June 5–6, 1944
London, England
I am shaken awake by a troubled Winston. “I had the dream again, Clemmie,” he whispers.
For a moment, I’m disoriented, but the pale light of dawn has begun to illuminate my bedroom in the Annexe, and I realize precisely where I am and exactly what the next twenty-four hours will bring. Suddenly, I am very awake and ready to help Winston in whatever way I can. In the coming hours, he will surely need it.
“Oh no.” I pat the bed. “Crawl in.”
I slide to the farthest edge of my bed to allow room for Winston. The bed groans with his weight, but I mask the sound with my shushing. I wrap my arms around him, and caressing his face, which is wet with tears, I ask, “Was it the same?”
“Exactly,” he answers, then grows quiet. He needn’t describe the dream. He has had it frequently since the plans for Operation Overlord were finalized, and he’s shared the nightmare in excruciating detail: wide beaches with sand dyed red with blood and crimson waves lapping the shore strewn with the bodies of dead soldiers. His recounting is so vivid that, some nights, I worry that I might have the dream myself. It is the embodiment of his deepest fear, and even though he would never say it, it harkens back to the horrible loss of life in the Dardanelles. He is terrified that history will repeat itself.
This day has loomed for years, ever since Roosevelt entered the war and the conferences between the American president and Winston began. Over those many meetings, they debated the strategy essential for the success of such a dangerous plan, a massive invasion of mainland Europe, and each man took turns fluctuating in enthusiasm for it, although no one ever doubted its necessity. Because of variability in resources and priorities, other missions took precedence, such as Operation Torch in northwest Africa, the Italian campaign, and support for Stalin’s second front, but the concept of Operation Overlord never disappeared.
Once Roosevelt and Stalin became more closely aligned—an inevitability that I’d worried about for months—the balance of power tipped in their favor, away from Winston, and my husband sensed Stalin and Roosevelt had already decided on this mass invasion of Normandy. This development did not surprise me, because I’d seen Roosevelt for the tactical game player and inveterate politician he is instead of the steadfastly loyal friend Winston believed him to be for too long. He offered Stalin and Roosevelt alternatives to the full-on invasion, which carried risks for enormous loss of life, as late as April, but Stalin insisted on this particular course, and Roosevelt agreed. What could Winston do? He told them we would proceed, and then he committed all his resources to the mission’s success. Yet he desperately fears another Dardanelles.
In his despair over a bloodbath, he’d initially wanted to watch the D-Day landings from a destroyer near the beaches where the men would land. He’d first informed Admiral Ramsay, the commander of the landings, and then General Eisenhower, both of whom vehemently argued against his presence. But neither outright refusals on their parts nor pleas that his country needed him to stay in London swayed him—until I organized a letter from the king. Only then did Winston agree to resist his nature to plunge into treacherous scenarios.
In approximately twenty-four hours, approximately one hundred fifty thousand American, British, Free French, and Canadian troops will land on the beaches of Normandy in the largest seaborne invasion in history, and Winston will not be there to watch. Even though I do not claim to have Winston’s prescience, I know with utter certainty that this is the most critical moment yet in the future of the war. We are at the crux of it now, and we must show our mettle, whatever the outcome and whatever the cost.
I wrap Winston in my arms and whisper, “I know it seems impossible, but sleep if you can, Pug. Your country needs your full and alert attention in the morning.”
* * *
Despite the decisive events secretly planned for the next dawn, the day proceeds as many other wartime days have proceeded. To call it familiar would be an insult to the word, but it follows a pattern to which I have become accustomed in this calamitous time. I spend the early morning answering the usual overflowing bag of letters from our citizens and forward their requests on to the requisite officials; I attend my regular committee meeting at Fulmer Chase Maternity Hospital for military wives; I visit air-raid shelters with Red Cross representatives, more important now than ever, as the Nazis have resumed their nightly bombing campaigns; I tour a bomb site and make lists of the victims’ needs, unusually dire as the Nazis’ new pilotless “buzz bombs” caused intense damage; and I speak to each of my daughters, taking care to check on Mary as she’s alone, unlike the married Diana, and Sarah, who continues to see Gil, a situation not without its occasional discomforts. As I return to the Annexe, I see that Londoners are proceeding as normally as possible as well, walking purposefully through the streets and even stopping to chat with neighbors they pass. As if these were normal days.
