The Rising Tide

by Jeff Shaara

  Clark gave the instructions, ordered the aide away, moved to his desk, sat, said, “You see all that gasoline?”

  “The governor told me about it. Didn’t go looking for it.”

  “Holy mackerel, Ike, they’ve got gas cans stuck in every crack on this rock. The British say they’re holding a million gallons at least, every bit of it in four-gallon tin cans. With the two hundred Spitfires sitting in the open out there, you know that the Krauts are gonna send a few bombers overhead. The governor says the Germans have observers draped all over that barbed-wire fence, watching everything that goes on here. One bomb hits that gas…this whole rock might turn into a Fourth of July celebration.”

  Eisenhower scratched his head, worked the stiffness out of his back. “Where else they supposed to store it, Wayne? This is the only friendly spot on the whole damned European continent.”

  “Well, ships, for one. The governor was hoping we could get a tanker in here, keep the stuff offshore.”

  “You don’t think a tanker would be a target?”

  “We wouldn’t be on that tanker, sir.”

  Eisenhower heard a soft plop, saw a small splatter on his desk. He looked up, the drip gathering on the rock above him, another plopping on the floor beside him. He felt a chill, could see a watery sheen on the entire ceiling above him, smears of crusty color, from whatever minerals made up the rock.

  “Hard to imagine this place would ever catch fire. Forget about it. We have too many other things to sweat about. We heard from the sub?”

  “I’ll check on it. Radio room down the hall.”

  Clark left the room, and Eisenhower could see activity outside, more of the bare lightbulbs, the wetness, men hustling through the rock corridor, boxes, papers, all the business of war. He looked at the papers on his desk, began to sort through the pile, stopped, thought of Giraud. How much of this depends on you? And where the hell are you?

  Henri Giraud was supposedly en route to Gibraltar, after a haze of messages and requests had jammed the airways in both directions. According to the diplomat Murphy, Giraud had seemed completely receptive to the role the Allies needed him to play, Giraud suggesting that he be taken directly to Algiers. But neither Giraud nor any of the French commanders had yet been informed of the specific details of Torch, did not yet know the timetable for the landings, had no idea that the invasion fleets were already in motion. Rather than put Giraud right into the middle of a combat zone, it made far more sense to bring the Frenchman to Gibraltar, to meet directly with Eisenhower, to clear up any doubts about the French general’s loyalties, and what he could do to prevent a bloody fight at the landing zones. The plan called for him to slip away from his hiding place in Lyon, to a designated site along the beach, where a submarine would be waiting. Once away from the French coast, he would be picked up by a seaplane for the final leg of the trip to Gibraltar. The submarine was the Seraph, the same craft that had transported Clark to the Algerian beach. But true to form, the Frenchman would not accept any transport by a British ship. It was the old ugliness rearing its head, French resentment against the British. There seemed to be no ignoring the centuries of rivalry and animosity between the two countries. The British had opened the latest wound after the fall of France, when Admiral Darlan, who was becoming Pétain’s number two man in the Vichy government, would not agree to allow the French fleet to escape the umbrella of German control. The French navy was the fourth largest in the world, and should those ships sail alongside the Germans, the British would certainly lose whatever dominance they had on water. With Darlan refusing to release that part of the fleet anchored in French ports in North Africa, the British had no choice but to treat those warships as hostile. In July 1940, the French ships anchored in Oran, Algeria, refused British ultimatums and chose to fight. It was a significant mistake. The British navy responded by sinking several major craft, which not only cost the Germans eventual use of the ships, but was of course an embarrassment to the French admiralty. Regardless of British logic in their approach to the problem, it was just one more thorn in their relationship with the French, a thorn that was now digging into Eisenhower’s planning. Giraud had demanded that he be transported in an American submarine, despite there being no Americans subs available anywhere near the Mediterranean. So the Seraph would become American, with an American skipper, just long enough to bring Giraud to safety.

  GIBRALTAR—NOVEMBER 6, 1942

  A dozen aides were scattered throughout the vast cavern, voices low, all noise subdued by the dense rock around them.

