I spent the next thirty minutes glancing at my watch, cracking my knuckles, scratching my nose, and doing other small gestures to look occupied. The gathering of onlookers increased all the while, becoming an irreverent mob. The tank was silent.
Finally, the cupola slid open and General Clay’s head appeared. The throng let loose with a roar. Clay smiled and climbed out. He bent over the cupola to assist Lady Anne. She emerged and the ovation grew. He helped her from the turret to the deck, and I took an arm to assist her to the ground.
Then, by God, in the next instant before the general descended from the tank, she gold-plated forever the general’s reputation among the soldiers of the 1st Armored. I was blocking the tankmen’s view of her. She quickly reached to her neck and yanked on her blouse, tearing it from the collar to the second button, exposing a glimpse of her brassiere. She ran the same hand along her lips, smudging the lipstick. And then she ruffled her black hair. By the time the general landed at her side, she was in a state of unmistakable sexual disarray.
The general did not notice, or seemed not to. The three of us marched back across the pasture, leaving the tank. We reached the soldiers, who parted for us. She smiled demurely, something I did not think her capable of. For a moment the soldiers were quiet, stunned, I think. But as they surveyed Lady Anne (she had deliberately slowed her pace), the commotion grew, and grew.
Now, I saw two games of the 1940 World Series, and not once did the New York fans cheer as wildly as those troops of the 13th Armored Regiment at that moment. Their general was a stallion, and he had proved it in one of their Shermans.
I’m sure General Clay was puzzled, but he was not one to let that expression cross his face. He grinned, even bowed slightly, and escorted Lady Anne to her Bentley.
The inspection of the 13th Armored took another hour, and as he passed them in review, the soldiers grinned and leered, gave the thumbs up and flashed V-for-victory signs, an unprecedented, regiment-wide display of impertinence.
The tank was later rechristened Clay’s Lay.
What do I think happened inside that Sherman? Less than Lady Anne would have us think, but, otherwise, how would I know? I was separated from General Clay and Lady Anne by two inches of protective steel and am glad of it.
Then there is the Mystery Flight, as my memory has named it. Only three people in the universe know the answer to the impenetrable riddle presented by the Mystery Flight, and I am not one of them. Captain Norman is, but he would not talk, at least with a straight face.
The flight occurred several weeks before S-Day. We had been inspecting the 68th Field Artillery Regiment, 1st Armored, near Chichester, and were scheduled to depart from the RAF sector airfield at Tangmere. The jeep drove along the airfield to Terry Norman’s plane, and just as I thought we were to board, the general said, “Let’s wait a moment, Jack.”
Twenty minutes elapsed. Clay did paperwork on a clipboard. I made entries in my journal. In the Cub’s cockpit, Captain Norman made his endless checks and adjustments.
At noon the dreaded Bentley appeared, rolling silently up to the plane. Lady Anne emerged, beaming at Clay. She was wearing black pearl earrings and a white and red print dress. He climbed out of the jeep and shook her proffered hand.
The general said, “Jack, I’ll be back shortly. Wait here for me.”
To my consternation, he helped her into the Cub and closed the hatch, leaving me on the runway. Norman gave me a desultory salute and revved the engine. The Cub pulled away. I got behind the jeep’s steering wheel and followed the Bentley to the edge of the runway. The chauffeur found a protected area under several trees, and I parked the jeep next to the limousine.
I waited. The sun set, and the English chill settled on the airfield. I waited. Midnight. Her chauffeur invited me to sleep in the backseat. He and I spent the night in the Bentley. He rolled up the window separating the driver from the passenger seat to block out my snoring. Morning came, and I was still waiting. An RAF cook thoughtfully brought us breakfast, then lunch.
I was beginning to feel like the famous Labrador retriever in Portland, Oregon. The dog’s name was Angel. One day its master ordered him to wait outside a downtown store. A few minutes later, the master died from a heart attack on the second floor of the store. His body was removed from a rear door. A night watchman fed the dog that night, and every night for the next seven years until Angel died, still at the department store’s entrance, obedient to his master to the end.
The Cub reappeared at two in the afternoon. They had been gone twenty-six hours. The chauffeur and I drove our vehicles out to meet them. General Clay and Lady Anne stepped down from the Cub, and he bid her a businesslike goodbye. She was wearing the same clothes and earrings.
General Clay lifted his clipboard from the jeep’s seat and said, “Have Signal tell Burt Jones to meet me at 0200 at the 2nd’s HQ.”
I followed him back into the Cub. Thus began a stream of orders that continued until we touched down in London.
Later that day, I asked Terry Norman, “Where the hell did you take them?”
“Well, two minutes after we took off, the Cub’s engine started coughing. So I put down at Portsmouth, ten miles west of here. The general did his generaling from there until the plane was repaired this morning. Then he and the lady came back to get you.”
“You must think Norma and Ed Royce of San Diego, California, raised a complete dunce for a son, Terry.”
He smiled. “Well, that story is good enough for you and me, I’m told.”
I heard later that Lady Anne was sighted in Dublin that day. So perhaps the Mystery Flight was to Ireland. I won’t speculate further as to their destination. And I won’t speculate at all as to their purpose.
I hasten to add that the Mystery Flight was the only holiday General Clay took during his long stay in England. And with Lady Anne along, he probably wasn’t relaxing.
Had you asked General Clay how well I served him, he probably would have replied that I carried out my duties diligently, conscientiously, and loyally, which would have sounded like a Legion of Merit citation. But in his heart of hearts, he knew I served him best in my affair with the Brighton Times.
One morning while we were meeting at the 5th Infantry’s headquarters near Canterbury, the general abruptly turned to me and said, “Jack, the Brighton Times plans to run a photograph in tomorrow’s edition that shows me standing with Lady Anne at the Duke of Norfolk’s home. I understand the newspaper may run some idle gossip along with the photo.”
He paused a moment. I prompted him with, “Sir?”
“I want you to stop them.”
“Sir?”
“I’m releasing the Cub and Captain Norman to you. You get down there and fix it.”
“Yes, sir.”
He turned back to General Carsen. I left Canterbury without a plan, shaken by the responsibility. I landed near Brighton, and first visited the 4th Engineer Battalion, 4th Motorized. Then I arrived at the Brighton Times building, a three-story stone edifice on St. James Street, and was shown into the corner office of the newspaper’s publisher, Taylor Hayworth.
“Mr. Hayworth, I am General Wilson Clay’s aide, Colonel Jack Royce.”
“A pleasure to meet you, sir,” he said without conviction. He spoke loudly, above the sudden sound of heavy trucks on the street below. His face was drawn, with sunken cheeks and a pencil mustache. Strands of gray hair were swept across his baldness, making his head look wet.