The prime minister said, “Even though our best information is that the east coast, somewhere along the coasts of Essex, Suffolk, Norfolk, or Lincolnshire, will be the location of the invasion, I counsel caution. These late developments should not prompt us into hasty redeployment.”
“Prime Minister,” General Alexander asked, “is that precisely what Hitler hopes we are doing in this meeting today, absolutely nothing? We have kept XI Corps and the Canadians in reserve, and I believe we must now release them to reinforce the eastern counties.”
“Lord Lindley?” Churchill asked his minister for coordination of defense.
“I quite agree with you, Prime Minister.” Lord Lindley sat forward in his chair, peering left and right. There was a delicacy to him, with his peaked lips, moist eyes, and milky skin. Strangers might have taken him for a weak man, a mistake. “At this point, panicked redeployment can only be what the German High Command wants from us.”
“Then it is decided,” Churchill said. “We have very few reserves and will keep our XI and the Canadians back and commit them only when needed. What is next today?”
General Clay caught himself raising his hand like a schoolboy. “I want to propose realignment of some of my units from a two-one to a one-two defense.”
“We have been down this long road before, have we not, General Clay?” Alexander asked. He pushed his chair away from the table in a resigned manner.
“Yes, and I’ll try it again. I wish to pull back certain battalions of the 4th Motorized from the Hastings-Eastbourne area, the 35th Infantry from Folkestone, and the 1st Armored behind Worthing.”
“A little early to call a retreat, is it not?” Alexander asked bitingly.
Clay rudely sucked on a tooth before he said, “One of the most endearing of British traits is your indifference to outside suggestions or criticisms. But let me impose on you anyway. The strength of our defense can be measured not by the number of troops on the shoreline, but by the number of hours in which a strong counterattack can be delivered.”
“Once invading vessels have landed, they will never leave,” Alexander said. “Nelson wrote that in 1801, and it is still true today. We must destroy them on the beach. The Germans must not get as far as the saltgrass at the top of our dunes.”
Clay said with some heat, “I can prove mathematically that the brunt of their amphibious attack cannot be stopped on the beach.”
“Spare us your multiplication tables this afternoon,” Alexander said wearily.
Clay pointed at Alexander and said, “Your Lord D’Arbernon said, ‘An Englishman’s mind works best when it is almost too late.’ But he was giving you the goddamn benefit of a doubt.”
Furious, Alexander rose from his chair. “You—”
Churchill stabbed them to silence with his cigar. Alexander stiffly resumed his seat.
Alan Barclay toyed with a folder as he said, “In any event, it is simply too late to transfer those divisions.”
“It is never too late if the battle hangs in the balance,” Clay countered.
This was another argument that had racked the Defense Committee. Stedman and Clay regarded the North Sea–English Channel wall of fixed defenses as an ephemeral hindrance, another Maginot Line. Keeping the Germans out of the country, irrespective of where they landed, would be difficult, perhaps impossible because the Allied navies had not nearly enough remaining destroyers or patrol vessels to cover the entire coast from Dorset to Edinburgh. And the fixed defenses were still weak. Instead, the battle commanders favored massed counterattacks against German penetrations. A static defense repels by fire, and the Allies had insufficient fire. Counterattack defeats by movement, and even undermanned and underequipped units could move. “Counterattack is the soul of defense,” Clay had said before.
But the weight of British chiefs had fervently pushed for an intractable defense on the shore line. They believed that the ordered movement of large land formations, necessary for counterattack, would be almost impossible under constant air attack, which, with recent Luftwaffe air superiority, was guaranteed. And, more simply, deliberately leaving a porous sea wall defense, of virtually admitting the Germans into the country and hoping for the best, was a particularly noxious notion.
Barclay and Clay argued back and forth for several minutes. There have been few amphibious landings in the modern era, and much of what the generals said was speculation. When they began pointing fingers at each other, Churchill ended the argument by saying, “General Clay, I must side with my chiefs. Should the enemy not come during this vulnerable time, we’ll take up the issue again. What is next?”
The meeting lasted another thirty minutes, largely regarding issues of supply. When Churchill said, “We will meet here again tomorrow, if the Germans allow it,” members of the Defense Committee broke off into smaller groups to continue discussions.
The prime minister pushed himself slowly from his seat. He waved Clay around to him, then said, “I’ve got ten minutes until the War Ministry meets, so I’ll be having a drop of tea in my quarters. Will you join me?”
“Of course, sir.”
“You too, Colonel Royce.”
I was always astonished when the prime minister remembered my name. Had I tail feathers, I would have flared them. He and Clay had met socially at Chequers and 10 Downing Street and other residences. They enjoyed each other’s company. Perhaps it was the game they played. It was the prime minister’s turn to serve, to choose the topic. Churchill and Clay leaned toward each other as they walked, deeply into their talk before they reached the hallway. I trailed after them.
Before I tell of their contest, let me mention a few incidents from Wilson Clay’s early life that may shed some light on him. I’ve collected them like others collect stamps or autographs. People always wanted to talk about him. When they learned I was his aide, they cornered me and exhausted their memories of him, perhaps thinking they were adding to some official history and setting the record straight.
By far the most frequent anecdote I heard involved the Plebe Production, the spring show first-year students put on for the faculty and other cadets at West Point. For an entire academy class, Clay’s skit remains the most vivid moment of their first year. Although only one of several plebes in the piece, Clay received all the blame and all the demerits because he delivered the punchline.
Major General Clinton Robinson was superintendent of the academy at that time. He was known as a stickler on everything from precision drill to participation in athletics, but his overwhelming passion was hygiene. From his office poured forth orders regarding sanitation. Nothing was too clean or crisp. One week before the skit, he instructed all cadets to wash their hands a minimum of 120 seconds before each meal. “Robinson was asking for it,” one of Clay’s classmates told me, recalling the skit with glee.
During the Plebe Production, five cadets stood on the stage at rigid attention, while another cadet, dressed as Robinson, reviewed them. The cadet perfectly exaggerated Robinson’s pompous lift to his chin and the way he tapped his swagger stick on his thigh. He stepped along the line. “Straight tie, chin up. Excellent.”
He stopped at the fourth cadet to stare at his uniform. “I’ve just noticed, Cadet, that each of you has a fork in your uniform pocket. Tell me why.”