  Butcher was there now, and Eisenhower asked, “Have we heard from George? What about the weather in the Atlantic?”

  “Latest reports don’t change the forecast. Still calling for rough seas.”

  “Keep me posted. Less than forty-eight hours. I want to know what those beaches are like.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Butcher moved away, and Eisenhower stared again at the map, British staffers using long sticks to adjust the position of the blue ships, the fleets, edging them closer to their goals. He scanned the map, his eyes resting on Spain. He thought of Patton, couldn’t help a smile. The surf conditions near Casablanca were notoriously difficult, rough seas that would make any landing a challenge. There had been concern that the landing might be canceled, Patton’s troops forced to shift to another zone, perhaps linking up with one of the other groups inside the Mediterranean. Patton’s response had been no surprise: If we can’t land in West Africa, we’ll find some place else. How about Spain? Leave it to Georgie to start a whole new war. He’d win it too.

  “Sir, the press are in the briefing room. Commander Butcher has given them a briefing, but they’re asking to speak to you.”

  Eisenhower turned to the aide, who made a smart, unnecessary salute.

  “Fine. I’ll be right there.”

  He usually did well with the newspapermen and radio reporters, had actually built a friendship with Edward R. Murrow. It was an essential part of his job, one reason why Eisenhower could function outside of the public eye so effectively. And it was a mutually beneficial relationship. If the reporters wanted to know what was going on, for the most part Eisenhower would tell them. In return, it was clearly understood that they had to exercise extraordinary discretion in what information they passed on to the public.

  He saw two Americans and two Brits waiting at the door of the briefing room, the only reporters allowed to make the trip. They made a path for him, and he moved through a cloud of cigarette smoke, scanned the familiar faces, moved to one end of the small room.

  Butcher appeared in the doorway now, and Eisenhower looked toward him, said, “Commander Butcher has briefed you, I understand?”

  There were nods.

  “Quite.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. I don’t have much to add. The timetable has not changed. Weather could still be a factor in the Atlantic. I understand that you all brought a considerable amount of winter clothing.”

  They smiled with him, and Wes Gallagher, of the Associated Press, said, “Still looking for the glaciers, sir. Can’t seem to find any fjords either.”

  “Sorry. Couldn’t be helped. We had to indicate at every opportunity that we were going to Norway. It was simply too important to mention anything else.”

  Gallagher said, “I’d donate my heavy woolens to the Red Cross hereabouts, but they don’t seem interested.”

  Another man, Cunningham, from the United Press, said, “Sir, if no one else has done so, allow me to be the first to congratulate you.”

  Eisenhower glanced at Butcher, saw a smile, said, “What do you mean?”

  “We got word that MacArthur, Ohio, has changed its name to Eisenhower.”

  Butcher laughed, the others joining in, and Eisenhower held up a hand, quieting them.

  “If that’s true…well, I’m certain that before this is over, they’ll change it back. You all know full well that I’m not as, um, juicy as General MacArthur.”

&n
bsp; They grew silent now, and he said, “You know your jobs, gentlemen. The public needs to know the facts, and I’m all for that, as long as nothing gets out that helps the enemy. There has been a great deal of planning for this operation that was extremely sensitive, and so, we had to hold back telling you things. I know you want to win this war as quickly as we do, and you can all assist by doing the right kind of job here. We’ll be as open with you as we feel we can, so don’t spy on us. Be assured that if anyone here violates the faith we’ve placed in you, if I can catch you, I’ll shoot you. Good day, gentlemen.”

  He moved out through the small room, was past Butcher, who beamed a smile, said in a low voice, “Nicely done, sir.”

  Eisenhower didn’t smile, turned toward his office, said, “I meant it.”

  “S ir, it’s Admiral Cunningham.”

  Eisenhower stood, and Butcher stood aside, stiff and formal, making way for the older man to enter the office. Cunningham stepped in slowly, leaned on a cane. He clamped his hat firmly under one arm, the dark blue uniform having a formalizing effect on Butcher that made Eisenhower smile. Yep, Harry’s still a navy man.

