General Eisenhower told me about it as we drove down from the villa, where I picked him up every morning, to the hotel headquarters of AFHQ in Algiers : It’s a top level secret, he confided, but I can tell you because you’re in on it. He smiled. In a week or so you’re going to be driving the President of the United States.
Chauffeuring isn’t exactly a glamorous job. But I knew from past experience that the presence of a female in the front seat of a car, in all the heavy maleness of war, leads VIP’s to soften their stiffness and become human for a few minutes. So I looked forward to meeting President Roosevelt and, possibly, to actually talking with him. As a person and as a dignitary, he interested me more than anyone else to date, including the Prime Minister and the King of England. And by the time General Ike flew to Oran to meet the battleship Iowa and its Number One passenger, I had caught at least a little of the official family’s excitement.
Chapter 8
General Eisenhower was bringing the President to the comparative isolation of our Advance CP in Tunisia, rather than into the still somewhat explosive atmosphere of Algiers; I joined other lesser lights in the advance trip to Amilcar. The journey was as rough as a bad Channel crossing; Telek, although morose and whimpering, was the only passenger aboard that B-17 without fits of nausea. And the taut state of nerves at the airport was hardly an antidote for any of us. American Secret Service men, sloppily dressed and as tough-looking as characters in a gangster film, dashed about on mysterious errands to set up airtight security for the High Brass, who would include not only the Commander-in-Chief and the Allied Supreme Commander, but also General Marshall, Admiral Ernest J. King, Mr. Harry Hopkins, Admiral William P. Leahy, “Pa” Watson, and a flock of other officials.
On the afternoon of November 20, our welcoming party assembled at the El Aouina airstrip. There was the usual waiting period; then, when we heard the nearing sound of engines, every neck stretched upward as five C-54s circled the field.
One cut in for a straight, swift landing. We all strained for a first glimpse of President Roosevelt, but it turned out to be Gen Marshall. Apparently the Secret Service was taking no chances on enemy fighters knocking off the Number One plane and their Number One boss. Tex, with new lieutenant-colonel leaves on his shoulders, bundled the general into a waiting car. The other four planes landed one right after another; two began unloading passengers and a third seemed to be an empty “spare.” The Number Two plane taxied to our end of the field, and stopped. Several men rolled up a ramp. I drove my Cadillac over beside the plane and waited.
Hey, there ! A burning Irish face appeared at my car window, distorted with anger. I recognized Mike Reilly, the Secret Service chief who had been very much in evidence at Amilcar. You’re not expecting to drive the President, are you, Lady ? he yelled. I certainly is. I’m General Eisenhower’s driver and he instructed me to drive him and the President to the villa. But you can’t ! And why not ? He was on the verge of apoplexy. No woman ever drives the President ! he shouted, thumping on the door. No woman ever has or ever will, as long as I’m Boss here. Certainly no Limey woman !
Just as I started to elaborate on my own Irish background, with some very Irish temper, he ran toward the plane. I looked over and saw General Eisenhower standing on the ground. In the doorway was Franklin Delano Roosevelt.
His personality positively crackled, without as much as a word. That famous smile magnetized every eye. Even General Eisenhower, usually prominent in the foreground, seemed to fade away with the others into a gray backdrop which permitted the spotlight to shine on only one person. To every person standing there, President Roosevelt was the only man on the airstrip.
But the show was lost upon me, as I spotted Tex leaving General’s Marshall’s car and heading in my direction, followed by a sergeant. It’s all right, Kay he whispered, reaching my car. We’ll straighten out this mess afterward. I hate to ask you, but will you show this man how to handle your Cadillac ?
