The Steel Wave - Jeff Shaara [27]
Eisenhower felt cautious. Don’t say too much about Monty. Things like that have a way of biting you in the ass. But dammit, he should have stayed in the Mediterranean. His troops are down there, and he’s up here making headlines.
Bradley shifted in his chair. “I have no problem with Monty, Ike. I really don’t.”
“Dammit, Brad, you’re not supposed to read my mind. You know I wanted Alexander, definitely thought he’d be the best man for the job. Churchill thought so too. But Brooke pushed hard for Monty. I understand that, I suppose. Morale is crucial to this operation, and the Brits need a hero, someone who looks good in the newspapers. Right now Monty’s the best one they have. After all, he’s the man who whipped Rommel. It doesn’t matter much who else was in that fight, or that Rommel might have whipped himself. Like you say, Monty likes the attention, and he’s done a hell of a job promoting his own legend. Even our people cheer for him. That can’t hurt a damned thing.”
He paused, the caution slipping away.
“If Churchill hadn’t been so sick, we’d probably have gotten Alexander anyway. It was pretty scary for a while, that damned pneumonia he caught in Africa or wherever the hell it was. If Churchill keeled over, it would cost us a hell of a lot more than a little chaos in the British government. It would be a disaster of morale for everyone involved. But I have to hand it to Brooke. I have no idea why he’s such a fan of Monty, but he picked a good time to push him down Churchill’s throat.”
“Monty will be fine, Ike. He’s a leader. We get along.”
Eisenhower couldn’t stifle a laugh. “You’ll be the first. Patton would just as soon shoot him.”
Bradley didn’t smile. “Patton might want to shoot me before this is over,” he said. “Don’t worry about George.”
Eisenhower was still smiling. “You amaze me, Brad. You’re the calmest man in this army.”
Bradley shrugged again. “I’m nervous as all hell, Ike. Can’t think about that. Got a job to do.”
“I hope it’s that simple. Just…do the job. I thought Clark would do the job in Italy, and listen to the bitching. That damn AP reporter, Wes Gallagher, is making himself a real pain in the ass about Anzio. Gallagher’s a good guy, always liked him, been around the HQ since North Africa, but now he’s raising hell: I should still be down there; I should have taken command instead of Wilson; Alexander and Clark aren’t up to the job. Makes good press, I suppose. But it’s too easy to bellyache about things you don’t understand, especially when you have an audience who eats up anything you tell them from the front lines. The Germans aren’t just pushovers, and I told Gallagher that. Reminded him we got our butts kicked in Tunisia before things turned around. We have nothing to apologize for in Italy.” He squinted at Bradley, stared again through the man’s glasses, saw he had Bradley’s full attention. “We’re all scared as hell, Brad. But I need you to keep it locked up. Deal with Monty, handle Patton. Do the damned job.”
“Count on it, Ike. June fifth, you think?”
“That’s the plan right now, but it could change. Weather makes all the difference. The maps are still being drawn, and those will change too. The air boys might be right. Who the hell knows what’s going to happen?”
Bradley felt his jacket pocket. “Oh, I forgot. Something to show you.” He pulled out a small glass vial, uncorked it, and poured the contents on Eisenhower’s desk.
“What the hell is that, sand?”
“Not just sand. The engineers have a fancier name for it, silicate something-or-other. Came from Omaha Beach.”
“So? There’s fancy sand on Omaha Beach?”
“There’s good sand on Omaha Beach. The engineers say it means we can land tanks there, heavy equipment, no bogging down. I was sweating this one, Ike. Could have caused us some serious problems.”
Eisenhower sat back, staring at the small pile of sand, and suddenly recalled the quote—Ben Franklin—and thought, Good God, this is a perfect example. For want of a nail… For want of good hard sand.
“Chief?” The voice was