Churchill shuffled back and forth, slow nervous pacing. “I know Roosevelt told you about his atom bomb.”
Eisenhower nodded. “Yep. I know we’re working on something. Weapon of incredible power. That’s about all I know. There’s a lot of physics involved, not my strong subject.”
“Mine either. Supposed to be a big damned blast, though. I have to wonder if Hitler hasn’t come up with something similar, something that could destroy half of London.”
“Washington is being pretty closemouthed about the whole thing. I don’t know anything more than that.”
Churchill picked up the cigar again, eyed him. “Whatever you say. Just keep your fingers crossed that Hitler hasn’t got better physicists than we do. They were doing some work in Norway, all that business about heavy water. Have no idea how anyone makes water heavy, or what the hell it’s for.”
Eisenhower said nothing. The German heavy-water plant in Norway had been a key target for a long time. But the Germans had become nervous—Norway was too ripe for Allied invasion—and in November 1943, word had come through the Ultra intercepts that the Germans were moving their stockpile of heavy water to Germany. One part of the move would be to transport the water on board a ferry across Lake Tinn. On February 20, 1944, in a perfectly executed operation, agents of the Norwegian underground had boarded the ferry, and in hours the ferry and the entire stockpile of heavy water had disappeared into the deepest part of the lake. The Allies had to believe that whatever progress the Germans had made harnessing nuclear fission had been set back significantly.
Eisenhower knew there was something still on the prime minister’s mind.
“We can’t always be sure of secrets, you know,” Churchill said, rubbing his chin.
“Not sure what you mean.”
“As I said before, they’re crafty bastards. You think they knew about the rehearsal?”
Eisenhower was still learning details of the mess at Slapton Sands, only a few days before.
“From what I hear, it was dumb luck. Bradley was there, said it could have been much worse. Just a few torpedo boats. Probably on patrol in the channel and stumbled right into us. Hated like hell to lose those landing craft.”
Churchill cocked his head to one side. “What about the men? The casualties? See, you’re better at this than you think.”
“I don’t have the casualty counts yet.”
He took another drink of the brandy, felt like Churchill was playing with him. The disaster at Slapton Sands was one glaring hint that even the most careful plans could suddenly come apart. It had been a simple drill, a night landing by the American Fourth Division on the British coastline, an area that mimicked the conditions they would find in France, on what was designated as Utah Beach. But the calm precision of the rehearsal had been shattered by a sudden blast from German torpedoes, the surprise appearance of a squadron of German E-boats, small fast gunboats that had, by a simple quirk of chance, stumbled right into the maneuver. Hundreds of men had died, mostly Americans, but the greatest concern was keeping the entire debacle secret. Any word of the rehearsal itself would confirm German fears about the imminence of the invasion, so not even the families of the victims had been notified.
Churchill said nothing, and Eisenhower had kept it away until now, Churchill’s nightmarish image of bodies floating in the channel. Churchill paced again.
“There will be time for truth later on. I’ve learned that, you know. People always assume politicians lie, that it’s part of the job, part of our bloody makeup. But this isn’t just politics. We’re all keeping secrets now, all of us. Sooner or later, a lot of truth will come out. That should keep us on our toes. Slapton Sands or Ultra, whatever the hell kind of weapon Hitler has, whatever the hell an atom bomb is. It’s all just…truth. Difficult, that. Should make us do the right thing, I suppose. We’ll be judged for it, by history or by God, if you believe that sort of thing.”
He stopped, looked down into his empty glass, sniffed. He sat heavily and stared across the table at Eisenhower.
“In 1940, people died from a Nazi air raid in Coventry, people we could have warned. Because of Ultra, we knew the planes were coming and which city they were going to bomb. But the secret was more valuable to us than people’s lives. And so we let the bombers come. We didn’t warn anyone.”
“Yes, I know about that.”
“I suppose you do. So now we send pilots over Nuremberg, after we tell the enemy they’re coming. We sacrifice our own, our good trained men, just so we can hold on to our secrets.”
