by Jeff Shaara
“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?”
“Oh, there’s one more thing, Chief. The reason I came here in the first place. Sorry.”
Eisenhower heard the change in Butcher’s voice, more serious now.
“I have a feeling I should sit up.”
“I’d stay lying down for this, Chief. I just spoke to Beetle, and he said the prime minister’s office has informed us that once you’ve made your final decision about the timetable for the invasion, we should seriously consider revealing that information to Charles de Gaulle. Beetle says the prime minister thinks there will be some kind of diplomatic stink if the invasion goes off and de Gaulle doesn’t know about it in advance. The French have been making noises about de Gaulle flying up to England, to be an active part of whatever plans we’re making.”
Eisenhower sat up. “An active part? I know what that means, Harry. It means de Gaulle will come waltzing in here and expect to take charge. He’s still in Algiers, right?”
“That’s what Beetle says.”
It was a diplomatic quagmire Eisenhower had tried to avoid since the campaign in North Africa. After the collapse of the French army four years earlier, Charles de Gaulle had anointed himself leader of the Free French struggle against German occupation, first in London and then in his newly established administrative center in Algeria. The self-promotion had come as a surprise to everyone, including many of the French commanders who held station in Algeria. De Gaulle had been a faint blip on the French radar, a low-level general. But the sheer force of his personality and ego had swept most of the remaining French leaders aside, and now his people pulled most of the strings that coordinated the activities of the Maquis, the French underground. For the most part, the Maquis had been effective, a serious thorn in the Germans’ side, sabotaging installations, destroying facilities, attacking supply lines and convoys. The Allied planners knew that once the Normandy invasion began, de Gaulle would most likely order the Maquis to launch their own full-scale military campaign throughout occupied France. It was hard to fault French enthusiasm for liberating their own country, but despite de Gaulle’s bluster, the Maquis had never been equipped to stand up to German forces. No matter what might happen in Normandy, should the Maquis attempt to confront the Germans face-to-face they would most likely be slaughtered. Eisenhower had successfully convinced several French generals that the Maquis needed to be kept on a leash, but ultimately those men answered to de Gaulle, and no one expected de Gaulle to sit idly by while the Allies invaded his country. But regardless of any role the French underground might play, Eisenhower knew that informing de Gaulle of the timetable for Overlord had one serious drawback. Algiers was already well-known as a hotbed of German spy activity, and de Gaulle’s own offices were described by Allied intelligence as little more than a wet sponge: Squeeze it and it dripped information.
Eisenhower swung his feet onto the wooden floor of the tent, trying to ignore the itching torment in his eye. “Tell Beetle to contact Churchill directly, and have a cable sent to the president as well. I’m not making any decisions about this without hearing from the top. As far as I’m concerned, de Gaulle can stay put in Algiers, but I know that’s not going to fly. If we
can hold off giving him any information until the last possible minute, that has to be the best course. I’ve been avoiding this, but I know damn well that we need him to issue a broadcast to the French people, telling them…well, hell, I don’t know, telling them to stay calm. How the hell does anybody stay calm when your country’s being invaded? But we can’t have the underground running all over hell shooting things up, especially anywhere near Normandy. We’ll have enough confusion out there as it is. That’s all Leigh-Mallory needs to hear, that a bunch of our paratroopers got shot up by trigger-happy Frenchmen. I’m not saying anything to de Gaulle until I get orders. So get me some orders.”
“Right away, Chief.”
