The Steel Wave - Jeff Shaara [61]
TEN DOWNING STREET, LONDON
MAY 8, 1944
“You knew about this?”
Churchill pulled hard on the cigar, smoke billowing around him. “Of course I did.”
“You knew your intelligence people were telling the Germans where we were going to hit them next? We gave them dates and times?”
“That we did. Damned effective, those intelligence boys. They have an entire network of German agents working for us. Remarkable, that. But from time to time we have to ensure that the enemy still believes the information we’re giving them is accurate. The Nazis are a crafty bunch, and unless we toss them a biscuit to chew on, the whole thing might blow up.”
Eisenhower shook his head and stared at the cup of coffee in front of him.
Churchill leaned forward. “Dammit, Ike, have some brandy. You can’t run your motor on that swill.”
“Not now, thank you. It’s hard to fathom. We tell the enemy where and when we’re going to strike, so he can prepare to meet us.”
“Worked too. Bloody marvelous. Nuremberg must have been lit up like a festival.”
“How many planes did we lose?”
“Don’t like that question, and you shouldn’t ask it. We shot down a goodly number of Jerry fighters.” Churchill took the cigar from his mouth, raised his glass, tossed back the remnants of his drink. “It’s war, Ike. How many lives have we saved by convincing the Germans that the intelligence network is still in their pocket? Isn’t that the point? It’s war!”
Eisenhower knew it was an argument he couldn’t make; Dammit, he thought, he’s right. He stirred in his chair, driven by the caffeine, watching as Churchill reached for the squat black bottle and refilled his glass.
“May I?” Eisenhower said.
Churchill smiled, pulled himself out of his chair, moved thickly toward a cabinet, withdrew a glass.
“I knew you’d come around.” Churchill returned to the table and poured too much brandy into the glass.
“It’s damned tough, that’s all,” Eisenhower said. “Damned tough. I can’t help thinking about our pilots, sent to do a job, with no idea that back here somebody’s given them up. It’s criminal.”
“It’s war. And it worked. You want to lose sleep about men dying, you shouldn’t—”
“Yes, I know. I accepted that a long time ago. Part of the damned job.”
Eisenhower swirled the brandy in the glass, stared into the golden warmth, caught a whiff of the sharp smell. The room was empty, no one else attending the dinner, unusual. He had been concerned about Churchill’s health; the man was close to seventy now, and Eisenhower knew that he pushed himself hard—too hard, perhaps, especially with all the travel. Within the last few months there had been conferences and meetings from Quebec to Teheran, and Churchill never seemed to stop, even when pounded by a vicious case of pneumonia. Eisenhower took a sip of the brandy. It’s not just politics, he thought. He wants to win this thing, maybe all by himself. I just wish he wasn’t so damned negative about Overlord.
Churchill emptied the bottle into his own glass. “Joe Stalin’s been crowing like the feathered cock he is.”
Eisenhower saw a smile. He knew Churchill too well and appreciated the change of topic. “The Russians are doing well,” he said.
“You’re a bloody master of the understatement, Ike. I admit I was just a wee bit uncomfortable telling Uncle Joe about the invasion dates. Had to, though. Didn’t tell him anything about the actual landings of course, the locations. I knew you’d have indigestion about that. But if this is going to work at all, we need them to hit the Jerries hard, help take the pressure off. They’ve done a hell of a job all along the Eastern Front. Never thought that would have happened. Hitler was so close to Moscow, he could smell their sewers, and then he botched it up. Now, the Russians are damned near Poland.”
If this is going to work…
Eisenhower closed his eyes, took a long breath. Dammit. He felt the same annoyance returning, so many arguments, so much pessimism.
“Overlord is going to work. We’ve put every gear into motion, every commander knows his role—”
Churchill pushed