Eisenhower didn’t want this conversation. He knew the answers already, knew Churchill did as well.
“Your General Patton. Caused a big damned row, all over the place. His crime? He said we were destined to rule the world, you, me, and the Russians. Bloody gigantic mistake. But not because he was wrong. His crime was, he told the truth. Stupid bastard.”
* * *
11. EISENHOWER
* * *
As the Overlord plan evolved, the Americans had pushed one more plan as well, George Marshall in particular championing a strategy that called for a large-scale invasion of southern France, codenamed Anvil, to coincide with the Allied invasion of the French coast at Normandy. As adamant as Marshall had been, the British had been just as adamant that the plan be shelved. Churchill had long been an advocate for an invasion of the Balkans, pressing hard that such a strategy would threaten Hitler’s hold on all of southern Europe. Churchill also believed that such a plan would offer a serious threat to those German forces still engaging the Russians, by jamming a spear up toward Austria that would threaten the Eastern Front from behind. But the Americans had never accepted Churchill’s logic, preferring to aim their thrusts into France.
Joseph Stalin had been warm to both strategies, long insisting that the British and Americans should launch a vigorous attack in the west, rather than consuming so many months talking about their various options. Both Churchill and Marshall understood clearly that Stalin was in favor of any plan that would relieve pressure on his army, and possibly draw German strength away from the horrifying slaughter that had consumed both German and Russian troops for three years.
Eisenhower had appreciated the value of Marshall’s strategy. Operation Anvil could produce either one of two extremely positive results. If the Germans chose to confront the invasion on the Mediterranean coast, it could seriously reduce their ability to reinforce Rommel’s forces in Normandy. Or if German strength in the south was weak, it would allow the Allies to punch a strong advance northward, which might threaten Rommel from behind or, possibly, allow the Allies to drive into southern Germany.
There were two primary arguments against Anvil, arguments Churchill and the other British chiefs made at every opportunity. The Allied troops that would participate would most likely come from Italy, where the Allies were already suffering a grinding war of attrition, caused by a lack of superiority in numbers. To draw off entire divisions from the Italian front would almost certainly guarantee that momentum would be handed back to Kesselring’s Germans. The second problem was the availability of landing craft for both troops and equipment, a struggle Eisenhower had dealt with since North Africa. The craft, both large and small, were a hotly contested commodity that had never been available in sufficient numbers. Most were produced at plants in the United States, and for reasons Eisenhower could not fathom the production lines had been painfully slow. With ongoing pressure from the British, and faced with the realities of the lack of adequate numbers of landing craft, Marshall and Eisenhower had been forced to concede to the British objections to Operation Anvil. Though the Americans continued to insist that Anvil should and would take place, they finally accepted that this kind of operation in southern France could not happen until many weeks after the Overlord invasion. Ultimately, the debate had been one more cross Eisenhower had to bear, one more source of unrelenting aggravation that took precious energy away from the primary issue at hand. After so many months of me
etings, the logistics and strategies for the Allied invasion of Normandy had finally jelled into a coherent plan, the machinery rolling inexorably forward. With only short weeks remaining until the D-Day that Eisenhower had chosen, it was finally time to reveal the strategy that so many Allied commanders had given so much to create.
ST. PAUL’S SCHOOL, HAMMERSMITH, LONDON
MAY 15, 1944
They filed in slowly, some in dress uniforms, some fresh from their offices in far more casual dress. They’ll regret that, Eisenhower thought. But it couldn’t be helped. No one could advertise the fact that King George himself would be here.
It was bitterly cold, unusual this late in the spring; most of the men were wrapped in coats and jackets, the vast lecture hall offering little warmth. The room itself was a dark and dismal place, built for function, not ceremony. But the cavernous size was necessary to accommodate the throng of officers and officials. He watched them carefully, mostly familiar faces, some officers he didn’t know. The men of higher rank moved forward, toward a single row of armchairs at the front of the room, close to the stage. Behind them, the protocol was less severe, men filing down the rows of seats, some finding friends and casual conversation, others holding themselves silently inside the warmth of their coats, focused on the large map that stood on the stage, colorful and detailed. A map of Normandy.
