by Jeff Shaara
Tedder was never one for hyperbole. Eisenhower absorbed the man’s confidence, held his hands folded under his chin, and said, “Not if more show up. When. There’s been too much noise from Berlin about this. It’s not a one-night event. How many, so far?”
“Shot down? Oh, none yet, sir.”
“No. How many bombs have there been? Total.”
“Four thus far, perhaps more. They came down all over blazes, so it’s sometimes hard to get the reports accurately. Only one did serious damage. Six dead, it appears.”
“Civilians?”
“Quite so, I’m afraid.”
“Keep me informed on this, Arthur. Hitler’s been crowing about his secret weapons for too long. I can’t really believe that this buzz bomb is the best he’s come up with. We’ve zeroed in on their facility on an island in the Baltic Sea, a town called Peenemünde. The bombs are being tested there, so we assume they’re building the damned things there as well.”
“Right. Sir, we should most definitely ratchet up the air strikes along the Calais and Belgian coasts. Those ski jumps finally have some meaning.”
“Pass that along to Spaatz, for certain. Leigh-Mallory should know as well. Well, hell, I don’t have to tell you. Let’s bust up as many of those damn launchers as we can before the enemy sends too many of those bombs this way. I know damned well Churchill is going to be on my ass about this. Your civilians don’t need any more belly blows.”
“Thank you, sir. We’re on it.” Tedder stood, one arm clamping his hat tightly to his side, turned, and went out and down the short steps of the truck.
Eisenhower sat back, heard the radio chatter, the unending flow of noise from the telegraph and code machines, manned by a staff crowded together shoulder to shoulder. He was suddenly anxious, could no longer sit in his small chair, staring at papers, statistics, and tallies. We’ve landed a third of a million men, he thought. Fifty-four thousand vehicles. All in a week’s work. Now, if I could just get them to do the job we need them to do. No, keep that to yourself. You start bitching about it, and there’ll be hell to pay, from Churchill on down. Best thing for me to do now is to put my face right up to Monty’s and grab him by the ears.
Eisenhower flew in a B-17, specially equipped and delivered to him by the Americans’ senior air commander in England, Tooey Spaatz. Eisenhower loved the B-17 and had often wanted to fire the machine guns himself, test out each battle station, crawl into the ball turret, maybe even test the tail gun. But he was too big. He marveled at the men who weren’t, who volunteered for those jobs, no fear of claustrophobia and even less fear that as their number of missions increased, they were likely to be shot out of the sky.
There had been another B-17 put at Eisenhower’s disposal, one provided by General Hap Arnold, the American air command’s most senior officer, who held his post close to George Marshall in Washington. But that plane was delivered to Eisenhower without any machine guns at all, which Arnold must have thought was appropriate for the SHAEF commander, as though Eisenhower would never put himself at risk by flying the plane anywhere near a combat zone. Arnold’s toothless B-17 remained parked in England. Whether or not Eisenhower would ever confront any danger in the air, he wanted machine guns.
MONTGOMERY’S HEADQUARTERS, CREULLY, NEAR BAYEUX
JUNE 14, 1944
“The landing strip was adequate, was it not? Really had to push those chaps to get it polished off. We’ll have those strips in every village before this is over, I assure you.”
Eisenhower was in no mood for Montgomery’s exaggerations. “The strip was fine. What happened at Villers-Bocage?”
Eisenhower saw the man’s chin tilt upward, the silent announcement that a well-rehearsed speech was about to begin.
“The Seventh Armored let us down, I’m afraid. Can’t truly fault those chaps. They’ve done spectacular work since Libya, and for that I shall always champion their name. But we threw them into line against Rommel’s finest. Any other time, it would have been a glorious victory. But there were difficulties, some errors that I would rather we avoided.”
Eisenhower glanced at the others. General Dempsey was staring down with a deep frown. Miles Dempsey was Omar Bradley’s equivalent, the senior ground commander in the British sector. He’s got something to say, Eisenhower thought, but he won’t do it here. This is Monty’s show.
“How quickly can you resume the advance?”
