The Steel Wave (17 page)

There was nothing friendly in his voice, and they lowered the cameras, seemed utterly dejected.

“Well, all right, look. Take a few pictures if you want. But hang on to them. Nothing can be published. At least not yet. You got that?”

They eagerly agreed. Patton posed briefly, then looked past them, saw the entrance to the soldiers’ club and a large elderly woman waving to him. Oh, dear God, save me.

H
e scanned the program, saw a blank line where his name would go, noticed they had made a hasty edit, changing the description of his visit, replacing their wishful thinking for his official role, replacing the description with “offers his blessing.” Damn it, I told them I couldn’t officiate, no damned speech. That sort of thing makes Ike’s kidneys bleed. Just be pleasant to everybody, be polite. He forced himself to smile and stared out at the crowd, several dozen civilians, mostly women in bright dresses and hats. Many were smiling back at him, and he nodded, showed dutiful appreciation, tried to avoid the drone of the speaker, a woman he now knew as Mrs. Smith, the chairman of the committee that had organized whatever details had been required to open the club. Beside him, a woman suddenly stood, and Patton realized she had been introduced, caught her name, Jeffery, and watched as the woman strode daintily toward the microphone, hefty applause from the audience. She turned toward him now.

“Before we complete the program, I know we should be ever so grateful if the general flatters us with a few words. We are certainly aware that you are not here officially, sir, and of course your presence will not be disclosed. I assure you, no one will repeat anything you say. Would you please, sir, just a few friendly words?”

Patton held the smile, the crowd applauding far louder now, his brain firing a tank gun into the woman’s irritating smile. Now the Smith woman was standing, egging on the crowd, more generous compliments, his name called out. He stood, waved weakly to the noisy throng, moved toward the microphone. His gut was turning over, ice in his chest, and he steadied himself on the podium, thinking, Short, keep it short. Friendly. Then get the hell out of here.

“I am grateful for the efforts you ladies have put into creating a welcome club for our soldiers. Previous to today, my only experience in welcoming anyone has been to welcome Germans and Italians to the Infernal Regions. In this I have been quite successful.”

There was a burst of applause, entirely expected, and he smiled, waved, waited for the noise to quiet.

“I feel that such clubs as these are a real value, because I believe with Mr. Bernard Shaw—I think it was he—that the British and Americans are two people separated by a common language, and since it is the evident destiny of the British and the Americans”—he paused, an alarm in his head—“and of course the Russians, to rule the world, the better we know each other, the better the job we will do. A club like this is an ideal place for making such acquaintances and for promoting mutual understanding. Also, as soon as our soldiers meet and know the English ladies, and write home and tell our women how truly lovely you are, the sooner the American ladies will get jealous and force this war to a quick termination, and I will get a chance to go and kill Japanese.”

The applause followed him back to his seat, and he kept the smile, held it painfully through the rest of the speeches.

A
fter a long hour, the gathering had concluded, and Patton moved back to his car with as much purpose as he could politely muster. The aides were waiting, Stiller holding the door, and behind him the ladies called out, waving hands and handkerchiefs, calls of flirtatious gratitude. He sank into the seat and waited desperate seconds for Stiller to put himself into the front seat.

“Go, dammit!”

The car began to move, the voices of the crowd drifting away behind him. Stiller turned toward him.

“Did it go well, sir?”

“Very well. They loved me.” Patton let out a breath. “I’m just glad it’s over.”

10. EISENHOWER

SHAEF, BUSHEY PARK
APRIL 26, 1944

“
R
ule the world? He told them we’re going to
rule the world
?”

“Apparently so, sir.”

Eisenhower stared up at the ceiling, felt crushed into the chair. “What the hell is the matter with that man? Is he just thick-headed, or is this some plot of his to drive me insane so he can take over running the damned war!”

Beetle Smith said nothing. Butcher was at the door now.

“Chief, two more. Papers from Leeds and Buckingham.”

“Keep them the hell out of here. Five are enough. I doubt if every one of them misquoted the dumb son of a bitch. Harry, send one of the secretaries in here. Make it Captain Pinette. I need to cable Marshall. If we’re lucky, this can be contained right here, maybe no one back home will hear about it.”

