Free The End of War - A Novel of the Race for Berlin - [World War II 02] by David L. Robbins Page A

the problem. Bandy taps his foot on the worn oriental carpet. Twenty feet away Ike taps his foot on the same carpet, impatient with some progress report he takes over the phone. Bandy’s camera bag loops over his shoulder. Inside it are a new 35mm Leica and his old battle-ax Speed Graphic. They weigh much more than merely their poundage. They’re not just Bandy’s tools, they’re his purpose. Take the cameras away and he’s only a tobacco farmer, a man, flesh and blood, not exceptional at all. But with them he can stand so close to the flames of history he can toast a marshmallow. What he sees, the whole United States sees. But him first.
     
    Eisenhower hasn’t noticed Bandy yet, the General’s focus is tightened to where it doesn’t extend past his corona of tobacco fumes. Others walk in and out of his clouds. Eisenhower embraces what importance they bear for whatever time it takes, then moves like a little bit of Kansas weather over someone or something else to do with the war. Bandy wonders if Eisenhower isn’t breathing some good old Tennessee leaf in those Camels.
     
    Eisenhower jabs a cigarette out in an ashtray on the huge map table. He digs into his shirt pocket for the pack, finds it empty. Scowling, he crumples it into a ball. Bandy tosses a fresh pack through the air, spinning it to land and skid across the map right in front of Ike. The General looks up. His head tilts for a moment at who would toss things at the Supreme Allied Commander.
     
    “Charley?”
     
    “General.”
     
    Eisenhower unwraps the pack, considering Bandy.
     
    “You went home, I heard.”
     
    “I came back, sir.”
     
    “I take that as a failure on my part, son. I apologize. Your wife ticked?”
     
    “Plenty, sir.”
     
    “You’ll give her my apologies. Come over here.”
     
    Bandy advances to the table, opposite Ike, who lights up, then runs a palm over his hair, thin and pale as Midwestern corn silk.
     
    Eisenhower has long appreciated the value of good relations with the press. He knows America cannot wage a prolonged, costly war without popular support back home, and only the press can create that. Ike has always treated those men and women armed only with cameras or notepads as valuable members of the Allied team. He has promised them to be honest and open, and Bandy considers that for the most part the General has kept his word. Ike knows many of the journalists by name. Back in Washington, before taking command of the Allied European Force, Ike became an admirer of Bandy’s battle photography in Life. While others are ducking, Charles Bandy is standing. When others are holding their ground, Charles Bandy is creeping forward, to get shots of the soldiers from the front when they advance too. Eisenhower values courage. He rewards Bandy for his gumption as well as his contribution to the war effort with access to the Supreme Commander that other photogs and reporters are denied. The General and Bandy first met three weeks before D-Day. Bandy saw a man who spoke in plain terms, who knew his job and was loyal in how he went about doing it. A man who appreciated a good tobacco farmer.
     
    “Take a look, Charley.”
     
    The General waves a hand clutching a Camel over the map. The glowing tip is like a meteor streaking over embattled Europe. Bandy hasn’t an idea how to decipher the marks, arrows, and labels, but the shooting star he knows is a good omen.
     
    A staffer approaches bearing paper. Eisenhower fends the soldier off. This is to make Bandy feel special and to curry favor, and Bandy is willing to let this work in him, flattered.
     
    “Here’s what we’ve got,” Ike says. “We’ve won back most of what Hitler took here in the Bulge.” The cigarette circles between Luxembourg and the Netherlands, swirling a hazy ring. “We’re on the German border all the way from Switzerland to Holland.” Ike’s arm must make a broad sweep, for the map is enormous. Then he points, too far to reach. “In the