Eisenhower saw men focusing on him, some offering a smile, others acknowledging his rank with a curt nod of respect. He stood close to the stage, beside a chair he would occupy, knowing the most important people had not yet arrived. He stared toward the back of the lecture hall, the crowd swelling even more, low voices increasing, a hum of chatter. From the far side of the stage, Montgomery appeared, nattily dressed in his battle uniform, unusual, and Eisenhower acknowledged him with a single word: “General.”
Montgomery was unsmiling and formal, as he walked up onto the stage. Eisenhower turned again toward the back of the room, watched the open doorway and thought of Monty’s uniform, no sign today of the beret or the ridiculous turtleneck sweater. He couldn’t help thinking of Patton—yep, George would be happy that Monty dressed for the occasion. Eisenhower had heard the grumbling before, Montgomery’s casual dress a particular thorn to Patton, who had often punished men in his command who failed to wear a tie. Monty probably has no idea, he thought; if he did, he’d wear his damned turtleneck on purpose. Stand out in a group by being too casual. Amazing. Never saw a man who so loved the spotlight. Except for Patton himself, of course. God help us.
The show would be Eisenhower’s to start, but the briefings would come from a long list of senior officers and, of course, the two most notable civilians: Churchill and King George. The venue had been chosen by Montgomery. St. Paul’s School was in fact Montgomery’s headquarters, so the gathering here was a subtle hint of his own critical importance to the overall plan. Montgomery had always demonstrated an amazing talent for annoying every officer around him, yet despite claims that Montgomery had ridden hard on the backs of more deserving commanders, in North Africa, he had ultimately accomplished what no one else could do: He had defeated Rommel. As the senior ground commander, Montgomery would hold the rein over both Bradley’s Americans and the British forces under General Sir Miles Dempsey, a wonderfully capable veteran of Montgomery’s campaigns in North Africa, Sicily, and Italy. Long criticized for embracing details over action, Montgomery had impressed Eisenhower with his attention to detail, and despite Eisenhower’s own misgivings about Montgomery, he had to believe that, in the end, ability and not personality would prevail.
The proceedings at St. Paul’s were to begin promptly at 9 A.M., and the briefings were expected to last all afternoon. The purpose of the gathering was very specific: to explain the invasion plan, with various commanders from each branch of the service offering their viewpoints and outlining their specific contributions, timetables, and variables, so many precious secrets finally revealed. To some, it would be the first time the details of every aspect of the operation would be explained. The conflicts were still there, disagreements about specific tactics, mostly minor points now, but Eisenhower was comfortable that the major differences had been put to bed. If there was not perfect clarity in everyone’s mind, this day would offer the opportunity for anyone to ask questions and speak out, on what might be the last opportunity to air concerns and grievances. He had always encouraged dissent and had encouraged the various specialists to critique whatever failings the plan contained. There is room for that still, he thought, but not much. He had felt it for some time, the momentum of Overlord slowly overwhelming the men who created it. I don’t see what else we can do at this point to change things, he thought. D-Day is just three weeks away.
He saw Bradley moving toward the front of the room, purposeful, staring downward. There was no smile, no informal greeting, Bradley seeking only to find his seat, moving close to Eisenhower now, seeming not to notice him.
“Brad. Everything okay?”
Bradley looked at him, seemed surprised. “Sorry, Ike. Good to see you. You looked at the map?”
There was a hard grumpiness in Bradley that was unusual. Eisenhower looked up at the stage.
“Haven’t gone over this one too closely. Monty’s people drew it up. Is there a problem?”
Bradley glanced around, self-conscious, uncomfortable, and lowered his voice.