Montgomery seemed to ponder the question, looked past Eisenhower toward a map on the wall.
“The seventeenth, no doubt. I’m still sorting through events here, a great deal of the administrative tail to gather up. But Jerry is showing his weakness, and in due time his entire front will collapse. For now I would suggest we focus on the positive. Our successes have been exceptional. The pressure is being released on General Bradley’s forces, more every day. I count some five hundred Jerry tanks to our front, while no more than a hundred in the American sector. That should provide the energy for General Bradley to find his lost momentum. This entire strategy has worked as I planned it. I’m not seeking credit, of course. History will be the judge. There is a great deal of work still to do here, and this army will answer the call. Rommel knows he has met his match.”
Eisenhower felt the air thickening around him. No one shared Montgomery’s astounding level of cheer. Eisenhower stood, moved to the map, put a finger on Caen. He wanted to ask the question When the hell are you going to take that place? But there would be no answer, not with Montgomery in full bloom. Thank God there are no reporters here, he thought. Monty’s so full of hot air he might explode.
Eisenhower scanned the others. Dempsey was still looking down. He looked at Tedder, but there was no real role for the air commander here. Tedder had come along on the trip across the channel at Eisenhower’s request, both men welcoming the break from the offices at SHAEF. He knew Tedder had very little affection for Montgomery, could see it in his face. Yep, Eisenhower thought, all he wants to do is leave.
The meeting had lasted for two hours: reports of failure, senior commanders tossing their men into confused attacks. In the west, the Americans were finally making progress, the overall strategy there still emphasizing the capture of Cherbourg, the port that they all believed would open a vital artery for Allied supplies into France. But in the east, the British and Canadians had not met any of Montgomery’s goals. Eisenhower could not help thinking of Bradley’s disgust at Montgomery’s phase lines, so easy to draw on a map but now long forgotten even by Montgomery himself.
The Overlord strategy had called for envelopment and capture of the city of Caen as quickly as possible, and Montgomery’s boast that he could accomplish that in one day had been loudly broadcast to his officers. Now, more than a week later, the Germans held tightly to the crucial crossroads, and every attempt to dislodge them had failed. The latest had come two days before, the British armor driving to the right of Caen, to grab the town of Villers-Bocage. Capture of that town would open up a route into Caen from the west, a pincer movement that might compel the Germans to pull away from the city. But the attack on Villers-Bocage had been poorly managed and poorly fought, and nothing had been gained at all, despite many casualties. The British Seventh Armored Division had already proven themselves to everyone’s satisfaction. In North Africa, they were the fabled Desert Rats. Now, they were an overworked shell of what they had once been, and Montgomery’s attempt to use them as a hammer-head into the German defenses had been a near disaster.
Eisenhower still looked at the map, weighed his words.
“We need Caen, Monty. That is still Rommel’s major thoroughfare to Calais, and once he begins to bring those people into our front, we have a problem.”
Montgomery seemed annoyed. “You shall have it. No great victory can be won without considerable effort, and we are making that effort. You of all people should know, Ike, that we cannot be swayed by the doubts of others.”
OVER THE ENGLISH CHANNEL
JUNE 14, 1944
/> “What do you suppose he meant by others?”
Tedder sipped at his coffee, shrugged. “Monty sees ghosts in his closet, Ike. He knows he doesn’t make friends, and he knows he has enemies.”
“I’m not his enemy, dammit. I’m his commanding officer.”
“We’re all his enemy until this is over. He has his way of doing things, and the rest of us are just…interlopers.”
Eisenhower stared out the window, complete darkness, no light but the soft glow from the massive engines of the B-17.
“To hell with that. He shot his damned mouth off about taking Caen in one day. We’re no closer now than we were a week ago. Dammit, Rommel was fooled completely. I know that. He didn’t prepare for us to punch him where we did. We put a couple hundred thousand men ashore and the Germans still thought we were coming in somewhere else. From everything I can see, they still think we’re coming in at Calais too. Damnedest thing I’ve ever seen. A marvel. But we didn’t take advantage, Arthur. Not like we should have. Despite what Monty says, we’re bogging down. I’ve seen this before: in North Africa, in Italy. All those damned plans. We chose this ground and this enemy because they were not expecting us. And by damn, it worked! But we have failed to use that to our best advantage.”
