“Oh, Lord, I hope so too,” Cookie said fervently. “When do you suppose that will be?”
“Ike says it may be a very long time,” Mamie said. A hard lump came into her throat as she thought of their goodbye, back in early July, at Fort Myer. She had walked out to the car with him. His driver had opened the door and he’d gotten in, then rolled down the window. With that wide, wonderful grin of his, he’d taken her hand and kissed it and said, ‘Goodbye, honey.’” A couple of days later, he’d sent a completely unexpected cable. BECAUSE OF YOU I’VE BEEN THE LUCKIEST MAN IN THE WORLD FOR TWENTY-SIX YEARS—LOVE IKE. That was what she held to her heart.
Cookie finished her coffee. “And you’re living . . . where, now?”
Mamie pulled her attention back to the conversation. “With Ruth Butcher. We’re sharing a kitchenette apartment in the Wardman Park on Woodley Road. Ruth’s husband is Ike’s naval aide, and they’ve got a suite together in London. Maybe you remember Butch and Ruth from the old days. They’re not military—he’s a vice president of CBS when he isn’t in uniform.”
Mamie didn’t much like sharing an apartment, even with Ruth, but there wasn’t a lot of choice at the moment. Ike’s brother Milton and his wife Helen had invited her to live with them while Ike was overseas. But Milton (who held an important post as associate director of the Office of War Information and knew everything that was going on with the war) liked to “look out for her,” as he put it. Mamie, however, always had the uncomfortable feeling that her brother-in-law was watching just a little too closely, counting the number of drinks she had and “reminding” her when he thought she’d had too many. She preferred to be more independent, and sharing with Ruth meant that she could save money.
Anyway, finding a place to live in Washington in wartime was just murder. Housing was the very dickens, especially for the multitude of young women thronging to government jobs—five thousand a month, it was reported. “The men may have started this war,” Mamie had read in the newspaper, “but the women are running it.” The women—“government girls,” they were called—were crammed into rooming houses that were more like dormitories, with three women to a room, all living out of their suitcases because there wasn’t room to hang up their clothes. Mamie felt she was extremely fortunate to find a place in the Wardman, which was certainly an elite address. Former president Herbert Hoover had once kept an apartment there. And Henry Wallace, FDR’s vice president, and his wife lived just down the hall.
She looked at Cookie questioningly. “You’re in Arlington, I think you said. Are apartments easier to find in Virginia?”
But she didn’t get an answer to her question. Instead, a chipper voice asked brightly, “Oh, Mrs. Eisenhower, is it really you?” When she turned in surprise, the woman—short, plump, ginger-haired—crowed, “It is you! I thought so!” She put out her hand. “I’m Bess Furman, with the Washington Bureau of the New York Times, and I just know that our readers would love a few words from you. We hear that your husband is taking London by storm. How do you feel about him being over there while you’re over here?”
Mamie felt her mouth go dry. She had never liked the limelight and over the past few weeks she had developed an intense fear of reporters—an unreasonable fear, Ruth told her, but she couldn’t seem to shake it. An AP reporter had somehow gotten the phone number at her apartment and had called several times, asking for an interview. But she kept saying no, afraid that if she talked to one reporter, they would all come flocking. They’d be roosting like buzzards outside the door, just waiting to pounce.
And it wasn’t just that the reporters and photographers were a nuisance, although they were. The thing was that she had never in her life had to talk to the press, or see her words or her photo in the newspaper—unless, of course, she was standing beside Ike and they were taking his photo. This interview business was something new and she was deathly afraid of making a mistake. She would say too much or say the wrong thing, something silly that would embarrass poor Ike or cause trouble for him. Or maybe she would say the right thing but the reporter would misquote her, accidentally or on purpose. Milton always said that you couldn’t tell about those people. It was safer not to talk to them at all.
“Thank you, Miss Furman,” she said, turning away quickly, “but my friend and I are having a private lunch and I’d really rather not.”
