Ike and Kay

by James MacManus

  “And just who would that girl be?”

  Kay was looking straight into the mirror while painting a delicate bow on her lips. It was a Friday night and there was the usual reception for the drivers and junior staff in the canteen that night. There would be thimblefuls of South African sherry served in tiny glasses, fish paste sandwiches and small talk with mostly married officers in the command staff.

  The MTC drivers and assorted women secretaries would put up with that for the required hour, then escape to the local pub for watered-down beer, pork pies if they were lucky, and a game of darts.

  “I can’t reveal my sources, but come on, Kay – fair’s fair. Do tell. You know I wouldn’t breathe a word.”

  They both laughed then because Charlotte was known as radio Montagu.

  “I’m helping an overworked man keep his sanity while planning to send tens of thousands of young men into a battle. Is that good enough for you?”

  “He’s a married man, Kay. Mind you, I don’t think his wife back home is going to hear of a little wartime fling, is she?”

  “Stop it. I do believe you’re a little jealous,” said Kay, handing back the lipstick.

  “I’m not jealous. I’m bored. Funny, isn’t it? In the middle of a war you find yourself working for the most stultifyingly boring man in the universe.”

  “What, that nice air force commander?”

  “Nice? Huh, he won’t even say good morning to me. Just grunts.”

  “You mean he won’t make a pass at you?”

  “Fat chance,” said Charlotte. “Come on, let’s see if we can get more than one glass of sherry tonight.”

  If Kay was completely honest with herself, and she tried to be, she rather enjoyed the scent of scandal that clung to her. She liked the turned heads and whispers that followed her in official canteens and coffee shops where the staff gathered. She also quietly enjoyed the glow of authority conferred by the knowledge that this great man needed her so much.

  She knew why. He was lonely. Ike was not religious, but his loneliness in those months was like a communion with a higher authority. She knew he wrote regularly to the wife who waited patiently for him in a small apartment in Washington. She knew too that Mamie Eisenhower had complained that the apartment was too small and lacked air conditioning to cool the humid days of high summer.

  The Pentagon offered little support for the wives who were left behind, while making sure that their senior commanders were given every comfort and professional assistance in the field.

  Mamie Eisenhower wrote long letters to her husband every week, sometimes more than one, which he dutifully answered. Kay knew he regarded it as his duty to reply to each one within a day of receipt. He had once asked her to type a letter home straight from his dictation. That had been a big mistake. Mamie had been furious and made it clear she wanted handwritten letters from her husband or none at all.

  The point was made in a brief letter that Eisenhower read sitting at his desk. Kay had been taking dictation for over an hour and the letter came as a welcome break for coffee. He sighed deeply, folded the letter and put it in a desk drawer. “Is anything wrong?” said Kay, putting coffee on the desk. She had guessed its contents.

  “Yes, but don’t let it worry you,” he said. “Now, where were we?”

  Later when she was alone in the office curiosity overcame caution. She opened the drawer and took out the letter. Its brevity was brutal, the message cold.

  Dearest Ike,

  Never ever send me a typed letter dictated to that woman. If you have not the time to write yourself please don’t write at all.

  Mamie

  So she had become “that woman”, just as to many of Ike’s staff she had become rather more than a mere driver. Jealousy feeds on rumour and the rumours had certainly taken wing across the Atlantic.

  Kay shrugged. How did the old rhyme go? “Sticks and stones may break my bones but names will never hurt me.”

  She could see that Eisenhower didn’t miss his wife or anybody else, even his son. How could he? The days were full, the nights were short, and in the words of a poem that Kay remembered from somewhere, “life slips by like a field mouse not shaking the grass”.

  “Who wrote that?” he’d asked.

  “I don’t know – an American poet, I think. It’s just one of those lines that sticks in your head.”

  “Nothing sticks in my head. It’s like a parade ground of facts and figures marching past – whole armies of them on the move up here,” he’d said, tapping his forehead, and grinned, suddenly pleased with his own words.

  The familiarity between them jeopardised the innocence of their relationship, but she told herself she was only doing her duty.

  “Mind you look after our general,” Churchill had said.

  And that was all she was doing – obeying orders from the highest authority.

  4

  October 1942

  Petticoat Lane proclaimed itself the oldest street market in London, and there on a Sunday morning Kay and Charlotte browsed among the traders, picking over second-hand clothes, books, suitcases, cheap jewellery and the occasional stall selling whatever fishermen could glean close to the shore at night, mostly cockles, crab and small flatfish.

  The market described itself as the defiant heart of London’s much bombed East End, but in fact it lay closer to the city of London’s business district and thus tried to attract wealthier residents with displays not just of clothes but of exotic pets.

  It was among the fish tanks, caged birds and squawking parrots that Kay first saw the puppy. It was a black Highland terrier barely a month old and obviously not well. The animal lay on a bed of fouled straw in an old bird cage, seemingly asleep.

  Kay rattled the bars of the cage. The puppy raised its head, wagged a feeble tail and went back to sleep. Seeing her interest the vendor, a lady wearing a smeared butcher’s apron with a cloth twisted around her head, lifted the puppy from the cage and stroked its back.