Tedder said nothing, continued to sip his coffee. He glanced back at the machine gunners at their stations a few feet behind them, the wide openings at the waist of the plane. The young men seemed relaxed, each with one arm up and over his gun, staring into black night. Eisenhower caught Tedder’s look.
“Sergeant!”
One gunner jumped. “Sir!”
“Could you two give us a moment alone.”
The gunners glanced at each other, the sergeant pointed forward. “We’ll have a peek at the bombardier, sir. He’s a funny one, always with a dirty joke.”
Eisenhower waved them away, both men moving toward the front of the plane. Eisenhower looked down at the top of the ball turret, just beyond the bomb bay, and pointed. “I doubt he can hear anything.”
Tedder shook his head. “If that was me, you wouldn’t have to worry. I’d have fainted dead away, or they’d have had to pop me in the noggin to load me down there. He’s probably asleep anyway.”
The turret suddenly moved, a slight turn to the right, a silent response to Tedder’s words. Eisenhower remembered the man’s name, Brown, from somewhere in Georgia. He can’t hear us, but to do that job, to climb down inside that damned bowling ball—he’s the bravest man I ever saw. Doesn’t really matter if he can hear us or not. I trust him.
Eisenhower sat back, felt the cold, and pulled his coat tighter. “Monty’s tossing off some of this delay on Bradley. Glad Brad wasn’t there today. He’d have blown sky-high.”
“Suspect you’re right. Your man Bradley’s got some steel in his spine. Just a feeling I get. Monty doesn’t care for him. Doesn’t care for me either. Good perceptions all around.”
Eisenhower didn’t want this; he knew how Tedder felt, knew there were serious grumblings about Montgomery from almost everyone he commanded.
“This is still his command, Arthur. Overlord succeeded on those beaches in large part because of Monty’s planning. He’s entitled to see those plans through.”
“Is he, Ike? No matter what? You don’t hear the things I do, the things every British officer hears. There is real fear, fear that we’re going back to 1914 again. The worst curse word you can use to an Englishman these days is stalemate. Monty gripes about the Seventh Armored, but it’s the whole British army. I could never say this to him—or to anyone in my command. But what happens if we’re forced to sit in one spot and dig trenches? What happens if Rommel brings his Fifteenth Army down from Calais and swallows up Monty’s flank? I’m not talking about tactics and casualties. I’m talking about defeat. Churchill knows this. The British people can’t bear this much longer. This damnable new weapon Hitler has, the buzz bomb. That’s one more heavy blow, one more reason for people to say enough. Every family in England has lost someone, and they haven’t stopped grieving from the last war. We put an army in the field, but it’s not what we’d like it to be. All that blather about tradition, all that history: empire, kings, and great warriors. It’s done, Ike. England is bled dry. Right now, Monty is still a hero, and he still looks damned good in the newspapers, the rooster strut, that ridiculous beret. But he’s fallen on his face. Miles Dempsey knows it, de Guingand knows it. Monty’s putting on a good show, and he’ll keep strutting as long as you let him. But we should have knocked the enemy back on his arse, and we didn’t.”
Tedder paused, looked into the coffee cup.
“Monty can be as dismissive of Bradley as he likes, but I believe Bradley’s the best hope we have. Monty keeps insisting that everything is going according to plan, that he’s doing exactly what he planned to do, tying up the enemy’s armor around Caen to take pressure off the American flank. That’s pure bull, and you know it. But it doesn’t matter what Monty says. The fact is, the enemy is more heavily concentrated on our left, and the greater threat from Calais is on our left. If we have any advantage, it’s on the right, and Bradley has to act on that, whether he’s insulted by Monty’s attitude or not.”
