by Jeff Shaara
The scowl returned, the humor gone completely. Patton turned away.
“I’ve had enough of this. What moron thinks anyone will be fooled by this stupidity? Tanks you can bust up with a BB gun? Empty tents? The only one deceived is that damned bull. Excuse me, gentlemen, but I’ve not known many cattle that possessed vastly superior intellect.”
He walked quickly away from the others, back toward the one solid building on the grounds, realizing MacLeod was keeping pace with him.
The colonel said in a low voice, “If I may speak with you privately, General?”
Patton stared straight ahead, would not look at the rubber tanks, the long rows of tents. He knew MacLeod to be a good man and could not just ignore him. Glancing over his shoulder, he said, “They have lunch around here, or is that fake too?”
“The radio traffic out of my headquarters has been steady, and frankly, sir, we’re pretty impressed with the results. We know Jerry is listening, and there has already been one air raid against one of our transmitting stations. That was a very pleasing result, especially since no one was injured.”
Patton listened, took a bite from a sandwich, tried to find some flavor in the nondescript meat. MacLeod continued.
“We’ve been broadcasting all manner of innocuous snippets, including requisitions for cold-weather gear, ski fittings, snow boots, everything an army would need to prepare for a landing in Norway.”
Patton swallowed. “You really think it’s working, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir, I do. With all respect, sir, there is one enormous advantage in our favor. The Jerries want to believe this. They want to believe we are going into Norway and Calais. It makes logical strategic sense. We know Hitler has kept Norway occupied by more than a quarter million troops, and every indication is that they’re staying put. That’s a stunning accomplishment, sir, stunning. Consider if those troops were suddenly moved to Normandy, how events might be turned, the scale be tipped. They believe they have discovered our real intentions because it fits with what they want us to do. That’s why Fortitude will work. If I didn’t believe that, I would feel very much as you do. I don’t especially relish wasting what remains of my career commanding ghosts.”
Patton finished the sandwich and swirled cold coffee in his mouth. He knew MacLeod was a veteran of the First World War and had been heavily decorated, something Patton had to respect. He pointed to the man’s head. “I hear you carry some metal around with you.”
MacLeod seemed frustrated at the distraction. “Yes, sir. Steel plate in my skull. Pretty extensive actually, a rather serious wound.”
“This is a hell of a way to reward a hero. You don’t feel they’re just sticking you out to pasture?” Patton thought of the bull. “So to speak.”
“I was already out to pasture. There wasn’t much for a beat-up old soldier to do. Frankly, I thought they had forgotten about me. This assignment is an honor. If it works, it may change the entire war.”
“If it works.”
“Dammit, General!”
Patton was surprised, MacLeod showing a flash of temper. The colonel calmed himself, and Patton thought, He’s sticking up for himself. Good. He saw that MacLeod had ignored his lunch and pushed his own plate away.
“Listen, Colonel. I thought Ike brought me to England so I could kick some Kraut asses. Every day I hear promises about, yeah, well, all that will come later. First I have to stand in a field watching bulls hump phony trucks. Ike knows I should have stayed in Italy. I could have done a whole lot more at Salerno or Anzio than Clark or anyone else. So instead we’re stuck in molasses down there, getting chewed up every day because no one knows how to take a fight to the enemy! But I can’t bitch too much about that because I know Ike’s out on a limb for me. There’s a bunch of Brits and a few Americans who’d love to see my ass hanging in the breeze. All right, fine. I know how to follow orders, so here I am, following them. But I don’t have to like it. And I don’t. I have no idea if this plan will work.”
He paused, saw a grim angry stare on MacLeod’s face, felt suddenly scolded. Dammit, he thought, I can’t just bellyache like this, not to this man. He’s seen more combat than I have, and he’s paid a hell of a lot greater price for it. Steel in his skull, for God’s sake.
Patton looked down, a moment of quiet between them, then said, “You really think this is working, Colonel?”