Seething with insubordination and loss of face, I jerked the new-type gears and gave the embarrassed sergeant instructions how to run my car. Then I hurried away and climbed into another limousine, positive that everyone there, including the President of the United States, was laughing at the entire mix-up. But the comedy had just begun. A Secret Service man came over as they put the President into my Cadillac and asked me to come back to drive the big car. As I climbed into the front seat, Mike Reilly’s florid face reappeared. It’s all off again, Lady, he whispered. You can’t drive the sergeant will take over from here ! Going back to the other car, my heels threatened to shatter the runway. Butch walked up and stuck his head in the window. Don’t worry about it, Kay. Well fix everything when we get to the villa. It’s just one of those things. He motioned to his companions, Admiral King, and Mr. Hopkins, whom I had met previously in Algiers.
How’s about going in this car ? he yelled to them. Speeding blindly, I gave those three a ride they’ll never forget, back to Algiers, through the city, and up the hill. The guard around General Eisenhower’s White House, now a temporary but very literal White House, looked as though the American Army expected the Germans’ return to Tunisia any moment. My passengers got out and disappeared inside. Mike Reilly rushed over and said patronizingly, its okay for you to get back in your own car now. They’ve gone in the house.
I looked straight ahead and replied coldly : will stay right here until I get further orders from my Boss. And no big gimp of an Irishman’s going to move me ! He stared for a moment, lips set, then walked away. Miss Summersby ? It was an officer from the official party. The President has asked to meet you, he smiled, beckoning met follow. Glancing in the rear-view mirror to check a shiny nose, I trailed along into the villa. The noisy group of men in the front room were little more than a blur; I was worried about leaving my hat on. I walked into the library. General Eisenhower, who nodded encouragingly, stood by the fireplace. President Roosevelt sat by the window, half-hidden by his two sons, Elliot and Franklin, acquaintances from my African days.
Admiral Leahy stopped talking as the General moved over and said, Mr. President, this is Miss Kay Summersby, the British girl you asked about. Shaking hands, I immediately lost any trace of nervousness. Mr. Roosevelt’s grip was friendly, his smile warm. I’ve heard quite a bit about you, he said. Why didn’t you drive me from the plane ? I’d been looking forward to it. From some deep storehouse of the past, I produced a maidenly but maddening blush. Mr. President, your Secret Service wouldn’t let me drive ! They all laughed. Mr. Roosevelt looked up. Would you like to drive me from now on ? It would be a privilege, Sir. Very well. You shall drive me then. I’m going on an inspection trip soon.
He turned to the lovely view out the window, which framed the Bay of Tunis and the Bann peninsula beyond, and began talking of how he wished there were time to spend weeks in Tunisia, away from official worries, just resting. I recognized a kind dismissal and took my leave. The front room was, by now, jammed with people packed around a temporary bar and buzzing with as much noise as a crowd at a London cocktail party. It seemed incongruous, with the President near by. I couldn’t help but compare the scene with the hushed dignity which always accompanies the King’s official party. And I was a little startled to see a number of Secret Service men, some without ties and with sleeves rolled up, lounging around the temporary White House.
Mike Reilly was bouncing around the driveway. I called him over this time : The just been presented to the President. Heard you were he grunted. And no matter what you say, I added spitefully, the President himself has asked me to drive him. With good Irish humor, Mike surrendered. We agreed to bury the hatchet, as we’d be working together.
Shortly afterward, the President reappeared. They lifted him into the car with a quick efficiency which made the gesture seem wholly natural. His difficulty was ignored by common consent… it simply didn’t exist. I’d like to go over and inspect Elliott’s outfit, he told me. It’s quite near, I understand.
We drove to La Marsa, a short ten minutes away, where he transferred to a jeep and rode along the lines of surprised and proud soldiers of Elliott’s photo reconnaissance unit. We were back at Amilcar before sundown.
As the President went inside, for a rest in General Eisenhower’s bedroom, I started to leave for mess. Franklin came dashing out, however. Just a minute, Kay, he grinned. General Eisenhower says he’s ready to leave and, incidentally, you’re invited to dinner here tonight. Outranked from his own quarters and far from a mood for office work, the General asked me to drive him over to another nearby villa for a visit with Harry Hopkins. The latter and Butch immediately proposed a few rubbers of bridge, a welcome suggestion to ease the day’s tension. When serving as dummy, I spent the time staring at Harry Hopkins, wondering just how he remained alive; clothes hung on his tall, frail frame as though it were a more clothes hanger. General Ike and I won.
