Telling Margaret
AN HOUR later we were flying up the coast, with me sitting on a side bench in the cargo hold, absolutely alone save for crates of ammunition, foodstuffs, and what looked very much like lavatory paper. For those of you who’ve never been in a Gooney Bird, Jack was right, think of a DC-3, install a big cargo door, strengthen the floor, take out all the amenities to save weight, including the comfy seats and restroom, and you’ve kind of got it.
But I didn’t care. I was on my way, and I had plenty to read, as inside Jack’s brown paper bag was also a copy of Plutarch’s Life of Caesar, Homer’s Odyssey, a bible, and Thomas à Kempis’ The Imitation of Christ. And that strange tome by one Karl Maria von Clausewitz called On War? On closer inspection, courtesy of the man who translated it from German, a language I could never understand, Herr von Clausewitz turned out to be the world’s most revered military philosopher, whatever military philosophy was. Unfortunately though, whatever things military he felt compelled to philosophize about, it seems he needed an awful lot of pages to do it. Indeed by the time we’d landed, and I’d plowed my way through it, I felt very sorry for his poor widow who I learned had to edit it when he died unexpectedly. I was glad I read it though, because I wanted to take my new position in the army seriously, even if like Jack, I too wasn’t quite sure of the exact nature of any problem, military or otherwise, for which his book could provide a solution.
First thing I did when I got to London was head for a tailor’s in Mayfair, and asked him if he could make me a decent uniform, so I didn’t have to wear the monstrosity the Army had stiffed me with. I’d made some enquiries and was told the place to check out was Dege & Skinner at No. 10 Savile Row, which had been famous for decades for its military clothing. Like many things British, the name Dege & Skinner was not pronounced the way it was spelt. Well Mr. Skinner’s name was, but Dege was pronounced more like ‘deeds’ as Mr. Skinner himself informed me. If I didn’t care for the uniform I was dressed in, which seemed to him not an unreasonable judgment either, he asked me what kind of uniform I would like. So I showed him the photo of the seven female war correspondents on the wall. He said no problem as they were passable examples of what he termed ‘bespoke’ tailoring, but not perfect examples you understand, as they were clearly the work of one of his arch-rivals, Huntsman & Sons. You could tell that by the less than masterful stitching he allowed in a low voice, as if Mr. Huntsman and his progeny’s questionable handiwork risked bringing the whole of Savile Row into disrepute.
I’d already cabled Margaret and told her I was coming, but not why. We’d arranged to meet at a restaurant called Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese on Fleet Street. I found it pretty easily, nestled between two narrow alleys on either side. One was named Wine Office Court and the other Cheshire Court. The stone entry step in was worn down by who knows how many feet that had trod up it over the years, and there was a board at the entrance recording the reigns of the British monarchs since the day the place had first opened, over three hundred years ago apparently.
I found Margaret alone in a booth in her uniform and saw right away she had made captain too. Boy, promotions are quick in wartime I thought, and wondered when I’d get my first one. Margaret however appeared to have a minor heart attack when she saw my uniform, regardless of what rank it was. “Why are you wearing that, and what exactly are you doing here?” she asked.
Consistent with my policy of showing proper respect to even members of my own family if they outranked me, I came to attention and saluted.
Margaret though appeared not to have listened to the lecture about more senior officers responding courteously to the salute of a junior one, and just stared at me without any response. “May I?” I said pointing at the empty seat in front of her.
“Be my guest,” she said.
“Some place,” I continued, by way of breaking the ice which had suddenly encased the whole pub.
“It was a favorite haunt of Alfred Lord Tennyson the British Poet Laureate. Apparently he loved the Welsh Rarebit here. And Charles Dickens was a big fan too,” she said, still eyeing me up.
“Is that right,” I said nervously.
“Even figured in his Tale of Two Cities, the place did.”
“It was the best of times it was the worst of times?” I said weakly. “The age of wisdom, the age of...”
“Foolishness, I believe, is the whole quote.”
“I guess it is, isn’t it.”
“So I repeat my question, why are you wearing that uniform?”
And I told her the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Well more or less nothing, so help me God. Except God was not apparently sure I rated any help that evening.
“So what do you think?” I asked her.
“That if you’d followed Virgil into Purgatory to photograph him, it would probably turn out to be a smarter decision.”
“Come on, Margaret, be serious.”
“Let me tell you some things about this supposed adventure you’ve been called for. Things I detect your darling godfather may not have bothered telling you.”
“And what are they?”
“Let’s begin with the fact that most everyone in the American chain of command thinks the whole idea of even bothering to land in Italy is a waste of time.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s a needless diversion of resources away from smarter war-winning strategies.”
“Strategies like what?”
“Landing in Northern France far faster and in far greater force.”
“Then why are we even doing it?”
“Because the Brits think it’s a heaven-sent opportunity to scale the walls of fortress Europe up what Winston Churchill loves to call its soft underbelly. And it’s also an easy way of distracting the Nazis, till the Soviets get round to annihilating them. And if the Soviets are decent enough to annihilate themselves in the process, better still, as far as Winston is concerned.”