  Andrew Browne Cunningham was one of Britain’s most effective fighting sailors. He had scored impressive victories over the Italian navy early in the war, which had allowed the British to maintain naval control of the Mediterranean. He was several years older than Eisenhower, carried himself with that distinctly British stiffness, but bore no resemblance to those officers who strutted and preened far more than they actually fought. The admiral had been named overall naval commander of the Allied forces in the Mediterranean and North Africa and, as such, was the highest-ranking naval officer under Eisenhower’s command. It was a fortunate choice, since Eisenhower had taken an immediate liking to the man.

  Cunningham held his pose, said, “General, I understand from your staff that you have not yet been informed of our latest triumph. Thus it is my honor to bring you some exceptionally positive news. May I do so?”

  Eisenhower pointed to Clark’s chair. “Please, sit down, Admiral. Good news should be delivered from a comfortable position. If you have bad news, stay standing. That way you can get away quicker. Keeps me from killing the messenger.”

  Cunningham smiled, took the advice, pulled Clark’s chair around, sat, one hand on his cane, his hat still under his arm.

  “Reports have come in from Harold Alexander, in Cairo. We’ve given Rommel a heavy licking at El Alamein. Twenty thousand prisoners, and we destroyed maybe four hundred tanks, a good bit of artillery too. It took Monty a while to get going, but once he did, it was a masterstroke. Bloody as hell, as I hear it, but victory, nonetheless.”

  “Thank God. Thank God.” Eisenhower paused, let out a long breath. “What’s Rommel’s situation now?”

  “Full retreat, so we hear. Monty’s following up. Could make your job a damned sight easier, you know.”

  “I’d rest a little easier if Rommel was in the bag.”

  “Give Monty a chance. Needs a bit of prodding now and then, but he’ll handle it. I suspect this will take some pressure off Tunisia. The Jerries might be inclined to pull out before you even get there.”

  “Not sure I agree with you. If Rommel escapes Montgomery, he’ll be moving west, straight for Tunisia. He might be whipped, and he might have lost most of his armor, but I can’t assume Hitler will abandon him. And, he’s still Rommel. I had hoped Monty might eliminate him altogether. Seems we may end up fighting his front instead of his rear.”

  Cunningham seemed to concede the point. “At least, if you’re in front of him, Monty will be behind him. Same principle applies. Rommel will be pinched.”

  Eisenhower thought, it can’t be that easy.

  Cunningham moved on. “On the local front, one more bit of news. Intelligence reports the Jerries are preparing to give us a good wallop at Sicily. We’ll have our distress call on the air tonight. Ice the cake, so to speak.”

  It was Cunningham’s perfect contribution to the subterfuge of the operation. Eisenhower had to assume that German U-boats had located the invasion fleets, and so, the Allied vessels and radio operators throughout the Mediterranean had leaked various messages that the invasion was in fact heading for Sicily. So far, the fleets had reported no major losses, the U-boats staying clear of the heavy screen of destroyer escorts that ringed them. Only one ship in the Mediterranean had taken a torpedo hit, disabling her, but no lives had been lost. Now, Cunningham was preparing for a ship to be sent toward Sicily as a decoy, a ship that would fill the air with frantic distress calls as the time for the landings drew close. The theory was that German bombers could be persuaded to take a look, might patrol the Sicilian coast with a heightened urgency, keeping them away from North Africa for precious hours.

  GIBRALTAR—NOVEMBER 7, 1942

  Despite anxious hours, and garbled radio messages, Giraud’s journey had been completed without major problems, beyond the Frenchman’s near drowning as he was hauled aboard the submarine.

  Giraud was taller than Eisenhower had expected, wore rumpled clothes that showed the effects of the saltwater soaking. He carried himself erect, seemed unaware that his face was brushed with a thick shadow of unshaved beard, framing the sad droop of what seemed to have once been a proud handlebar mustache.

