Bertram Ramsay, the oldest man in the room, seemed far older now. He shook his head. “Landing craft will suffer severely in those kinds of seas. The response from the enemy’s batteries above the beaches will be brutal, since we cannot hope to drop accurate offshore fire on them. Even our largest ships will be inefficient in such rough water. The smaller ships…I do not see how any ship can maneuver effectively in those conditions. We could put landing craft on the beaches to some extent, but I’m not certain I would recommend that. There is considerable danger of floundering, and we could lose a sizable percentage of our landing forces before they reached the shallows. Very distressing, if you ask me.”
Montgomery stood, moved around behind the map, and leaned in close, Stagg making way for him. Montgomery seemed to scan the map carefully, then turned to the others, crossed his arms in front of his chest.
“Delay is too costly. If we do not put our boys ashore, the entire operation will be jeopardized. Time is critical, gentlemen. We have suffered difficult conditions before, and we can do so again.”
Eisenhower felt Montgomery’s fiery enthusiasm but knew that no one else in the room shared it. Tedder, who had been silent, spoke next.
“I do not agree. We have some options for this timetable.” He looked at Eisenhower and removed the pipe from his mouth. “We have options.”
Eisenhower appreciated the man’s calm. Tedder, who despised Montgomery, was certainly exercising a major dose of self-control. Eisenhower looked past Stagg and his map toward the other weather experts sitting in scattered chairs against the far wall. “Do you have some estimate of how long these conditions will last?”
Stagg glanced back at the others, and one man spoke up. “Our best estimate, sir, is that this system will be in place for several days. There is a chance the intensity could lessen, but only a chance.”
“To answer that question with specifics would make any of us a guesser, sir, not a meteorologist,” Stagg said.
Eisenhower felt the others staring at him; no one moved. Montgomery still stood beside the map, and Eisenhower could not ignore him. The man was pulsing with energy. Montgomery said, “I should point out that, even as we speak, a significant portion of the invasion forces have sailed from their ports. We have already put into motion a very large wheel, and to reverse course now would have serious logistical consequences. These plans were decided upon with one very strict eye on the timing of the low tide. If we do not launch this operation within the next seventy-two hours, we will have no alternative but to delay for a fortnight, possibly longer. You are all aware of the risks that will bring. The enemy is no doubt at this moment in full detection of the movement of so many of our ships. No secret can be kept forever, and a delay could very well cost us the element of surprise. The cost to the morale of our army could be catastrophic.”
Eisenhower saw a frown on Tedder’s face, but the air marshal stayed silent.
“I’m afraid that morale will be the least of our problems if we do not postpone the landings,” Eisenhower said. He looked at Ramsay, then Leigh-Mallory, then Tedder, each man returning the gaze. None of them are bellyaching about their authority now, he thought. They’ve said all they want to say, and this is my decision. He took a long breath, felt a hard churning in his stomach. “I see no alternative. We will postpone D-Day for twenty-four hours. H-Hour will remain the same. We will meet again at four tomorrow morning. Let us pray like mad that these gentlemen will bring us some better news.”
SOUTHWICK PARK, NEAR PORTSMOUTH
JUNE 5, 1944
It was barely 4 A.M., and he had already spoken to several of the meteorologists alone, to hear their views untainted by the others. Now they gathered again, the storm above their heads lashing the house with driving rain and furious winds. He knew the weathermen would take a perverse pride in the strength of the blast, the enormous weight of their accurate forecast possibly averting complete disaster to the invasion force. Eisenhower could only assume that the sudden turnabout in plans had been a serious strain on the troops, so many men huddled in tight quarters on the transport ships. Montgomery had been correct that even as their meeting took place on June 4, a great many of the ships from ports farthest from the French coast had already begun their journey. But every ship had been successfully recalled.
Eisenhower glanced at his watch: 4 A.M., every man seated, expectant. “You may begin, Captain. Tell these gentlemen what you told me…what all of you told me.”