Eisenhower felt the plane slowing, on its approach to the base. “Brad knows what he has to do. It’s my job to give him the means to do it. I can’t judge Monty yet. As I said, it’s still his command. One thing I’ve always believed, something I learned at command school: Rigidity defeats itself. Monty isn’t rigid, he’s just…methodical. He hasn’t been defeated, he’s been punched in the nose. I understand British fears, Arthur. I have no intention of digging into another Western Front. Monty should probably bypass Caen altogether and head inland. Better ground, room to maneuver. Bradley’s making good progress in cutting the peninsula, and we’ll have Cherbourg soon, even if the timetables are tossed out the window.”
“Monty won’t bypass Caen. It would be an admission he just can’t make. He’d be telling the world that his plans were wrong, his tactics and strategy didn’t work. Unless you tell him otherwise, he’ll dog it out. He’ll beat on the door to that place until the Germans do something to open it.”
Eisenhower stared out through the window, felt the air in the plane warming, saw small flecks of blue light, the only lights on the ground. There were faces looking back at him, the crew readying for landing, the two gunners standing obediently away. Eisenhower motioned to them, pointed back toward their small seats, the men returning to their place at the machine guns. He looked at Tedder, the man’s head back, eyes closed, stretching his neck. You’re a good man, Arthur, he thought. And everything you say might be dead on. But right now…there’s nothing else we can do. Monty has good people at the controls, and he has the strength, and he’s keeping Rommel busy as hell. I have to keep him going in that direction. Bypassing Caen could open up a whole new set of problems. Monty couldn’t handle that. It’s not…methodical.
He wasn’t sure about Tedder’s pessimism, whether the British were as close to defeat as the air marshal seemed to think. But now, he thought, they have V-1s dropping on them. How would we react to that? What if bombs started falling on New York or Cleveland? Chicago? How much of that could we take? They’ve had a generation of young men swept away by one war, and now it’s happening again. How much more can they give?
Tedder looked at him, pulled his hat firmly on his head, gave a sharp single nod, and faced forward. Eisenhower knew the look. Yep, he thought, he knows it’s on my shoulders. Regardless of what Monty thinks.
The plane settled low, the engines almost silent, drifting, a final drop, hard rattling impact on the runway. Eisenhower let out a breath—he was always tense on landing—and watched the crew surge into motion, the last preparation before they disembarked. He looked again out the window, ground crews moving close, a single flashlight beam, the taxi signal for the pilot.
He leaned back, closed his eyes, thought of Rommel. We’re fighting a legend, for God’s sake. But dammit
, you’re not so perfect. We surprised you on the beaches, and then you brought your tanks in piecemeal. Two major mistakes. We just need a few more.
* * *
32. ROMMEL
* * *
JUNE 17, 1944
After weeks of urgent calls to the High Command, calls that forced Rommel to hold his anger to a discreet boil, it seemed that someone might finally be listening. The word had come both to Rommel and to von Rundstedt, a simply worded summons to meet with Hitler. But where the meeting would take place was a surprise. Instead of the usual lengthy journey required to accommodate Hitler in one of his hideaways, Hitler was coming to them.
For days now, Rommel had motored carefully to every crisis point in the front lines, had personally overseen the positioning of troops and armor, had dealt with the loss of two of his key generals, Wilhelm Falley and Erich Marcks, men whose deaths left a gap in leadership that he could not afford. Rommel continued to suffer problems of supply and logistics, and the Allied domination of the air continued to take a horrifying toll on any movement the Germans attempted during daylight hours. Rommel suffered as well from the lack of authority to move the different parts of his army where he needed them to be.
It was the ongoing chess game from afar, Hitler assuming more and more control over individual units in the field, mostly armor and artillery, preventing both Rommel and von Rundstedt from exercising the discretion so essential to confronting the rapid flow of change on various fields of battle. In some cases, Rommel’s hands were completely tied, some of his key subordinates knowing they had to await orders that came from above Rommel’s head. Even von Rundstedt could not override the order that called for every communication to pass from the front lines through Hitler’s own headquarters, six hundred miles away. Rommel had continued to despair that his war was in fact being controlled by men who relied only on maps and exaggerated confidence in the strength of his various combat units, men who were trying to wage war from what Rommel referred to as their green tables.