We were a trifle late for dinner, but the occasion couldn’t have been more informal. The absence of Gen Marshall, Adm King, even Butch, emphasized this was a dinner, not a dinner party. President Roosevelt and his sons joked and talked as easily and naturally as fathers and sons anywhere in the world. Ruth Briggs, an Admiral’s daughter, and I comprised the female guests. “Pa” Watson, the presidential aide, was a delightful companion, fatherly and gently chiding about my initial clash with Mike Reilly.
Sitting only one place away from Mr. Roosevelt, who naturally headed the table, I was exposed to the fabled FDR charm. But I had to admit it was just that, pure charm; he had it on full, with all stops out. He soon had me feeling quite at ease and talking about Blitz experiences, in which he seemed intensely interested. And that was followed by a volley of keen questions about the role of British women in the war, queries about factory workers, service girls, air raid wardens, and bus clippies. I asked a bold, direct question : Mr. President, will there ever be conscription of women in the United States ? His answer was equally direct. No, he said thoughtfully, I’m afraid not. The country would never stand for it.
After discussing plans for a battlefield tour upon which the President insisted as part of his visit before proceeding to Cairo, the party broke up. It was only 1030-H but the honor guest obviously was fatigued by the long day, which had begun aboard a battleship in Oran, continued through a plane flight to Tunisia, included a troop inspection and a shop talk with General Ike, and concluded with a lengthy dinner. He needed rest. Bidding the others goodnight, he turned to me and spoke in a tone I hadn’t heard since childhood : See you tomorrow, Child.
Elliott and Franklin stepped up as I moved away to drive General Eisenhower back to the Hopkins villa. Come on back, Kay, Franklin whispered. Elliott nodded, we’re having a little party tonight and it might take your mind off things.
By the time I returned to the White House, leaving the General to a session with the indefatigable Hopkins, that party was in full swing. The President must be a very sound sleeper as well as a very tolerant father, I thought, stepping into a room as noisy, smoky, and hot as any nightclub. A stray colonel from headquarters already was folded carefully into a chair. I’m surprised at you Secret Service men, I said, cornering Mike Reilly. Here you are on duty and half of your men are tidily. How can you do your job and still put away all this liquor ?
He smirked, We’re tough, Kay. Have to be. Then he launched a sober and serious discussion of the route to be taken on the battlefield tour. I succeeded in turning him against the idea of riding the ferry across to Bizerte. I feel nervous enough when I’m driving the General onto that little ferry, I explained. The car has to be backed on. And the channel is narrow. I, for one, shouldn’t feel safe with the President riding that ferry if anything happened to dump us into the harbor, he would be a goner ! Mike agreed, aghast at the very thought. Remembering the drive ahead, I left early, about midnight. The party was just shifting into high gear.
When General Eisenhower and I drove up to the White House next morning, a Sunday, we both stiffened in astonishment. The convoy for our quickie tour of the battlefields was practically an armored column. There were at least twenty vehicles, including two truckloads of MP’s armed to the teeth, armored cars, halftracks, jeeps, weapons carriers and a grim-faced Mike up front in a radio car, with an expression which revealed a life-long ambition to head an army into battle. He had been up all night planning his campaign and going over the route, we learned, without as much as a wink of sleep after the late-housed party. With President Roosevelt in the Cadillac, smiling at the Reilly brigade, we started off, Telek barked happily in the front seat. I looked forward to the idea of a picnic, which the President had suggested.
The lead radio car led our bristling convoy slowly over the Tunisian countryside, I relaxed and listened to the talk in the back seat. It revolved around the late battles, the terrain, difficulties encountered, and some of the command personalities.
The President remarked that no one remembers the chief of staff after a war; fame comes only to combat leaders. I am determined, he said, that General Marshall shall not be forgotten after this war. I took it as a new indication the Chief of Staff would head the invasion of France, instead of General Eisenhower.
