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Chapter 10

Returning from Cairo to Algiers, I began digging away at the minor mountain of paper accumulated on my desk. Memories of Egypt and Palestine faded completely as I worked late each night to reduce those piles of the General’s fan mail. Like everyone else at headquarters, however, I was still busier on unofficial duties… working overtime on the old rumor that Gen Marshall, not Gen Ike, would head the new American Expeditionary Force building in Britain, and that Ike would go to Washington to become Chief of Staff.

All of us were agreed that the Boss, now a veteran in the command of Allied armies in the field, should have the Overlord assignment instead of Gen Marshall, who was better qualified for the role of handling global strategy, Washington politics, and top direction of the American Army. Ike would be a misfit in the Pentagon, a stranger to world-wide war, to chief-of-staff paper work, and to Capital intrigue. Marshall would be lost in an active AFHQ, baffled by the new job of combat command, by Allied eccentricities, and by taking orders from his old office. This reasoning seemed clear and logical. Yet the rumor gained new strength as unpleasant rumors will, which disturbed all of us who didn’t want to remain in the Mediterranean under a new boss. We wanted to go back to England for the Big Show, under General Ike.

The General himself was at first secretly hopeful of winning the Overlord spot. He even said so, in hush-hush tones, to me one day. Another time, in the car, I mentioned boldly, as only a woman could have done : somehow, I’ve got a feeling you’ll be Supreme Commander for the Continent, no matter what the rumors say ! He grinned, noncommittal but as time went on he began to feel less hopeful. He hated the thought of going back to Washington as Chief-of-Staff, glued to paper work during the greatest battle in History. He emphasized he would rather, much rather, remain in the Mediterranean with a secondary command.

Finally, I heard him say he was resigned to being ordered back to take Gen Marshall’s place; he went so far as to plan a “back door” route to Washington, via the Pacific Theater. The shock of this story threw our entire staff into gloomy moods. It looked as though we would lose Gen Ike, stay with a minor headquarters, and miss out on the big invasion of Europe.

But on December 7, the anniversary of Pearl Harbor, the message came through : Gen Eisenhower would be top boss of Overlord, the all-out assault upon Nazi Europe.
This happy news, contained in a vague message from Gen Marshall, arrived just as we were preparing for the return visit of President Roosevelt. So the normal excitement over Gen Eisenhower’s appointment was lost in the bustle of readying Amilcar and the White House. The President planed in that same afternoon, more fit and energetic than the rest of his party from Cairo. In the evening he enjoyed a strictly GI dinner supplied by son Elliott’s mess gang. (I thought it a little strange, after Mike Reilly’s super-security measures, that Italian prisoners-of-war were permitted to serve the meal.)

Next day, Ike accompanied President Roosevelt on a testimonial visit to Malta, accompanied by Harry Hopkins, Generals Smith, Spaatz, and Watson, Admiral Leahy and several other US naval Brass. The group then flew to Sicily for a hurried inspection which featured the presentation of the Legion of Merit to Beetle and the Distinguished Service Cross to General Clark.

Meanwhile, back in Amilcar we received word the Prime Minister was due any moment. Concurrently, we heard that the President’s big C-54 had mechanical trouble; instead of starting home, he was returning to the White House for another night with us. All this left the home guard at Amilcar in a complete flap : the General’s big bedroom couldn’t bed down the President of the United States and the Prime Minister of the British Empire, if both turned up at the same time. In addition, part of the heavy security detail had been withdrawn.

Happily, the P.M. failed to show. And I was up before dawn the next morning to drive Gen Ike and the President to the airfield for a dewy 0630-H takeoff. Mr. Roosevelt was just as friendly and natural as before. I stood aside, out of the official party, when they rolled out his special ramp. But “Pa” Watson walked over : the President wants to say goodbye to you, he said adding in a whisper that Mr. Roosevelt had mentioned giving me some sort of a gift.
(Later, Gen Eisenhower revealed that the President wanted to make it the Legion of Merit. My status as a British civilian apparently made such a gesture impossible. So when the General visited the States in January of 1944 and talked with the President, the latter gave him a photograph, one of my prized possessions, inscribed “To Kay Summersby, with warm personal regards… Franklin D.Roosevelt”).

Mr. Roosevelt complimented my driving, thanked me for “taking care” of him, and then smiled : I hope you come to the United States, Child. If you do, please be sure to come and see me !
We shook hands and he disappeared into the plane, which took off immediately for Dakar. It was the last time I ever saw him.

