Free The Steel Wave by Jeff Shaara Page B

this, that this is just North Africa all over again. All my principal subordinates are British, and there are still some people who choke on that. The smart ones know to keep their choking quiet, but I know it’s there. Annoys the hell out of me, Brad. There has to be some political reality here. We’re trying to build a team, and I’ve got to have the full support of our people and theirs. Churchill understands that. He knows the value of what I’ve tried to do.”
    “No objection from me, Ike. I’ll do what Monty needs me to do, until you tell me otherwise.”
    Eisenhower had no doubts about Bradley’s ability to follow orders. “I don’t need to hear that, but thanks. I wish…hell, it’s not like I’m happy with everybody. This isn’t some pleasant little social club, and I can’t tell everybody how I want them to act. Too much out of my control. All those British air commanders—so damned ritualistic. Every damn operation falls under some kind of textbook rules. I can’t get them to understand that Overlord isn’t just another normal tactical operation, but I don’t have the authority to tell them what to do. I keep yelling at them that we’re going to need bombers on the beaches, and they keep saying, no, we’ll just keep bombing Germany, and we won’t need the beaches at all. The fighter people, Leigh-Mallory and his bunch, keep reassuring me that their fighter planes can get the job done and we don’t need the bombers at all. He’s been chosen to head the combined air assault. The man has never worked with ground commanders before. Never. It surprised hell out of me that Brooke would push him for the job. All I know about Leigh-Mallory is that he’s a man who makes enemies, and in the British air force he has quite a few. The bomber people despise him. Doesn’t bode well for cooperation. They’re in some kind of damned contest with each other over who gets the glory, while the infantry is supposed to wade ashore hoping somebody’s paying attention—somebody besides the damned Germans.”
    Bradley said nothing. Eisenhower appreciated the silence. Enough damned ranting, he thought. He looked through Bradley’s ever-present eyeglasses, no change of expression on the man’s face. “You talked to Monty today?”
    The expression changed, a slight frown.
    “This morning. He called to tell me he had been out to the Twenty-ninth Division. Checking on the progress of the training.”
    Eisenhower sagged in the chair. “He’s touring our divisions? Without you?”
    Bradley shrugged. “Sure. I have no problem with that. The men seem to like the attention. I know Monty does.”
    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