Then we set off again in the jeep. A map was on his lap. A jeep with a mounted Browning followed us. The general said to me, “We need to make a brief stop. Ordnance isn’t getting to the 27th Field Artillery.”
Moments later he directed me to cross a field toward a grove of trees. I was within fifty yards before I saw white stars that seemed to hang in the underbrush. Trucks were hidden there, almost invisible in their olive and brown camouflage, a white star on each door. To the east, across a shallow valley, a brace of Stukas, dots on the clouds, was diving out of the sky. I could not see their hapless target.
Clay was out of the jeep before I had it stopped. He carried a sheaf of orders. He called to the driver of the first truck, a General Motors deuce-and-a-half. “Name and unit, soldier.”
The driver, a corporal, peered out the window. When he recognized Clay, he hurriedly threw open the door and jumped to the ground to salute. “Sir, Milton Cook, Bravo Company, 19th Ordnance.” He remembered his cigarette, and spit it out.
Clay demanded, “Why aren’t you provisioning the 27th Field Artillery? I’ve got a copy of your goddamn orders in my hand.”
The corporal glanced at the line of trucks behind him. The crews were trotting toward us. The 19th Ordnance was newly raised. It resembled a high school class.
A lieutenant reached us first. He said, “Sir, I wanted to wait until the sky was clear of the enemy. We’re carrying explosives. An incendiary into one of these trucks would end us all.”
Clay pointed into the cab. “Get in there, Corporal Cook, and move over.” He turned to the lieutenant. “If you wait until the Luftwaffe goes home, you’ll be under these trees until geese crap pearls.”
The general climbed into the seat. The displaced driver looked doubtfully at him. Clay stamped on the starter pedal. With a growl, the GM lurched forward. I hastily jumped onto the running board and held onto the window frame. We rolled out from under the tree canopy into the field. The Stukas had disappeared. Smoke rose from their target, spreading across the ground like waves in the increasing wind.
Clay drove furiously. I glanced behind us. The column of trucks was following, five or six of them. Clay twisted the steering wheel, and we turned east, across deep furrows. I bounced crazily on the running board.
All war may be foolish, and some aspects of war more foolish than others. But the most asinine report that came out of the invasion, bar none, stems from that brief truck ride. The Los Angeles Tribune interviewed Corporal Cook after the war, then reported in an article that at times of stress General Clay would lapse into baby talk, that he would revert to his infancy. United Press picked up the story. An article in the Birmingham Sun, down in the land of Baptists, bless them, gave the general the benefit of the doubt by speculating that perhaps it was a biblical tongue rather than baby talk.
The entire account stems from that moment when the general turned to me and said through the truck window, “’Arf-made recruities, Jack, ’arf-made recruities.”
I nodded knowingly, but had to look it up later. Corporal Cook did not hear the general correctly, or perhaps he just did not know the poem. Clay was quoting Kipling: “When the ’arf-made recruity goes out to the East, / ’E acts like a babe an’ ’e drinks like a beast, / An’ ’e wonders because ’e is frequent deceased / Ere ’e’s fit to serve as a soldier…”
The general was referring to the youth and inexperience of his soldiers. I state categorically that Clay never spoke baby talk and am perturbed that I must even address such a breathtaking absurdity.
Clay frequently quoted Kipling. His favorite during the invasion was, “‘There are only two divisions in the world today: human beings and Germans.’”
We soon reached the remaining guns of the 27th Field Artillery. A battery of 105mm howitzers was already hooked up to its tractors and was pulling out. One of the guns was on its side, enveloped in fire. Three bodies had been pulled from the flames, then forgotten. Another battery was still firing. Its officer ran up to Clay. He was a lieutenant with his face blackened by cork, even in broad daylight.
“Report, Lieutenant.”
He was out of breath. He swallowed quickly several times. Howitzer blasts seemed to split my head.
“Letelier, 27th Field Artillery, sir. We’re laying them direct. No time for correction data or aiming points.”
“Good for you.”
“I’ve got an enemy armored regiment along my sights, but I’m down to six or seven rounds for each piece, sir.”
Clay said, “I heard you had those goddamn German tankers by the balls, so I brought your shells, personally.”
The lieutenant beamed. “Yes, sir. Thank you.” His right hand was covered with blood. I could not tell if it belonged to him or one of his artillerymen.
“You stay at your guns. I’ll get the stuff to you.”
The lieutenant sprinted back to his battery. Clay directed the truck crews to distribute howitzer shells, which took only several minutes since the ordnance squadron was extremely anxious to depart. Between the bone-jarring noise of our artillery, I thought I heard the distant grind of panzer engines coming closer.
Clay led the convoy away. He said to me through the window, “I like that artillery officer’s grit, Jack. See that he is decorated.”
“Decorated with what, sir?”
“Christ, I don’t know. Whatever you think is appropriate. And you find the name of the battery officer who was pulling out his howitzers, and you bust that chickenshit and put him on the boat.”
“Yes, sir.”
I later gave Lieutenant Letelier a bronze star, and I never found the fleeing artillery officer. I didn’t look hard, because if I could have, I would have been on his tractor seat next to him.
When we returned to cover, Clay gave orders to the ordnance lieutenant, who nodded eagerly, either inspired or chagrined by the general’s visit. Shortly thereafter we were again in the Cub.
Clay was peering at a map when Terry Norman said, “General, there’s some trouble below.”
“You got that right,” Clay replied without looking up.
Clay tipped the Cub’s wing to give Clay a better view. The pilot said, “I mean, right now, right below us.”
Clay pushed his nose against the window. “Those men are going to be blind-sided.”
I looked out the window. We were just east of Reigate. Below, three tanks were about to crest a tree-topped hill. I could not tell from their colors, but I presumed they were panzers. They were fanning out as they neared the summit. One tank pushed over a small tree and rolled on. Beyond the hill was a fleet of Canadian I Corps vehicles: several scout cars followed by three tanks and a dozen APCs and trucks. They had pulled off the road. A number of officers were conferring near one of the scout cars. Blue diesel exhaust hung over the convoy. The Canadians were about to be ambushed.
Norman said, “We don’t have time to patch through a radio warning, General.”
Clay replied, “Then let’s go sit on that German armor.”
The pilot grinned fiendishly, and the bottom seemed to fall out of the Cub. We plunged toward the ground. I gripped the back of Clay’s seat so hard my knuckles turned white.
The general said mildly, “Jack, you’ve got some of my uniform in your fist there.”