The Steel Wave - Jeff Shaara [56]
He leaned forward. “We late, Sergeant?”
His aide checked his watch. “Just a few minutes, sir.”
He tapped the driver on the shoulder. “Good going. But you could have gone slower still. Maybe it will take me a few minutes to get out of the damned car. Sergeant, hold up some papers or something, let’s make it look like we’re busy as hell in here. Take your damned time about it, then come around and open the door. Gotta make a good show.”
“Yes, sir.”
Patton sat back, forced himself not to look at the waiting throng, focused on his aide. You’re a good man, Alex, damned good man. I’d love to see a bar full of British drunks try to corner you. He had chosen Sergeant Alex Stiller to serve on his staff in Sicily, primarily as his bodyguard. Stiller, an unpolished and rugged stick of a man, had come through the service in Patton’s tanks. Now he traveled everywhere Patton went, whether the job was dangerous or not. Patton couldn’t help looking at the gathering civilians, saw photographers, made a silent groan, thought, What could be more dangerous than this bunch?
“Okay, Alex. Lemme at ’em.”
He waited for Stiller to open the door, took his time, stood tall, pulled at his jacket. The photographers pressed toward him, and he held up his hands.
“Hang on, boys,” he said in a loud voice, “I’m not here officially. You can’t print anything I say or do, and no pictures for the papers. You got that?”
There was nothing friendly in his voice, and they lowered the cameras, seemed utterly dejected.
“Well, all right, look. Take a few pictures if you want. But hang on to them. Nothing can be published. At least not yet. You got that?”
They eagerly agreed. Patton posed briefly, then looked past them, saw the entrance to the soldiers’ club and a large elderly woman waving to him. Oh, dear God, save me.
He scanned the program, saw a blank line where his name would go, noticed they had made a hasty edit, changing the description of his visit, replacing their wishful thinking for his official role, replacing the description with “offers his blessing.” Damn it, I told them I couldn’t officiate, no damned speech. That sort of thing makes Ike’s kidneys bleed. Just be pleasant to everybody, be polite. He forced himself to smile and stared out at the crowd, several dozen civilians, mostly women in bright dresses and hats. Many were smiling back at him, and he nodded, showed dutiful appreciation, tried to avoid the drone of the speaker, a woman he now knew as Mrs. Smith, the chairman of the committee that had organized whatever details had been required to open the club. Beside him, a woman suddenly stood, and Patton realized she had been introduced, caught her name, Jeffery, and watched as the woman strode daintily toward the microphone, hefty applause from the audience. She turned toward him now.
“Before we complete the program, I know we should be ever so grateful if the general flatters us with a few words. We are certainly aware that you are not here officially, sir, and of course your presence will not be disclosed. I assure you, no one will repeat anything you say. Would you please, sir, just a few friendly words?”
Patton held the smile, the crowd applauding far louder now, his brain firing a tank gun into the woman’s irritating smile. Now the Smith woman was standing, egging on the crowd, more generous compliments, his name called out. He stood, waved weakly to the noisy throng, moved toward the microphone. His gut was turning over, ice in his chest, and he steadied himself on the podium, thinking, Short, keep it short. Friendly. Then get the hell out of here.
“I am grateful for the efforts you ladies have put into creating a welcome club for our soldiers. Previous to today, my only experience in welcoming anyone has been to welcome Germans and Italians to the Infernal Regions. In this I have been quite successful.”
There was a burst of applause, entirely expected, and he smiled, waved, waited for the noise to