  “Pedigree Highland terrier,” she said. “Comes with a collar.”

  “How much?” asked Kay.

  The woman looked at her. Kay was wearing a brown skirt and a patched blouse. Probably an off-duty nurse. Then she saw Kay’s black well polished shoes. They were obviously expensive.

  “Five guineas,” she said.

  Kay laughed in surprise, putting her hand to her mouth.

  “Come away,” said Charlotte, taking her by the arm. They walked off with the woman’s voice floating after them: “All right, four guineas for luck, three fifty and cheap at that and I’ll throw in the lead …”

  “What on earth were you doing? You don’t want a dog,” said Charlotte.

  “I do actually.“

  Charlotte put a hand to her friend’s forehead.

  “You’re not ill, are you?”

  “I want you to go back and buy that puppy. Don’t offer more than two guineas and make sure she throws in a lead.”

  “What on earth are you to going to do with a puppy? It’ll wee all over the place and cost a fortune to feed.”

  “I‘ll tell you later. Now please go and buy it.”

  Late that evening they sat in a pub with two half pints of beer on a smeared table. The puppy was straining at a lead tied to the table leg.

  “Kay Summersby, you are a devious girl with a dark heart.”

  “Such harsh words,” said Kay.

  “I know why you’ve got that puppy.”

  “It will be a great little companion.”

  “Of course, but not for you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s his birthday soon, isn’t it?”

  “Whose?”

  “You know perfectly well, you little minx. The mighty Ike.”

  “It might be.“

  “You’re going to give it to
him, aren’t you, no doubt with a bloody bow round its neck?”

  “Maybe.”

  “You little schemer.”

  “It’s from all of his team, we all talked about it. Don’t tell a soul – promise?”

  “Fibber,” said Charlotte, pointing a finger.

  “All right, it’s my idea but it will be our birthday present.”

  “It’s from you and he’ll know it. You’re making it a bit obvious, aren’t you?”

  Charlotte was never one for the tactful approach or the raised eyebrow to convey a hint of disapproval. She liked to go straight in and speak her mind. Perhaps that’s what made her a good friend.

  “It will help to take his mind off things. He’s so wound up. He’ll love it. He used to have a dog before he went into the army, he told me,” Kay said.

  Charlotte pointed at the puppy.

  “Oh, I see, this thing is to help us win the war, is it? Doll, I think you’re hiding something.”

  The thunder from the mountains drew closer. The code word “Torch” became part of almost every conversation in the back of the Packard that autumn as Kay drove back and forth from London. Every time she looked in the mirror the display of medals, ribbons and gold braid on the officers around Eisenhower seemed to glow brighter.

  Rumours of a cross-Channel invasion or some similar grand offensive against the German Reich had even penetrated the café near the American embassy where Kay took lunch while in London. MTC drivers were not allowed to eat in the embassy itself. The thin whey-faced woman behind the café counter was happy to tell anyone that an Allied cross-Channel invasion would be launched in the spring. When Kay reported this to Eisenhower he solved the problem in typical fashion.

  “I am going to brief you on our operational plans. You need to know anyway given the cable traffic you will be handling. “Torch” is the code name for the invasion of North Africa. We are going in next month, end of November. Now you know you will have to eat in the commissary like the rest of us. We can’t have you out there with all those German spies roaming around.”

  He smiled with a quick grin that showed the boy beneath the man. Kay turned to leave. The windows of the office had been cleaned. The trees in the square were shedding their summer greenery and turning russet and gold.

  Kay had reached the door when he said. “Just one thing ...”

  She turned, reaching for the notebook in her handbag.

  “You’ll need a travel warrant.”

  “What for?”

  “You’re coming with us.”

  It was a Friday at the end of the week when Kay, Butch, Tex and Mickey walked into his office. Mickey had glasses and champagne. Tex carried a plate of cheese carefully cut into squares and placed on biscuits and Butch carried a small birthday cake lit with a single candle and carrying the numerals 52 picked out in pink icing.

  Kay put the puppy on the floor. Eisenhower rose, surprise written in the frown on his forehead. Mickey popped the cork. Butch placed the cake on the desk. The puppy produced a puddle.

  “What the hell is that?” he said.

  Everyone looked at Kay. This was her idea. The rest of the team wanted no part of it. A puppy for a general in the middle of a war?

  “It’s your birthday present,” she said and gave the puppy a little push. The animal wandered hesitantly forward until it reached the desk.

  Eisenhower looked down at the puppy and sighed. Then he looked across at Kay and sighed again. The pleasurable satisfaction among the rest of the team was almost audible. Kay had committed a grievous social blunder. They waited for a bellow of “Get that dog out of here!” Eisenhower bent down, picked up the black bundle, and put it on his desk. The puppy sat down. Ike patted it. The puppy put out a pink tongue and raised two dark eyes to the man bending over him. The two looked at each other. Eisenhower turned to the room smiling.

  “We’ll have to think of a name,” he said. “Now let’s have some cake.”

  As the others left after the celebrations he called Kay back. She was nervous. He was not paying any attention to the puppy which had begun to wander around the desk. It was going to fall off any second. Perhaps that’s what he wanted. He wouldn’t shout at her in front of the others, but he might well do so now.

