by Jeff Shaara
“Yes, Field Marshal.”
Ruge laughed. “All right. My caution is unfounded. I meant no insult to your staff. But…concertinas?”
Rommel probed his side again, a nagging ailment from the misery of the African desert, never quite letting him forget.
“I promise you, Friedrich, when all of this has past, when medals and decorations hang over every fireplace in Germany, those concertinas will occupy a special place. Those men will not forget that I chose them to receive a gift so…unmilitary. They might even learn to play the thing.”
There was silence, the car breaking out into open ground, a village in the distance and, to one side, a railroad track, a line of heavy railcars. Rommel strained to see, and his driver seemed to feel the movement.
“Shall I stop, sir?”
“No. We have much ground to cover. I was just observing. Those railcars were carrying a shipment of eighty-eights. Very good. We will need enormous quantities of those along every open beach, especially the Pas-de-Calais. The enemy knows already that we have no better weapon to destroy his armor.” He glanced at Ruge again. “I have tried to explain that to von Rundstedt ever since I arrived here. I have asked that batteries of eighty-eights be interspersed among every one of the larger shore guns.”
“Will the shore guns not be enough?” Ruge said. “Heavy batteries of three-hundred-millimeter cannon will provide all the firepower we would need against enemy ships.”
“Guns that big are too visible from the air. The enemy will send their bombers to target every installation. Despite Colonel Sasser’s good work, we do not have enough concrete to protect every battery, and our outstanding engineering corps seems to believe that we can make do in those casements with half the thickness I have specified. In any invasion, we could lose our most effective shore batteries before the enemy even attempts to land. The eighty-eights are mobile, can be hidden from the bombers, and, should the enemy attempt to land his armor, they can be moved quickly to the greatest point of attack.”
“As usual, Field Marshal, I bow to your experience.”
Rommel saw the familiar smile, felt his own good humor fading away. “It so distresses me. For every Sasser there are ten Colonel Heckners. The British land a squad of commandos right under his feet, and the only way we find out about it is when one of them blows himself up.”
“How dangerous can they truly be? The British are scouting us, determining what kind of strength we have put into place. There was no evidence that the raid this morning had any other intent than to observe. Somewhere in London, mapmakers are drawing furiously, mapping out every meter of our coastline. You and I would do the same thing. And if they come, you know as well as I do that they will come at a place that makes the most strategic sense. If they come, you will know where and when. You are as capable of knowing the mind of the enemy as any British or American strategist.”
“But, Friedrich, I do not make the decisions. No matter what I may believe, I am subject to orders.” He paused. “You saw Colonel Sasser, the man’s hands. He works, he is a soldier’s soldier, he will do his job. Behind us, old men and sycophants hold our future in hands that are fragile and soft, hands that have never held the steel. We are losing this war because of Russia. We have drained Germany of the strength and the power that could so easily have prevailed. The Russians are savages, led by subhuman Bolsheviks. But their numbers are too many and their land is too vast, and they have bled us dry. The British and the Americans know this with complete certainty, so what will they do? It is a question any schoolchild could understand. We are weakened now, and so they will come. They will come here, somewhere on this coastline, and if we do not meet them at the point of attack, if we do not destroy them on the beaches, they will keep coming.”
“Von Rundstedt disagrees with you.”
“They all disagree with me. I know what they believe. We should allow the enemy to land: Then our mighty Luftwaffe and our mighty panzers will strike them and destroy them. Yes, yes. I have heard that too many times. It is wrong. Damn them all, it is wrong. If we allow the enemy to plant his feet in the sand, we will never get him out. Last autumn, we held every advantage in Italy, the Bay of Salerno. Kesselring will destroy them on the beaches. Yes, I heard that. Now where is Kesselring? His back is pushed north and north again.”
“Kesselring has forced a stalemate, Erwin. Let us not forget that. He has held the enemy below Rome.”
