She looked at him with a perplexed and affectionate expression. In the previous months, the Americans had swarmed over the British Isles, leaving wide swaths of candy and nylons and cigarettes and casting forth goodwill and optimism. The young American soldiers with their brazen exuberance and sheer cockiness seemed the incarnation of Hollywood films. To the English, accustomed to doing without and making do and scarcely complaining at missing husbands and lovers, the Americans were bigger than life. American troops, who were paid four times as much as their British counterparts, arrived on English soil laboring under heavy loads of money and luxuries and all too willing to part with them, grinning wonderful prewar grins all the while.
Who could blame English families for inviting American soldiers into their homes for something to eat, knowing that more often than not the soldier would reciprocate with a plump carton of Camels or Lucky Strikes? Who could blame English girls for not refusing invitations into American service clubs, with their rich ice cream, sugar-coated doughnuts, and intoxicatingly aromatic coffee? And the Americans didn’t mind if the girls put a few extra pastries into a handbag for the family. Americans even looked taller, healthier, and they smelled better. These exotic cousins from overseas were to be stared at and wondered about, and Mrs. Blaine could not help herself.
I heard the sound of a jeep, and a moment later a knock at the door. Major General David Lorenzo did not wait for an answer, but pushed open the door and strode quickly toward the table.
The G2 asked abruptly, “Have you heard, General?”
Clay stared at him, perhaps unwilling to admit he was not the first to know anything. Lorenzo leaned over the table and spoke in a low voice, too agitated and hurried to exclude Mrs. Blaine. More vehicles rolled up outside.
Clay interrupted, “Gone? The Queen Mary? Our troops?”
Lorenzo nodded and went on, telling him also of Ipswich and Norwich and Scapa Flow. He did not yet know the full damage, but could tell the general enough to shake him. Clay gripped the edge of the table. Mrs. Blaine’s face turned ashen.
He was still talking when Gene Girard walked into the cottage, followed by his executive officer, Major General Felix Arden, who was carrying a map that flowed behind him and a cardboard map tube. I heard yet more jeeps and maybe a few trucks. Arden tacked the map to a wall while Girard joined Clay and Lorenzo.
The door pushed open again, and Major General John Hammond, commander of the 35th Infantry Division, entered the room, followed by a short parade; Hammond’s deputy, Major General Mark Keyes; Hammond’s chief of staff, Colonel Henry Culligan; and Colonel Walter Pelovik, his G4. They crowded around the table. Arden pulled a larger scale map from the tube and laid it over the table, dishes and all.
Thomas and I were squeezed out of the circle, so we left our chairs and retreated to the fireplace. Mrs. Blaine held her own, though, and nodded wisely at several comments by the officers. The boy’s face reflected his amazement and gratitude. His age would not keep him out of the war after all.
Next into the room was the 35th Division’s signal officer, Colonel William Brice, and two men from his signal company. One carried a portable telephone pack, and another a wire roll. In the past ten minutes, they had strung a wire, laying it loosely along the roadside and guarding it with Signal Corps troops the entire mile to the nearest telephone poles. Ground communication was much more secure than wireless transmissions.
I’d seen all this before. General Clay was a low pressure zone, creating weather systems of men and machinery wherever he went. His subordinates collected around him, posting him on developments and seeking his instructions. AEF’s advanced command post was wherever its commander happened to be.
Lorenzo repeated his news, and the group was silent for a moment. Lieutenant General Girard’s eyes blinked rapidly. He was a reed of a man, so thin he appeared ill. The skin on his face was stretched tightly over flaring, spatulate cheekbones, and with his severe mouth and notched jaw, his head reminded me of a skull. Despite his appearance, Girard was known for his fondness for Spanish sherry and sophomoric pranks, an odd combination.
Hammond was roughly handsome, with brown hair streaked with gray, and a thick build. He was one of those go-getters Clay put into the battle slots. His restless eyes, forward stance, and rapid gestures broadcast an eagerness to enter the fray, much like a Staffordshire terrier at the end of a taut leash. I once overheard him tell General Clay that he’d leave England a hero or in a box. I had expected Clay to instruct Hammond that he would best serve his men alive and that the AEF could not afford to lose him. Instead, Clay said, “Good for you.”
The 35th Infantry was comprised of the 69th and 70th Infantry Brigades, each with two regiments. The division also contained the 60th Field Artillery Brigade and tank and tank destroyer regiments and battalions. But its core was the infantry, the dog soldiers, the vanguard of the army’s combat capability. Clay was an artilleryman, but he well knew that a battle was not won until the disputed terrain was occupied by foot soldiers.
They got down to work. An argument quickly ensued, and from the sound of it, General Hammond feared he would receive neither his medal nor his box. Clay was proposing that certain regiments of the 35th be held back from the beach. As it was, the 35th was spread along the channel coast from Rye Bay to Hythe, and included the stony cape of Dungeness, which thrusts into the channel like a swelled appendage. Behind Dungeness were the Walland and Romney marshes, windblown and inhospitable, but lower than the cape and protected from the channel by sea-thrown shingle ridges.
After a moment, Clay said, “Then we are agreed.” He glanced sharply at Hammond, who had agreed to nothing. Clay won all the arguments. “The 425th and 406th will not continue their reinforcement of the seawall, but will remain here and here.” He punched the table map with a finger, to tank battalions, which, with the rest of the 35th Infantry, had disembarked at Gourock only a week before and were still moving into place.
Disposition of Allied troops would have been an easy matter had there been sufficient numbers of them. Just build an impregnable wall of men and equipment. Trouble was, despite the flow of American men and material into Great Britain, scarcities were still ominous. Units that looked strong on paper were in fact undermanned, underequipped, and green.
In spite of the meeting at the war cabinet room hours before, where the unconquerable seawall was reapproved, General Clay continued to hold many of his units away from the channel beaches. He was aware of the gamble. But no one knew better, because the brutal dynamism of the German blitz attack, known in the German manuals as Flächen und Lückentaktic (tactics of space and gap) had never been defeated.
Clay stood from his chair and motioned General Keyes to follow him from the table. Clay whispered a few words to the 35th’s deputy commander and returned to the group with a small smile. Keyes lifted the portable telephone and spoke into it for a moment, then returned to the discussion. David Lorenzo made small marks on the hanging map as the maneuvers were decided.
“General Clay,” one of the signalmen said, “Highbrow has been patched through.”
Clay walked to the phone. Highbrow was General Alexander, Clay’s superior. I supposed the code name came from Alexander’s rising eyebrows.
“Yes, sir,” Clay said into the phone.
The commander of the Joint Chiefs of Staff spoke for a moment. Clay responded, “You know my position on that.”
Another pause, then Clay said, “All right. In light of that, I agree. But only one, correct?… Good.”