  “I will be flying sometime last week of November. I want you to come on afterwards when we have secured a headquarters. I’m telling you this so you can make plans. Have you got the warrant?”

  “Yes, sir. Erm ...”

  “What is it?”

  “I thought you might not like your present.”

  The puppy fell to the floor with a soft thump and began chasing its tail. Ike scooped it up and held it high in the air.

  “You’re lovely, aren’t you? Where did you come from?”

  “I brought him from a street market. West Highland terrier. Pure pedigree the woman said,” said Kay.

  “Pedigree or not, he can’t come to Africa with us. We’ll keep him at the cottage. And we need a name.”

  “I thought of Topsy, sir.”

  “Topsy? Don’t be silly. This dog needs a real name. I’ll think of one. Now take him away before he pees all over me.”

  Ike handed the dog back.

  “Thank you, Kay, that was very kind. I love the little chap.” Ike petted the puppy as he nestled in Kay’s arms.

  “And Kay ...”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “You don’t have to call me sir when we’re like this, one to one.”

  “Right, sir ... I mean ...”

  They both laughed as he waved her out of the room.

  Mrs MacCarthy-Morrogh had a mind of her own and admired herself for it. She regarded herself as a strong woman who had found consolation from the sadness of a long and failing marriage in the arrival of three beautiful children.

  Every week on Thursday afternoons she left her small house in Surrey, rented for the duration of the war, and took the train to London. She would take a taxi from the station and arrive at the Dorchester Hotel in time for afternoon tea.

  Kay always joined her, work permitting. Mother and daughter usually enjoyed these meetings, enlivened as they were by Mrs MacCarthy-Morrogh’s talent for turning minor family gossip into high drama.

  Recently, however, a strain had developed between the two ladies. Mrs MacCarthy-Morrogh had convinced herself that General Eisenhower would like to join them for tea and she intended to send him a formal invitation to do just that.

  She was sure the Allied commander would like the brief relaxation from his tiring schedule provided by fine tea and light pastries. Her daughter had told her many times how stressed and tense he always was. Kay tried to explain to her mother that the idea was preposterous.

  “Mother, I’m only his driver. I’ve told you he’s far too senior and important to bother with the likes of us – even at the Dorchester.”

  “I thought Americans weren’t supposed to be snobbish.”

  “He’s not being snobbish; he’s busy, besides he won’t leave that puppy alone. He’s besotted.”

  “Puppy?” said Mrs MacCarthy-Morrogh, eyeing the lounge for a waiter.

  “I gave him a little West Highland terrier for his birthday.”

  “Good Lord,” said her mother, who was minded to remark that if her daughter’s familiarity with Eisenhower allowed her to give him a puppy she might also have persuaded him to come to tea. But she didn’t. A waiter appeared.

  “Tea, madam?”

  Mrs MacCarthy-Morrogh looked at her watch. It was 4.45 p.m. During the Blitz the previous year everyone had felt able to drink whatever the hour. Even far from the bombs in the country glasses were raised to the embattled metropolitans well before the accepted hour of six.

  Now old habits had reasserted themselves. But the bombing had not entirely stopped. Only last week a lone German bomber had fl
own up the Thames at low height and managed to drop a bomb on Buckingham Palace, causing considerable damage. That was the trouble with the war, thought Mrs MacCarthy-Morrogh, one never knew what was going to happen next.

  “No. I’ll have gin please, with tonic, a slice of lemon and plenty of ice.”

  “There’s no lemon, madam,” said the waiter.

  They drank gin in tall glasses with plenty of tonic water and a sprig of mint and toasted the memories of friends and family who had died one way or another in the two years of real war. Kay’s mother said nothing had happened in the first six months after hostilities had been declared in September 1939. The phoney war didn’t count.

  Her mother finished the first glass quickly and Kay ordered a second with rather more tonic water. Mrs MacCarthy-Morrogh sipped it, called the waiter and asked for an extra measure.

  The tearoom was not crowded that afternoon but they leant forward to talk in whispers of Kay’s fiancé, Richard, killed by a mine in the desert the previous year. Kay tried hard to mourn the loss of a man she hardly knew. She kept his ring on her finger and a small photograph of a smiling face beneath an army cap in her wallet, but such mementos did nothing to assuage her guilt.

  She could find neither tears nor any real feeling of grief to mark Richard’s passing. The brown eyes and the minty breath were memories that had faded like the photographs in a family album. His letters had been consigned to a trunk in the attic. That was the price of war, she told herself, though the realisation that she had never really known him was as shocking as the knowledge that now she never would.

  By now her mother was quite drunk. She talked about the past. Old people are always happier with their memories than with the burden of the present, Kay thought. They retreat to the past for comfort and calm because that is where they know they are safe and where they really belong.

  So Kay listened, as she had so often, to stories of Irish independence and civil war in the 1920s which ended the lifestyle of the Anglo-Irish families with their big houses, servants and horses.

  “And then you left us,” said her mother accusingly. “Just like that, you upped and went with hardly a goodbye.”