In all the time I served General Clay, I committed only one act that was disloyal to him, other than recording some of his gamier comments in my journal. After it became clear that he and Lady Anne intended to see more of each other, I discreetly asked a friend of mine, a subordinate of General Lorenzo who must remain nameless, to investigate the lady. His report was fascinating, but not alarming, at least in terms of a possible security leak.
A so-called journalist recently suggested that Anne Percival displaced the general’s aide, me, as his late-night confidant, as the person with whom he could relax. This was flatly untrue, and an affront to my war contribution, however meager. But she did fill a barren space in the general’s life at that time, one that neither I nor his wife in the States could do.
Yes, her beauty was such that it befuddled men who gazed on her. And, yes, she nourished her titillating reputation. But in General Clay she found someone she could not at once charm and vanquish, who would not join the parade of the dazed behind her. For both of them, the attraction was the sheer intellectual challenge that this refusal presented.
They began that night. After the earl had shuffled off, she poured the brandy, two snifters, not three. She gave him a glass, trying to pin him against the back of his chair with her eyes. I had apparently leached into the wallpaper, vanished without leaving a trace. It was not necessary to clear my throat politely, reminding them I was in the room. I was already gone.
She had opened the joust, calling him a major, but he had done his homework. “Anne Percival,” he rolled her name around in his mouth. “You go by Percival these days? One could lose track.”
She tilted her head and laughed, sounding like a carillon. “I thought I would wait until Roderick’s body cools before I take another name.”
She lifted the snifter to her lips, watching him over it. I had a vision of her as a bidder at a thoroughbred auction, calmly assessing musculature and lineage. The pekinese was at her feet, panting happily.
She said, “I’m having a gathering next Sunday here to celebrate a friend’s birthday. Sixty or seventy guests. Tell me, will the Germans get this far by then, or should I postpone it?”
I had never heard anyone speak lightly of the impending invasion. The British had laws against it, I thought.
She went on, “I would invite you, General, but you would be distracted and wouldn’t be fun at all.”
“I’ve heard the Wehrmacht called many things,” Clay replied, “and distracting is the kindest.”
They talked for another hour. General Clay brought to the conversation the same intensity he used in command. It was a scintillating tour de force. They worked Oscar Wilde, tsetse flies, Abraham Lincoln, and Idaho potatoes into their talk, and it all made marvelous sense. I laughed aloud several times, but they weren’t playing to me.
At midnight, she shook his proffered hand, and they said good-bye. I followed General Clay to the jeep. As we walked along the hedge toward the vehicle, he seemed surprised to see me. He said, “I thought you were waiting in the jeep.”
After the war, a few reporters suggested we left the earl’s home the following morning instead of at midnight. This is untrue. I have been asked many times the nature of General Clay and Lady Anne Percival’s relationship. I have faithfully set forth their first encounter. I will just as candidly describe their later meetings. You, and history, must judge their relationship.
The prime minister’s quarters underground were spartan by any standard. A cot covered with an olive wool blanket was against a wall. Every room in the complex seemed to have a wall map behind a curtain, and Churchill’s was no exception. On a desk were several telephones and a set of pens. A glass-fronted bookcase was near the desk, and I imagine the floor between them was well trod. Churchill led Clay to a card table, on which was another phone. He lifted it to call for refreshments. I remained by the door, the loyal retainer, until the prime minister frowned for effect and motioned me to join them. I fairly sprinted.
“You were a military history instructor at West Point for a time, I know, Wilson.”
“I was, Prime Minister.”
“Then you, better than perhaps anyone but me, understand the effects of weather on a military operation.”
“I do,” Clay replied. “And perhaps even better.”
Both men sat back in their chairs while an orderly entered to place tea on the table. General Clay tapped a foot against the table leg, his warm-up. The flashing silver service was jarringly out of place in the room.
The prime minister blew over his tea before taking a sip. “After winds destroyed the Spanish Armada, England took for its motto, ‘He blew and they were scattered,’ and the channel winds became known as the Protestant Winds.”
A hard opening serve. Fifteen-love.
General Clay nodded sagely. “The English debt to the weather is certainly great. At Blenheim in 1704, a thick mist hid the Allied approach, and the French and Bavarians suspected nothing.”
Fifteen-all.
“Not as great as you suspect, Wilson. A hard rain before Agincourt saved Henry V, because the French cavalry charge became mired in mud.” Churchill lifted his tea cup again. His eyes were alight.
Thirty-fifteen. My silent count always seemed to work.
“At least as great as I suspect, Prime Minister. Napoleon told Admiral Trevill, ‘Let us be masters of the channel for six hours, and we are masters of the world.’ But channel gales arose, and helped defeat Napoleon’s proposed invasion of England. The weather forbade him those six hours.”
Thirty-all.
“Weather has not always been our ally, Wilson. The heat during the Third Crusade prior to the Battle of Arsuf debilitated Richard I’s troops.”
Forty-thirty.
“Are you suggesting Richard lost that battle?” Clay asked.
Nice backhand. Deuce.
“I would not lead you astray. But you of course know that contrary channel winds kept William the Conqueror in port for six weeks.”
Advantage Churchill.
Clay used his cup as a prop. He never drank tea. A few seconds passed.
“You were about to say something?” Churchill goaded.
“This jabbering has parched my throat,” the general answered lamely. He raised his cup.
The prime minister’s serve was vicious. “During the Seven Years War, British troops were surrounded by forces of the Nabob of Bengal at Plassey. They were severely outnumbered, but were saved when rain ruined the enemy’s powder. The British had thought to cover their own powder with tarpaulins.”
Game, set, match, Churchill.
After a long pause, Clay admitted defeat, but not gracefully. “I have too much on my mind to fill it with minutiae, Prime Minister. Others might, but not me.”
Churchill grinned at me. “Aides usually keep diaries. Do you, Colonel?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Be sure to include this exchange, then. I don’t want history to miss this one.”
“It would be an incalculable loss, sir.”
Clay asked me accusingly, “Siding with the people who hung Nathan Hale, Jack?”
Churchill helped himself to more tea. “I don’t always play games with the past, Wilson. I use it to understand our plight.” He brought out another cigar. “What do you suppose is the most-invaded island in the world?”
Clay thought for a moment. “Ceylon.”
The prime minister nodded approvingly. “Yes, Ceylon. Great Britain is no Ceylon. A century and a quarter have elapsed since a foreign country seriously threatened England on her own soil. And 1797 was the last time the British infantry in England went into action.”
“That would be the small French invasion at Fishguard.”
Churchill waved his cigar with approval. “We have had our share of invasions, as you know. Forty-nine to 1798. But fewer than most islands. Our isolation has been our security. Waterborne invasions shatter the calm and complacency produced by long periods of unchallenged national existence. The Incas in the sixteenth century. China and Japan in the nineteenth.”