“Oh, but please, Mrs. Eisenhower,” Miss Furman begged. She whipped out a notebook and a pencil. “I read that your husband’s home town has just had a ‘General Eisenhower Day.’ Were you there? It must have been terribly exciting. Won’t you tell us how it feels to be married to such a famous man?”
At the nearby table, the soldiers had turned around in their seats, listening avidly, but Mamie didn’t notice. She knew she should have gone to Abilene, to stand beside Ike’s mother and brothers at the celebration. She felt bad about forsaking the family, but her heart wasn’t strong so she never flew on an airplane. And railroad trains were so crowded these days, and hot and noisy and dirty—you could pick up all kinds of germs. She wasn’t strong and just thinking of the long trip had been enough to tire her out. But of course, she didn’t say any of that to Miss Furman, who was watching her, pencil eagerly poised over her notebook. She would prefer to say nothing at all, but she was afraid that the woman wouldn’t go away until she got what she was after.
“Being married to General Eisenhower feels . . . it feels . . .” She wanted to say that it felt terribly lonely and that she wished with all her heart that her husband was still just a colonel instead of a general and that there was no war and they could go on living quietly together, just the two of them in that beautiful house at Fort Sam. But she took a deep breath and tried to focus on what she knew Ike—or his brother Milton—would want her to say.
“It feels wonderful to know that people are thinking of him and wishing him well, and of course I am just frightfully proud of him and the job he’s doing, fighting for our freedom. But honestly, I am not one little bit different from all the other wives and mothers in this wonderful country of ours. We’re all proud of our soldiers. And we’re all waiting for the day when our men have won the war and can come home to the families that miss them so very, very much.”
“That’s perfect.” Miss Furman scribbled quickly in her notebook. “Thank you, Mrs. Eisenhower, thank you!” She backed away.
Cookie slanted her an admiring glance. “My goodness, Mamie. I wish Ike could have heard you. You sounded just like you’d been doing that forever!”
Mamie was about to say that she didn’t feel like she’d been doing that forever when one of the soldiers at the nearby table got up and came toward her.
“Mrs. Eisenhower, we couldn’t help overhearing.” He turned and gestured to the two other earnest-looking boys at the table. “My buddies and I—well, we’ve just got our orders for England. We’ll be taking a ship over there in another few days to serve in General Eisenhower’s command, wherever it takes us. We know he’s new on the job but we’ve already heard a lot of great things about the way he’s taking charge and making things happen so we can get over there and kick those lousy Jerries all the way to hell, where they belong.” He reddened. “Sorry—excuse my French. We just want you to know we’re gonna do the very best job for him that we can do. For him and for the good old U.S. of A.” He stood up straight and tall and snapped a proud salute.
Mamie thought of John and swallowed down a sob. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I’ll tell the General what you’ve said. I know he’ll thank you too, for doing your very, very, very best.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the boy said. He turned and went back to his table.
“Wasn’t that sweet?” Cookie said. “Oh, Mamie, what a compliment to Ike.” She smiled. “Don’t you wish you could be a little mouse in the woodwork and watch him while he’s on the job? As long as he didn’t know you were watching, of course.”
Now, that, Mamie thought, was something she could say yes to, without even thinking about
it.
CHAPTER FOUR:
The General’s Family
London
July–September 1942
When Kay thought about it afterward, it all seemed quite extraordinary—the way the General’s official family came together.
But then, she had never worked with anyone like Eisenhower. When he flew back to Washington in early June, all the Allied war offices were buzzing about his easy American charm, his big grin, his willingness to listen to all sides. And when Kay watched his plane lift off from the Northolt RAF aerodrome, she had felt an unsettling sense of absence—quite silly, really. Their time together had been intense, yes. But it had been only a few days, and she wasn’t expecting to see him again. After she and Evie and Kul had devoured his astonishing gift of chocolates, however, she couldn’t bring herself to throw away his note: “To Kay, with thanks for the glimpse into your war. I won’t forget.” She tucked it into her jewelry box as a memento of his generosity and understanding.