“A stalemate? Are we so desperate that we now believe that a stalemate is a victory? There can be no stalemate here, Friedrich. I have seen what the Americans bring to this war. I have seen the tanks and guns and trucks. And one day soon, how many millions of those Americans will push their way into France? Von Rundstedt insists that the most brilliant strategy is simply to allow that to happen, then, once they are ashore, we can attack them and drive them into the sea. It is fantasy. No, worse, it is suicide. And men like Colonel Sasser deserve better.”
* * *
3. EISENHOWER
* * *
HAYES LODGE, MAYFAIR, LONDON
JANUARY 26, 1944
“The war could very well be over by April. In fact, should our plans continue unimpeded, I am quite certain of it.”
Eisenhower leaned back in his chair, already exhausted by Air Chief Marshal Harris’s bluster. He glanced at Smith, stroking his chin, could see that his chief of staff was itching to reply. It was Bedell Smith’s way to hold nothing back, a trait that had endeared him to no one but his boss. Eisenhower had always known that “Beetle” inspired a chorus of grumbling from the British, mostly deserved. He had a clumsiness to him; his attempts at diplomacy always fell short. But now, an indiscreet missile launched at the arrogance of this British air marshal would have been perfectly appropriate.
Harris, oblivious to the frowns, continued. “We have quite perfected the art of the massed bombing attack, you know. The Hun tried it against us, and, dare I say, it was only the stiff backbone of the British people that prevented it from working.” He paused, a professorial tilt to his head, speaking to inattentive students. “In 1940, you know. Our splendid resolve in the face of certain disaster. What we of course refer to as the Battle for Britain.” Eisenhower nodded, forced himself to hide a screaming need for sarcasm.
“Yes, I am familiar with the term. I have made it a point to study the history of the past four years.”
Harris seemed satisfied that his lesson had taken hold. “Well, yes, of course. Naturally, the Germans have no such pride, and thus, by widespread destruction of their cities, we shall achieve what Mr. Hitler could not. We shall utterly destroy the enemy’s will to fight. It is a grand spectacle, you know. One simply cannot imagine the power, the pure delight at seeing a thousand heavy bombers letting loose their loads to deliver what could only…well, I daresay the Almighty Himself would be impressed. Every one of these missions produces a rain of fire of biblical proportions. And, as I said, it will end this war. All this nonsense about land forces, amphibious invasion…such a waste.”
Eisenhower could feel Smith twisting in his chair and glanced at him again, the silent order: No, keep quiet, not now. This jackass is, after all, our ally.
Air Marshal Arthur “Bomber” Harris was a thick-chested bull of a man whose credentials included combat hours in a fighter plane in World War I. Now, he commanded the Allies’ strategic bombing campaigns. Harris had worked hard to gain approval for his strategies and was in part responsible for the plans that had nearly obliterated the German city of Cologne in 1942, a devastating attack that had impressed even Winston Churchill. Harris’s was the loudest voice among many of the air commanders, including several Americans, whose faith in the heavy bombers had convinced them that Operation Overlord was not only a waste of time but would cost far more than it would gain. It was one more argument that Eisenhower didn’t need.
“Marshal Harris, I appreciate your input. I believe your statement is a bit optimistic.”
Harris seemed wounded. “But you must
understand. Even your president has stated that absolute destruction of the enemy is our most desired alternative.”
Eisenhower closed his eyes for a brief moment. He knew exactly what Harris was referring to. “What President Roosevelt said was that we should accept only unconditional surrender from the enemy. I believe now, as I believed then, that the president’s choice of words was an unfortunate error. It is not my place to correct anything the president says, but now we must all live with the consequences of that…um…policy.”
“A good policy, I assure you. In fact, the only policy we should aspire to.”
“No, Marshal Harris, it is not. What we have done is unite the German people behind the fanatical ravings of their oppressive leaders. Their propaganda ministry has made great play of this, you know. The German people are being told that our only goal is to wipe their nation off the map. Instead of taking away their will to fight, we have given them a cause to fight us even harder. Destroying their cities will only convince the German people that what the president said is accurate. That plays directly into the ranting of Hitler and his goons.” He stopped. Griping about the president was a bad idea, especially to a senior British commander. Harris wore the smirk of a man who has failed to enlighten the uneducated, but Eisenhower had endured all he could. “I must ask you to excuse us, Marshal Harris. I have many appointments still to attend to. I’m sure a man in your position understands.”
