Suddenly the plane shot upward, roaring away from the airfield. We all smashed back against our seats. Maybe the wheels won’t come down, someone said in a small voice. Snuffy Nixon, the navigator, stuck his head in the cabin and broke the silence. Don’t worry, folks. I just got mixed up in my figuring and picked the wrong country. Not France ! we cried. No, said Snuffy, it’s not France. But it’s not England, either. He grinned over at me. This is Kay’s home. We almost landed in southern Ireland !
Chapter 11
We relaxed and sighed with relief as the plane straightened out and headed for England. It would have been sticky trying to avoid internment by the neutral Irish; sticky, and a horrible way to wait out the war. I joined in a bridge game started to while away the time. The girls talked excitedly about the contrast between North Africa’s barren country and the green, well-tended fields below. Although one of the engines had conked out some time before, the other three droned on quite efficiently and the remainder of the trip was pleasantly uneventful.
As our plane dropped onto an American base in southern England, Sue pointed out the window and yelled, Look ! There’s a Russian officer ! I looked and laughed. She was pointing to an ankle-length gray overcoat which could only belong to an officer of the crack, legendary Scots Guards. And the man inside that overcoat was about as Russian as the House of Lords : Lt Col Jimmy Gault, Gen Eisenhower’s Military Assistant. Jimmy waxed hot enough whenever some Yank called him a mere “aide” which the British use to describe an aide below the rank of major. I’d like to have heard the Military Assistant’s reaction at being called a Russian, Sue was most contrite.
While the crew repaired the B-17’s engine, we piled into the base mess for the first of many meals to feature that little horror of the British wartime ration, Brussels sprouts, which Americans came to despise as much as the rain.
The next and last stop was Bovington Airport, where, while Tex and the girls tried to hide our Moroccan fruit from awed station personnel, I telephoned my mother. When she came on the wire, both of us tried, unsuccessfully, to be very casual about the whole thing; it was our first talk in more than thirteen months. A lot had happened between December of 1942, when I left England, and this day, January 14, 1944, the day of my return. Dick, the torpedoing, Algiers, Tunisia, lunch with President Roosevelt, Cairo, Luxor, Palestine, Sicily, Italy… I tried to cram it all into that brief telephone conversation.
Riding into the city, I was that happiest of Britons, a Londoner coming home. Only a true Londoner can appreciate the emotion. The capital was just as scarred as ever, it looked drab after the color of Algiers, Cairo, Capri, and Marrakech but it was London.
And the red-brick of 20 Grosvenor Square, despite its very American air, seemed an integral part of London. Mattie and I went into the billeting office, where an obliging officer assigned us to a flat in the Park West and agreed that Ruth Briggs could share it when she arrived from Algiers. Outside, there was a deep fog, which Mattie found as intriguing as any pictured in mystery movies about London; I found it a bother, for I had to leave Mother’s place early that evening in order to find my way back up to Edgeware Road.
Next morning, Mattie and I stepped outside into a damp, gray, blurred world. Now you’re seeing the grandfather of all fogs, I told Mattie, who was bewildered and a little frightened. This is a pea-souper, a real London pea-souper ! It was, too. The sun was little more than a fuzzy spot high up in the dark fog. All lights blazed at the office with nighttime strength. Everything was topsy-turvy, being readied for the General’s arrival.
The Boss is coming in tonight, Tex explained. Fog’s so bad that it’s impossible to fly down from Prestwick. Gault’s up there with a special train. He looked questioningly at me. They’re due in about 2300-H, Kay. Sure you can drive through this fog or will it lift by then ? I laughed. Lift ? This is a pea-souper, Tex. It’ll be worse by tonight, if anything. But I should know London well enough to drive it blindfolded… which is what it will amount to.
That night, I had my doubts. Even leaving early enough to allow plenty of time, I had to ease the Packard through Mayfair and down through Kensington at a snail’s pace. Traffic was piling up, cars and taxis abandoned right in the streets. I saw a double-decker bus inching along, the driver leaning out his window to watch a man walking in front with a flashlight, one hand on the fender, leading the bus as carefully as a farmer with a blind horse. My own car lights were useless, melting into the murkiness a mere two feet ahead. The job of driving was something like trying to swim underwater at night, with one’s eyes open.
Apprehensive that a bus or lorry might bear down without warning, I stopped and got out. I had to stoop and feel along with my hands to learn if the car were on the right side of the curbing, on the street proper or on the sidewalk. Then, reassured, I coaxed the Packard down to Addison Road Station, the same place from which Gen Eisenhower left for North Africa.
General Ike looked very well indeed, refreshed by his visit home but he and the entire party, including Butch and Mickey, gasped at the fog; it was impenetrable and slightly terrifying at first sight. Now I know I’m back in London, the General smiled, adding doubtfully, Think you can make it, Kay ? I nodded with more confidence than truth and we set out.
Stalled vehicles now were scattered all along the streets, making obstacle courses out of even the broadest of thoroughfares. They loomed up in the fog unexpectedly, forcing me to brake often and hard. But there were no complaints no talk, in fact from the back seat. I drove strictly from memory, making each turn blindly, half expecting to run straight into a building.
Arriving in the general vicinity of what appeared to be Grosvenor Square, I decided to get out and determine exactly where we were; the blind-man’s-bluff route might have landed us anywhere from Berkeley Square to Bryanston Square, blocks away. Once again I had to bend over and feel my way along the streets surface, groping for the sidewalk. A dim light glowed several feet away at some sort of doorway… Here it is ! I was shouting, holding fast to the blast-wall headquarters entrance. This is 20 Grosvenor !
While I exulted in the fantastic luck of locating the building, right on the nose, in the middle of a real London pea-souper, General Ike went inside for a quick check on incoming cables. He reappeared within a few minutes.