How is Eleanor passing this surreal day? I wonder. Is she pretending at normalcy as well? Marveling at life progressing apace all around her, as I am? I cannot ask her; it would break all the security precautions around the secrecy of this day. Just as I can neither confide my worries in my sister, Nellie, nor share with her my hopes that we will avenge the death of her son Esmond.
Although Winston would like me to attend the meetings in the Map Room and elsewhere to assess the final details for the invasion—reviewing reports from meteorologists on critical weather and ocean conditions, checking on the status of the thousands of men in embarkation cages who are horribly sick on ocean waves, and plotting out the location of every one of the seven thousand vessels on his beloved maps—I cannot, except for the usual brief visit I make most days. The nation has known for some time that a mass invasion is imminent, and I can do nothing that might alert the populace and, through them, our enemies, to the precise date of the invasion. Winston’s military commanders fear that a rushed visit to his offices will prompt concern; at least that’s the excuse they offer for keeping me at bay. The day must appear as any other day, and I proceed as instructed. I have seen the plans displayed in the Map Room time and time again in any event. The exercise makes me feel like an actress in a woodenly acted and poorly scripted play, and I wonder if everyone I encounter sees through my ruse. Because all I can think about is Winston. How is my Pug faring?
Contrary to his military commanders’ instructions, Winston and I do engage in one unusual activity, although no one else but us—and perhaps Mrs. Landemare—would notice. We dine alone. In the entire year, we have dined alone only three times. Tonight must be the fourth, as he needs my full attention and whatever comfort I can offer.
We are quiet at first, sipping on the clear soup that sustains him and the rare beef that doesn’t but that he adores. He takes copious drinks from his wine, but I say nothing. If anyone deserves to anesthetize himself somewhat from the massive weight he carries upon his shoulders, he does. And I know it does nothing to dull his wits.
I break the uncommon silence. “I know this tension is unbearable, Pug. If I could lift it from you and carry it, even for the first night of the campaign, I would happily do so.”
“Oh, Cat, I would never wish this burden upon you. It is your unsullied goodness that keeps me purposeful and strong.”
“The decision is heavy, but it’s the right one. I know it’s colored with betrayals and fraught with uncertainties and apprehension—perhaps more than any other decision you’ve made in your entire life—but you are doing your duty to the people of this country. Just as you always have. Just as you must.”
I share the same misgivings as Winston, but the die is cast, and the vessels have already set sail. The men are in place, ready to storm the beaches and perform acts of heroism and sacrifice never undertaken before. How can we betray them now by questioning our commitment to this course? I cannot allow him to fixate on such thoughts. He must have faith.
“But doing this duty may be doing them a great disservice,” he answers.
“How? This campaign will begin the liberation of northwest Europe from the clutches of the Nazis. And that liberation will spread across Europe until we are free from the Nazis.”
“But at what cost? I just cannot help but think that when the sun rises tomorrow morning”—he puffs on his cigar, and I realize that he plans on staying awake all night—“thousands of men may have been killed. As in my nightmare.”
“And if you do not proceed with this mission and end this relentless war, how many tens of thousands more will die? Hundreds of thousands? What sort of nightmares will you have then?” I reach for his free hand and stare into his blue eyes. “My darling, everyone counts on you for the courage to continue.”
He pauses for a long moment before answering but never averts his eyes. “I will stand watch and see how the mission unfolds. We are at the Rubicon.”
I hold his gaze. “I will share your vigil with you.”
“Will you really?”
“Tonight and every night.”