Harris seemed to ponder the message. “Yes, of course. But be assured, despite all this enthusiasm for your land invasion, if allowed the opportunity, the Allied air forces can end this war. End it absolutely, with minimal casualties. Is that not our common goal?”
“Certainly. Thank you for your reminder.”
Harris was up now, a short bow toward Eisenhower. He seemed to ignore Smith, spun around, and was quickly out the door. Eisenhower felt the air flow out of the room, a great deflating balloon. Smith put both hands on his head, smoothed back his hair.
“Good God, Ike. That man’s insufferable.”
“Yep.” Eisenhower thought a moment. “You ever do a jigsaw puzzle?”
Smith seemed caught off guard by the question. “Uh, no.”
“Pain in the ass. Ten thousand pieces, all of them the same, supposed to fit neatly together. But then, you find out they’re not cut the same: little differences, no matching parts. You spend a damned hour finding two pieces that work, and you’re no better off than you were before. That’s what this is, a big damned jigsaw puzzle. Ten thousand generals, plus a few civilians thrown in just to make it interesting. No, check that. Just to make it impossible. FDR makes one damned statement without asking anybody if it’s a good idea and changes this whole war. Unconditional surrender. Can you believe that? Dammit, Beetle, not one of these people who are belly-aching about Overlord have any idea what the German soldier is like. I guarantee you, every damned Kraut private has been told about Unconditional Surrender. Every damned one of them now thinks we’re out to destroy his country. And these air people, like this jackass Harris, keep insisting that if we destroy their cities, the Germans will just quit. All we’re doing is making them fight harder.”
Smith seemed to measure Eisenhower’s mood. He chose his words carefully. “They’re right about one thing, Ike. We’re blasting their factories. That’s already making a difference. We keep targeting them—”
“The Brits bomb at night, Beetle. Almost no chance of precision. Sure, they might wipe out a few factories, but the worst job is ours. The damned B-17s make their runs in the daylight, and we’re getting our asses chewed up by the Kraut fighters. For every target we eliminate, we lose too many of our own pilots. We can’t ask the air boys to do all the damned work while the rest of us sit back and watch. And, it won’t work anyway, no matter what that blowhard Harris says. End the war by April, for God’s sake. April.”
Eisenhower saw the blue uniform at the door, the one smiling face in the entire headquarters. It was his naval aide, Harry Butcher.
“What the hell do you want?”
Butcher looked at Smith but knew not to ask questions. He had seen too many of Eisenhower’s bad moods. “Sorry to interrupt, chief, but General Patton has been waiting for a while.”
Smith laughed. “Killed anybody yet? Old George isn’t the most patient man in this army.”
“Shut up, Beetle. Let me talk to George alone. This day is only going to get worse.”
Smith started toward the door. “Sure thing, Ike. I have to meet with some of Monty’s people in a half hour. Some bitching about gasoline.”
“Don’t tell me about it until the problem is solved.”
Eisenhower was alone now, a brief gasp of calm. He leaned his head back and stared up through the dull white of the ceiling. You know, he thought, if this ever ends, I think I’ll go grow corn in Kansas.
“I saw Bomber Harris outside. Not such a pleasant sort. Okay for a Brit.”
Eisenhower knew Patton would have plenty to say, no matter what the topic. He looked at the man’s belt and saw the two pistols. “George, why in hell are you armed? I haven’t seen a single damned German in these offices yet.”
Patton shrugged, unfazed. “Good for the men, Ike. Those guards out there, they understand. All these damned staffers, clerks, secretaries. Inspires them, lets them know what we’re about. Makes every one of them want to join the fight, find out what it really takes to win this thing.”
“Where the hell did you get the pearl handles?”