Jimmy Gault then directed me down toward Berkeley Square, to Chesterfield Hill, where we stopped before a dim building on the corner. This was Jimmy’s pride and joy, Hays Lodge, an attractive and nicely furnished town house which was to serve as the General’s home and headquarters in the city. It was pleasant, after the fog, to step inside and collapse into the plush chairs. General Ike inspected the upstairs and the basement and then announced, to his Military Assistant’s satisfaction, that he liked it very much. But I’d still rather live in Telegraph Cottage, out of town, he said wistfully.
Within the week, we were settled into the same old 20 Grosvenor offices left behind in 1942.
I, for the first time, had a corner in which to start whittling down the surprisingly large pile of “fan mail,” already beginning to split almost equally into letters from Americans and those from Britishers. Ike was busy assembling his staff, handing out assignments, and getting reacquainted with pre-Torch friends, from headquarters guards right up to the King of England. He made his first friendly call upon His Majesty several days later, rather touched when the King asked for an Eisenhower autograph for a royal relative.
(Upon another occasion, the King also asked if he might be eligible for the European Theater ribbon. Planned to cover American campaigners anywhere from North Africa to Germany, the ribbon already was a sore point with Mediterranean veterans who scoffed at London troops wearing the same award given to those in combat and the English thought it humorous that Yanks got a decoration for just being in England. The King, however, wanted that ribbon. He was, of course, the technical chief of Britain’s armed forces and he had been in Africa. So Ike, leaning mightily upon Gen Marshall’s Washington prowess, arranged the details. Field Marshal Jan Christiaan Smuts was another Empire leader who requested and received the little ETO ribbon. The King always wore his with pride, but I thought it strange he received the decoration without a whisper of publicity; it wasn’t even mentioned in the all-inclusive Court Calendar.)
The day after Anzio began, I drove Gen Eisenhower to an important Sunday meeting of the Allied commanders at Norfolk House, a tall and spacious building originally owned by the family of the Duke of Norfolk, premier Duke of England. Norfolk House, which served as AFHQ before North Africa’s invasion, now was stiff and formal with its new importance as the Overlord planning center. Even parking space was numbered in strict accordance with military protocol.
Heading our plain olive-drab Packard toward the Number One spot, however, I saw it was occupied by the flashy, shiny, black Rolls Royce which could belong to but one man in all of England : Gen Montgomery. I was furious, as only a rank-conscious army driver can be.
That’s okay now, General Ike said soothingly. Don’t say anything. It just doesn’t matter. After he got out, I made it a point to remark, ever so sweetly, to Monty’s driver, there must be some mistake. And when Ike emerged from Norfolk House, his car was in the space, his driver beaming a purely feline smile.
The General wasn’t interested in such trifles. He was quiet on the ride to Grosvenor Square and, back in the office, I learned why. Firstly, Overlord had been moved up from May 5 to at least the end of May. Secondly, the British (Mr. Churchill in particular) were offering bitter objection to his vehement championship of the plan for “Anvil,” invasion of southern France. Thirdly, he didn’t believe Overlord invasion plans called for sufficient shock troops.
He sent a message off that night to his Washington bosses, the Combined Chiefs of Staff, and wrote in my office diary the next morning : Last night sent my conclusions, as to strength of Overlord attack, to C/CS. Whatever my orders are, I’ll carry them out but I am convinced that the original plan does not carry enough strength in the control wave. Since I earnestly hope to preserve “Anvil” the message I sent puts a terrible additional burden on resources. But if we could have them (principally LST’s, LCT’s) until Aug. I , I believe we can win quickly !
This somber side of headquarters life was relieved shortly by the arrival of Telek, en route to six-month quarantine in Hackbridge Kennels on the outskirts of London. I, especially, had been miserable without him; Hunt, Moaney, even the General himself all remarked frequently that Telek was the “something missing” at Hays Lodge. But our pleasure in having him back in England was sullied in the sickening flood of feature stories and photographs dripping with sentiment; one would have thought our little Scottie was a movie star headed for concentration camp. General Ike was thoroughly disgusted with press treatment of the whole episode.
Even so, we sneaked away for private visits with Telek, driving out secretly to avoid correspondents. I slipped away more often, two or three times a week, to offer the unhappy prisoner some juicy scraps from the General’s mess. He was particularly joyous when Ike showed up to romp with him in the yard.
Press attention shifted to Caacie when she arrived, and when a real key-holer learned that she was pregnant. Alone, Telek and Caacie whined happily at each other through a wire-covered hole cut in their adjoining wall. But Caacie, always abnormally shy, threw fits whenever photographers attempted to trick her into posing. The publicity furor which flared up when she gave birth sent her into a pitiful nervous breakdown. The puppies went unfed, and died.
I was furious, not only at the crowds who virtually murdered Telek’s offspring by frightening Caacie, but also because their pups could have been taken out of quarantine immediately. And all of us were equally resentful when the kennel owners, who charged General Ike an exorbitant (for England) four dollars a week, had the bad taste to ask him for a letter of recommendation.
Beetle, incidentally, who brought Telek up to London from North Africa, placed his own black spaniel in Hackbridge Kennels. (Historians researching this particular period probably will be more interested in noting that January 28, 1944, saw the two star general and future Ambassador to Moscow become Lieutenant General Smith.)
I was spending my off-duty hours during this time in getting reacquainted with the new London, which was a stranger to the one I knew in 1939 and the chins-up, bloody London of the Blitz – even different than the hesitant, bewildered London of 1942.
Official histories miss this very human point, that London was to the second world war what Paris was to the first : a gay wartime capital. When the armies got to Paris this time, something was missing; it was as though they tried to copy their predecessors in World War I, as though they wanted to ape the champagne idea exactly, however desperately. London didn’t have this precedent which bogged down Paris in 1944-45. So, almost like a discreet matron carried away by far too many drinks, London became – probably for the first and last time in her career-a playgirl of a city.