“I am certain of it, sir. So far, anyway. There is always the danger that the enemy will discover the deception. A great many things can go wrong. But when is that not the case? Consider Overlord. My God, if the invasion fails, we may lose this war. I have been given an opportunity to help, and by damn, I’m helping. You have the same opportunity, sir. I should think—with all respect, sir—I should think you would show some enthusiasm for that. We’d all like to be killing Jerries, and for you anyway, that time could come. For me—well, my combat days have passed.” He paused. “Napoleon said it: Glory is fleeting, but obscurity is forever. I’ve had my glory on the battlefield, but I’m not ready to disappear into obscurity. This is the best war I can fight, and, forgive me, sir, but if it turns out it’s the best war you can fight, why not give it a go?”
“Leave it alone, Colonel. I still hate this. But we’ll make it work.”
KNUTSFORD
APRIL 25, 1944
Patton sat in silence, the car passing small farms, bare brown fields, some just planted. He could not help thinking of MacLeod. He’d been curious about the man’s wound, how the doctors knew to put steel in a man’s skull, how much, where, how it was fastened. Have to watch that sometime, he thought. Find a surgeon who will let me have a look. Hell, if he’s one of mine, I’ll just order him to let me watch. They put screws in or what? Maybe they use a regular old screwdriver. Damn strange stuff.
MacLeod had returned to Scotland, to his counterfeit headquarters beneath Edinburgh Castle. Patton had appreciated the man’s frankness. MacLeod had given him far more details about the northern half of the operation than Patton had known before. Despite MacLeod’s seriousness and his optimism, Patton still believed it was pure stupidity. This had to be a British idea, he thought. Ike going along full tilt because he loves them, thinks they know everything about fighting a war. All they’ve done so far is lose. If we hadn’t shown up, they’d still be in North Africa: Montgomery, that loud-mouthed jerk; Brooke; all of them. Ike’s crawling into bed with them, and why? Marshall tell him to? Can’t be, just can’t. Maybe it’s MacArthur. There has to be one major tug-of-war in Washington, MacArthur leaning hard on every senator he knows to get us to send everything to the Pacific. Damned stupid mistake, if that happens. So, all right, go along with the damned Brits, lick the Krauts first. Blow Hitler all to hell, and then keep the Russians from taking over Europe. God, I hate politics. There’s a hell of a lot of problems in this world that could be fixed with a couple of tank divisions. But don’t anybody ask me about that.
He stared out the window, saw children, a village, larger homes, a cluster of shops. Ike knows I scare hell out of the Germans, he thought, so they find a way to make sure I don’t actually fight them. Third Army, sure. I’ll believe that when it happens. If Monty gets tossed back into the ocean, the Third Army will be guarding our asses as we limp back to New Jersey. His mind wandered, absorbing the signs: a small bake shop, another beside it, a large sign that said simply SHOES. I wonder, he thought, if I’m as good as people think I am. He smiled, shook his head. Or as good as I think I am. Damn it all, I may never get a chance to find out.
The car was slowing to a stop. He saw a crowd, a large banner: WELCOME AMERICANS. He grimaced, had not wanted to be here at all, had turned down the official invitation to speak. But his appearance was at the special request of the Ministry of Information, and Patton appreciated the flattery. The gathering was a celebration for the opening of an official welcome station for American troops, a gesture of thanks as well as a morale booster for any units stationed in the area around Knutsford.
He lea
ned forward. “We late, Sergeant?”
His aide checked his watch. “Just a few minutes, sir.”
He tapped the driver on the shoulder. “Good going. But you could have gone slower still. Maybe it will take me a few minutes to get out of the damned car. Sergeant, hold up some papers or something, let’s make it look like we’re busy as hell in here. Take your damned time about it, then come around and open the door. Gotta make a good show.”
“Yes, sir.”
