by Jeff Shaara
“Sir, what do we do?”
Rommel felt the gloom returning, thought a moment. “Hitler was correct when he told me that no one would negotiate with him. More so now. There is no reason why our enemies here should listen to any kind of talk.”
“Sir, may I sit?” Speidel asked.
Rommel pointed to a chair, and Speidel slid down slowly, seemingly consumed by thoughts.
“Sir…”
“I fear, Hans, that if this war does not end very soon, Germany will cease to exist. I would rather die right here and now than have my family live under the thumb of Russian savages. Our only hope is to cease the destruction of this army, my army. I faulted Geyr for not using his armor, thought he was timid for preserving his forces. Now I see he was right. We must preserve what strength we still have. The most important fight we must wage has yet to come, the fight to prevent the Russians from conquering our homeland. I still believe that if the British and the Americans understood that we hold no hatred for them, if we could communicate to them that we share a common enemy…”
“We cannot offer any kind of negotiation, sir. We cannot even suggest it.”
“No, not while Hitler is alive. And so there will be no negotiation.”
Speidel leaned back in the chair, his eyes in a narrow stare. “There could be a solution, sir. All Germans who love their country—”
“Quiet, Hans. I know your solution. No army officer can speak of…solutions, not in this office. Do you understand me? I will not hear of any…solutions. I have one duty, and that is to do what is best for my country and for the men who serve me. I cannot be involved…. I cannot be distracted by those things that do not concern me right here.”
Speidel stood, stiffened, and said, “Sir, thank you. I should attend to my duties.”
“You are dismissed, Hans.”
Speidel spun around, left the room, and silence surrounded Rommel again. He sat for a long moment, then rose up from the chair, felt the old aches in his side, stiffening joints, and moved to the tall window. It was dark outside, a light rain falling, nothing to see, and he stared out, thinking of his son. What will the world hold for you, Manfred? What things will you endure and suffer because men like me did not have the courage to stand up and say no. Who has the courage now?
* * *
37. EISENHOWER
* * *
Late on the night of July 7, more than 450 British heavy bombers launched a massive assault on the city of Caen. The following morning, July 8, Montgomery’s beleaguered army stepped off to confront what they believed would be an enemy who had been blasted into oblivion.
Though Montgomery had often feuded with the “air barons,” he had convinced most of them, particularly Leigh-Mallory, that bomber support was essential to the operation. Eisenhower welcomed any sign of cooperation, had endured enough of the back-biting among the air commanders. There was still a strong feeling among both American and British air commanders that heavy bombing of German cities was the easiest path to winning the war and that chewing up ground forces was a wasteful cost of lives. Neither Eisenhower nor Montgomery agreed, and the rivalry and clashes of personality had continued to be a serious nuisance to the harmony of Eisenhower’s command.
The normally disagreeable Leigh-Mallory had surprised Eisenhower by coming around to Montgomery’s point of view, that the heavy bombers should be readily available to assist any major ground offensive. But, as usual, many of Leigh-Mallory’s subordinates disagreed with him, voicing needling opinions that Montgomery was wasting their time, time that could be better spent dropping bombs on German factories. It helped matters very little that many of the air commanders continued to have so little regard for Leigh-Mallory that, if he supported a plan, they felt obliged to oppose it. But Montgomery had always been persuasive, and after considerable cajoling, the air barons agreed to cooperate. But the execution of any plan this large was never simple. Even Leigh-Mallory realized there could be problems caused by the close proximity of Montgomery’s troops to the German positions. British pilots were deeply concerned that any inaccuracy by their bombardiers could have a catastrophic impact on their own troops. So during the crucial first hours of the operation, those air crews made the same mistake that had been made at Omaha Beach a month before. When the nervous bombardiers reached their designated targets, they chose to wait a few additional seconds to release their bombs. That delay caused the bomb loads to fall just beyond the German positions, and, instead of blistering the enemy’s lines, they impacted the historic city itself. Fourteen thousand buildings were destroyed, nearly every recognizable landmark in Caen reduced to rubble.
