The previous day, both men had been witness to a demonstration of some of the latest technology of war, from improved radar to jet fighter aircraft.
Everything seemed to be going in the right direction for them, except one thing, and that was beyond their control.
Ike responded to the knock.
“Come in.”
“Sir, Group Captain Stagg to see you.”
“Show him in, Anne-Marie.”
Hodges sat upright in his chair, setting his mug on the table.
Eisenhower grabbed for his cigarettes and had one alight before the RAF Meteorologist strode into the room, his gait announcing the nature of his news.
“Good morning James. You look fit to burst; good news, I hope?”
“Good morning, Sir. General Bradley.”
He thrust a folder forward insistently.
“The latest reports garnered from our met stations. That’s the collated version from which we make our predictions.”
Eisenhower perused the graphs and maps swiftly.
“Tell me what I’m looking at here?”
Standing by Eisenhower’s side, Stagg swept his finger across the map of Europe as he spoke.
“What this is telling us is that winter is over and that, by the end of next week, the thaw should be well set, Sir.”
Bradley piped up.
“Temperatures?”
“Hard to say, General Bradley, but within two weeks we could see a mean of 10˚ to 12˚ in the zone of operations, except the Baltic and Scandinavia, which should still be in thaw none the less.”
“Ice?”
Much depended on Stagg’s answer.
“All gone in the area of intended operation, Sir.”
Eisenhower held the folder up.
“And this is kosher? 100%, James?”
Stagg eased his collar.
“Nothing is 100% in meteorology, Sir. But I am giving you my best estimation of the weather to come, based on all information to hand.”
Ike nodded. Stagg had been the man who had advised him to go for 6th June 1944, despite the atrocious weather in the English Channel. He had trusted him then…
‘I’ll trust you now, James.’
“OK. I’ll wait ‘til tomorrow. If there’s no significant change in your predictions, then I’ll look to initiate Spectrum on…”
Eisenhower looked at the small calendar on the table, one advertising some men’s outfitters in nearby Trappes.
Bradley looked down the numbers and satisfied himself as to the prospective date.
“26th March, Brad?”
“As you say, Ike. That gives us time.”
“26th March it is then. As always, I’m relying on you, James.”
“Sir.”
The dapper RAF officer swept from the room, intent on checking and rechecking his findings.
“So, do we give the boys the heads up today?”
Eisenhower considered the suggestion, quickly shaking his head.
“Nope. Let them carry on as normal today. They will know soon enough, Brad.”
Both men returned to their coffee, different thoughts now occupying their minds.
CSM Charles looked at his tank with great pride.
The Centurion had been the sole survivor of the six Mk I vehicles given to the Guards Division, before hostilities commenced.
Now she stood amongst the rest of 2nd Battalion, Grenadier Guards, one of two units in the Guards Division fully equipped with the new vehicle.
‘Lady Godiva’ was the sole Mk I, the unit having received the first production models of the more heavily armoured Mk II version.
It was wholly obvious that, despite her battle damage, her crew maintained the tank in the best fighting condition, the smell of fresh oil and grease hanging in the chilled air.
What troubled Charles was the apparent absence of any crew members.
Hopping up onto the glacis plate, the driver’s position was found to be empty. Further investigation established that the fighting compartment was also unoccupied.
Low whistling caught Charles’ attention and he spotted his driver, Trooper Wild, wandering in his direction.
“Laz, where’s the rest of the lads?”
“Sarnt. Pats and Beefy are o’er by Ordnance, playin' wit tha new toys. ‘Parently, the ‘onourable Lieutenant Percival thinks,” he coughed, setting his throat up to mimic the high-born British officer, “That one’s idea is a truly spiffing wheeze, don’t you know.”
Charles caught his laugh just in time, not wishing to undermine the squeaky clean young ‘Rupert’, although part of his amusement was at Lazarus Wild’s Salford-accented attempt at a plummy public school voice.
“What you doing anyway?”
Wild profferred the grease guns he was holding.
“I were toppin’ thems off at maint’nance. Fancy a brew?”
Charles nodded, sensing there was something else to hear.
“What you hiding, Laz?”
“Err…you might wanna stay clear of ol’ Pansy forra while.”
Charles frowned in suspicion, knowing that WO2 Flowers of the Maintenance Section was a constant target for light-hearted abuse by the tankers of his company.
“And why might I want to do that?”
“Seems he’s missin’ a shitload of ball-bearings, and he seems to think yer name’s written all o’er the ‘einous deed.”
The NCO’s eyes narrowed.
“And why the fuck would he think that?”
Wild shrugged.
“Beats me, Sarnt… although…”
“Out with it, you bastard!”
“Well, you writ the chit.”
Charles’ blank face drew Wild into indiscretion.
“Ball bearings, Sarnt. You signed a chit for some, ‘member?”
“Yes, I remember. One box, ball-bearing, ½-inch, for the use of. And?”
“’Parently, Pansy had a shitload delivered t’other day, and now he don’t ‘ave ’em no more, and yer name is in’t frame… err… so I’m told, any road.”
The penny dropped.
“Who altered the chit?”
“Pardon Sarnt?”
“You fucking heard me. Which one of you tossers changed the chit. Ten? One ’undred, was it?”
Wild was spared further questions by the arrival of C Squadron’s commander, trailed by an extremely red-faced Flowers.
The Squadron commander had resisted Flowers’ call for immediate punishment for the perpetrators of the crime, returning the seventy-two unopened packs they had recovered from the Ordnance, which helped smooth his ruffled feathers.
He was further calmed by an invitation to watch the results of Patterson’s labours.
‘Lady Godiva’ had been moved up to the water’s edge, some one hundred yards from a moored rowing boat that had clearly seen better days.
Stood on the back of the turret, Charles accepted the nod from C Squadron’s Captain and leant forward.
“OK Pats. When you’re ready, and I hope for your fucking sake that this works.”
The main gun effortlessly moved to line up with the wooden boat.
In the breech lay a special round, universally dubbed a ‘Patterson’s Peril’, although, in truth, the senior ordnance NCO was as much to blame as Charles’ gunner.
The 17-pdr spat its contents in the direction of the rowing boat.
The results were staggering.
The boat disappeared in an instant froth of savaged water, as the ‘Peril’ discharged its contents of thirty-six ½-inch ball-bearings like a shotgun.
Of the boat, there was no recognisable evidence left, only a few pieces of wood floating on the disturbed waters of the Rammsee.
‘Fucking hell’ seemed to be the consensus of opinion from those present, although 2nd Lieutenant Percival, the Rupert, managed a very convincing ‘I say’.
Captain White grinned from ear to ear.