Patton seemed to inflate, his eyes wide. “Dammit, Ike, not you too! Who in hell would carry a pearl-handled revolver? Pimps in whorehouses and tinhorn gamblers! They’re ivory! The real stuff, finest around. I’d have killed the elephant myself if I had to.”
Eisenhower had no energy for this. “Wouldn’t have had to, George. He’d have rolled over at your feet for the honor of giving you the damned tusks.”
Patton calmed, stuck out his chin, and nodded. “Damn right. Some Kraut bastard sticks his head out, and I’ll show him why.”
Eisenhower looked down toward his desk drawer. Whatever you say, George, he thought. Just keep those damned things holstered for now. He reached into a drawer and pulled out a folder of papers.
“You’ve been briefed on your new assignment? Beetle fill you in?”
Patton seemed to grunt at the mention of the name, and Eisenhower knew it was one more cross he had to bear. Patton might have harsh opinions for every officer in the war, but he especially seemed to hate Bedell Smith. Patton squared himself in the chair. “I know my job. The Third Army will make you proud, Ike. I told you. I always knew if you just had faith, I’d come through.”
“You don’t make it easy.”
Patton seemed suddenly subdued, a transparent show of humility that Eisenhower saw through. He knew what was coming.
“I owe you, Ike. Always will. You stuck behind me, you and Marshall both. When I heard you had been put in command of this whole operation, I told…well, everyone. No better man. None. You’re going down as one of the best in history, better than Napoleon. The enemy hasn’t got a prayer in hell with you at the wheel. I won’t let you down, I promise you that, Ike.”
Eisenhower held up his hand. He felt buried in molasses. “Stop! Look George, just keep your mouth shut, all right? No talking to the press, no speeches, no big damned tours. And stay the hell out of hospitals.”
“Absolutely, Ike. You can count on me.”
“We’re all counting on you.” The words were useless, Eisenhower falling into Patton’s trap. Yes, we all count on everyone. We’re all one big damned football team. Rah, rah.
“Bradley’s a fine choice, Ike. First class. Always thought highly of him. He’ll come through. It’s a pleasure to be in his command.”
It was a gesture from Patton. Eisenhower looked hard at him and thought, Is it really?
“How about Monty?”
Patton sniffed, shrugged. “Monty’s okay. You’ll have to prod him though, keep on his ass. Too d
amned methodical for my taste. Waits until every damned duck is in a row before he moves. I could have nailed down Sicily by myself, you know, if you’d let me.”
“Knock it off, George. I didn’t bring you here to lecture me or hear your opinions. Your HQ all set up?”
Patton seemed to calm himself, an effort to become the good subordinate. “Met them last night. Not too happy about that, Ike. My troops aren’t scheduled to arrive for weeks yet. No one’s giving me a straight answer. Beetle wouldn’t tell me how long it would take for the first divisions to ship in.”
“Not weeks, months. Beetle didn’t tell you any more than that because those were my orders. I need to talk to you about the plan myself.”
Patton seemed to sag. “What’s going on, Ike? You changing your mind? Some stinking goddam senator put a bug up Marshall’s ass? Am I still in command of the Third Army?”
Eisenhower let out a long breath. He could see Patton’s face turning red. “Relax, George. Yes, you are in command of the Third Army. But you won’t hit France until the beachheads are well in hand. That’s for Monty to do, and Bradley. You will go in after them, try like hell to punch a hole, drive the enemy back to Germany. Nobody I’d rather have in charge of that kind of job than you. You got that?”
Patton looked at the floor for a moment. “Not really. You don’t want me to lead the assault? I did a damned fine job of that in Sicily. Is this Monty’s crap? He still pissed about Messina? Hell, if he’d gotten off his ass and shoved his people where they needed to be—”
“Stop!”
Patton was leaning forward, clearly angry; Eisenhower pointed a finger at him.
“That’s why, George. Some jobs require thought and planning before the shooting starts. Monty’s a thinker, Brad is a thinker. You…you lead with your fists. Fine, that’s a good thing. I’m counting on you for that…when the time comes. But I have a much more important job for you right here.”