Two days later we were back at the same airstrip, greeting Winston Churchill. He was two hours late, having first landed at the wrong field. We forgot our planned gibes at his tardiness, as soon as he stepped from the plane. There was an abnormal slump to his round shoulders, his face seemed to sag, and even his eyes lacked the usual sparkle; the P.M. was nervous, tired, and not at all well. We didn’t know it then, but he was headed for a real bout of illness within the week. And he helped to hasten the breakdown by insisting upon a vigorous schedule : conferences with Gen Eisenhower, as well as long sessions with Gens Arnold, Spaatz, and Alexander, AM Tedder, and Sir Alan Brooke, Chief of the Imperial General Staff.

Meantime, all eyes at headquarters were on Italy. The gossip had turned to one’s chances of accompanying Gen Eisenhower to London, but all of us still were concerned with the bitter war going on in the Mediterranean. The General ordered a new Advance CP, in keeping with his oft-repeated belief that such moves, at frequent intervals, could keep sprawling AFHQ on the march; he disliked the idea of HQs people “digging in” at any one location, particularly in a large, comfortable city, in a manner to create natural resentment among the foot-slogging combat troops. It was an unselfish idea and carried much military logic. But did more social officers always complained at being forced to uproot their comfortable after-hours lives. And the Signal Corps cursed at the steady extension of communication facilities, always considerable for the use of the Commanding General and his retinue. This time, there was more grumbling than usual. Ike was establishing his new CP in Italy itself. Some of the plushier officers didn’t like the idea of Italian mud.

There were no beefs from me when we flew to Italy on December 18. I was anxious to see that country for the first time and to keep up with the war; I saw less and less attraction in the social life becoming increasingly important to many of the staff in Algiers. The weather was bad that day and the flight was long. No one complained about the weather; but Sue Sarafin groused about the long trip, observing pointedly that a four-star general’s Flying Fortress should be equipped with a powder room.
Staff officers’ worries about pup-tent life dissipated as soon as they saw the new Advance CP. Our headquarters was literally palatial, the Caserta Palace north of Naples. Once luxurious enough for the kings of Italy, it now offered a sufficient number of rooms and corridors for several military headquarters.

Gen Eisenhower protested vehemently when he saw his office : a sumptuous room big enough for a railway station or an air plane hangar, carefully conceived and decorated to impress and shrink the ego of any but the brassiest of visitors. It was adjoined by a mirrored, dwarfing, intimidating reception chamber. In short, nothing could have been further from the Eisenhower idea of a small, modest working office accessible to any member of his staff. He was especially irate over the giant potted palms, which added an extra, Tsarist touch of power.

We girls were assigned a suite so large that, as someone put it, rain clouds often formed in the distant ceilings. The kitchen was as spacious as Gen Eisenhower’s entire office at Amilcar. The overall impression, in fact, was so eerie we moved our beds into one protecting room, for mutual comfort.

Butch, the inveterate trail-blazer, also had located Prince Urnberto’s hunting lodge on a nearby mountainside. I remember it particularly because it was the site of Gen Ike’s memorable Battle with the Rat, which occurred in the bathroom the second night after our arrival. Despite our kibitzing I roared unmercifully from the shelter of the doorway, while the others whispered good military advice he had a perfect target; the quarry was cornered atop the toilet seat. But, let it be recorded for history that the Supreme Commander was a rotten shot. After three or four near hits by Gen Dwight D. Eisenhower, head of the straightest shooting army in the world, things were so bad that someone else had to come in and club the poor animal to death.
Talking with some of the records people, I learned Dick’s young brother Bob was located in a Chemical Warfare outfit somewhere to the north of us. I mentioned this fact casually to the General during a conversation. Immediately, he suggested Bob be brought back to our place for a one-day rest cure : the poor guy probably needs it, he added.

General Ike’s kind thought turned into an order and Bob turned up shortly, muddy, baggy-eyed, nervous, hollow-cheeked, and weary. But a bath, shave, new uniform from the PX, and dinner in the rank-laden mess did wonders for his morale. He and I talked for hours, enjoying the reunion, talking about Dick and the war and the future. Still, I was startled when he showed no reluctance at getting ready to leave.
Why don’t you and Tex drive Bob back ? the General asked. We agreed, picturing a short drive to perhaps Corps Headquarters. The front itself wasn’t so very far away; we assumed the trip to a transportation point could be only a brief ride. In fact, it started out as nonchalantly as a picnic party, with Tex hustling Bob and me into the back seat and booming : you kids take it easy and I’ll drive. You’ve got plenty to talk about !.

