be prepared, sir. Only then.”
Churchill turned slowly in the water, searching the shoreline.
Alexander said, “Is everything all right, Prime Minister?”
“Quite. No bystanders lurking hereabouts. Tell me, Monty, how much has Alex told you about Torch?”
Alexander said, “I’ve not discussed the details with anyone in my command, sir. Premature, I’d say. A good many things to be worked out yet.”
Churchill grunted. “That’s the Americans for you. Strong-minded lot. You bloody well have to lead them on a damned leash. But, without them, we’d be in a serious pickle. Roosevelt is a friend to England, and the one man who can provide the means for us to win this war. I suppose that gives him the right to have his people decide where that war is going to be fought. It’s been a devil of an effort, but I finally got them to stop looking across the English Channel. Every damned one of them, Marshall on down, wants to invade the French coast. I can imagine every general in their army wants to go back to that bloody cemetery in Paris just so he can say something about Lafayette again: ‘Lafayette we are here.’ That’s all some of them remember from the first big war. They do so like their slogans.”
“I believe they’re holding out on us, sir.”
Montgomery’s words settled on the water like a dull slap. Alexander looked at him, frowned, shook his head, a silent no.
Montgomery was surprised by the reaction, and Churchill said, “What the hell are you talking about, Monty?”
“The Grant tanks, sir. I was told they’d be delivering four hundred new tanks. I counted a hundred sixty. No mystery there. They’re hoarding them, keeping their best armor for themselves. Leaving me to fight Rommel with outdated equipment.”
Churchill stared at him for a long moment, his eyes closing into tight slits.
Alexander said, “General Montgomery is aware, sir, that the Americans have been extremely helpful.”
“Damned right they have. You say they’ve delivered a hundred sixty Grants?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Sounds to me like a bloody load of armor. You used any of them yet?”
“They’re being placed into position, assigned to the appropriate commands even now, sir.”
“Then before you bellyache, General Montgomery, perhaps you should find out if a hundred sixty new American tanks might win you a battle. So you think they’re holding back a few, eh?”
Montgomery ignored the scowl on Alexander’s face, said, “I believe they should provide what they said they would provide.”
“Torch, General. Look past your own command. You’ve got Rommel sitting right in front of you. I can think of no more intelligent a plan than to send another army right up his backside. That army will be American, mostly. And, despite your objections, it might be fitting if they provide some armor for their own people.”
Montgomery had heard the first details of what they now called Operation Torch, the first large-scale assault by American forces in the European theater. He held tightly to his words now, watched as Churchill turned away, the man working his jaw, attacking a cigar that wasn’t there. Alexander seemed to relax, but Montgomery refused to feel chastised, spoke to Churchill in his mind: We don’t need another army on this continent. Send the damned Yanks to France, let them find out what Jerry can do to them. I’ve got Rommel right where I want him, and damned if I’m going to let some Yank who’s never led a rubbish detail grab this victory.
Churchill removed his pith helmet, splashed water on his head, then stood up, stared out to the open sea. “Any U-boats around here?”
Alexander said, “Highly unlikely, sir. The air force keeps a close eye on the coast. Destroyers are patrolling regularly.”
Churchill looked down at his own vast expanse of chalky skin, put a fat hand on his stomach.
“Hmph. Too bad. I’d like to see a periscope pop up right out there, let him get a look at this. Might
Churchill turned slowly in the water, searching the shoreline.
Alexander said, “Is everything all right, Prime Minister?”
“Quite. No bystanders lurking hereabouts. Tell me, Monty, how much has Alex told you about Torch?”
Alexander said, “I’ve not discussed the details with anyone in my command, sir. Premature, I’d say. A good many things to be worked out yet.”
Churchill grunted. “That’s the Americans for you. Strong-minded lot. You bloody well have to lead them on a damned leash. But, without them, we’d be in a serious pickle. Roosevelt is a friend to England, and the one man who can provide the means for us to win this war. I suppose that gives him the right to have his people decide where that war is going to be fought. It’s been a devil of an effort, but I finally got them to stop looking across the English Channel. Every damned one of them, Marshall on down, wants to invade the French coast. I can imagine every general in their army wants to go back to that bloody cemetery in Paris just so he can say something about Lafayette again: ‘Lafayette we are here.’ That’s all some of them remember from the first big war. They do so like their slogans.”
“I believe they’re holding out on us, sir.”
Montgomery’s words settled on the water like a dull slap. Alexander looked at him, frowned, shook his head, a silent no.
Montgomery was surprised by the reaction, and Churchill said, “What the hell are you talking about, Monty?”
“The Grant tanks, sir. I was told they’d be delivering four hundred new tanks. I counted a hundred sixty. No mystery there. They’re hoarding them, keeping their best armor for themselves. Leaving me to fight Rommel with outdated equipment.”
Churchill stared at him for a long moment, his eyes closing into tight slits.
Alexander said, “General Montgomery is aware, sir, that the Americans have been extremely helpful.”
“Damned right they have. You say they’ve delivered a hundred sixty Grants?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Sounds to me like a bloody load of armor. You used any of them yet?”
“They’re being placed into position, assigned to the appropriate commands even now, sir.”
“Then before you bellyache, General Montgomery, perhaps you should find out if a hundred sixty new American tanks might win you a battle. So you think they’re holding back a few, eh?”
Montgomery ignored the scowl on Alexander’s face, said, “I believe they should provide what they said they would provide.”
“Torch, General. Look past your own command. You’ve got Rommel sitting right in front of you. I can think of no more intelligent a plan than to send another army right up his backside. That army will be American, mostly. And, despite your objections, it might be fitting if they provide some armor for their own people.”
Montgomery had heard the first details of what they now called Operation Torch, the first large-scale assault by American forces in the European theater. He held tightly to his words now, watched as Churchill turned away, the man working his jaw, attacking a cigar that wasn’t there. Alexander seemed to relax, but Montgomery refused to feel chastised, spoke to Churchill in his mind: We don’t need another army on this continent. Send the damned Yanks to France, let them find out what Jerry can do to them. I’ve got Rommel right where I want him, and damned if I’m going to let some Yank who’s never led a rubbish detail grab this victory.
Churchill removed his pith helmet, splashed water on his head, then stood up, stared out to the open sea. “Any U-boats around here?”
Alexander said, “Highly unlikely, sir. The air force keeps a close eye on the coast. Destroyers are patrolling regularly.”
Churchill looked down at his own vast expanse of chalky skin, put a fat hand on his stomach.
“Hmph. Too bad. I’d like to see a periscope pop up right out there, let him get a look at this. Might
Similar Books
