, that’s a good one. Sinister. Uncle Joe went to Yalta knowing exactly what he wanted, and by damn, he got it. Germany will be divided up, carved up like a beef roast. Fine, I can’t say I’m terribly upset by that. But Stalin wants so much more, and Franklin did nothing to stand in his way. There are people right now in Washington who believe that when the war ends, Russian troops will treat this great victory exactly as we will, that their armies will do just what we will do: They will all march home to grateful families, so many proud warriors who have eradicated the world’s evil, and just like in Washington and New York and London, the streets of Moscow will be filled with celebrations, parades and tears and salutes to fallen heroes. Your president believes that. I don’t, not for one minute.”