At first, the highway was like a hundred others I’d seen throughout North Africa, narrow and dirty, filled with convoys interspersed with staff cars and other types of vehicles. The GIs whistled and hooted at the sight of a female in the back seat of a sedan meant for High Brass. We all laughed at the sight of our first sign pointing to Rome, joking that we might pass through the enemy lines without knowing it and find ourselves in the Italian capital itself, thumbing our noses at German and Italian MP’s.

A short while later, my sense of humor began to droop. I noticed, with a driver’s eye, that we hadn’t passed a single staff car in miles; ours was the only sedan on the road. Instead of weaving in and out through convoys, we sometimes drove for long stretches without seeing another vehicle.
Then, passing a short convoy of mud-caked jeeps, I noted with something approaching alarm that none of the GIs yelled wolf calls, that none of them whistled; they stared, simply stared. I got the distinct impression that the presence of both myself and the long staff car constituted a freak sight. Tex, too, felt the difference in these surroundings : just how much farther is this outfit of yours ? he asked. Straight ahead, Bob said, returning to a long story about someone in his unit. Tex and I looked at each other in silent agreement. Each of us had just noticed, at almost the same moment, that the only other cars on this road were jeeps-jeeps with the windshield folded down, combat style. Tex drove a little faster.
The idea of being captured by the Germans had never occurred to me before. Now it presented all sorts of horrible, nightmarish possibilities; there was no doubt we were well into the combat zone, our Packard as conspicuous as a Navy uniform in that region. The same thoughts, I imagine, were going through the mind of Tex, safer as a male and an officer, perhaps, but still an actual aide to the Allies’ Supreme Commander. We two would make juicy prisoners.

Neither of us, however, wanted to appear in the least jittery; as headquarters staff, we had to maintain “face” before Bob, who acted as though this were a peacetime Sunday drive.
Personally, I was partially reassured by the little pistol in my handbag, loaded and ready for action. (I carried a gun throughout the war, in my purse or under my pillow. It seemed a basic insurance. My first was lost aboard the Strathallen; General Ike replaced it with one Tex picked up. The General insisted that I learn to shoot, which I did; he also insisted that I learn to load the weapon, which I got around by inserting a shell in the chamber and keeping it on permanent “safety”).

Both Tex and I were at the last fringe of self-control when Bob suddenly jerked up and pounded Tex on the shoulder : this is the place, he shouted. That’s my unit right up there on the mountain and the Germans are just above us. He said it with all the gaiety of a guide pointing out an historical marker.
I looked at Tex, more thoroughly frightened than I had been aboard the torpedoed Strathallen or in the Blitz. We both had the same thought : our sleek Packard, obviously for High Brass, was an inviting sitting-duck target for an idle enemy gunner, sniper, or marauding plane. As Bob waved for the last time, shouldered his pack and strode up into the war, we jumped in the car and took off with as much speed as a B-17.
I didn’t breathe easily until we were back in Caserta.

That evening, we relaxed at dinner with Gen Clark in his Fifth Army CP in the grounds of Caserta Palace. And it was a welcome, non combatant role. Moreover, I had a chance to renew acquaintance with some of Dick’s old Fifth Army friends. Neither Tex nor I mentioned our first taste of life at the front.

Early on the twenty-first, I drove Gen Eisenhower and Beetle across Italy to Bari, headquarters of Gen Montgomery. My passengers spent the entire time discussing who should get the nod for command of British troops in the French invasion, perhaps head all ground forces. Beetle, with characteristic clarity and lack of sentiment, outlined the relative merits of the two chief contenders, Gens Alexander and Montgomery. Time and time again they came back to the same conclusion : Alexander probably wouldn’t be available. Taking that and other military factors into consideration, they settled on Montgomery.

At one of our own CP’s, set in the edge of an orchard, a driver from the Montgomery headquarters took over and I got out to await the General’s return, once again exiled by Monty’s order forbidding women in his area. Sitting in the CP, cold and miserable, listening to the incessant rain outside, I thought spitefully of all the things I didn’t like about B. L. Montgomery.

The one buzzing bee in my bonnet was all the publicity on how Gen Montgomery, a disciplined nonsmoker, often wound up troop visits or inspections by passing out free cigarettes with a gracious manner. It was one of Monty’s trademarks. Yet he couldn’t help remembering Monty always asked Gen Eisenhower for cigarettes he distributed without the slightest acknowledgment of their source. The whole business irritated me so much that I reminded General Ike, upon several occasions, that Monty was building up this personal romantic role on a second-hand gesture based upon American generosity. The General, however, sometimes tolerant to the point of maddening sainthood, apparently realized the folly of stooping to such trivialities. So what ? he laughed.
(On the other hand, the General wasn’t quite so tolerant when Monty slowed to a trot in the Sicilian invasion; I often heard him grumble why doesn’t Monty get going ? What’s the matter with him; why doesn’t he get going ? He repeated similar remarks later, when Monty bogged down in caution on the Continent. Yet, such statements were made in careful privacy. They never tarnished Monty’s press).