Once the bomb runs were completed, the command was given for the British troops to begin their ground assault. Among the British tank crews and infantrymen, there was an air of celebration, the expectation that finally the enemy that had so doggedly stood his ground had now been obliterated and Montgomery’s boasts of capturing the city would be realized without much cost. Instead, the British stepped straight into the mostly undamaged guns of the Twelfth SS Panzer Division, one of the most fanatically loyal units in the German army. The fight lasted three days, the Germans still holding their ground, backing away only as the war of attrition weakened their ranks. As Montgomery’s troops finally began to capture strongholds in the city itself, they learned what effect the bombs had truly had. With the city so completely destroyed, the roadways were piled high with debris, so much so that British tanks and trucks could not pass through. That job fell to the British foot soldiers. By July 10, the Germans had backed away just enough for Montgomery to claim that the city had been captured, but even then, British troops only controlled a portion of the city itself. Fighting continued, the casualty lists on both sides lengthening by the hour.
With so much German effort being expended to hold Caen, Omar Bradley knew exactly the opportunity he had been given. The swamp and hedgerow country along the American front had done as much as the Germans had to frustrate every American effort to break out of the confinement in the Cotentin Peninsula. Eisenhower and his commanders understood that Rommel was using the natural defensive terrain to hold the Americans back with as few troops and as little armor as he could. It was frustrating to Bradley that he had not been able to take advantage, that the bocage country had proved to be far more difficult to break through than anyone had expected. Bradley continued to be strengthened by fresh American divisions coming ashore, adding to his numerical superiority. With Montgomery finally punching into Caen, the heavy concentration of German armor there would most likely stay put. Though Montgomery had boasted of a breakthrough at Caen, the reality was clear to both Eisenhower and Bradley. Once again the British had been stopped short of their goals. If the German lines were finally to be cracked open, both generals knew that the strike southward had to be an American operation.
Even as the fight raged around Caen, Montgomery made loud claims that his mission had been accomplished, a claim some of his own generals were quietly disputing. The air commanders in particular were livid, explaining away the errors among their own bombardiers by claiming that Montgomery’s planning was, once again, faulty. Once more, Eisenhower had to hear the backbiting darts being tossed back and forth among his generals, a spitting match over territoriality, men guarding their turf and their reputations. Through all that annoyance, Eisenhower knew that the prolonged fights around Caen had cost both the British and the Germans far more resources and casualties than they could afford to lose. Secret Ultra intercepts had given Eisenhower the clear signal that Rommel’s army was facing severe shortages across the entire front. But British losses were equally devastating. Though British and Canadian troops were massed on the beaches behind their front lines, awaiting a breakthrough Montgomery still insisted was imminent, the losses he had suffered were having a dangerous effect on morale, not only at the front but in the offices of the British government.
On July 10, as Eisenhower made one of his frequent trips from SHAEF headquarters
near London to his forward command post at Portsmouth, he made a stop, at the request of the one man who was never afraid to voice his opinions about anything.
CHEQUERS, HOME OF WINSTON CHURCHILL
JULY 10, 1944
“For such a small man, Monty has an enormous mouth. Large enough to fit both boots. I admit, though, I was seduced by him.” Churchill filled Eisenhower’s glass, then his own. “I put too much vinegar on his claims for instant success at Caen. I should have known better.”
Eisenhower sat in a soft chair across from Churchill’s bed and set the glass of cognac on the small table beside him, the warmth of the room playing on his weariness. He had not expected the meeting to take place in Churchill’s bedroom, but Churchill had insisted, and Eisenhower knew that the prime minister was far more interested in the conversation itself than where it took place. Churchill continued to talk, having said nothing yet that Eisenhower had been surprised to hear.