Part of this new era was inevitable, with the scores of Allied HQs scattered in and around the capital But most of it stemmed from the city’s magic as a magnet for troops on leave; London was the leave city. Perhaps it was the airmen who set the pace, beginning back in the days when The Few of the RAF flocked to London for forty-eight hours worth of precious escape, when the Canadians and the Eagle Squadron boys began partying with a wild vengeance. Regardless, the huge Canadian Army, which stayed in Britain so long awaiting Dieppe and the Normandy invasion, kept the kettle boiling even faster. And the Americans mass arrival really blew the lid off.
The center of this leave-world was Piccadilly Circus, dirty, damaged, boarded up, and blacked out, but still a sort of Times Square for soldiers and officers looking for fun… Poles, Czechs, Canadians, Free French, Dutch, Belgians, New Zealanders, Aussies, Scots, Indians, Yorkshiremen, Welsh, Norwegians, Irish, South Americans, colonials of every color, language, and uniform. And overwhelming all others by sheer weight of numbers were the Yanks, hands in pockets, leaning against the walls, flirting with anyone in a skirt, looking for guided tours, or just plain loafing with all the careful, superb nonchalance of the American with time on his hands.
With darkness and the blackout, Piccadilly became more boisterous, more alive. One felt rather than saw the tidal waves of song, drink, love, and loneliness. Strange languages lashed out in the wake of passers-by, The night was filled with giggles, yells, curses, laughs, and fights. Doorways became temporary love-nests. Flashlights bounced around in the darkness like fire-flies. Busses, taxis, cars, and lorries jangled along the street unnoticed, winding in and out of the crowds spilling over the sidewalks. Sometimes a siren would scream, followed by the long fingers of searchlights grabbing at the sky; neither ack-ack nor bombs emptied Piccadilly, however only the ugly light of morning did that.
Gen Eisenhower was perturbed at the reckless spending of American troops, who, like the Canadians and the Australians, were semi millionaires alongside the comparatively poor British. It made me ache to see Yanks drinking double-whiskies while their home-bound Allies sipped silently at watered beer and watched the well-heeled Americans walk away with their women; this condition, not quite so blatant in the vast stretches of Tunisia, caused more damage to Anglo-American relations in England than any other single situation. Ike, right after his arrival, ordered all US commanders down to the smallest units to encourage their soldiers and officers to send home as much pay as possible, in the form of money orders, war bonds, and savings. But no medicine was quite strong enough to cure this incurable, chronic ailment of Allied warfare.
There was another London, aside from the Piccadilly London. This was the world of theater, of movies, Hyde Park soap-boxers, quiet pub crawling, serious sightseeing. This was the wonderful world of American Red Cross clubs, where women gave unstintingly of their time and humor and patience, where GIs found the next best thing to Home. This was the universal world of Allied friendships, of dinners in private homes, of love affairs which blossomed into marriage. Then too, there was the normal, ageless day-by-day London of the business world. And the military London of headquarters life. Yet, all in all, the London most veterans will remember is the after-dark London.
Fresh from Africa, I got a tremendous bang out of every part of this new, 1944 London. I liked seeing the curious crowds of Britons gathered around a Yank softball game in Hyde Park, only yards from anti-aircraft guns and grim-faced Tommies on duty, I liked seeing GI’s and ATS or WAAF girls strolling the parks and sidewalks, holding hands unashamedly, I felt a surge of pride in the absence of iron rails and fences, all gone into the melting pot forging Britain’s all-out war effort. I liked the fierce pride of the Cockney, the taxi driver, the bus chippies, the confident and swaggering paratroops. I liked the way tight-belted Englishmen, even the poorest, hurried by American PX’s and ignored the Yanks loaded down with cigarettes, sweets, and other treasures it was a welcome contrast to Africa, Sicily, and Italy.
I knew what “Allies” meant when I walked into the cleaning shop and saw as many as a dozen different nationalities’ uniforms on the rack, when I saw British and American officers gabbing at the mess, when I saw RAF men with tired eyes and Polish or Czech patches on the shoulder. I knew what the war was about when I saw all these foreigners gathered in London, when I saw tight-lipped rescue workers digging in bomb debris. I liked the cosmopolitan air of the “bottle party” nightclub, the international friendliness in the dirtiest pub. I liked the feeling of importance, the quiet air of excitement of just being in London, the atmosphere of pregnant and forceful action. I liked… well, I loved it all, this 1944 London.
Gen Eisenhower loved it, too. Of all the worldly honors the Allies bestowed upon him, I think he was most moved by the occasion when, after the war, London gave him the cherished Freedom of the City. But, as Supreme Commander in early 1944, he also knew London’s distractions. I noticed he spoke more and more of his distaste for having a headquarters in a major city, let alone London. He wanted SHAEF chucked out into the country, at least in the outskirts, where his staff could buckle down to hard work. Beetle agreed, emphasizing that London was becoming more and more of a military target. He was particularly perturbed over intelligence reports which warned the Germans were building mysterious platforms along the West Wall, presumably to bombard England with secret rocket weapons. Beetle foresaw, as did many others, a real danger to headquarters and morale if our bombing failed to destroy the new emplacements. Moreover, Hitler was beginning to send “retaliation” bombers over London; they were small flights, compared with those of the Blitz, but they caused continual, terrible damage. And one big bomb landing anywhere around Grosvenor Square, for example, where Americans and records were jammed in every building, might seriously impair invasion planning. (One did hit near enough to Norfolk House to smash some windows there; another knocked out a part of the American Army Group’s Bryanston Square headquarters; Admiral Cunningham’s office was bashed about a bit; there were continuing, worrisome reports of such incidents.)
Knowing Gen Eisenhower and his love for shifting headquarters, I assumed the inevitable. The conniving of staff officers well-entrenched in the social Battle of London left me cold; I’d seen this same useless maneuver in Algiers, just before we headed for Caserta. We moved. All of SHAEF migrated to buildings formerly occupied by the Eighth Air Force, the post known by the none-too-subtle code name of Widewing. The place itself was a group of temporary buildings and tents in Bushy Park, near Kingston and not far from Hampton Court, the lovely Thames-side palace retreat of England’s kings. Part of the area was enclosed by a high wall; all traffic entered or left through gates meticulously guarded by the Snowball MP’s. Lumbering khaki-colored busses and other vehicles maintained a regular shuttle service into London.