One of the few times I really disagreed with the Regular Army viewpoint occurred one evening at Gen Eisenhower’s villa. I was dining with Butch, awaiting the General’s return for a little trip up to Caserta. Butch, with his civilian disregard of military discipline, asked Mickey to eat with us. It wasn’t the first time we had done so in General Ike’s absence and it was most natural, for the official family was very intimate; but I always felt a tiny fear Gen Eisenhower might return and bring the fury of West Point upon our heads.
This night, he did.

Walking into the house unannounced, he saw Butch, Mickey, and me dining in rather boisterous informality. The Eisenhower grin shrunk into a tight military line; his teeth ground so firmly that muscles rippled up each cheek. The storm warnings were up. Butch, he said ominously, I’d like to see you for a minute ! They disappeared into another room. Poor Mickey muttered something about being finished, and fled into the kitchen. I picked at the food, cursing the war, the Army, and uniforms in two. Later, Butch told me that the General raked him over a thousand hot coals for having Mickey at the same table. Ike thought a lot of Mickey, who, in turn, adored the General. But Ike didn’t feel to put it mildly that he or Butch could eat at the same table with an enlisted man, and then turn around and order him to do some necessary, but menial duty. General Ike emphasized it was bad enough around his quarters, with all the inevitable informality; incidents such as this, he added, only made ordinary discipline still more difficult. He concluded by stressing he didn’t want to hurt Mickey like that again. Butch was left with the solid impression that another similar occasion might blast the earth right out from under his very feet.

The day before Christmas I was in on the murder of a tradition even stiffer than that of West Point or Sandhurst – the WAC’s and I rode aboard a Navy destroyer at sea.
The ship was going to Capri, carrying Gen Eisenhower over for an inspection tour. Somehow managing to shatter this oldest of Navy regulations, he wangled invitations for us females. Luckily, he chose a gorgeous afternoon filled with bright sunshine and a soft breeze, the one clear day we saw during our entire visit in Italy. Yet, seeing Capri itself, it seemed impossible that the weather could be other than lovely, for the place is surely one of the most beautiful spots on this earth.

We toured the famed resort in jeeps, captivated by the indescribable color, the luxurious air of semitropical leisure, and the attractive, gay little villas.
Gen Eisenhower, however, spotted a villa which wasn’t exactly miniature. Whose is that ? he asked, pointing. Yours, Sir was the reply. The General reddened, then nodded at another house, so fabulous it appeared on loan from Hollywood : And that ? That one belongs to Gen Spaatz, our guide answered. Ike asked about several others, before erupting : Damn it, that’s not my villa ! And that’s not Spaatz’ villa ! None of those will belong to any general as long as I’m Boss around here. This is supposed to be a rest center for combat men not a playground for the Brass ! (The villas were decommissioned within hours after we left, reserved for the men who really needed them).

After a quick lunch at Red Cross headquarters and a visit to the picturesque, cliff-bordered villa of Axel Munthe, the famous Capri author, we headed back to the destroyer and to Naples.
That night was Christmas Eve.

We all gathered at the General’s villa just outside the city, in a dreamy location overlooking the Bay of Naples and Mount Vesuvius. There was a small tree, bravely decorated with objects which included strings of popcorn supplied by Butch for communal popping. We gave each other silly things, just to keep the Yuletide spirit alive; Gen Ike gave Roman coins to all his “house” family. My own imaginative and expensive present to the Boss : a plain white handkerchief.

The General seemed relaxed and comparatively happy, although as homesick as all of us; it was a makeshift, make-do Christmas for everyone there, from four-star general to GI waiter, from Red Cross girl to civilian driver. I wandered outside and enjoyed the view of the rainy city, thinking of all the dirt and damage underneath, all the death and despair; I thought of a lunch we ate in a restaurant where Caruso sang, a lunch sabotaged by the heartbreaking sight of ragged Italians digging in the slop and garbage for even a shred of palatable food. Perhaps that was why General Ike so admired the painting in his living room, a vivid view of the bay, the city, and Vesuvius, a view now banished to tourists’ memories, a view never to be seen again. Going back into the villa, I took another look at that picture and knew why the General liked it so much. Soon afterward, the party broke up.