Her two-star nobody had been generous in another way, too. She was now driving for hard-jawed, red-haired General Tooey Spaatz, commander of the Eighth Air Force at Camp Griffiss in Bushy Park, outside of London. Spaatz’s Yank driver had gotten him lost once too often, and when he asked Kay to drive for him, he mentioned that she had come highly recommended—by Eisenhower. That pleased her, and as she avidly pursued the war news on the wireless and in the newspapers, she heard his name mentioned often, especially after he was put in charge of the whole European Theater of Operations. He was now Supreme Commander. She heard that he’d gotten another star, too.
At first, she was surprised by his appointment. Most of the brass she knew were egotistical: tough and gruff like Spaatz or petty and often malicious, like Montgomery. She would never have guessed that President Roosevelt and Prime Minister Churchill would give the top Allied job to the friendly, informal man with the easygoing manner who had ridden in the backseat of her Packard. Was he tough enough?
And yet, maybe tough wasn’t what was wanted. She overheard General Spaatz telling British General Sir Alan Brooke that managing the Allied war effort was a goddamned impossible job, but if it could be done, Eisenhower was the man to do it. “He’s got the administrative smarts,” Spaatz said. And on one of her rare evenings with Dick, he had told her that the Americans who worked at the embassy were deeply impressed by the General’s gift for pulling people together, even when they didn’t speak the same language and were miles, or oceans, apart.
Dick. Sometimes it seemed that the two of them were miles apart, too. Their divorces were in the queue with the many other wartime divorces taking place on both sides of the Atlantic, and neither would be final for another ten or eleven months. Waiting was hell, but there you were. There was no help for it.
And almost as bad as the waiting was the change in his work assignment. He had been promoted to major and reassigned to General Fredendall’s II Corps, which was stationed at a distance from London. Kay was free, since her job with Spaatz didn’t take up her evenings. But Dick wasn’t. The few hours they were able to spend together were as frustrating as they were fulfilling. There was passion—oh, yes, there was that, as natural and irresistible as the powerful tidal currents that ran back home in the River Ilen. Give them five minutes together and they were in one another’s arms and his hand was on her breast and—Katie, bar the door!
But while there was plenty of physical passion, there was never enough time—the time it takes to develop the deep, intimate understanding that can hold together two different people from different ends of the earth. She often thought, sadly, that they were strangers moving toward one another through the dark, like two friends on a sidewalk during the blackout, bumping into each other, murmuring oh there you are, darling, and hurrying on, deeper into the darkness.
• • •
Then, quite unexpectedly, Kay’s work assignment changed, too.
One afternoon in late July, she drove General Spaatz to Hendon Aerodrome to meet several VIPs who were returning from an inspection trip to Ireland. As the C-47 taxied down the tarmac, the brass lined up at attention. She took her usual place a step behind General Spaatz. The hatch opened and Eisenhower came briskly down the stairs to shake hands with the men. A few moments later, he was extending a hand past General Spaatz to Kay, a mock frown replacing that dazzling grin.
“Ah. The elusive Miss Summersby. Have you forgotten that you promised to drive for me when I came back to London?”
Kay swallowed, uncomfortable at being singled out in front of her boss. She met his eyes. “I didn’t know . . . No, of course, I—” She straightened her shoulders and took command of herself. “Congratulations on your appointment, General.”
“Thank you.” Eisenhower turned to Spaatz. “I’ve been scouring London for Miss Summersby, Tooey. You’ve been keeping her under wraps out at Bushy, have you?”
“Don’t do this to me, Ike,” Spaatz protested. “This girl is the best driver I’ve got. There’s nobody like her.”
“Don’t you think I know that?” Eisenhower smiled down at her, and the smile lifted her heart. “Kay, I brought you something from the States. Come over to the office and pick it up. But don’t wait too long—it might spoil.”
• • •
Kay hadn’t really believed that the General had been looking for her, but when she walked into his office on her lunch hour the next day, she discovered that it was true. His aide, Tex Lee, told her that he had tucked a note under the windshield wiper of her staff Packard in the car park at Bushy, asking her to come to 20 Grosvenor to speak to Colonel Lee. But she had wadded up the note and tossed it. She didn’t know any colonels named Lee and she wasn’t going to anybody’s office without a direct order from General Spaatz.