Telek decided to make one of his flying leaps. The General gasped and caught him in mid-air, just before the bundle of Scottie landed on the President’s legs. I’m sorry, Mr. President, the General apologized. Telek cried and struggled, eyeing the strange passenger.
Come on, Boy ! Mr. Roosevelt laughed. Telek jumped and nuzzled all over the world’s most famous owner of the world’s most famous Scottie. The President played with him as one who knows and loves dogs. To Telek, he was just another nice man; a nice man which smelled faintly of Scotties.
Mr. Roosevelt talked of Falla and asked whether Telek were British or American. General Eisenhower told him the story of Telek’s English birth and his American wife. Looking up in the rear-view mirror, he added, Trouble is, he’s more devoted to Kay than to me. She looks after him so much. Still, I guess I think as much of him, Mr. President, as you do of Falla ! The President continued to play with Telek. Suddenly, he pointed to a rare grove of trees and remarked, That’s an awfully nice place. Could you pull up there, Child, for our little picnic ? Nothing could have pleased me more. Mike, I knew, had already selected a special spot farther along the road; it was perfect for “defense.” He would be furious at this change of plans. So I turned off the highway quickly, followed obediently and unquestioningly by all the vehicles behind us. Those in front continued merrily on their way.
By the time we pulled into the wood, Mike had discovered the loss of half of his convoy and came racing up in wild temper. He couldn’t say much to his Boss, however, and, instead, busied himself setting up an impenetrable cordon of guards. They were posted in a wide circle, their backs to us, only a few feet apart, weapons at the alert. In this military, bellicose atmosphere, my passengers started their picnic.
Child, the President said as I got out of the car to join the other drivers, won’t you come back here and have lunch with a dull old man ? Startled but pleased, I climbed in back and sat down beside him. Gen Eisenhower remained outside to hand us in delicious chicken sandwiches prepared by Sergeant Hunt. Coffee was the only other item on the sparse menu, as the General was afraid to offer lettuce or other green vegetables to the President in this disease-ridden climate.
As back at the villa, I soon lost any thoughts of shyness and felt as though I had known this vibrant man all my life, as though he were a distant uncle I hadn’t seen since babyhood. Mr. Roosevelt had that enviable touch of natural intimacy. Evidently the General had told him about Dick, for he remarked on the tragedy of war and offered condolences. Then he asked all about my family, about England, about life along the Mediterranean. Why don’t you join the WAC’s ? he asked as I told him details of their marvelous work in North Africa. There’s nothing I’d like better ! I replied. But it’s impossible until I can become an American citizen.
The picnic ended, we took the President on a fast tour of areas where great battles had been fought. Then we headed home. He left for Cairo shortly before 2300-H.
Lying awake in bed that night, I gradually realized what an unusual week end it had been, for an ordinary Army driver, a British girl at that, to be presented to the President and to participate in his life. In fact, the past day alone had been a page straight from “Lanny Budd” fiction sitting in the back seat of a limousine parked on Tunisian battlegrounds, surrounded by armed guards and the Secret Service, served sandwiches by a four-star general named Eisenhower, enjoying a picnic lunch beside the President of the United States !
That afternoon, however, the conversation between an army driver and the President of a great nation had been so natural that I failed to realize the extraordinary nature of the occasion. It seemed only another unusual incident in an unusual service with General Eisenhower, one of a steady procession of unique events so unreal and so blurred together in the rush of war that there was little time for me to contemplate the fairytale nature of my life with the Americans.
And, as usual, the excitement of the latest experience soon was lost in a fever of anticipation over the next in this case, a trip to Cairo and the Middle East.
Something to Add ?
Photos; Combat Experiences Stories
Documents : use form bellow.
Several photos ? Go to the Upload page (top bar of the site).
Thank you
Allowed jpg, gif, jepg, png, txt, tif, bmp, pdf.