Widewing gave SHAEF its first family atmosphere. Instead of being scattered in far-flung billets, as in Algiers and London, the officers were quartered together and approached a more ideal state of friendly intimacy. This buddy-feeling increased with the introduction of an afternoon tea ceremony in most offices; official reserve broke down, and informality accomplished far more than conference-table logic. A few sections, striving for neat balance, served coffee in the morning break and tea in the afternoon; it provided a nice Anglo-American touch. Gen Eisenhower moved back into his beloved Telegraph Cottage, soon to enjoy its gay gardens of everything from roses to violets. I moved into a nearby house with the five WAG officers; top Brass located in the same general neighborhood.
Nissen huts, cement structures, tents, and shacks housed messes, PX’s, supplies, and troop quarters. And headquarters itself was encased in long, low buildings covered with a camouflage net intended to give enemy airmen the idea this was no more than a dirty brown hill.
Our offices in “Building C” were the most spacious to date. The aides occupied one room; for the first time, I had one to myself. Mine was the only one through which special visitors such as Beetle, the only person permitted immediate entree without preliminaries could go into the inner office. Even telephone conversations were halted at that barrier, pending verification; I always answered : General Eisenhower’s office, Miss Summersby speaking, and then stepped in to ask the General if he could talk to the caller. This method did away with the nuisance of switching calls and spared him the nerve-jangling screams of telephone calls.
Gen Eisenhower’s office was, as usual, plain and unpretentious, shocking visitors who expected grandeur in the Supreme Allied Commander’s inner sanctum. He laughed at the American idea that an executive’s worth is measured by the number of telephones on his desk; he had but two. One was the old “Red Line 6″ his personal, super service wire with the same designation as that in North Africa. The other was nothing more than the accessory scrambler, common in Britain as a means of foiling line-tappers who, should they cut in, would hear only a meaningless jumble of Donald Duck sounds.
There was a dark brown carpet; ordinary chairs and sofas fringed the wall. The room was devoid of any hint of a solemn conference table. Gen Eisenhower’s desk, flanked in the rear by British and American flags as well as his red four-star general’s flag, was unimpressive and excessively neat. An “In” basket was placed on one side, an “Out” basket on the other; unlike the overflowing receptacles of most headquarters offices, these were always kept at low-water mark. Stray papers never cluttered the desk top, which featured framed photographs of the three most important people in the Eisenhower world, his mother, his wife, and his son John. Scattered ashtrays awaited cigarettes stored in a desk drawer. On the walls were a few autographed portraits of such respected friends as President Roosevelt, Mr. Churchill, Gen Marshall, and Adm Cunningham. There were two extraordinary comforts :
- (1) a swivel chair, in which the General often leaned back in order to prop his feet on the desk, thoroughly relaxed, while pondering some tremendous problem or talking with a real intimate
- (2) a private toilet.
Ike had buzzers for his British Military Assistant, for his Naval Aide, for has Texas Aide, for me, and for Mattie, his Captain stenographer. Perhaps the most important item of equipment in the office was the General’s fountain pen, indispensable for the steady chore of official signatures. But I still thought more of my own, part of a very special Parker pen and pencil set matching those Ike presented to his topmost commanders in North Africa. Like theirs, mine was inscribed :
Kay for service in Mediterranean AFHQ DDE
I was extremely proud at being included in these honors, so much so that I kept framed on my desk the letter which he wrote to accompany the set :
29 March, 1944
Dear Kay,
I am sending you, along with this note, a fountain pen which I hope you will accept as a personal present from me. Nine of this particular type have been made up specially for me and I have given them to persons who have been of particular assistance to me during the time I have been an Allied Commander. The others have gone to the officers that served as Commanders-in-Chiefs under me in the Mediterranean, and to four others. In your own most important sphere your services have been of inestimable and constant value. I thank you very much and hope that this little pen will remind you of my gratitude.
Sincerely,
(Dwight D. Eisenhower)
In Algiers, the General once walked into his office to find one of the stenographers filing her fingernails, puffing away at a cigarette like a woman in her boudoir. The resultant storm was such that I never smoked in my office from that day on. It was an order, if not a direct order, and I never disobeyed it. Nor did I smoke while on duty in the staff car.
Likewise, I once heard the General remark that he disliked red fingernail polish. He never mentioned it to me, but I adopted natural, clear polish thereafter.
There was no resentment on my part in sticking to both these rather unusual ideas. Gen Eisenhower was a militant champion of women in war and I had no wish to let him down by presenting the picture of a night-club woman at the very door of his office.
The official day in our part of Building C began, usually around 0800-H, with General Ike poring over the maroon, leather-covered logbook which contained all hush-hush cables and correspondence, intelligence digests, staff summaries, and the like. Meanwhile, I started the previous day’s load of fan mail often enchanted by the latest gift of one of Ike’s favorite admirers, a Mrs. Chambers, who sometimes gave up her few chickens’ production in order to send the Supreme Commander a dozen precious fresh eggs. Barring inspection trips or visits to other headquarters, the day then settled into a never-ending routine of phone calls and High Brass visitors. Lunch might be a sandwich or hot plate, served at the desk. The real breather came sometime after four in the afternoon, when the mess sent up tea service and I carried it into the General’s office. Bring yours in, too, Kay, he would say occasionally. It makes more of a ‘break’ to have someone to talk to.
It seems no exaggeration to say that Gen Eisenhower, with his historic role, faced problems of such heroic range that they required the judgment of a Solomon, the military mind of a Napoleon, the diplomacy of a Prime Minister.