Stagg stood erect beside the map. “As you can tell from the conditions outside, our predictions were on the mark. Though these current conditions are not expected to change a great deal today, it now appears that for June sixth conditions might become more favorable. It will continue to be windy, but not as severe, fewer than twenty knots, and by midday tomorrow there is a chance that even those winds will decrease considerably. The cloud cover will likely lessen somewhat, offering a slightly higher ceiling. Seas will continue to be rough, but not as bad as they are right now. I…we are pessimistic that this improvement will last for much more than thirty-six hours. By the seventh, conditions will most likely worsen.”
Eisenhower felt the churning in his stomach again, but it was excitement now, the gloom fading from all of them. He clenched his fists and scanned the faces. “Admiral Ramsay, Marshal Leigh-Mallory, your operations are more dependent on weather conditions than the ground forces. I would like your most optimistic opinions.”
Leigh-Mallory seemed to share Eisenhower’s excitement. “By George, I think we should give this a go. It is a gamble, certainly, and I would rather appreciate these weather chaps offering us a bit more in the way of certainty.”
“There is no certainty,” Eisenhower said. “Captain Stagg has been very clear, as have they all, that this is, at best, guesswork.”
Ramsay rolled his hand into a fist and began to pound the arm of his chair, light hammer blows. “Guesswork be damned. If the air can do it, then, by God, the navy can as well.”
Eisenhower looked at Montgomery, who sat back, his arms folded, and said, “You know my position. I have one thought and one thought only. It’s time to go.”
They were all staring at Eisenhower now, a silent moment, broken by the wind billowing against the house. He thought of Marshall, of Roosevelt; they had put him here for this moment, this one decision. The planning was complete, the maps drawn, the troops as well rehearsed for this operation as any troops could be. Now, the great power of the army was poised in their transport ships, waiting for one order, the order that could be given by no one else.
“All right. It’s time to move. D-Day is tomorrow, June sixth. H-Hour for the five beaches is unchanged. I have been informed that the Archbishop of Canterbury has offered to lead us all in prayer. I think you weather boys would agree: That’s a fine idea.”
NEAR PORTSMOUTH
JUNE 5, 1944
De Gaulle had come, finally, and the anticipated diplomatic flap had been perfectly realized. Eisenhower had accepted Churchill’s logic that the French only be informed that the operation was set to begin, no more than that. Worse for Eisenhower’s own efforts at diplomacy, de Gaulle rejected the request that the two men issue a joint communication to the French people. De Gaulle recognized no one’s authority but his own, and he expected the French people to do the same. Regardless of what Eisenhower would broadcast, de Gaulle seemed to want the Maquis to stage an all-out uprising. Eisenhower could only hope that de Gaulle’s appeal to French patriotism didn’t result in a bloodbath for French civilians.
With so much swirling around him, Eisenhower did not expect that, on the day before the invasion was scheduled to begin, he would receive news from an unexpected source that would inspire every man in the Allied command. Nearly a month before, on May 12, a large-scale operation had begun across the boot of Italy, a bold attempt by Jumbo Wilson, Harold Alexander, and Mark Clark to break the stalemate against Kesselring’s stubborn defenses. Finally, after so much effort and so much cost, the city of R
ome had been liberated. It was far more of a symbolic victory than a strategic one—Rome itself was never an essential military objective—but the news that Rome was finally in Allied hands was an enormous shot of confidence for everyone at SHAEF. To the Italian people, it was a glimpse of salvation.
HQ, 101ST AIRBORNE DIVISION, NEWBURY
JUNE 5, 1944
Eisenhower had toured one of the port facilities, observing masses of troops marching onto the transports, the incredible flow of men and machines boarding naval craft of a variety that amazed him even now. He knew that, far offshore, the minesweepers had begun their work, clearing specified sea lanes of any German explosives. The warships were already steaming toward their designated beaches, battleships, cruisers, and destroyers, the gunners readying themselves for the first bombardment of targets they had seen only on maps or clay models. By now, the infantry and armored troops sealed on board the ships knew something of their missions, details that could not have been revealed before. Their specific missions were passed down from senior officers to their engineers and to their company and platoon commanders. The junior officers in turn would brief their riflemen, radiomen, and medics, tank drivers and gunners, the men whose sole job would be to find their way across the beaches, to confront the enemy any way they could. Among them were American Rangers and British commandos, whose jobs were more specific, targeting the heavier German installations and artillery batteries.