“But the Soviets are our allies?”
“In this war yes, but in the next one… who knows?”
“If we feel so strongly about it, why didn’t we stop it?”
“Because without the British, we haven’t enough ships to transport any troops over to anywhere, including France.”
“We can build them ourselves, can’t we?”
“And set sail from where? Staten Island?”
“I guess that wouldn’t work would it.”
“I’m no expert in these matters, but I believe not.”
I sighed. Not for any particular reason, but because I wasn’t sure what else to do.
“So not for the first time in the annals of coalition politics, the outcome of honest disagreement has been half-assed compromise. Fine, we seem to have told the Brits, we’ll support your invasion of Italy, after all it will get Stalin and his continual demands for a second front off our backs. But don’t expect for one minute that by agreeing to it we’ll do anything to jeopardize the invasion of France, including keeping a single soldier or piece of equipment in Italy that could be better used there.”
“If it’s such a lousy idea, then why did Uncle Mark agree to be part of it? He was Eisenhower’s deputy, he could have gotten any command he wanted.”
“Because right now the most important thing in his life is to show the world what a great military leader he is. And the quicker the better too, so the scuttlebutt has it.”
“So?”
“So if that’d meant invading the Isle of White he’d have probably been up for it.”
“Well I think Uncle Mark’s going to make history,” I said. “And somebody has to be there to record the first draft of it.”
“That somebody doesn’t have to be you,” she replied.
“But then it doesn’t have to be any of the other recruits who’ll risk their necks fighting for him, either.”
“They got drafted, you volunteered.”
“So did you,” I replied. “And drafted or not, the parents they’ve left behind are going to need their heroes.”
“Even George Washington had a few early howlers before he won out in the end.”
“You’re sure you’re not just jealous of Uncle Mark’s success?”
“What success? I heard he was in the bottom quarter of his class at West Point?”
“They told me at Fort Des Moines that George Custer was dead last.”
“I rest my case.”
“But Uncle Mark’s a wonderful man. I don’t know how you can’t see that. He’s the kind that makes America special.”
“He’s done nothing to suggest he’s special at all yet. Other than being very smart about the company he keeps.”
“What about the company he keeps?”
“You know he shares an apartment with his boss Eisenhower here in London?”
“So what?”
“So that means morning noon and probably all night he’s been bombarding him with ideas of how to improve the army’s efficiency, by giving him more authority.”
“You’re quite sure you don’t just dislike him because you always wanted a child of your own. And you thought when mom and dad died I could be that child. But I wasn’t. And you blame him.”
“In a court of law that question would be ruled out of order.”
“Why?”
“For requiring speculation the witness was not qualified to make.”
“Please, Margaret. I’m just not cut out to be Rosie the Riveter. So this is the only way I have to help the war effort too.”
“You do understand this isn’t going to be like some week-end Sarah Lawrence field trip to the local opera festival?”
“I’m not an idiot.”
“We’re all idiots when it comes to things we haven’t a clue about. And one thing you don’t have a clue about is war.”
“And you do?”
“I’m with the Judge Advocate’s Office, remember. I got to read the charge sheets for every military offence that took place by members of the U.S. Army in Sicily, and likely as not are about to take place again in Italy.”
“What kind of offences?”
“Desertion, theft of military property, rape, murder of civilians, just that kind of thing.”
“American boys don’t do that kind of thing.”
“If they did it back home, for sure they’ll do it out here.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Don’t you understand, it’s just people we send over to fight our wars for us, not saints? People with the same weaknesses as they had in civilian life, except now with a lot more opportunity to indulge them.”
“Uncle Mark doesn’t have any weaknesses.”
“Quite sure?”
“Quite sure.”
“Do you remember that night at Rome airport three years ago? When we were walking over the tarmac to the plane the State Department had arranged, and you asked him whether he really had fought in the First World War?”
“So?”
“So do you remember what his answer was?”
“No.”
“Because he didn’t give you one, same as he never gives anyone one.”
“Maybe it’s just modesty.”
“Or maybe it’s because his experience wasn’t anything that makes for good telling.”
“So?”
“So young men who felt they had a pretty dismal First World War, can often grow up to be older ones hell-bent on a far more distinguished second one.”
“Is that so bad?”
“Depends what that man considers distinguished, doesn’t it.”
“Please, Margaret. I can’t go without your blessing. This is too important to me.”
She looked around the pub, sniffed in as if she was holding back a tear, and shook her head. “What’s the matter?” I asked her as I put my hand on hers.
“I just always thought you’d find a way to make your own history, Patricia. And not content yourself with chronicling someone else’s.”
“Maybe this way I can, please?
“Okay I’ll give you my blessing. But you have to do something for me.”
“And what’s that?” I asked.
“At least give me the name of your new tailor.”
And I moved over to her side of the table, put my arms round her, and held her tighter and longer than I ever had before. But as I did, I wondered if it was her younger sister Patricia she was being held by, or it was really Violet Bott.