Clay went on, “Our intelligence is spotty, but we believe now that fifteen divisions landed between Dover and Brighton. Their main thrust continues to be from their wheel, heading northwest to encircle the city clockwise.”
The general continued for several moments, reporting on estimated strengths of the enemy divisions. He then summarized, “We have bloodied them, Prime Minister. We are quite sure that our resistance at Haywards Heath came as a surprise, as was our Redwood counterattack.”
“But both failed utterly, did they not?” Lord Lindley asked. “The Germans are still on the march.”
Churchill cut in, “What are your casualties, General Clay?”
“My 1st Armored has suffered fifty-five percent casualties, and I should take it off the line.”
Alexander said tartly, “The enemy is advancing faster than your litter bearers can run to the rear.”
“Two of the 1st’s armored regiments have dissolved, as have a field artillery battalion and an armored infantry regiment. Normally tank losses are six times personnel losses, but we’ve been hit so hard that our troop loss is much higher. The Canadian divisions are heavily involved alongside the 1st, but they too are taking heavy casualties.”
Clay continued for a few moments, listing the devastation to his units. The 4th Motorized and 2nd Infantry divisions had been mauled, but some of their regiments were still operational and were retreating with some order north toward London, fighting with tactical counterpunches as they pulled back. The 35th Infantry, which had taken the brunt of the German XIII Corps beach assault between Dungeness and Folkestone, existed only on paper. Its commander, Major General John Hammond, had been killed, as had his deputy, Major General Mark Keyes, and the chief of staff, Colonel Henry Culligan. Colonel Walter Pelovik was in charge, but could not be contacted to be told so.
With casualties approaching fifty percent, the 2nd Armored was retreating in confusion behind Tonbridge, almost within Londoners’ hearing range of artillery. Clay continued by saying that his soldiers were inflicting damage on the enemy, that the Wehrmacht was not slicing through England unmolested, that the Germans may have fallen behind their own schedule, and that their objectives were proving harder to attain than OKW had anticipated.
AACCS Chief of Staff Allen Barclay asked pointedly, “But, General Clay, slowing them does not mean stopping them, does it? They are still advancing apace?”
“Yes, they are still moving forward.”
Clay returned to his chair. Gloom settled over the room as thick as the dust from the bomb blast. The meeting next heard from General Stedman on prospects of reinforcing the southern front. Elements of the British XI, IV, and II corps, so carefully placed along the eastern sea wall to halt the anticipated invasion from across the North Sea, were moving south, but Stedman said transportation facilities had been so badly damaged by Luftwaffe operations that progress was sluggish. Many British army units were reduced to walking south.
Churchill asked, “They will arrive too late, will they not, General Stedman?”
“Sir, it would take two weeks to move those corps south and into position, even under neutral conditions. With the Luftwaffe controlling the skies and with rail lines and bridges out, a longer time will be needed.”
“We don’t have two weeks,” the prime minister said softly. “Our men are going to be too late.”
The meteorologist, Group Captain Richard Swarthmore, reported next, moving to his map of the channel and carrying a clipboard. He pushed from his eyes an errant lock of hair. “Prime Minister, the low pressure system which I outlined at our last meeting continues to move our way. We have every indication from outlying reporting stations that a summer storm is gathering.”
Swarthmore glanced at his clipboard. “Seas off Land’s End are already six to seven feet with winds up to eighteen knots. This system will continue to move west, with predicted conditions at the German routes across the channel at level three to four winds with a thousand-foot ceiling.”
As usual, several Defense Committee members peppered Swarthmore with questions about the reliability of his forecasts. He replied that monitoring stations reporting through the Air Ministry and the Admiralty and the U.S. services at Widewing unanimously predicted declining weather conditions.
After the meteorologist was excused, Admiral Parker Gilford, commander in chief of the Allied Naval Forces, said, “The Kriegsmarine will have increasing difficulty resupplying the troops ashore, and further waves of troops will be slowed.”
There was discussion as to tonnage the German Navy would be able to land in the anticipated L5 gale. The estimated 150,000 enemy troops in England would require 1,500 tons of supplies per day. The Wehrmacht would surely suffer shortages, but the officers unanimously believed weather-imposed logistical problems would not significantly slow the enemy’s advance before it took London.
Churchill said finally, “Even the weather is too late.”
Reports were given by General Douglas and Admiral Gilford on the status of air and sea activity. Their services, or what remained of them, were being constantly pressed. They offered little good news.
Then Alfred Alexander motioned for the floor. He stared at his notes for a moment before saying, “General Clay, you said your 1st Armored had taken fifty-five percent casualties. When there are few alternatives, a division need not be immediately replaced until it has suffered seventy percent casualties.”
From my position, I had a good view of the back of Clay’s neck, a reliable indicator of his humor. It reddened. His words were clipped, “What is your point?”
Alexander said, “Can you say with certainty that the American soldiers under your command are putting forth their supreme effort?”
Clay glared at Alexander. “That is delicately phrased, in your noble English tradition, isn’t it, General? What you are asking is if my soldiers have their hearts in it, if my soldiers think this goddamn country is worth their American hides?”
“General Clay, those who fight in their own territory do so with metal in their backs. Your troops are in a foreign land and—”
Clay broke in, his voice clipped with emotion, “My soldiers, those wonderful men, have built their wall of the dead. I can ask no more of them than that.”
Silence fell on the meeting. Every British officer there knew Clay’s reference to the most famous incident of the Battle of Agincourt in 1415, where the dead reportedly lay in six-foot-high stacks.
Churchill said quickly, “We meet again this evening.” He rose from his chair.
Several Defense Committee members glanced tensely at Clay, then at Alexander. As Churchill gathered his documents, Alexander cleared his throat and said, “Prime Minister, there is a matter of command I wish to raise.”
As is always the case, one commander finds himself at the hard point of the enemy advance. To that officer belongs the fame and veneration or the condemnation and loathing. General Clay had yet to show mastery of any field. Recrimination had not often surfaced among these professionals, but with losses mounting and London in peril, it was inevitable. With apparent reluctance, the prime minister lowered himself to his chair.
Alexander had thin, bloodless lips, perfect for handing down a sentence. “I do not make this recommendation lightly, Prime Minister, and I do so fully aware of the sacrifice made by American soldiers. But General Clay has overseen the loss of our southern counties. Now that the enemy is at the gates of London, it is time to change the watch. I recommend that we ask President Roosevelt to remove General Clay from command.”
There was no movement in the room, not a cough, not a rustle of paper. The undulating, weak sound of an air raid siren on the street above filtered into the cabinet room.