Butcher slipped back outside and Eisenhower stood, energized now, and moved to a small mirror hanging on a tent post above a small washbasin. He leaned close, the eye still bad, and dipped the cloth into the basin. To hell with this, he thought. I’ve had enough of a nap. He looked again toward the tent flaps, heard the roar of the rain close overhead. Not much of anything is going to matter unless this weather changes. He moved toward the tent flaps, a cold stiff breeze pushing them open, a pool of rainwater spreading out on the wooden floor. Just wonderful, he thought. We have a three-day window to launch this operation. If we don’t make that, we’re looking at two weeks or longer. To hell with de Gaulle. I can’t think about that jackass right now. I have a million men on this island—no, hell, two million—waiting for me to kick this army into gear. And a hundred fifty thousand soldiers who need me to tell them when to oil their rifles and load up their transports. We’re one big damned coiled spring, and I’m holding the trigger. He reached for his raincoat. Let’s send word to all those damned weathermen, he thought. I need them right next to me. This is May thirty-first. Five days for this mess to move past, and that’s it. There’s a big beautiful blue sky up there somewhere, and if we don’t see some sign of it very soon, we’re in serious trouble.
* * *
14. EISENHOWER
* * *
SOUTHWICK PARK, NEAR PORTSMOUTH
JUNE 2, 1944
Churchill chewed furiously on his cigar. “I have extended the invitation for Mr. de Gaulle to return to London. Gave me indigestion, but I did it anyway. I have been assured by the Foreign Office that he will be most willing to record the appropriate message for broadcast. Too many optimists in the Foreign Office. I have my doubts.”
Eisenhower said nothing but glanced at Jan Smuts, the South African nodding in agreement.
“General, do you have your own text prepared?” Smuts said. “The wording must be chosen carefully.”
“Not yet. I think it should be pretty straightforward, just telling the French people that we’re launching a massive military operation to drive the Germans out of their country. I’ll leave the embellishments to de Gaulle.”
Churchill held the cigar out, examined it with a scowl, spit a small piece of something dark to one side, and stuffed the cigar back into his mouth. “He thinks he’s bloody Joan of Arc. Maybe we should round up a few Catholic bishops who are handy with a bonfire.”
Eisenhower heard a small chuckle from Smuts. He stared out the large window, a dull haze of fog spreading out on the water, the same gray skies he had cursed for days.
Churchill seemed to follow his gaze, rose, and padded toward the window, his hands resting on his hips. “Not that our own clerics are particularly helpful. You hear about the Archbishop of Canterbury?”
Eisenhower knew what Churchill was referring to, but Smuts said, “My word. You having some sort of row with him? What on earth did you do…this time?”
Churchill turned and looked at Smuts with mock annoyance. “You assume it was my fault? Wrong, old chap. The archbishop is a fine man, nothing but good intentions. Unfortunately, those intentions have caused something of a problem. Apparently, someone in our circle of privileged information thought it was acceptable to fill the archbishop in on the date for D-Day. He responded as all good clerics would respond. Thought it would be a jolly swell idea that, with so much at stake, we should designate June fifth as a national day of prayer.”
“Not the best idea I ever heard,” Eisenhower said. “Might just give the enemy a slight heads-up as to our plans.”
Smuts shook his head. “I would say so. Someone…er…shut him up, as it were?”
Churchill laughed. “Well put, sir. I certainly wouldn’t object to anyone offering their prayers at a time like this. After all, if there’s a God up there to listen, I would suspect He’d pay a great deal more attention to the archbishop than He would, say, to me. We advised the archbishop to pray all he wants to but, for the time being, to keep it to himself. I phrased it a bit more delicately than that, of course.” Churchill turned again toward the window for a silent moment. “Your next weather briefing is…when, Ike?”
“Tonight. Group Captain Stagg has been in constant contact with the whole lot of weather experts. I’m going to have them all here, have them speak to me face-to-face. Things are…tightening up. They keep telling me weather is neutral, as though it absolves them of any responsibility. I corrected that baloney in a hurry. I’ve drilled it into them how much is riding on what they can tell us. All those boys out in remote weather stations—Nova Scotia, Greenland—they suddenly found out we’re looking over their damned shoulders. I want them to get it right.”
Churchill turned and looked at him, the man’s round shape outlined in the soft glow from the window. “I’m going along, you know.”