One hour, for example, he might be on the giddy heights of international politics, discussing with Under Secretary of State Edward Stettinius delicate problems expected to arise in liberated Europe. The next hour, he might be bawling out a chastised Gen Patton for making a chance public remark (highly resented by hard-pressed Russia) that America and Britain would have to rule the postwar world. The next, Ike might confer with Monty, listening to complaints that several US generals were not up to their jobs; with a War Department colonel intrigued by the General’s suggestion for a special award or insignia to designate infantry troops who had been in combat; with a general from South Africa, bringing greetings from Field Marshal Jan Smuts; with an Intelligence officer worried because a report warned the German V-weapons might wipe London off the earth; then, with another Allied officer who believed the V-weapon stories to be a gigantic hoax to attract and waste our bombs; with Harvey Gibson, the American Red Cross boss. Before lunch, after such sessions, General Ike might discuss anything from lower-echelon promotions to the possible disaster at Anzio, from agreements with the Dutch government to the high rents being paid by American officers for their London billets.
Lunch ? One day it was a snack in the office; the next, playing host to the entire British War Cabinet, out for a look at Widewing and future plans. And, usually at least twice a week, there was the strain of lunch with a Churchill full of new ideas on old arguments.
There was the period to which I referred grimly in my appointment book as The Hanging Hour. This was the time when the Judge Advocate General came in to give Gen Eisenhower the final, awful responsibility of individual life and death, as opposed to the equally weighty responsibility of mass life and death in future operations. General Ike must have re-lived those court martial decisions a thousand times, aching with that power of God-like judgment.
Yet, no decision he made in that office was an easy one. The more fact a problem reached his desk indicated that only he could make the decision. Beetle, working himself into ill health, shouldered the intermediate responsibilities; smaller problems and smaller decisions were cleared away at lower levels. The Supreme Commander received only the toughest of problems and had to make the most momentous of decisions.
General Ike could battle for an idea till blue in the face. Once proved wrong, he could about-face and battle, with equal vigor, for the very same plan he had opposed so bitterly. He took some convincing, of course. Mr. Churchill had this same blessed quality and I’m sure it was one of the major reasons for their mutual respect and admiration.
Most typical of the Eisenhower will to push an idea, once authenticated, was his championship of the airborne operation in connection with Overlord. Many of the highest Brass, including Air Chief Marshal Sir Trafford Leigh-Mallory, opposed the plan vehemently; they believed, conscientiously, the odds were so great as to produce an appalling aerial disaster. Gen Eisenhower, despite these arguments, sided with his planners in the argument that the whole thing was necessary to the invasion and therefore, on his sole responsibility, had to proceed as scheduled.
Actually, one of the major problems of this period was that of air power itself. New enough to offer uncharted strategical horizons, but old enough to pepper arguments with precedents, it was a principal, continuing headache.
Ike, an advocate of unification at even that early date, fought a consistent battle to control the badly-split air command for at least die initial invasion phase. I’ll fight for that with everything I’ve got, I heard him remark upon one occasion. In addition, there were the questions of bombers’ role in assault, of long-range fighter uses, et cetera, et cetera. More political but still very military, there was the question of air raids over France. The British argued for concentrating upon European oil sources, to avoid the possibility of French hatred from Allied bombings; General Ike insisted upon destruction of transportation centers in France as a key part of the invasion plan.
At the same time he was worried over the one problem which had plagued him and his planners since North Africa and its recurrent invasions: landing craft. A good part of his time and energy was spent from the time he made that cryptic comment about LST’s and LCT’s in my diary upon landing in England in January, right up to the time just before the invasion in pushing, shoving, pleading, begging for the vital landing vessels.
I was continually appalled at the weight and the variety of the problems which this man was called upon to solve :
- Were we prepared to use gas, if the enemy should use it in desperation ?
- How should air combat troops be rehabilitated ?
- Were they, as rumored, getting poor hospitalization ?
- Were some of the routine Theater regulations working hardships on combat troops ?
- Did detailed planning in lower units come up to that in higher echelons ?
- Just how much should the press be told ?
- What about winter combat equipment ?
- Would 3rd Reich secret weapons endanger England before the invasion ?
With all this, the General could take in his giant’s stride the tinier questions. For example, he ordered that an expensive, antique, mahogany table be taken from Hays Lodge and replaced with a plainer piece. He jumped Butch for ordering extra-soft sofa cushions, flew all over a well-meaning mess officer at Widewing for using reverse. Lend Lease to purchase special silverware. He abandoned the small swagger stick from North Africa, lest it brand him as too pro-English in mannerism. He agreed with Adm King that SHAEF needed more US Navy staff officers. He clamped down on officers’ personal use of Army vehicles and impressed that same restriction on members of his personal staff.
Ike expressed deep concern, upon his arrival in London, over a Theater regulation which forbade enlisted WACs to go out with officers, except on special pass. He believed that woman’s official role in the war had little to do with her after-hours life and he deplored the London attitude that a non-officer WAG could travel only in an enlisted world. In short, he was incensed over the prevalent idea that WACs were sent over as companions for enlisted men; Ike maintained that the WAG contingent arrived solely because it had an official job to do, that its social life was a private affair. The regulation and the attitude were too well solidified, however, to permit change.
Even then, he was bothered with the now-familiar cry that the Eisenhower name be permitted entry into political circles. A Chicago correspondent, for instance, brought him a veterans’ group message, the Presidency. The General answered negatively, emphasizing he was a soldier, not a politician.
On April 12, just before leaving on an inspection trip in the North, he was so upset by all the Stateside talk that he dictated a personal memorandum to get it off his chest. He said then, years before the huge draft-Eisenhower movement in America, he did not approve of soldiers seeking nomination for office. And he made it quite clear that Dwight D. Eisenhower absolutely was not interested in politics. He had a war to fight, a huge war.