“Not the best time to talk about it. I had a few words with Monty. Not a pleasant way to begin this thing. But dammit, Ike, take a look. He’s drawn in those idiotic phase lines. Told him I won’t have that, not in my sector anyway. You can’t lay out this campaign like some dance lesson. Worthless exercise. I won’t impose that on my people.” He stopped, waiting for more men to move past, Tedder and Ramsay, cordial nods to Eisenhower. Bradley was obviously upset. Eisenhower, looking toward the stage again, saw Montgomery standing on the far side, arms crossed, staring out at the growing audience with a look of patient satisfaction.
“It’s not the time, Ike. Sorry I mentioned it.”
Eisenhower studied the map and saw what Bradley was referring to, crooked lines of tape marking rows of boundaries that expanded away from the beaches, spreading out like so many ripples in a pond. Oh, for God’s sake. That’s pure Monty, planning out every last detail. He’s predicting the future, telling his men where he expects them to be every step of the way. Nothing wrong with that, I guess, as long as he pulls it off. But Monty knows there’s no hard and fast timetable to a campaign, no matter how carefully he designs one. We can’t assume that every part of this operation is a well-oiled machine, no matter how much preparation Monty makes. The quote echoed through Eisenhower’s brain, a cliché now, one of those Teutonic truisms they toss around at West Point. No paper plan ever survives in practice. Who was that, Clausewitz? Von Moltke maybe. But then, Monty didn’t go to West Point.
Churchill appeared at the back of the room, a hum of activity flowing around him. He wore a heavy frock coat, held a cigar tightly in his teeth, and moved quickly through the officers: brief words, small greetings. He saw Eisenhower and removed his hat.
“Morning. Good time for some of that damned coffee you like so much. This place is an icebox. We getting started soon?”
Eisenhower saw the king approaching, all smiles and pleasantries. “I would say yes.”
All the men were standing, obligatory respect. Churchill said nothing and moved toward a chair, dead center in the front row, seemed impatient for King George to make his way down the aisle. Eisenhower had met with the king on several occasions, had been surprised at first that George was so personable, a calm soft-spoken man who showed obvious respect for the officers who had earned their rank.
“Good morning, General,” the king said. “Quite exciting, this, wouldn’t you say?”
“Your Majesty. Welcome. I would hope we can save the excitement for the enemy.”
“Ah, yes, good one, that! I quite agree!”
Eisenhower saw Churchill watching them, the king movin
g that way now, a brief greeting between them. The king was ushered to the centermost seat, the seat Churchill had seemed to choose for himself; Churchill sat one seat away, leaving a gap between him and his monarch. Churchill had not removed the cigar from his mouth, and Eisenhower looked away, thought, What now? More intrigue? Some spat between them? Is everyone in this damned war twelve years old? He scanned the faces throughout the room, and scolded himself. Stop that. You have a job to do, and so do they. As long as everyone knows that, nothing else matters.
The front row was filling quickly, the arrival of the king the signal for everyone to find a seat. Eisenhower nodded to more familiar faces: the South African, Field Marshal Smuts; the British chief of staff, Lord Brooke; so many generals, admirals, air commanders. He felt a stir inside him. Good God, he thought. Hell of a time for the Krauts to make a lucky air strike. I hope word has gone out to the antiaircraft boys to pay a little more attention today.
The talk quieted. Up on the stage, Montgomery pointed toward the back of the room. “Security, you will lock the door and man your posts outside. As of now, no one may enter.”
At the rear of the room, two American military policemen stood tall in white helmets, white holsters holding their sidearms. Eisenhower knew they had been chosen for the job for one reason: They were both huge men, enormously intimidating. They obeyed Montgomery’s order with silent precision, exited through the door, pulled it shut. Montgomery looked toward Eisenhower, who would give the first presentation, but Eisenhower knew he would have to wait for Montgomery’s own formal greeting, offering as host a show of ceremony that he was entitled to. Montgomery moved across the stage.