Corporal Elliot returned, still carrying three of the trays of real scrambled eggs. The general said, “Nice work, Charley.”
Elliot placed a tray in front of the general, handed one to me, and kept one for himself. Clay dug into them with his fork. Powdered eggs activated his gag reflex, he told me. He always had a full larder, courtesy of nearby English farmers, who, grateful for his presence, frequently sent dressed out chickens, boxes of fruit, milk, and other farm goods. Once in a while a bottle of Scotch Highland whiskey would arrive at the trailer. Each week he also received in the mail from America dozens of boxes of cookies and candy, canned meat, dried fruit, and the like, always with heartrending notes asking him to take care of the writers’ sons. Corporal Elliot had hidden the stockpile of food and whiskey behind the trailer before Ness and McDonald arrived.
His appetite accurately reflected the man. The general enjoyed an iron constitution, despite his Pall Malls and his living on four hours sleep a night. He had only two infirmities. One was a constant ringing in his ears, a symptom of hypertension. Clay claimed he did not have time to take pills, so his doctor was attempting to treat the high blood pressure by having medication surreptitiously added to his food. The other was a stiff and creaking ankle from an old injury.
Perhaps I need to correct an impression here. General Clay was no Gonzalo de Cordoba, the Spanish general who in the late 1400s arrived at a battle elegantly turned out and lavishly provisioned. Clay slept in the spartan trailer, not in the bedroom suite available for him in the manor house. He ate the proffered food not as a display of perquisites, but simply because he could not resist it. Every evening I poured him a whiskey, which he threw back, then another, which he pondered over, sometimes for an hour, and seldom finished. I never saw him drink more than that. The numerous photographs of his wife were certainly not props, but were a genuine expression of his reverence and love for her. At times he would speak to me of Margaret, reminiscing in low, intimate tones, his eyes on one of her photos. I would sit silently, knowing he was talking to her, not me. He had not seen her for more than a year. I write candidly here of his love for her, because in my opinion it vastly overshadowed his relationship with Lady Anne Percival, which I will discuss at some length later.
The show of asceticism so carefully arranged for the Reuters and UP reporters was not a cynical charade. Rather, it was another of the general’s attempts to insure his soldiers would trust his leadership. Clay compared the army to a bunch of bananas, some rotten, some green, some yellow. But, he swore, all would follow him when the time came. Civilians at home and soldiers in the theater would read of an earnest man of simple tastes, a father figure, one who shared his soldier’s privations, one who read pulp novels and whose shoes were too tight—an endearing portrait.
General Clay gobbled his food. Time spent eating was time lost, he liked to tell me if I lingered to chew. His mouth was still full of eggs when he put down his fork and said, “Let’s go.”
Headquarters was in Eastwell Manor, just north of Ashford in Kent. The trailer was parked along a brick wall to the west of the house, and we walked through an ornate but untended rose garden toward the building. The manor had over sixty acres of grounds within a three-thousand-acre estate. Queen Victoria and King Edward VII had been regular visitors, and Prince Alfred had lived there. Before the war, the manor had required more than a hundred retainers: gardeners, cooks, maids, stable hands. The building was quite daunting, three stories, with several wings, all made of gray stone. Spires, cupolas, and banks of chimneys topped it. The owner, Lord Ramsey, had ceded the estate to the general for as long as needed, but Clay changed location of his headquarters every four or five days, fearing Luftwaffe raiders. Lord Ramsey had left his hunting hounds, and they were cared for by the headquarters company. From their run fifty yards from the building, they barked and howled endlessly, a grating background to every conversation I had at the manor.
The manor was referred to as AEFHQ, pronounced “Afe-Q,” American Expeditionary Force Headquarters. Headquarters was actually in London, and this was the advance command post, but it was still called AEFHQ. Almost five hundred people were assigned to it, including staff members, engineers, signal specialists, military police, and others. Most were billeted in the manor outbuildings and in neighboring homes, some in Ashford. General Clay’s close staff assistants lived in the manor house, including his two corps commanders, his chief and assistant chiefs of staff, his G2 and G4, liaison officers, and others. I shared a room on the second floor with Colonel William Strothers, Clay’s chief medical officer. From his office in the billiard room, the general guided, dominated, rewarded, and harried his staff.
The billiard room was on the ground floor, facing the north gardens, which dropped away from the manor house in a gradual slope, with long grass concourses, topiaries, and an empty fountain. The billiard table had been moved against a paneled wall and was used for spreading out maps. Windows had been taped, and blankets dyed black hung around them, to be drawn over the glass at nightfall. The general’s desk was flanked by one for his secretary and another for his stenographer. Mine was against an inner wall, near the cue rack, which had a chalk ball attached to it. A fine powder of blue chalk always covered my work.
Clay’s G2, Major General David Lorenzo, was sitting in a chair beside the general’s desk, waiting. The G2 was forty-five years old, young for the rank. He had a broad nose and dark eyes hidden under vast eyebrows. Lorenzo carried a small notebook he would refer to, but he never offered a written report. Clay required oral briefings so he would not be overwhelmed with the details of written reports. Clay nodded to the G2, but the phone rang before they could begin. He lifted it and listened for a moment. The general believed a commander should answer his own phone during daylight. Not many people telephone a commanding general, except for emergencies, and then callers needed to speak to him at once.
Clay said into the phone, “Fine. Move it up.”
He hung up and turned to his stenographer to quickly relay the conversation. The general finally lowered himself into his chair. G2 leaned forward and began speaking about overnight developments and what was known about German air, land, and sea movements. Lorenzo’s was an early job. He always met at 4:30 in the morning with his night duty officers. Clay bit crescents into the corners of his mouth as he listened. I was not privy to the conversation. Undoubtedly Lorenzo would do most of the talking and make recommendations. Subordinates who thought their jobs were done when they reported on a problem without also offering a solution did not last long. Lorenzo knew the requirements. He had worked with the general for three years. Clay disliked new faces around him.
There is little romance in leading an army. The general’s days at Eastwell or other headquarters locations were usually steady grinds of appointments. But as the invasion inevitably drew near, Clay allowed fewer things to crowd his calendar. “On the day of the battle, I want to do nothing,” he had said, believing his observations would be clearer, his judgment more sane, and his reactions to change better. After Lorenzo, Clay was scheduled to meet with Lieutenant General Eugene Girard, commander of II Corps, and others. Then we would be off again in his Cub. Clay told me that twenty years of staff assignments and combat schools had given him calluses on his butt, and he loathed being at his desk.