But before any of that would happen, the airborne would have begun their own mission, massive formations of C-47s pushing skyward barely after midnight. With so few hours before it all began, it was the paratroopers Eisenhower had wanted to see, some final word of encouragement for those men who would lead the assault, who would be the first to touch the soil of France.
Butcher rode beside him, the long car rolling over a wide hill, open ground spreading out on all sides. They could see the transport planes now, rows of C-47s, standing in the open, no more camouflage, nothing to hide them or hold them back. From his first weeks in England, Eisenhower had made it a point to visit the troops, touring the various fighting divisions, British, Canadian, and American. His visits were never formal, none of the stiff inspections or speech-filled pep rallies that Patton and Montgomery seemed to prefer. Eisenhower made every effort to speak to the soldiers on their level, hear them voice their views, concerns, opinions. It wasn’t completely realistic, of course. No enlisted man could regard the supreme commander as a pal. But now, with the first wave of combat troops already on their transport ships, he felt himself drawn to the airborne, those men whose journey would be the briefest but whose mission might decide the fate of the entire operation.
Eisenhower stared out across the open airfields, couldn’t shake Patton from his mind, a conversation he had endured a few days before. Patton was not scheduled to mobilize his newly created Third Army for the trip to France for at least a month, maybe two. He would move into France only when the beachheads had expanded safely inland, when the enemy had been pushed away and was ripe for a hard shocking thrust that might break the Germans altogether. No one disputed that Patton was the most appropriate man for that job, but for now he wore two hats, supervising the training of his Third Army as well as continuing to sit atop the fictitious First Army Group. According to the Ultra intercepts, the Germans had swallowed that bait completely. Fully one-half of Rommel’s command, the powerful Fifteenth Army, continued to hold their positions along the coast near the Pas de Calais. The Ultra code breakers had become one of the Allies’ most valuable weapons, the Germans still unaware that every detail of their transmissions was being monitored. Ultra was far from perfect, though, and Eisenhower had been frustrated by gaps of information, days passing with no word at all. There were other inefficiencies as well; Eisenhower understood that even such a sophisticated intelligence system was subject to the failings of the humans who operated it. Too often, pertinent messages were not passed along to those who might need them the most. But one message had come through quite clearly. The Germans still believed Pas-de-Calais was the intended landing target.
The car began to slow, a stout wire gate, MPs peering in, well aware he was coming, waving the car past. Eisenhower looked out across the open fields again. He could see the paratroopers gathering near their planes, saw the equipment, bundles of dark canvas, already strapped beneath the wings. The men began to point, expectant, knowing from their officers who their visitor would be. The car stopped and Eisenhower prepared himself, more nervous than he had ever been before.
He had done this so many times, so many soldiers, so many meaningless chats, self-conscious conversation. Every time, the words had come naturally, the simple farewell, appropriate and expected: Good luck!
He realized suddenly, I cannot say that to these men. There is no luck here, no champagne toast to good fortune. Some of these men will die because of the job we need them to do. I have to speak to them, look them in the eye, but I cannot toss them a mindless good luck. In the end, whether we win this thing or whether we get our asses shoved into the sea, I owe them more than some meaningless platitude. He paused, paralyzed, his aide standing outside the car door, waiting for his signal to pull it open. Beside him, Butcher waited as well, to let Eisenhower be first out of the car.
“These men…they’re jumping into France tonight, Harry. What do I say to them?”
Butcher hesitated, then said, “Tell them you’re proud of them, Chief. Tell them…they’re the best soldiers in the world.”
“Is that true? Are they?”
“Doesn’t matter, Chief. As long as they believe it.”