Patton sat back, forced himself not to look at the waiting throng, focused on his aide. You’re a good man, Alex, damned good man. I’d love to see a bar full of British drunks try to corner you. He had chosen Sergeant Alex Stiller to serve on his staff in Sicily, primarily as his bodyguard. Stiller, an unpolished and rugged stick of a man, had come through the service in Patton’s tanks. Now he traveled everywhere Patton went, whether the job was dangerous or not. Patton couldn’t help looking at the gathering civilians, saw photographers, made a silent groan, thought, What could be more dangerous than this bunch?
“Okay, Alex. Lemme at ’em.”
He waited for Stiller to open the door, took his time, stood tall, pulled at his jacket. The photographers pressed toward him, and he held up his hands.
“Hang on, boys,” he said in a loud voice, “I’m not here officially. You can’t print anything I say or do, and no pictures for the papers. You got that?”
There was nothing friendly in his voice, and they lowered the cameras, seemed utterly dejected.
“Well, all right, look. Take a few pictures if you want. But hang on to them. Nothing can be published. At least not yet. You got that?”
They eagerly agreed. Patton posed briefly, then looked past them, saw the entrance to the soldiers’ club and a large elderly woman waving to him. Oh, dear God, save me.
He scanned the program, saw a blank line where his name would go, noticed they had made a hasty edit, changing the description of his visit, replacing their wishful thinking for his official role, replacing the description with “offers his blessing.” Damn it, I told them I couldn’t officiate, no damned speech. That sort of thing makes Ike’s kidneys bleed. Just be pleasant to everybody, be polite. He forced himself to smile and stared out at the crowd, several dozen civilians, mostly women in bright dresses and hats. Many were smiling back at him, and he nodded, showed dutiful appreciation, tried to avoid the drone of the speaker, a woman he now knew as Mrs. Smith, the chairman of the committee that had organized whatever details had been required to open the club. Beside him, a woman suddenly stood, and Patton realized she had been introduced, caught her name, Jeffery, and watched as the woman strode daintily toward the microphone, hefty applause from the audience. She turned toward him now.
“Before we complete the program, I know we should be ever so grateful if the general flatters us with a few words. We are certainly aware that you are not here officially, sir, and of course your presence will not be disclosed. I assure you, no one will repeat anything you say. Would you please, sir, just a few friendly words?”
Patton held the smile, the crowd applauding far louder now, his brain firing a tank gun into the woman’s irritating smile. Now the Smith woman was standing, egging on the crowd, more generous compliments, his name called out. He stood, waved weakly to the noisy throng, moved toward the microphone. His gut was turning over, ice in his chest, and he steadied himself on the podium, thinking, Short, keep it short. Friendly. Then get the hell out of here.
“I am grateful for the efforts you ladies have put into creating a welcome club for our soldiers. Previous to today, my only experience in welcoming anyone has been to welcome Germans and Italians to the Infernal Regions. In this I have been quite successful.”
There was a burst of applause, entirely expected, and he smiled, waved, waited for the noise to quiet.
“I feel that such clubs as these are a real value, because I believe with Mr. Bernard Shaw—I think it was he—that the British and Americans are two people separated by a common language, and since it is the evident destiny of the British and the Americans”—he paused, an alarm in his head—“and of course the Russians, to rule the world, the better we know each other, the better the job we will do. A club like this is an ideal place for making such acquaintances and for promoting mutual understanding. Also, as soon as our soldiers meet and know the English ladies, and write home and tell our women how truly lovely you are, the sooner the American ladies will get jealous and force this war to a quick termination, and I will get a chance to go and kill Japanese.”
The applause followed him back to his seat, and he kept the smile, held it painfully through the rest of the speeches.
After a long hour, the gathering had concluded, and Patton moved back to his car with as much purpose as he could politely muster. The aides were waiting, Stiller holding the door, and behind him the ladies called out, waving hands and handkerchiefs, calls of flirtatious gratitude. He sank into the seat and waited desperate seconds for Stiller to put himself into the front seat.
“Go, dammit!”
The car began to move, the voices of the crowd drifting away behind him. Stiller turned toward him.
“Did it go well, sir?”
“Very well. They loved me.” Patton let out a breath. “I’m just glad it’s over.”