Another page of my office diary shows typical problems the General faced in early 1944, a typical Eisenhower day. It is a sample Monday in April, when General Ike :
- Staged a meeting of his top commanders to discuss capability of air in support of land operations
- Lunched with the Prime Minister
- Considered involved plans for the invasion of southern France
- Held a long conference on the complicated Free French situation
- Talked with leading newspaper correspondents
- Approved plans for improving the American PX
- Ordered coordination of Special Service facilities among the Allies
- Kay Summersby won eleven shillings that night in a bridge game at Telegraph Cottage
Another stabbing worry was the ever-present fear the entire invasion might be compromised, with deadly effect, by one little security slip-up. The Eisenhower temper really came to a boil when an Air Force officer a major general gabbed about the invasion date at a cocktail party. Even Tooey Spaatz finally agreed to the punishment for that major general : reduction to his permanent rank of Lt Col; plus a trip home in reprimanded disgrace. A Navy captain also was sent back to the States for loose talk. A soldier misaddressed secret invasion data to a civilian Chicago address. An American correspondent tried to leave England, reportedly threatening to publish a fantastically foolish scoop on the real invasion date. A British carpenter inadvertently saw invasion maps on a London headquarters wall. A careless officer left secret papers in a London club’s cloakroom; another tossed some into a railway trashcan.
(I got so I was afraid to go out, breaking into a cold sweat at the very thought of giving away some super-secret in a chance cocktail remark. Even when Wes Gallagher, the Associated Press correspondent and an old friend from North Africa, called to suggest an evening of the Lunts and dinner at the Savoy. I warned him against any sort of shop talk. He laughed and promised not to pry. But Wes was a good newspaperman; while the evening was still young he began asking leading questions, fishing for unofficial hints. I froze so completely that Wes apparently thought me as much fun as an Egyptian mummy. He never asked me out again.)
General Eisenhower had far less social life than the most lowly member of his staff.
The lunches with Mr. Churchill were hardly carefree or remotely social. Anthony Eden was considerably miffed when Beetle showed up at one function, substituting for Ike, who reserved his precious free time for such command affairs as a Tunisian Victory Lunch and a dinner at Ascot with the Dominion Prime Ministers. And it was only at British insistence that he finally attended a football match at Wembly one afternoon, receiving a wild ovation before the Chelsea vs. Charlton match and later presenting the winner’s cup. On the inspection trip to Scotland, he managed to get in an entire day of salmon fishing at the lovely estate of Col Ivan Cobbald, a SHAEF officer doomed to a bombing death in London.
Normally, however, any leisure was spent at Telegraph Cottage, where bridge was the major indoor sport. Once in a while General Ike would look up from his desk, hounded by nerves, and suggest an hour’s horseback riding. Upon such occasions we accepted the standing invitation of Sir Louis Gregg at the Air Ministry and hurried out to enjoy trails in Richmond Park, which was closed to the public because it contained false-front “factories” as decoys for enemy bombers.
When the General did have a dinner party, it was informal and intimate. I was especially pleased one night when he included my mother and me in a party of about ten invited to Hays Lodge. Among the other guests were Jimmy Gault and his wife, some people from the Red Cross, and Gen Patton. The latter was in good form that night on good verbal behavior which impressed my mother no less than me. As usual, he kidded Ike about wanting some more medals : You haven’t done anything yet, Gen Ike chided. Wait till you get on the Continent !
During the war I heard, with nauseating repetition, many chair-borne staff officers cry how they’d give anything to be in the field and to be with the troops. One of the very few I believed sincere in this familiar headquarters wail was the Supreme Commander himself.
Seeing and talking with soldiers in the field was more pleasure and more relaxation for him than anything London’s social planners could devise. Also, he thought it vital that the Supreme Commander be seen, that he become a person instead of a vague signature on orders, that he try to obtain firsthand evidence on conditions in the field.
This interest wasn’t false, for Gen Eisenhower never was happier than when he cleaned up the paper work and headed for open country. Nor was it exhibitionism, for he was genuine, dignified, but never patronizing in his attitude toward troops; more important, he fumed angrily whenever reporters tried to follow him around, or listen to his off-the-cuff remarks. He felt the visits were personal, likely to be endangered or formalized by correspondents’ presence.
And he always insisted, often with downright temper, that he arrive on time for every inspection. He didn’t want to keep troops waiting for the Brass. When weather or traffic delayed us, I sometimes bore the brunt of his tirades; nothing was as important, he insisted, as keeping on schedule.
In all truth, I doubt if in military annals there is anything to equal Ike’s record of a general’s non-stop attempt to visit all his troops before an impending operation of such magnitude.
Despite pressing headquarters problems, he launched this ambitious campaign within a fortnight after reaching England. We went by train to Plymouth on February 4, spending that Friday and Saturday inspecting the 4th and 29th Infantry Divisions.
A week later we traveled to Sandhurst for special ceremonies at the passing out of cadets at Britain’s West Point. Gen Eisenhower presented traditional Sam Browne belts to the two cadets with top marks; if those two men survived the war, they probably still cherish the Eisenhower autograph inscribed on their honor belts. General Ike also made a speech that lovely February afternoon, speaking from steps and inspired by the scene. (At least a dozen persons crowded around me afterward to demand copies of his remarkable address. They did everything but call me a Bar when I maintained there was no written speech, that Gen Eisenhower always speaks from a well-ordered and wealthy mind.) Within another fortnight, the General was off for an inspection of the famous Scottish Highlanders, and the American 2nd and 3rd Armored Divisions.
From then on, the pace was relentless.
He took twenty or thirty SHAEF officers to Salisbury to peek at the performance of the hush-hush weapons. The very next day he was out at Bovington, part of a parcel of Allied Brass anxious to see the new B-29 hidden in a far, roped-off corner of the field.