* * *
15. ROMMEL
* * *
JUNE 3, 1944
Despite continuing assurances that the Allied attack would come ashore at Calais, Rommel understood that his preparations must allow for every contingency, every threat. There were a great many possibilities, and Rommel knew that secondary attacks could follow at several locations within his sphere of authority, including the Cotentin Peninsula, Brittany, and the ports of Cherbourg and Antwerp. Rommel thought that the ports themselves were unlikely targets, far too fortified against an amphibious attack, far too protected from a paratroop assault from behind. If the enemy was to put an army ashore, Rommel believed they would most likely choose one of several stretches of open beach. Though Hitler claimed to support Rommel’s efforts along the entire Atlantic Wall, it was clear to Rommel that Hitler believed the Allies would strike at the cities themselves. Despite Rommel’s attempts at persuasion, Hitler insisted that any invasion would immediately require the enemy to capture a major port, through which they could funnel supplies. Rommel tried to ignore Hitler’s second-guessing of every command decision and pushed harder along the coast for the work to continue. There were renewed efforts to extend the beach barricades, to mine the passageways inland, to improve artillery bunkers and gun emplacements. Strategically, there had been no change in the disagreements between Rommel and the others, so Rommel had to make do with the resources he had been given. He had faith in his men and utter confidence as to how the enemy should be confronted, but again, as in North Africa, his power had been drained away by the inability or unwillingness of his superiors to see things his way and to provide the supplies and troops he needed to get the job done.
As much as he counted on the fighting spirit of his soldiers, Rommel had become alarmed by the ongoing flow of invalid troops pouring in from the Russian front, often ending up as replacements for healthier men, who were abruptly pulled away from his infantry. It was maddening that the High Command had no hesitation about draining the best manpower from France, so that Hitler could feed the great gaping disaster to the east. It was small comfort to those troops headed east that the dismal reports from Russia had grown less urgent, reflecting a lull of sorts. Throughout the spring there had as yet been no major attacks by either side, but Rommel knew, as did they all, that with summer the Russians would certainly launch another offensive. It was simple and
straightforward strategy. Russia was another of the Allies, after all, and it made perfect sense to Rommel that the Russians would support an Allied invasion by opening a new campaign of their own, holding German troops in the east to prevent Hitler from shifting strength to France.
Rommel also understood that he could expect no reinforcements from Italy. Kesselring’s army had been weakened so much that the only way he could prevent an all-out disaster was to make a slow fighting withdrawal, using the natural defensive barriers provided by the Italian countryside. The best Kesselring could accomplish in that kind of campaign was to inflict a bloody price on the Allies for every sliver of territory they gained. Ultimately, the outcome was predictable. There were no illusions in Berlin that Italy would somehow be swept clear of Allied forces; even Kesselring knew he was being given low priority by the German High Command.
Throughout France, the Allied bombers had intensified their attacks, striking hard at railways and supply terminals. At first, Rommel had been mystified by the randomness of the attacks, but as more and more valuable transportation links were obliterated, the tactic made sense. Though the targets were scattered throughout northern France, they all had one thing in common: Every one was an avenue, a means to transport crucial supplies to the German forces who would confront the invasion. As the number of bombing raids increased, Rommel understood exactly what the Allies were doing. However, there was no discernible pattern to the strikes, no hint that the bombing campaign was designed to give support to one invasion site or another. Rommel was still confident that the landings were coming at Calais, and nearly every German general in the theater agreed with that. But Hitler had surprised them all. Despite the pure logic of an attack at Calais, and despite intelligence data confirming that location, Hitler suddenly announced that the attack was certain to come in the Cotentin Peninsula, most likely at the beaches along the northern Normandy coast. Rommel was surprised by Hitler’s sudden change of heart, and nearly every high-ranking commander continued quietly to believe Calais was the place. Though Rommel had already done much to prepare the Normandy beaches, and the hedgerow country inland was bristling with German defenses, Rommel had responded to Hitler’s new concerns. The construction and placement of barriers was increased as much as possible, and once again Rommel made inspection trips to the outposts and fortifications that faced the sea.