Eisenhower was confused by the change of topic. “Going along…where?”
Churchill held his hands on his hips, his words flowing out in a pronouncement. “The invasion, of course. I insist upon it. I have informed Admiral Ramsay to place me aboard the appropriate vessel. I should like to fire a few rounds into the Jerries myself, once we’re in position.”
Eisenhower had heard rumors of this but had thought it was Churchill’s usual brand of playful humor. But the man seemed serious. “You’re not joking.”
Churchill seemed bruised. “I am bloody well not joking! I have been looking forward to this for some time! I shall demonstrate to our boys that there is no place we will order them to go that their prime minister will not accompany them. I sense disapproval. Both of you.” He motioned toward Smuts. “The field marshal here has been on my backside about this for two days. But I don’t care. There are no decisions in my charge that cannot be made aboard ship. By damn, I’m going to watch our boys cross those beaches!”
There was a solid tone of defiance in Churchill’s voice, and Eisenhower knew it was not an argument he could win. Churchill turned toward the window again. He seemed to sway, rocking front to back on his feet.
“I should point out to you, Ike, that even the supreme commander of this operation has no authority over the complement of a British naval vessel.”
Eisenhower kept his protests quiet. Churchill was far too eloquent. If there was a debate, Eisenhower wouldn’t stand a chance.
Within hours after Churchill had left Eisenhower’s company, a phone call was made from Eisenhower’s headquarters, the case presented, and the decision made by the one authority Churchill could not ignore, the one man who could sway him. Almost immediately, Churchill received a call. The order was firm and direct. King George told his prime minister that if it was too dangerous for the king to accompany his troops, it was too dangerous for Churchill. Despite Churchill’s unbounded enthusiasm for the mission, his king instructed him to stay put. It was one more headache put aside, one more battle Eisenhower was thankful he did not have to fight.
SOUTHWICK PARK, NEAR PORTSMOUTH
JUNE 4, 1944
They sat scattered about the large dark room, men in soft chairs or sunk into the wide sofa. To one side, facing the sea, a thick curtain had been drawn over the wide window. Outside, the number of Eisenhower’s so called snowballs had been increased, white-helmeted MPs patrolling the predawn darkness close to the house; farther away, more troops patrolled the
lanes and quiet roadways beyond the grounds of the estate. It was a necessary precaution. Word was coming through Ultra intercepts and British intelligence that German agents were on the prowl, seeking to learn where the supreme commander was having his high-level meetings. For the first time he could recall, Eisenhower had ordered his staff to carry sidearms, something no one had objected to.
All eyes were on one single officer, Group Captain Stagg, a grouchy Scot standing in front of a large map, displayed on an easel.
“The weather stations have reported appalling conditions, as far west as Greenland. The cold front is intensifying, and by midnight on June fifth, there will be a significant increase in seas, possibly as high as ten to twelve feet. Winds will reach—well, sirs, they will likely be gale force. Cloud cover will remain heavy. This system has all the signs of a typical December depression.”
Eisenhower waited for the others to respond, heard mumbles around the room. Stagg seemed to anticipate the response.
“Yes, I am aware it is June. But the patterns as they are developing are exactly what one would expect to see in this part of the world during winter. I have no better explanation for it.”
Eisenhower scanned the faces, Tedder gripping tightly to the ever-present pipe, Montgomery sitting back in his chair, expressionless. Across from Eisenhower, Ramsay and Leigh-Mallory sat side by side on the sofa, arms folded, staring at the weather map, sharing the same gloom.
“If your forecasts are accurate, tactical air operations will not be possible,” Leigh-Mallory said.
Tedder nodded, both airmen perfectly aware of what this weather would mean for bomber support. If the bombardiers couldn’t see the ground, they couldn’t aim at their targets.
“Quite right, I’m afraid,” Eisenhower said. “Admiral, what is your appraisal in terms of landing craft?”