“I doubt that,” Smith said. “This will go off like a bomb in the States. George has too many enemies, and there’s a lot of pressure on the president as it is. There are a few senators who will jump all over this.”

“You’re a fountain of cheer, Beetle.”

The secretary came in, a young woman who had been on Eisenhower’s staff since Algeria.

“Sit down, Mattie. We need to put out a fire.”

She sat, pad of paper in hand, with a questioning glance toward Smith. Eisenhower said, “You’ll know everything soon enough, Captain. This is a cable to be sent immediately to General Marshall.” He thought a moment. “All right, take this down:

It seems that General Patton has broken out again. I regret that the man is unable to use reasonably good sense in all those matters where senior commanders must appreciate the effects of their own action upon public opinion.”

He paused, watched as she wrote furiously, catching up to him.

“I have serious doubts at this juncture as to the wisdom of retaining him in high command despite his demonstrated capacity in battlefield leadership. I have grown so damned weary—no, strike that—I have grown so weary of the trouble he constantly causes you and the war department, to say nothing of myself, that I am seriously contemplating the most drastic action. I would prefer some comment from you before any final decision is made.”

He waited for her to stop writing.

“Finished, sir. Should I read it back?”

“Just show the typed cable to General Smith and make sure it goes out right away.”

He saw Butcher lurking in the doorway.

“What the hell am I supposed to do, Harry? How much hot water can this man plunge into? He’s not satisfied just slapping his own troops…. Are we certain these newspaper quotes are accurate?”

“Let me grab the other papers, Chief. They seem pretty consistent.”

Butcher disappeared briefly, returned with a thick wad of newspaper, scanned, shuffling the papers in his hand.

“This one says he mentions the Russians. That could be more accurate. Yep, here, again, he mentions the Russians. ‘The British and the Americans and the Russians will rule the world.’ That’s not as bad, is it, Chief?”

“Thank God for small favors. But it could still hang him. I don’t know how many Americans relish the thought of the Russians ruling the world. Damn it all! How in hell are we going to blunt this?”

He saw the young woman at the door again.

“The cable has been sent, sir.”

“Thank you, Mattie. What time is it in Washington, five A.M.? If they haven’t heard of this by now, that cable ought to wake somebody up.”

W
ord had crossed the ocean far more quickly than Eisenhower had imagined, and within hours the wire services had relayed Patton’s comments to newspapers all over the country. The outcry was predictable and deafening, and within hours Eisenhower received Marshall’s reply.

Like you, I have considered the matter purely on a business basis. I am weary as well, but his relentless abilities on the battlefield must be considered. The final judgment as to his usefulness to this army rests in your hands.

He put the paper down. Empty, the office seemed cavernous, the stark silence revealing the thunder in his brain. So it’s
my
problem? Well, I suppose that’s appropriate. If we kick Patton out the door, there is one alternative for command of the Third Army. Courtney Hodges can get the job done. I think. But he doesn’t have Patton’s experience, and, unless he’s kept it well hidden, he doesn’t have Patton’s bulldog drive. If I toss George to the wolves, it could cost us in terms that no bitching senator or newspaperman could understand. Isn’t that the priority, after all? No, George, I can’t fire you. Not yet anyway. But how many more times will this happen?

He focused, stared at the doorway, heard a burst of chatter from the offices beyond. He thought of calling out, knew that Smith was probably in his office. No, don’t just holler your brains out. Show some decorum. He reached for the black phone.

“Put General Smith on the phone.” He waited, knew he had been gruff, thought, Dammit, I can’t always be nice to people. I’m the boss, after all. He heard Smith’s voice.

“Sir?”

“Beetle, I want you to tell Patton to get his ass up here. He might not like what I have to say, but at least he’ll still have a job.”

SHAEF, BUSHEY PARK
MAY 1, 1944

“George, you have gotten yourself into a very serious fix. What the hell were you thinking?”

Patton said nothing, just kept himself at attention, helmet and pistols, a show Eisenhower didn’t need. He stared hard at Patton, saw no flinch in the man’s expression.