“The damned newspapers love him still. Saw a story in the Times by that buffoon Berkeley, something about Montgomery’s magnificent talent for economy of casualties. The suggestion was that we should only fight those battles where no one would get hurt; lo and behold, Field Marshal Montgomery had performed admirably, to the benefit of our gallant boys or some such nonsense. I paraphrase, of course, but not by much. How’s the cognac?”
Eisenhower picked up the glass, copied Churchill’s obligatory swirl of the dark liquid, and took a taste. The warmth rose through his nose, the burn spreading down through his throat, and he responded with a forced smile, a slow approving nod. Churchill seemed not to notice but padded around the room, his slippers flopping noisily.
“Oh, be sure to tell your man Butcher I appreciate the cigars. Hard to believe Hitler understands tobacco. Fine smoke.”
The cigars had come from Cherbourg, a souvenir Harry Butcher had brought back to SHAEF headquarters. Eisenhower had agreed with his staff officer’s perfect logic that they were a most appropriate gift for Churchill.
“Thank you. I’ll tell him. I would imagine they come from somewhere else though. Cuba, perhaps. I don’t think the Germans grow tobacco.”
“I didn’t mean to change the subject, Ike. Monty’s a problem. Patience is running out.”
Eisenhower took another sip of the cognac, saw now that Churchill expected a reply. “Monty has his problems, certainly. But he’s doing the job. I know that people are impatient with him, expect him to accomplish every objective.”
“They expect it because he tells them that’s what he’s going to do! Dammit, Ike, no one’s faulting Monty because of you, because you gave him some impossible job to do. He spews out his own bilge, and after a while, it washes back up around his own damned feet!”
Eisenhower thought, Be careful. He’s testing me. This can’t help us at all. After a long moment, he said, “Monty has accomplished a great deal. His engagements haven’t always been successful, but results have come. No one can expect our plans to remain unchanged. We have done a great deal to adapt to what the enemy has given us. I had doubts that Monty could take Caen the first day, and I damn well wish he had pushed harder when he had the chance. But that’s behind us. What’s important right now is that the enemy has responded in a way that offers us another opportunity. The Germans have concentrated their greatest strength on Monty’s front, and we believe that made it possible for Bradley to make a strong move. Because Monty tied up so much German armor, we were able to capture Cherbourg damn near on our timetable. Bradley’s people are planning their next move right now, and it will be big, a major drive against the enemy’s positions along the base of the Cotentin Peninsula. The only way we could expect to pull that off without getting our asses handed to us is by Monty’s holding so much of the enemy around Caen.”
Churchill lit a cigar and stared at Eisenhower through the smoke. “Monty paying your salary?”
Eisenhower knew the meaning, lowered his head, and stared at the dark wool of the rug beneath him. “It’s working. It’s just taking longer than we would have liked.”
“Rubbish. What Monty said would happen in a single day has taken more than a month. That’s the rub. You may call that adaptation if you wish, but there is more at stake here. I have pushed him myself, made it very clear that I will tolerate little of his absurd need to plan every move as though he’s some kind of grand chess master. That’s the image he wants us to have. It’s pure rubbish. I’ve heard all about how he’s the only man who could do that job. Brooke yells at me that I’m just gunning for Monty because I don’t like his beret or something, that I should be giving him more credit. That’s what you’re saying too, isn’t it?”
Eisenhower absorbed Churchill words, thought, Have you been in contact with Monty directly? He was growing angry now. No. I can’t tell him he shouldn’t be talking to my generals. They’re not really my generals after all, never have been. But dammit, they’re not his either.
He watched as Churchill continued to pad around the room, the round man’s nervous energy infectious, cutting into the fog from Eisenhower’s cognac.