  The secretive journey had been the latest chapter in what Eisenhower could only assume to be the man’s difficult and frightened existence. Giraud’s escape from a German prison camp had made him something of a legend in France, and a seriously wanted man to the Gestapo. Somehow, he had evaded capture, and from everything Murphy had said, Giraud held tightly to the notion that his time had come, that he was now willing to give everything to an Allied victory. Eisenhower was prepared to offer the man a great deal of authority over the French civil and military forces in North Africa, a friendly administrator in a land where friends might be at a premium. All he required of Giraud now was that he agree to endorse a broadcast, made prominently in his name, addressing the military commanders along the African coast who were about to be confronted by a major invasion force. If Giraud carried the influence and authority that both he and Murphy insisted he did, the landings might happily be uneventful.

  Giraud stood alongside Jerauld Wright, the American navy man who had played the role of alleged captain of the Seraph, successfully convincing Giraud that an American was indeed in command. Wright made the introductions, and Eisenhower shook the fragile hand of the man who seemed an unlikely bearer of the power that could decide so much of the outcome of Operation Torch. Eisenhower motioned to the door, a silent command to Wright, who seemed to understand completely that his part of this strange mission was at an end.

  Wright made a short bow toward Giraud, said, “I leave you now, General. May God go with us all.”

  Wright left the small room, was replaced by Colonel Julius Holmes, who was there to serve as Eisenhower’s interpreter. Behind him, Clark closed the door, flicking a switch that illuminated a red bulb outside the office, its meaning clear: No one enters.

  The men all sat and Giraud stared past Eisenhower, seemed already to be impatient with a meeting that had not yet begun. Eisenhower began to talk, emptied his mind of details, revealed the facts and timetable of Torch, of everything that was already in motion. Giraud did not react, sat motionless, allowed his eyes to drift to Eisenhower’s face. Eisenhower stopped, had used up everything he had expected to say, waited, and Giraud seemed to come alive.

  The man straightened his back, sat upright, said, “Now, let’s get it clear as to my part. As I understand it, when I land in North Africa, I am to assume command of all Allied forces and become the supreme Allied commander in North Africa.”

  Eisenhower felt his mouth opening, heard a short grunt from Clark. Giraud seemed satisfied, as though he had answered his own inquiry. Eisenhower had no words, stared at the Frenchman, who tilted his head slightly, waiting for confirmation. Eisenhower looked at Holmes, the interpreter obviously surprised, the man nodding
nervously to Eisenhower, yes, the words were accurate. He looked again at Giraud, tried to think of a response, thought suddenly of Murphy. What kind of promises did you make, what did you tell this man? Is this how you got him to come here? Promise him the entire damned world, you amateur diplomat son of a bitch? He fought against the fury, held it hard inside him, tried to smile again, his fists clenched beneath the edge of the desk.

  “There must be some misunderstanding.”

  “I think not, General. It is perfectly clear to me. My duty is in North Africa, and Giraud will do his duty. As well, I should also take command of a force that will immediately invade southern France. Once the Nazis learn of our attack on North Africa, they will certainly respond by occupying the remaining French territory now held in control by the Vichy government. I fear if we do not act quickly, the Nazis will bring further destruction to my country. We shall prevent this.”

  Eisenhower looked at Clark, who stared at the Frenchman with disbelief. After a long moment, Eisenhower said, “There is a misunderstanding.”

  Giraud seemed to stiffen further, growing even taller in the chair. “I understand my role perfectly well, General. If there is any misunderstanding, it must be coming from you.”

  T he meeting dragged on for three tedious hours, Giraud maintaining perfect stubbornness. An invitation had come from Governor Mason-MacFarlane for Giraud to enjoy a dinner with his official British host. It was a marvelous opportunity for adjournment that Eisenhower leapt on, if for no other reason than to empty his office of this astoundingly disagreeable Frenchman.

  B oth men sat back in their chairs, stared at the wall for a long moment. Eisenhower looked at Clark, said, “Are you quite certain that General Mast understood you?”

  “Absolutely. Ike, I didn’t promise Mast anything. I’m certain of that. It has to be Murphy.”

  Eisenhower shook his head, worked himself up out of the chair, tried to ease the cramps out of his shoulders. “We can assume that. It’s possible, certainly. But I can’t believe that Murphy is that stupid. He knew he couldn’t make promises about command authority.”