* * *
10. EISENHOWER
* * *
SHAEF, BUSHEY PARK
APRIL 26, 1944
“Rule the world? He told them we’re going to rule the world?”
“Apparently so, sir.”
Eisenhower stared up at the ceiling, felt crushed into the chair. “What the hell is the matter with that man? Is he just thick-headed, or is this some plot of his to drive me insane so he can take over running the damned war!”
Beetle Smith said nothing. Butcher was at the door now.
“Chief, two more. Papers from Leeds and Buckingham.”
“Keep them the hell out of here. Five are enough. I doubt if every one of them misquoted the dumb son of a bitch. Harry, send one of the secretaries in here. Make it Captain Pinette. I need to cable Marshall. If we’re lucky, this can be contained right here, maybe no one back home will hear about it.”
“I doubt that,” Smith said. “This will go off like a bomb in the States. George has too many enemies, and there’s a lot of pressure on the president as it is. There are a few senators who will jump all over this.”
“You’re a fountain of cheer, Beetle.”
The secretary came in, a young woman who had been on Eisenhower’s staff since Algeria.
“Sit down, Mattie. We need to put out a fire.”
She sat, pad of paper in hand, with a questioning glance toward Smith. Eisenhower said, “You’ll know everything soon enough, Captain. This is a cable to be sent immediately to General Marshall.” He thought a moment. “All right, take this down:
It seems that General Patton has broken out again. I regret that the man is unable to use reasonably good sense in all those matters where senior commanders must appreciate the effects of their own action upon public opinion.”
He paused, watched as she wrote furiously, catching up to him.
“I have serious doubts at this juncture as to the wisdom of retaining him in high command despite his demonstrated capacity in battlefield leadership. I have grown so damned weary—no, strike that—I have grown so weary of the trouble he constantly causes you and the war department, to say nothing of myself, that I am seriously contemplating the most drastic action. I would prefer some comment from you before any final decision is made.”
He waited for her to stop writing.
“Finished, sir. Should I read it back?”
“Just show the typed cable to General Smith and make sure it goes out right away.”
He saw Butcher lurking in the doorway.
“What the hell am I supposed to do, Harry? How much hot water can this man plunge into? He’s not satisfied just slapping his own troops…. Are we certain these
newspaper quotes are accurate?”
“Let me grab the other papers, Chief. They seem pretty consistent.”
Butcher disappeared briefly, returned with a thick wad of newspaper, scanned, shuffling the papers in his hand.
“This one says he mentions the Russians. That could be more accurate. Yep, here, again, he mentions the Russians. ‘The British and the Americans and the Russians will rule the world.’ That’s not as bad, is it, Chief?”
“Thank God for small favors. But it could still hang him. I don’t know how many Americans relish the thought of the Russians ruling the world. Damn it all! How in hell are we going to blunt this?”
He saw the young woman at the door again.
“The cable has been sent, sir.”
“Thank you, Mattie. What time is it in Washington, five A.M.? If they haven’t heard of this by now, that cable ought to wake somebody up.”
Word had crossed the ocean far more quickly than Eisenhower had imagined, and within hours the wire services had relayed Patton’s comments to newspapers all over the country. The outcry was predictable and deafening, and within hours Eisenhower received Marshall’s reply.
Like you, I have considered the matter purely on a business basis. I am weary as well, but his relentless abilities on the battlefield must be considered. The final judgment as to his usefulness to this army rests in your hands.
He put the paper down. Empty, the office seemed cavernous, the stark silence revealing the thunder in his brain. So it’s my problem? Well, I suppose that’s appropriate. If we kick Patton out the door, there is one alternative for command of the Third Army. Courtney Hodges can get the job done. I think. But he doesn’t have Patton’s experience, and, unless he’s kept it well hidden, he doesn’t have Patton’s bulldog drive. If I toss George to the wolves, it could cost us in terms that no bitching senator or newspaperman could understand. Isn’t that the priority, after all? No, George, I can’t fire you. Not yet anyway. But how many more times will this happen?