He had asked, and I was determined to answer. “Many reasons—”
“But I don’t buy that,” he went on. His voice was just above a whisper, and it was tainted with sadness. He was searching for his own weaknesses. “I side with Marshal de Saxe, who said talent in war is like talent in painting, poetry, and music. But tell me, why was Stonewall Jackson able to throw a handful of troops between vastly superior forces and win a victory at Second Manassas, while Germany’s von Kluck, using the same tactic at the Marne, was unable to duplicate Jackson’s victory?”
Clay sipped his drink. “Jackson was a great soldier. Von Kluck only a good one. What is the difference?”
“Well, I think—”
Clay went on, “If I only knew I’d—”
He was interrupted by a knock at the door.
He scowled, then shouted, “If you aren’t bringing me word of the invasion, go away, goddamn it. I’ve had enough for one day.”
From outside the trailer came a tentative, “May I speak with you, General?”
We both recognized the voice. Clay slammed his glass onto his desk, stabbed his feet into his shoes, and jumped up from the settee. He brushed unseen crumbs from his pants. “Jesus,” he whispered.
I also scrambled from my chair, then squared my necktie and cleared my throat.
General Clay opened the door and curtain. The king of Great Britain and Northern Ireland entered the caravan.
“It’s late, I know,” George VI said. He was carrying a leather valise. “I have been touring the forces, bucking them up and all.”
We saluted smartly. The American Revolution was not as successful as George Washington may have hoped. Americans still feel an overwhelming urge to bow or curtsey before English royalty. I stood awkwardly, shifting my feet, wondering what was proper. His majesty motioned us into chairs. He sat on the settee.
We had met the king a number of times at Buckingham Palace and at Lord Louis Mountbatten’s ancestral estate. Clay was no more familiar with the formalities than I was and referred to the king only as “Sir.” I think they were fond of each other.
His majesty withdrew a document from the valise. I could see “Top Secret” stamped across the top page. He stared at it glumly for a moment.
George VI endlessly visited British troops, being seen and lifting morale. His code name when he traveled usually was General Lyon, for Lion of the Empire, I suppose. As tactfully as possible, Churchill had asked the king to go to Canada to preserve the monarchy during the coming invasion. The king had countered by ordering Churchill to flee to Canada with the government at once when the Germans came. Both understood each other and had refused each other. George was a slight man, with a substantial nose and a lean face. He was wearing the uniform of a general of the British Army. Shy, with a stammer, George was well loved by his people.
“I have brought you a translation of several documents Churchill gave me this morning.” The king passed the folder to General Clay. “I have never before seen anything as frightening.”
Clay’s eyes raced down the first page. It was titled “Orders Concerning the Organization and Function of Military Government in England.” He turned to the second and said, “It’s a blueprint for the occupation.”
“The Germans have plans to install a Reichskommissar of Great Britain, probably Ribbentrop,” the king said. “That document shows they will run England with brutal efficiency. It will be a war on our civilization. They plan to deport all able-bodied males between the ages of seventeen and forty-five to the Continent, where they will be interned in camps.”
When Clay turned to the next document, the king said, “The Germans are going to establish a Military Economic Staff.”
“The Wehrwirtschaftsstab England,” the general said.
“It will have commands in London, Birmingham, Newcastle, Liverpool, and Glasgow. That organization will denude England. All stocks, such as food, petrol, automobiles, and lorries, even horses, which are not being used by the army of occupation, will be transported to Germany. Factories will be dismantled and sent into Germany. Research laboratories, cloth mills, mining equipment, all go, to be reconstructed in the Reich. There are even plans to cut down English forests, shipping the lumber to the Continent.”
Clay said, “They want it all, don’t they? Here are orders to transport to Germany all stones, cut or uncut, precious or semiprecious. But there is an exception for coal in household scuttles.”
“In return, they will give us the Gestapo, which they are going to call the German Secret Police for Great Britain. The Gestapo has drawn up a list of 2,300 names and addresses of British citizens who will be hunted down and arrested—writers, trade unionists, industrialists, police officials, religious leaders, professors, and the nobility. They call it the Special Search List, G.B.”
“I presume your name is on the list,” Clay said lightly.
“Rest assured, it is.” He smiled briefly. “And they are not overlooking anyone else. They have targeted Jews, freemasons, refugees, socialists, communists, and liberals, in which category they include Parliament. Glance down until you find the Boy Scouts, and read that.”
It took the general a moment. Finally he read, “‘The Boy Scout movement represents a camouflaged but powerful instrument of British cultural propaganda and an excellent source of information for the British Intelligence Service. The liquidation of the Austrian Scout movement produced proof of, among other things, the link between the Scout movement and the British Secret Service.’”
“It would be laughable, were they not serious, General Clay. We already have experience with a German occupation, as you know. They have for several years occupied the Channel Islands. On orders from Whitehall, the islanders offered no resistance to the Germans. Still, all British citizens were deported to camps on the Continent. We know where most of them are, but the Jews on the island, twenty of them, have disappeared. Our inquiries through the Swiss and Red Cross produce nothing.” The king inhaled slowly. “The Germans plan not just to occupy us, but to end England, to bring to a conclusion our millennium of statehood.”
We were silent for a moment. I finally asked, “Would you like something to drink, sir?”
“No, thank you.”
The general reached for his glass.
The king then quickly said, “Unless you are having something.”
I figured that after an adulthood of it, his majesty might be tired of single malt Scotch whiskey. I poured him Jim Beam, neat. He sipped it gingerly, as if he feared I had given him Kentucky moonshine. He nodded his approval and took a heartier drink.
“Do you know anything about the men who are coming? Von Rundstedt of Army Group A and Rommel of Group C?”
The general swirled his drink. “Von Rundstedt is a Prussian through and through. He excels in preparation, and his army is the most drilled and polished in German history. He is an odd combination of arrogance and pliability. He is thought to be susceptible to Hitler’s persuasion. He was retired from the army after the Fritsch-Blomberg crisis, but was able to return. His Panzer spearhead broke through at Sedan and cut off the British Expeditionary Force. Von Rundstedt’s mistake, as you know, was to persuade Hitler to halt the ground offensive, to leave the destruction of the BEF to the Luftwaffe, which never happened. Despite that error, there is every evidence he’ll be a tough customer.”
“And Rommel?”
“Rommel was seen three days ago in Amsterdam, at Army Group C headquarters. Since entering the German army in 1910, he has excelled at every level of command he has held, from platoon on up.”
“I’ve read a translation of Rommel’s textbook on infantry tactics he wrote between the wars. Have you had the chance?”