Around nine o’clock the next morning we flew to Tunis, Gen Eisenhower happy with his nicest Christinas present President Roosevelt’s official radio announcement that Ike would lead the invasion forces onto Europe.
The Tunis stop was made in order to permit a visit with the Prime Minister, recovering from an illness so severe that his wife was in attendance. This was my first meeting with Mrs. Churchill; she was charming, perfectly delightful, a wonderful wife to a wonderful man. I also liked their daughter Sarah Oliver, then an officer in the WAAR and I was flattered when they included me in their invitation to General Eisenhower to stay for an intimate Christmas party; Ellen Ruthmann, a WAG dietitian overseeing the Churchill meals at Ike’s suggestion, was preparing a luscious feast to be topped by champagne.

But the General smashed those dreams by insisting that he couldn’t stay over any longer.
The P.M. accompanied us to the door, coming out on the steps dressed in his bathrobe and his initialed slippers; an alert photographer caught him in this bars-down mood, in a photo I still cherish. See you in London, Kay ! he shouted.
On the flight to Algiers I cursed Gen Eisenhower most disloyally, if silently. Our Christmas dinner consisted of a cold, tasteless, depressing Army K-ration.

Headquarters was split into two distinct camps : the happy staff members slated to go to London with the General, and the down in-the-mouth people staying behind. I was pleased to learn that all the household staff and the official family were coming along, including Mattie Pinette, one of the original five WAC officers, now assigned to our office for the first time.
But there was some difficulty about others in the official family, namely, Telek and wife Caacie. It looked as though they would be imprisoned in quarantine for six months as soon as they arrived in England. Even Gen Eisenhower couldn’t get his dogs by the laws which keep Britain free of rabies; it’s easier to get away with murder in the British Isles than to smuggle a pup past customs. Besides, half the photographers in London would be at the airport to shoot human interest pictures of the famous Telek already second only to Falla in canine popularity and his Anglo-American family. The General bowed to regulations.
At the same time, poor Butch again suffered the rare Eisenhower wrath for breaking regulations.
He walked in one day and presented Ike with that painting from the Naples villa. Instead of embarrassed appreciation, Butch received a warning stare ; how did you get that ? General Ike asked. Just cut it out from the frame, Butch said, bewildered. Looting, in one form or another, was so widespread among the armies it failed to attract attention any more. Butch probably hadn’t done anything more than obey an impulse; he knew the General liked the painting, so he sliced it out without further thought.

But General Ike didn’t give him time for any explanation. You probably meant well, he yelled, but I don’t care what you thought. I don’t approve of looting in any shape, any time, any where. And I don’t want to hear any more about this you just get it back to that villa as soon as you can ! I felt sorry for Butch, who had the same expression as a tomcat startled by the expression on his master’s face when he brings in a very dead mouse.

On the last day of 1943, Gen Eisenhower departed for the United States. He left behind a headquarters filled with the sounds of moving and farewells. The latter were brief and unusually quiet; those of us who were leaving didn’t have the heart to gloat over the stay-behinds, who slipped through the halls with funereal gloom. I was glad when our time came to leave.

Our last stop in North Africa was Marrakech. It couldn’t have been a lovelier spot in which to leave both tragic and happy memories. And the storms at sea co-operated by weathering us in there for two days. We shopped, buying Moroccan handbags and other gifts sure to be welcome in tightly rationed England. We sunbathed, luxuriating in the balmy weather, acquiring a slight tan to be lorded over the January white girls in London. We soaked up the tropical beauty of Marrakech, storing it against the coming grayness of English winter. We stared endlessly at the snow-tipped Atlas Mountains, then at the gushing sea. We ate, and ate, and ate. And one night we toured the native market, refusing to join in street suppers but watching wide-eyed as dark beauties danced in the moonlight; then, as one of our group described it, we wandered from one smell to another.
If Marrakech gave us a pleasant farewell, Gen Eisenhower’s new B-17 promised a nice trip. Brand-new and smartly decorated in rich leather, this Flying Fort offered the last word in aerial luxury : a Comfort Station. Despite the new fear of German fighters from Europe, the trip North was smooth, fast, and uneventful.

Staring out the window I suddenly saw land under the clouds green, cultivated fields, as smooth and patterned as kitchen linoleum. This must be England !
A large airfield came into view, crisscrossed by tiny paths which became huge runways as we circled and started in for the landing. I began powdering my nose, excited at the thought of seeing Mother, being in London…