“Regardless of what you may think of Monty,” Eisenhower said, “he’s the only alternative we have for this operation. It would be a serious mistake to think otherwise. This thing is far from decided, but I know damned well we’re winning. The people who thought Monty ought to be making the big breakthrough simply didn’t know the whole story. What he accomplished by holding so many German tanks at Caen—”
“You can give that a rest, Ike. I know you’re spouting what you have to spout. I’ve never faulted you for staying on the fence. You’ve busted your blooming arse to keep politics out of your headquarters, and every damned one of your senior people love you for it. You won’t come out and say what you really think about any of these generals, will you? You won’t even say what you think about me. You think I’m a bloody pest, sticking my nose in where it doesn’t belong. Yes, I’m a pest. I like to be a pest. I like people to shut the hell up when I walk into a room. I like raising the blood pressure of stodgy old farts, causing them to rise up off their soft cushions just a bit. No one should be comfortable in a war, Ike. No one. Not you, not me, and not Monty. I know you have a bit of a temper, heard about the dressing-downs you’ve given some of the misfits. Has to be done, of course, from time to time. But you’re not prone to spout off just because someone’s stuck a thorn in your arse. That’s not you at all, is it? Can’t say I’ve ever seen you really bitch out loud about Monty or anyone else.”
“Opinions aren’t what this job is about.”
“Oh, very noble of you, Ike, but you’re wrong. Every damned day starts with an opinion about what’s going to happen and what your next move should be. You’re right, this thing is far from decided, but in my opinion, we need more bite from the bulldog. We’re getting too much out of the other end. I’m tired of cleaning it off my shoes.” Churchill paused, seeming to enjoy his choice of words. “All I’ll say to you is this. General Marshall sent you here with the absolute authority to transfer or remove from this theater any American who doesn’t measure up. I’m telling you that if you feel there is any British soldier in your command who fails those standards, you report your dissatisfaction to me or to General Brooke, no matter his rank. You understand me?”
“I appreciate your confidence, but I don’t see any sort of report forthcoming.”
Churchill stuffed the cigar into the corner of his mouth, put his hands on his hips, and stared at him for a long moment. “You had any V-1s come down in your backyard?”
Eisenhower was surprised at the question. “Yes, a few. Broke a window at SHAEF, rattled us a few times.”
“You’re bombing hell out of the launching sites, right?”
“When we find them. It will cause more problems with the French, since the enemy has placed most of the launch sites in civilian zones. There are surely French casualties from our raids.”
“I’m not concerned right now with French casualties. There have been mo
re than two thousand civilian deaths around London. Did you know that?”
“Yes.”
“Time, Ike. As much as anything else, the enemy here is time. Every day, more graves are filled. Every day, another family suffers a disaster. I don’t know how many more disasters we can take. If you’ve got the right people in place to do the job, fine. Do the job. But do it soon. You get that?”
Eisenhower had heard those concerns before. How do I tell him to have patience? Every senior British general carried the burden that the British had given all they had to this fight. In Normandy, the Americans now outnumbered them by three to one, and every day, that disparity was growing. Eisenhower finished the cognac and let the burn drift downward.
“Very soon, General Bradley will launch a major assault against the enemy in his sector. I cannot give you any more details than that, because the plans are not finalized. Monty supports the idea, because he knows that we—that Bradley is in the best position to make that attack. What else can I say?”
Churchill moved to his bed, sat, refilled his glass from a fat black bottle. He put the cigar on the edge of the small table and downed the entire glass in one short gulp, the cigar quickly back in his mouth.
“You’ve said all you can. Except one thing. If Bradley breaks a hole in Rommel’s lines, how will you exploit that?”
It was an odd question, and Eisenhower felt caution again. Why would he ask?
“We’ll exploit it any way we can. Drive as much armor through the gap as we can, follow it with infantry, make every effort to widen the hole. The enemy will either retreat or we will work to cut him off.”
Churchill rolled the cigar with one hand, looked at it, a shortening stub, jabbed it down into an ashtray, and said, “Bradley’s a good man.”
“One of the best, I think.”
“See? That’s one of those pesky opinions, Ike. All I’m telling you is, just get the job done.”