But now she was here and Eisenhower—the new Supreme Commander—was actually interrupting his work to see her, stepping around his desk with a grin that lightened his blue eyes. Other than the three stars on his shoulders, he looked just as she remembered, and her heart did a curious flip-flop.
“I was hoping you’d come,” he said warmly, and handed her a large box of oranges and grapefruit. “I brought this for you.”
She looked down at the gift. Undone by the welcome and the sweet, heady fragrance of the fruit, she stumbled over her words. “This is smashing! I . . . really, General, I don’t know what to say. Heaps of thanks, just heaps. I . . .”
He was laughing at her now. “Consider it a bribe. I’d like to let General Spaatz know that you’ve joined my staff and that you’ll be driving for me. How about it?”
Kay found that she didn’t need to think twice. “Yes, sir. Oh, yes.” Still holding onto the box of fruit, she managed a salute. “I’d like that, sir. Thank you!”
“Very good.” Eisenhower turned back to his desk, which was stacked with papers. “And now that you’re on my team, ask Colonel Lee to help you polish up that salute. It’s pretty damned sloppy.”
That was how Kay Summersby—Irishwoman, British citizen, and civilian member of the MTC—joined the General’s official family, most of whom were crowded into the smoke-filled anteroom adjacent to Eisenhower’s small office on the second floor of 20 Grosvenor Square. She quickly learned that it was best to hang around, for the General often needed her quickly to take him to an unscheduled meeting, and he didn’t like to wait while somebody fetched her.
After the first few days, Colonel Lee—Tex—suggested that if she was going to be sitting around she might as well answer the phone and pick up a few other office chores. She already knew quite a bit about the British war offices and other institutions—she hadn’t been driving the brass for over a year for nothing—and she soon found herself answering questions, giving directions to places that people had never heard of, and interpreting impenetrable messages written in thick British bureaucratese. She saw very quickly that the Americans had something to prove in this war, and whatever it was, it wasn’t helping their dispositions. She didn’t have anything to prove, so
she made it her job to keep their spirits high, sometimes (if that’s what it took) playing the bright, bubbly Irish lassie.
Their five-member staff was headed up by tough-talking, short-tempered Beetle. His full name was Brigadier General Walter Beadle Smith, but he had long ago yielded to the inevitable. As Eisenhower’s hatchet man, Beetle did the dirty work, firing people the General didn’t want to fire, giving orders the General didn’t want to give. He was very good at it, too. He barked commands in a way that made you practically jump out of your skin, and he never let anybody get by with anything. The men called him “Ike’s sonofabitch.” Beetle called Eisenhower the Boss, so that’s what the rest of the staff called him, too.
Colonel Lee—Tex, a plump, round-faced, bespectacled former automobile salesman from someplace called San Antonio—was the Boss’s office manager. A born administrator, Tex kept the paper moving, untied the red tape, and made sure that the Boss (Tex often called him the Old Man) got what he wanted when he wanted it. He spoke with a slow Texas drawl laced with words and phrases that made Kay smile: “y’all” and “right quick” and “plumb tuckered out.”
Affable Lieutenant Commander Harry Butcher, the General’s naval aide, was a former vice president of the Columbia Broadcasting System and longtime Eisenhower family friend and bridge partner. The Butchers and the Eisenhowers were so close, Tex told Kay, that the Boss’s wife Mamie was living with Butch’s wife Ruth back in Washington, and Butch was sharing Ike’s suite at the Dorchester. A natural-born gossip and teller of tales, Butch (who called the Boss Ike) was the press liaison, wordsmith and chronicler, in charge of the official diary. But most importantly, he was in charge of keeping the Boss’s spirits up, of making sure that he got what he needed when he needed it. Kay had heard Eisenhower say that there were days when he wanted “to curl up in the corner like a godawful sick dog. But Butch won’t let me. He keeps me from going crazy.”
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