Less than a week later we journeyed to Newbury for a thrilling mass airborne demonstration by Gen Maxwell Taylor’s 101st Airborne Division. I say “thrilling” advisedly, because it was just that. I stood on the reviewing platform and gawked excitedly as hundreds upon hundreds of paratroopers bailed out in the clear sky, followed by equipment dangling from parachutes of every color. Mr.Churchill added to the occasion by delivering an appropriately bombastic speech. (I was pleased when he bowled through the crowd, like a tank, to come up and shake hands with me. This time, I wasn’t with the General and I thought it further evidence of the Churchill greatness that he took time to say “hello” to even the smallest of his acquaintances).
The Prime Minister was honor guest that night in the smart blue atmosphere of the Supreme Commander’s special railroad coach, the Bayonet. General Ike was the perfect host, obtaining champagne for the PM’s special pleasure. And, unlike many generals who reserved VIP’s for themselves, he invited everyone possible to share in the experience of dinner with Mr. Churchill. In addition to Jimmy Gault, Mattie, and me, he asked Gen Taylor, Gen Charles Corlett of XIX Corps, Gen Watson of the Third Armored, and Mr. Churchill’s daughter Sarah. Talk centered around the day’s exercise, the war, landing craft, and the invasion. The Prime Minister devoted most of his attention to Gen Corlett, who had considerable service in the Pacific; it was one of the few times I heard of Mr. Churchill acting the sincere role of listener.
Next morning, March 23, we traveled to the 2nd Armored Division CP, where General Ike, as usual, traveled from group to group delivering extemporaneous talks never, to my continual astonishment on such occasions, repeating himself. Waiting for the next inspection, we played bridge, then headed for units of the 9th Infantry Division between Andover and Winchester.
There General Ike joined tile Prime Minister for a ride into Winchester, where the car became so engulfed by crowds that both he and Mr. Churchill had to alight and acknowledge the ovation. The P.M. gave a speech which caused more pandemonium and applause than old Winchester had heard in centuries. He was the General’s guest at dinner again that night, buoyed by the troops and by the crowds. He told Ike, with suppressed emotion, that the Supreme Allied Commander could count on Britain’s support with everything I’ve got ! General Ike, of course, had new commanders in to dine with the Prime Minister that night Gen Bradley, then commanding the First Army, Gen J. Lawton Collins of VII Corps, and the 9th Infantry Division’s Gen Manton Eddy.
Even aboard the train, Gen Eisenhower was in close touch with SHAEF headquarters. A special, direct line was plugged into his coach at every important station, permitting him to keep right up to the minute on latest developments in London and Washington.
During the month of April we traveled to still more divisional areas. Ike inspected the American 1st, 28th, and 2nd Infantry Divisions, among others, plus their V Corps, as well as the Polish 2nd Armored and the British 52nd, in Scotland. He also viewed the 4th Division’s amphibious landing exercise on beaches near Darmouth. These were built up to carbon-copy actual landings expected in France. The reviewing stand was a seaborne infantry landing craft. But the maneuver went sour; bombers, navy vessels, airplanes, and special units fouled up in everything from timing to orders. One or two landing craft were sunk, with casualties numbering several hundred.
Between all this, the General managed to visit various hospitals as well as a number of British and American air bases. At one of the latter, the pilot of a brand-new Lightning invited Ike up for a spin in his funny-looking “Droop Snoot.” It was the General’s first fighter flight but he stayed up almost ten minutes, while Tooey watched the plane apprehensively, without smiling or speaking. Tooey’s forces had lost sixty-four bombers that day.
On a trip in the vicinity of Tenby that month, we drove about 120 miles in one day, a lot of mileage for England. The rain was incessant; General Ike insisted on every stop, on time, and ended up with a bad cold. As these incessant inspection trips indicate, the British Isle was loaded loaded with troops, arms, and ammunition. (By June 1 there would be over 1500000 Americans alone on the island.) The current joke maintained that only Britain’s barrage balloons held up the overcrowded island and kept it from sinking into the sea.
Endless convoys roared through the countryside day and night, traveling over narrow, all-clear roads, headed for the coastal “staging areas.” Secret weapons-flame throwers, tanks with flailing arms and plows to furrow up mines, the amazing amphibious “Ducks,” fog dispellers, rocket-equipped airplanes, concrete and steel breakwaters, “Mulberry” and “Gooseberry” artificial harbors-all these and hundreds more were sneaked into port areas.
Britain tightened her Tight Little Isles still further. Civilians had been forbidden to travel between Britain and Ireland since early February; the German Consulate in Dublin had many ears. Civilians also were banned from the entire “staging area” along the coast, where a ten-mile military zone was enforced. The most unusual step of all came when the British Government bottled up all diplomats and couriers in the British Isles and even did away with traditional immunity of diplomatic communications. About the same time, British military scheduled to participate in the invasion had all their mail subjected to strict censorship. Late in May, Americans’ mail was held up for ten days; they couldn’t telephone, or cable, to the United States. General Ike asked the War Department to keep its usual VIP’s in the States. Immigration and emigration halted, except for the small body of Allied intelligence agents with last-minute information. The security net around Britain was skin-tight.
With May growing old, London was drained of its leave troops. Barmen, theater owners, movie ushers, taxi drivers, and nightclub doormen commented on the poor business. Staff officers due to travel in the invasion fleet disappeared one by one from their offices, without explanation. Headquarters staffs were strained, touchy to the point of ugly temper. American military personnel were restricted to quarters for a twenty-four-hour period so MP’s could root out AWOL’s. Hospitals dismissed all but the worst bed cases; laundries received instructions to make hospital linens a top priority. Travelers found few trains; hundreds of engines and coaches had been shunted to military service.
Everyone in the British Isles and probably in the German General Staff knew the invasion would pop any day. But only the necessary few men knew it was scheduled for June 4.
General Eisenhower attended the final Big Brass conference three weeks before, on May 15, at Montgomery’s Twenty first Army Group headquarters in old St. Paul’s School. All the rank were there; the King, the Prime Minister, Field Marshal Smuts, Air Chief Marshal Leigh-Mallory, General Bradley, Admiral Sir Bertram Ramsay, glamor-generals Monty and Patton, the whole scintillating line-up. It was the last grand session.