“I’ve told you before: You talk too damned much! You can’t just shoot off your mouth about anything you want, especially when it concerns politics. You spend too much time posing for cameras and crowds, and for reasons I do not understand, you insist on breaking out in these tantrums…at the worst possible time. Sit down! At ease, for God’s sake.”

Patton moved to the chair, eyeing him intently, Eisenhower trying to avoid Patton’s piercing stare. Finally Patton cleared his throat.

“Sir, I want you to understand that I am very well aware that your job is more important than mine. If, in trying to save me, you are hurting yourself, then throw me out.”

Eisenhower frowned. Theatrics, he thought. When was the last time he called me
sir
?

“Look, George, I have all the headaches this army can give me. This has nothing to do with hurting
me.
You’ve put me in the position of having to choose whether or not I must deprive myself of a fighting army commander! I’ve already gotten several cables about this from General Marshall. You have seriously hurt yourself at the War Department. Your permanent promotion has been put on hold, and might never be reconsidered. There’s a whole flock of people in Washington who think you’re unfit to command. Tell me how I’m supposed to disagree with that.”

“I disagree with that most vigorously, sir. I believe I am the most capable and most experienced American battlefield commander in this theater of the war.”

Eisenhower thought, Yes, I’m sure that’s exactly what you believe. And you may be right, dammit.

“General Marshall has left the matter in my hands. He is fighting like hell for you in Congress, George. You’ve called in every favor you ever had. What do I do here? Can you convince me this won’t happen again? You’ve been told to keep your mouth shut, and still—off you go!” Patton seemed to sag, his shoulders drooping. “If I keep you here, how can I be sure this won’t happen again?”

Patton stood suddenly and moved around the side of the desk. Eisenhower was amazed to see tears. He couldn’t help himself but stood as well, amazed that Patton kept coming, his arms out, wrapping them around Eisenhower’s shoulders.

“Dammit, Ike, I am so sorry about this.”

He put his head on Eisenhower’s shoulder, the silver helmet rolling off his head, tumbling with a loud clatter onto the floor. Patton was sobbing noisily now, and Eisenhower felt helpless, had no idea what to do. Then Patton stood back, red-eyed, wetness on his cheeks.

“I will not let you down, sir. If you allow me to keep my place in Operation Fortitude and my command of the Third Army, I will give every effort to the job. I am grateful to you and to General Marshall for standing behind me. There are forces at work around us, forces that would undermine our good efforts—” Patton stopped short, seeming to know he had taken it too far.

Eisenhower thought, That’s right, George. Shut the hell up. But there still were the tears, Patton’s amazing show of contrition. This is
bull,
Eisenhower suddenly realized. All of it. This is pure drama, a well-rehearsed speech. He put a hand on his own shoulder, felt the wetness, saw Patton composing himself, the helmet still conspicuously on the floor.

“Control yourself, dammit. The fact is I need you. There are too many weak links, too many variables in this operation that could destroy it. I’m worn out from wrestling with the Bomber Barons, and I’ve got to go see Churchill about God knows what. For now, you’ve kept your job. But don’t get comfortable. The vultures are circling, and for all I know the president might find the need to toss you out anyway. It’s an election year, you know.”

Patton stood straight. “Yes, sir. I will do what I am called upon to do.”

“Yes, you had damned well better do exactly that. Now pick up your damned helmet and go back to work.”

A
fter long weeks of debates and absurd haggling with the Allied chiefs of staff, Eisenhower was finally given command over the tactical and strategic air forces, at least those forces that would be directly involved in the bombardments that affected Overlord. But a new debate arose, which had far greater consequences. There had been two primary schools of thought on how best to wage the ongoing air campaign. One side, led primarily by American general Carl “Tooey” Spaatz, called for the bombers to concentrate in an all-out effort to destroy Germany’s capacity to produce oil and gasoline, any petrochemicals that fueled the German military. Spaatz’s argument was that if Germany’s refineries and fuel plants were destroyed, the German army would grind to a halt. For Overlord, this meant that reinforcements would not reach key battlefields in time to prevent a solid Allied foothold.