The Steel Wave - Jeff Shaara [74]
Adams watched as the pile of meat grew smaller, a fork hoisting up the dark slabs, wet thuds on the trays. He couldn’t help staring at the steaks, the smells filling him with memories. How long has it been, anyway? More than a year, I guess. Some cookout back home, somebody’s father drinking too much beer. What the hell did we do to deserve steak? The question hung in his brain. In front of him, the new man, Buford, moved away with a full plate. Adams stared at his back, Buford’s words punching clear and cold in his mind. Hogs to the slaughter.
* * *
13. EISENHOWER
* * *
SHAEF FORWARD COMMAND POST, PORTSMOUTH
MAY 31, 1944
He nursed the eye with a warm cloth, pressed gently against the swollen redness. He glanced at the tube of ointment, something the doctor had given him, thought, To hell with that. If warm water won’t fix this thing, I’ll just put on an eye patch. Pirate Ike. Arrggh.
The eye had been bothering him for several days now, coming as so many other afflictions had come, erupting from the overwhelming exhaustion of mind and body. He had been plagued by this kind of thing before, during the Sicilian operation and after; he knew the reasons then, as he understood them now. Eisenhower had driven himself to the point of utter collapse.
He sat on the narrow bed, the brief flash of humor wiped away. It was easier to be angry at himself, to curse this new plague, the eye tormenting him with burning misery. It’s your own fault, he thought. You don’t sleep enough, that’s for sure. The staff has given up nagging you about it, Harry especially. They don’t know what this is like, what kind of—he searched his brain for a word—swamp? Cesspool? Up to my knees in mud, trying to run a marathon. All right, stop this. You’re doing the job, just like the rest of them. Well, most of them. No one expects this to be a piece of cake. You wanted command, now you’ve got it. You know damn well how miserable you’d be if you were stuck back in Washington. Stop whining, for God’s sake.
He dabbed at the eye again with the cloth. Don’t even look in the mirror. It looks bad enough to the staff, no need to remind yourself you’re not invincible. It’ll pass in a day or two.
He tried to relax, find some kind of calm, and heard a soft breeze blowing against the wide canvas around him. He put both hands down beside him, propped up his slumping shoulders, and felt the nagging pain in his right arm. Another ailment. What the hell is this? You’re falling to pieces. Hang on, old boy. You’re the man at the top. No time for this crap.
The tent was Eisenhower’s home, at least for now. Several weeks earlier he had ordered a command post to be set up in the far south of England, mobile, a large boxlike room hoisted up on the bed of a deuce-and-a-half, the reliable two-and-a-half-ton truck the Allies now used for so much of their ground transport. He called it his circus wagon. With his office perched on a truck, his command center could be hauled quickly to any point he needed to be. Close beside the truck were tents, makeshift offices and sleeping quarters for his key staff. It was far from anyone’s notion of quarters for a supreme commander, but Eisenhower never paid much attention to the griping of anyone who thought war should be comfortable. Back at Bushey Park, Bedell Smith was dealing with the ongoing barrage of administrative matters, the offices there a constant rush of activity. Smith continued to ruffle feathers, especially among the British. Eisenhower enjoyed having a bulldog as his chief of staff, but Beetle had trouble reining it in, and