In the next taut fortnight, Ike stepped up his field inspection schedule, taking quick last looks at everything from US Infantry Divisions and Navy ships in North Ireland to a Guards outfit and the First Canadian Army. Two typical entries he penned in my little blue diary : Both 5th and 8th Divisions impressed me most favorably. Training appears to be excellent. Witnessed a divisional exercise practice this afternoon under General Pickering. Very good indeed !
Visited 8th British Corps., Lt. Gen. O’Connor, Guards Armored Division, 15th Scottish and 11th Armored. They’re all in good shape.
Then, all our attention focused on the South Coast, now choked with invading armies straining at the leash.
Hesitant to bother any of the active headquarters with his presence, Gen Eisenhower set up an Advance CP at Southwick, six or seven miles north of Portsmouth. His office was a trailer; I had a tiny desk in one corner. The whole CP was set in a wood where sunshine was exiled, where rain soaked our entire canvas headquarters days on end, giving everything a damp, musty odor; it was a long jump from London or Algiers. The P. M. and Field Marshal Smuts were headquartered on a special train parked at Southampton.
Nerve-ends were so exposed, security so exacting, that even the Supreme Allied Commander had to carry a pass. Everyone topside was jumpy over our Other Enemy: the weather. The area was alive with weather experts, meteorologists, and plain second-guessers all studying, figuring, worrying about the weather, key to the whole invasion.
On June 2, the Prime Minister was unable to hold himself in any longer. He and the inevitable Smuts showed up at headquarters. Someone said Mr. Churchill was in a stew because the King, Ike, and all military political advisers absolutely refused to let him ride on an invasion ship. He played grumpily with a cat at mess, feeding it milk from a saucer on the table. The nightly weather conference failed to lift anyone’s spirits.
On June 3, Messrs. Churchill and Smuts reappeared, their famous faces immediately slipping into the general gloom evidenced around headquarters because the weather was “off.” Late that night Gen Eisenhower gravely decided to postpone D-Day at least another twenty-four hours.
June 4 supposed to be D-Day undoubtedly was the longest day of 1944. The Prime Minister came down for a comforting visit, leaving as downhearted as the most pessimistic man in the office. Another visitor was Gen Charles de Gaulle, who raised maddening political questions at this late hour and displayed interest only in those phases of the invasion which might affect his Free French; he was not informed of exact target details.
There was another weather session that evening. All who attended were agreed D-Day could not be delayed much longer.
So the final, decisive conference was set for the next morning, at 0400-H. Everyone went to that meeting with the full knowledge that a decision had to be made this time. Further postponement, even another twenty-four hours, would endanger the entire expeditionary force. On the other hand, cancellation of D-Day meant a complete rescheduling of the whole invasion, weeks, perhaps months, later in the summer.
The duty for the frightful decision belonged to Gen Eisenhower. Even knowing him as I did, I had no idea what was passing through his mind.
If it goes all right, I remarked to him afterward, dozens of persons will claim the credit. But if it goes wrong, you’ll be the only one to blame. Fifteen minutes after going into that meeting in the damp morning of June 5, General Ike made the historic, staggering decision. It was his decision, his alone. Barring his death, no one else could make it. Not another person on the face of the earth could make that decision at that time and place.
The invasion was on. And by nightfall not even he could stop it.
General Eisenhower got a little lift of spirits when I drove him to an inspection of a British unit and the assault troops yelled, over and over again, Good old Ike !
His next official action was a ninety-minute press conference for the four correspondents chosen to be the eyes and ears of their respective professions :
- Ned Roberts (UP), America’s press associations;
- Stan Burch (Reuter’s), for Britain’s;
- Red Mueller (NBC), for the American radio chains;
- Robert Ban: (BBC) for Britain’s radio.
Two US Army men were there to take the initial photographs and motion pictures. It must have been a memorable occasion for each of those six.
That evening around 1830-H I drove the General to Newbury, where, ten weeks before, we had witnessed the spectacular demonstration by the joist Airborne troops. This time, Ike had to look these troops straight in the eye, knowing that he, only he, was responsible if they and the men of the 82nd Airborne encountered sheer disaster.
Air Chief Marshal Sir Trafford had warned casualties probably would be, in cold military language, “prohibitive,” The gigantic aerial armada of more than nine hundred planes, most of them towing helpless gliders and without armor or leak proof tanks, were headed for one of the most alert and heavily fortified areas in the world. General Ike had the full responsibility.
Now, he stepped out of the car, ordering the four-star license plate to be covered, that only one staff officer accompany him on his rounds. This was no time for ceremony. The 101st paratroopers, faces black with night paint and decked out in full, bulky combat kit, sent tingles up and down my own spine. I wondered how Ike felt. I wondered how these men, soon to jump or glide right into Hitler’s Europe, felt at seeing their Supreme Commander.
I needn’t have worried.
They went crazy, yelling and cheering because “Ike” had come to see them off. To unit commanders’ surprise, he ordered each group to break ranks and forget about military formalities. Then he said a few words to them. I could hear the new roar of cheers, chain-fashion,
as he progressed from group to group. He progressed from group to group. We covered three separate airfields before night fell. Back at 101st headquarters building, General Ike nodded wearily to the few staff officers. They were pathetic in their chagrin at remaining behind. Coffee and doughnuts killed a little time and substituted for conversation. Then we all climbed onto the roof.
The night was lovely, clear and filled with stars.
Aircraft took off near by, climbing up to join the massive formations gathering in every direction. Their blinker signals winked ominously.
Then they started off for Normandy.
Gen Eisenhower turned, shoulders sagging, the loneliest man in the world.
Without a word, he walked slowly toward the car. I hurried; we had to make the Southwick headquarters before 0100-H, D-Day. Well Ike said quietly. It’s on. He looked up at the sky and added : No one can stop it now !
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