Churchill formed a steeple with his fingers. He stared morosely at Alexander.
Arthur Stedman said, “That is premature, General Alexander.”
Churchill shifted his gaze.
Stedman added, “The German would be at Picadilly were it not for General Clay’s defensive maneuvers. His holding back regiments of his 35th Infantry and 4th Motorized from the sea wall—”
Barclay cut in, “Directly contradicting his orders from the committee.”
Stedman’s hand hit the table. “It has been absolutely decisive in slowing the Wehrmacht.”
“And then there is the raid by your so-called Rangers,” Alexander said. “Frankly, I was shocked to hear of it.”
Lord Lindley said, “We were perfectly stunned by the news.”
“Not only was it ill-conceived,” Alexander explained, “but you did not consult with anyone else in this room.”
Stedman again argued for Clay. “We do not yet know the consequences of the raid, General Alexander. Even though it was not successful on the surface, it may have thrown confusion into the Wehrmacht command.”
Alexander gave the smallest glance to Stedman, his subordinate. “General Stedman, your dogged defense of General Clay can be excused this time, since you have not as yet been apprised of Bletchley’s conclusion that the German headquarters for the invasion was nowhere near Holland, but in Normandy, and that the Rangers’ target building in Flanders was part of the ruse. The lives of those American soldiers were entirely wasted.”
Stedman was finally silent. So was General Clay. I could not see his face. This news must have been crushing.
Clay was to say later that he had been right about General Stedman, that he indeed turned out to be Clay’s Eugene of Savoy, his Stonewall Jackson, “not on the battlefield, as I had thought, but at that meeting.”
Alexander continued, “But I am speaking of more than mere competence.” He turned again to Churchill. “I am also speaking of stability. Not your reckless shooting of a Lee Enfield at that Messerschmitt, not your rash flight over the invasion beaches, both of which can be excused because some folly is par for Americans. But, General Clay, we have reports that you were incommunicado for a number of critical hours yesterday.”
Several in the room nodded.
With his eyes, Churchill dispensed permission to speak. He looked at Clay.
The general said, “Would you rather I did not deliberate about tactical moves, General Alexander?”
“You could not be reached. You cut yourself off completely, an utter abandonment of command.”
“I will not give a premature order. I insist on reflection. Yesterday I needed time alone to—”
Alexander shouted, “The issue is your health.”
Clay launched himself to standing and jabbed a finger at the British general. “You dare to question my sanity?”
Admiral Fairfax answered, “We need to investigate yesterday’s incident, General. Until then a replacement commander is in order.”
Alexander said in his steel voice, “I will not have the fate of this nation dependent on someone who may be having difficulty with his mental processes.”
The admiral added, “And you, General Clay, would not hesitate to strip command from someone who had floundered, who had failed in his mission.”
Churchill slapped the table. “That’s enough, gentlemen.” He took in the entire room, left to right. “General Alexander, I heard those rumors, but have no solid evidence of any instability on the part of our American friend here. I agree with Stedman that General Clay has accomplished an admirable delaying action, given his inexperienced troops and limited resources. He will remain in command.”
Once again he pushed himself up from his chair. He said, “We meet again this evening. Good day, gentlemen.”
The committee members returned papers to briefcases, gathered their pipes and cigarettes, and pushed themselves away from the table. A few spoke among themselves. Alexander glanced at his knuckles for a moment before rising. He had suffered a defeat, but was not one to do so quietly. He rose from his chair and left the room. The Buttresses paired themselves with their commanders and followed them out.
General Clay remained seated, his palms flat on the table. His eyes were locked on the prime minister as Churchill walked to the door. A patriot to his soul, Wilson Clay’s first allegiance was to the Stars and Stripes. But at that moment, I believe, he silently pledged himself to Winston Churchill. In light of what was to come, this allegiance will forever be the subject of heated controversy.
From the beginning of the war, British civilians had been called on to sacrifice and to endure. They did so willingly, with devotion to cause and country and with the certainty that righteousness exalts a nation. But many thought their years of noble abnegation were insufficient and idle, at least when compared to their servicemen’s hardships.
English civilians were impatient to spring into the breach, at least according to General Clay. “They were taut with it, ready to rush out in some crazed display of defiance to the German invaders.”
British journalists have taken to calling the populace’s two spontaneous and heroic acts of resistance the Day of the Barricades and Second Dunkirk. My postwar correspondence with American and English historians indicates the labels may stick. General Clay and I knew of these communal endeavors as they were occurring. I suggested to Clay they were nothing more than hysterical charges at windmills.
He shook his head and asked, “Jack, do you know who said, ‘Even when the likelihood of success is against us, we must not think of our undertaking as unreasonable or impossible, for it is always reasonable if we do not know of anything better to do’?”
I narrowed my lips in thought, then replied, “Buffalo Bill Cody?”
“Jesus H. Christ, Jack, sometimes I think you are on the moon and I’m down here running the war myself. It was Clausewitz.”
He ended the argument by saying that the Day of the Barricades and Second Dunkirk were simple operations, that brilliant military ideas are usually simple, and that I was always simple.
As events transpired, we were both half right. One of these exploits would play no role other than as a stirring lift to morale. The other would be crucial to the outcome of the invasion.
The Day of the Barricades was an impulsive revolt against the inevitable. The Wehrmacht was closing in on London. The city’s streets would soon be echoing with German jackboots.
“The very idea of Londoners allowing the Hun to pass freely into our city was repelling,” David Woodley of the London Fire Brigade recalled after the war. “We weren’t Parisians, after all. We had more fire in our bellies.”
Attempting to avoid a bloodbath, the War Ministry had issued instructions that Londoners were not to attempt to stop German armor. “Who made the decision to barricade the streets?” I asked the fireman.
“I know only that there was a rush into the streets all across the city. Hundreds of thousands, maybe a million of us.”
Woodley made good use of his experience organizing bucket brigades. “I’m proud to say I had fifteen hundred people working under me. Quite the captain this old sailor was, if I may say so.”
With crowbars and picks, Woodley’s huge crew tore up King’s Road. Cobblestones were harvested in swaths from the street, requiring longer and longer lines of citizens passing them forward. The street stones quickly grew to a mound, then to a mountain the height of a two-story building.
“It was the hardest work of my life, passing rocks right to left,” Woodley remembered. “I tried to lead my troops in song to lift their spirits. The only tune that came to mind was ‘God Bless Charley, the Man Who Invented Beer.’ It worked well enough, and we sang with gusto.”