Our road wound along a shallow valley, with forested hills rising above the fields on both sides of us. We saw through the trees the indistinct lines of camouflage tarps and nets. Sentries walked the edge of the woods, carefully keeping under the forest shadows.
General Clay twisted in his seat and spoke loudly over the wind blowing around the windshield and the noise of the engine. “We think General Franz Halder told Hitler in 1940 it would take the Luftwaffe just two weeks to destroy the Royal Air Force. Instead, it has taken them two full years.” Clay pursed his mouth a moment. “But now the Vickers-Supermarine plant in Southampton is a bombed-out hulk. Same with the Nuffield Spitfire factory. The Rolls Royce engine plant in Derby is in ruins. Most RAF squadrons exist only on paper.”
The general once told me that the happiest stint of his career was the four years he taught military history at West Point. Given the slightest opportunity, Clay would still lecture, even if I was his only audience. I always listened attentively; one of the clearer duties of a lieutenant colonel being addressed by a general.
Silent until now, Corporal Markham could not help himself. “I knew we were in trouble when our metal cap badges were replaced with plastic ones a couple months ago. Badges for Spits, they said.”
Worn on the front of his cap, the corporal’s badge was the distinctive eight-pointed star of the Royal Sussex. Markham was tall enough that he was wedged into the jeep. His right leg was pinned awkwardly between the stick shift and the wheel. He had a rough-hewn face, with a bump on his nose, a knobby chin, and a narrow mouth. His Lee Enfield was tucked under his feet.
“You look good in plastic, Corporal.” The general shifted his gaze to the woods on the rise. Several artillery pieces were parked under olive tarps. He scowled and said, “Tell Jones over my signature that his crews are cooking over open fires, and if I can see smoke rising above those trees, so can the goddamn German pilots.”
Soldiers should carry rifles. I carried a note pad. I ate with it, slept with it, visited the latrine with it. I penciled a note in it. I also carried a camera on a strap over my shoulder. A 35-mm Leica, a German product, no less. Major General Burt Jones was commander of the 2nd Infantry.[1] “Yes, sir.”
Clay glanced skyward, narrowing his eyes against the vivid blue. The sun reflected on the four stars sewn near the seam of his cap. He preferred a side cap, which he would fold into a rear pocket when indoors, rather than a brimmed cap. He wore the same clothes every day so his men would recognize him: sharply creased khaki breeches, a tunic, a khaki tie tucked into his shirt below the second button, and a waist-length brown leather coat resembling an aviator’s. Except for the stars on his cap, he typically wore no other badges of rank or service and no decorations. He told me it was his soldiers’ duty to recognize him even without all the glitter on a uniform.
His hair must have been a rich red in his youth. I heard he was once called Red Clay at the academy. Only once. The story goes that he knocked the offending cadet off his feet, yelling that he was no goddamn Indian chief, and the nickname ended right there. The general’s hair was now gray, with touches of auburn, and closely cropped. His grass-green eyes had flecks of brown in them. He had rather pale skin, with a smattering of freckles along his nose and forehead. His grin came easily, as did his laugh. More frequently, when he was lost in thought, his face would have a somber cast, with the infantryman’s thousand-yard stare and his mouth turned down.
“The German didn’t come two years ago in what he was going to call Sea Lion,” Clay added, “because he couldn’t gain control of the sky over England. Now that’s changed.”
I nodded. The general wasn’t looking for conversation. The Luftwaffe’s dominance of English skies had forced the British and Americans to transport men and machinery only at night. At first light every day, the columns left the roads for the forests to pitch camouflage gear overhead. Tanks, mounted antiaircraft and antitank batteries, self-propelled guns, armored and scout cars, half-tracks and trucks—everything and everyone—remained hidden until dusk. During daylight only essential movement was risked. The general had deemed essential this brief jeep journey from the airfield to the beach near Rye.
Clay pulled a sheaf of reports from a folder on his lap. He lifted his reading glasses from his tunic pocket. The wire rim was so flexible he had to wrap the glasses around his face, always left ear to right. I was instantly forgotten. General Clay had a way of making others think they had vanished. I was used to it.
We passed a wood building with white roses climbing a wall trellis. A sign hanging above the door read “Crown and Thorn.” On the door was a hand-printed notice with one word, “Sorry.” There was precious little beer in England.
The general looked up. “Jack, see to it that Jones also takes the—”
The road abruptly turned on its side. At least, that’s how it seemed to me. A wall of dirt and rocks was thrown into the air alongside us, then raced ahead.
“Bloody Christ!” yelled Markham. “We’re under fire!”
He braked hard and swerved off the road. I grabbed a tie-down. The fender-well slammed my backside as the jeep lurched into a ditch. I fell to the cargo bed when the jeep careened off the trunk of an oak tree. The general’s elbow shattered the windshield. We came to rest between two oaks when Markham’s foot slipped off the clutch. The jeep’s motor died.
The sound finally reached us, a dull pounding of four MG 17 machine guns mixed with the scream of a Daimler Benz engine. This model Messerschmitt, the 109E, was popularly known as the Emil, and it had destroyed European air forces early in the war. It was no match for a Spitfire, but there were seldom any British fighters around. The shadow of the plane flickered over us, the whine of its engine dropping to a low growl as it sped down the valley.
“You all right, General Clay?” I asked, rising unsteadily to my feet.
Clay held Corporal Markham’s chin, turning his face toward him. A red crease crossed Markham’s forehead where it had hit the steering wheel. “Report, Corporal.”
“John Markham, Corporal. Royal Sussex. I’m fine.” His words were rough, and he blinked repeatedly. “Little bump on the head is all.”
Clay leaped from the jeep. He bit down on his lip, frowning. I followed his gaze. The bodyguards’ jeep was turned on its side at the edge of the road forty yards behind us. The bullets had almost cut it in two, and shards of metal protruded at odd angles from the vehicle. Smoke poured from under the hood. The driver was sitting on the road, cupping his chin and rocking back and forth. Splattered with blood, the two bodyguards lay on the dirt, motionless, their M1s near them.
“Here it comes again,” Markham said, stamping on the jeep’s starter. The starter churned but the engine would not fire. “Christ, I’ve flooded it.” The corporal hurried out of the jeep and fell behind a tree.
The Messerschmitt was banking out of the valley into the morning sun, the black crosses on its wings clearly visible. It skimmed behind the eastern hill, gaining elevation for another strafing run at us.
“Son of a bitch,” Clay said under his breath. He leaned over the fender to grab Markham’s rifle. He checked the action, stepped from under the tree, then raised the Lee Enfield to his shoulder.
“General, come on,” Markham pleaded. “Take cover.”
I jumped out of the jeep, prepared to shove Clay to the ground.
The Messerschmitt leveled off, coming at us at an oblique angle to the road. Even though the fighter was backlit by the sun, I could see muzzle flashes from the wings and cowling. The German’s aim was low, and clods of dirt burst from the ground a hundred yards in front of us in a wheat field. The eruptions sprinted along the field, closing.