General Clay ordered, “Jack, take down every word the lieutenant here says, as a matter of courtesy.”
Courtesy was a polite phrase for protecting the record and guarding one’s place in history. Churchill would be doing the same, and both men knew it. I brought up my trusty notebook.
Clay said to Lieutenant Gupta, “Give the prime minister my greetings in as short a manner as your incomprehensible Hindu customs will allow.”
The lieutenant said a few words into the telephone.
The general went on, “Tell Mr. Churchill that apparently extensive German glider and paratrooper operations have begun in East Sussex and in Kent, but that much of the activity also appears to be with mock units and equipment, as in the false alarms in days past.”
Gupta relayed these words in Hindustani. The prime minister had reserved this protection against German radio interceptors for this moment, and this was Gupta’s first official act as translator. At Churchill’s insistence, Indian translators had recently been posted to all Allied forward headquarters.
There was a short wait while the Hindu at Churchill’s end did his work. Then Gupta said, “The prime minister says, and I quote, ‘I want to know one thing. Is this the invasion or simply another German stratagem.’”
Clay responded, “It is too early to know. However, the German rarely used complex ruses in the Great War.”
More translating. His eyes politely averted, Gupta said, “The prime minister wishes to remind you the Germans successfully baited an elaborate trap for the Russians at Tannenberg in 1914.”
Clay said in a choleric tone, “I already knew that.”
The lieutenant said, “The prime minister wishes to know your estimate of the disposition of Rommel’s Army Group C.”
AACCS commanders, including General Clay, as recently as twelve hours before had agreed that Army Group C was leading the invasion from embarkation points in Holland and other points north.
“Mr. Prime Minister, I still believe Rommel’s army group is poised for the invasion across the North Sea,” Clay answered, as if speaking directly to Churchill. “I have seen nothing to indicate otherwise.”
The Indian spoke into the receiver, listened, then asked, “Is there anything we can be certain of at this time?”
“I am afraid not.”
The Indian waited, then spoke again, “Mr. Churchill says that no Briton or American will think it wrong of him if he proclaims to you, General Clay, that to have the United States at Great Britain’s side is to him a source of great joy and comfort.”
“Thank you.”
“The prime minister says that he cannot foretell the course of events and does not pretend to have measured accurately the martial might of those arrayed against us, but England will live, Britain will live, the Commonwealth of Nations and the Empire will live.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” General Clay said, making a small circle with his fingers, indicating he wanted Churchill to hurry.
Lieutenant Gupta looked helplessly at the general, but continued bravely, “The prime minister says that once again in our long island history we shall emerge, however mauled and mutilated, safe and victorious.”
Clay said in an aside to me, “Winnie has a maudlin streak in him, doesn’t he?”
A faithful recorder, I report here General Clay’s impudence with the greatest reluctance.
Gupta concluded, “The prime minister asks that you call him again in one hour.”
“Of course.”
The Indian placed the handset in the cradle. General Clay surveyed his headquarters. The intelligence officers and corps commanders were still huddled around Clay’s desk. Several dozen more maps had been hastily posted on walls, leaving little of the wood paneling showing. Colored pins were quickly appearing on the maps. General Clay walked across the room to the French doors. I followed and held aside the blackout curtain for him.
As we stepped onto the veranda, the antiaircraft gun across the pasture erupted again. The yellow beams of the nearby searchlights swept grandly across the night sky. The lights changed directions quickly, guided by a radar control called “Elsie,” searching for Luftwaffe planes.
General Clay breathed the cool air deeply. “You think I was indecisive in there, not calling this the invasion?”
“No, sir.”
“I simply don’t have enough intelligence yet.”
“I fully realize that, sir.” I also realized he was arguing with himself, not me.
“You know what happens to uncertain generals, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“They become laughingstocks.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Because of his indecision and lack of resolve during the Boer War, the British public began calling General Sir Redvers Buller a new name, Sir Reverse. I know dozens of other examples of this from history.” He looked at me and pointed to his skull. “Every disgraced general in recorded history, committed to my memory.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Hell, the press will start calling me General Clay Feet.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Or General Clay Pigeon, a target to be shot at.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m going to tell Churchill in one hour whether this is the invasion. Tell him without equivocation. I’ll know by then. The only uncertainty will be how well the Germans froze us.”
He stared at the somber sky for a moment. “It’s easy to be strong during the day, Jack. At night, it’s more difficult.” He looked at me. “Don’t put that in your journal. Don’t even remember it.”
“Yes, sir.”
At that moment, one of the searchlight beams fell out of the sky like a toppled tree. The light was a sixty-incher. It rested a moment, the beacon lying over the top of the ground. Then the beam swept madly across the pasture, spotting for fleeting instants a nearby farmhouse, then a grove of trees, then several small outbuildings and a cottage, sweeping toward us like the raging crest of a wave.
We learned later that the Elsie had malfunctioned due to a burned out tube. But at that moment it seemed like the sun had risen and was searching us out. When the beam reached us, it suddenly ceased its travels, and we were ablaze with light so intense and white I thought it must be entering my eye sockets and boring out the back of my head to continue on its journey.
I raised my hand to ward it off, to no effect. The light seemed to have weight, pushing me back on the veranda. With difficulty, I turned toward the general. He stood with his hands at his side, the light soaring over and around him as if it were flowing water. The blast of light seemed to set off sparks from his clothes and hair that slipped away toward the manor. And it reduced him to two dimensions, to a facade. I could see nothing behind his shimmering face and chest but black. All else was lost in the contrast.
General Clay seemed unaware of the searchlight. He turned to walk back into the billiard room. Behind me, the manor was illuminated as if it were midday. Then, abruptly, the light was gone, and the night suffocated us under total blackness.
As he walked by me, he said, “The fog of war covers the enemy, too, Jack. Remember that.”
Since the war ended, I have been besieged by historians and journalists demanding information about the general. Some of them have impressed me more as assassins than accurate chroniclers of the war, yearning to validate hostile rumors, anxious to print innuendo as fact, inquiring of the general’s record according to their own predispositions.
I want to set certain things straight while I have the chance, a preemptive strike before the ruinous hearsay gains its own momentum. In light of General Clay’s actions following the invasion, I view this as my obligation to history.