The Rising Tide

by Jeff Shaara

  The tank lurched forward, and Logan whipped the turret to one side.

  Hutchinson’s voice: “Easy, gunner. You trying to throw me out of this thing?”

  Logan didn’t answer, stared through the periscope, could see an open sea in front of him, the dry lakebed spread out to the horizon.

  Hutchinson said, “Holy Jesus! There they are. C-47s. What the hell?”

  Logan could see them as well. A quarter mile out from the rocky hills, a cluster of aircraft seemed tossed about, no order. At least one of them was wrecked, smoking. Around them, men scrambled like so many ants.

  Parnell said, “There’s people hurt out there, Hutch. We gotta give ’em a hand.”

  Hutchinson said nothing, and Logan glanced up, saw Hutchinson staring to one side, then heard in the intercom, “Target! Driver, halt!”

  Logan turned the periscope as far as he could twist his body, could see a single man, standing in the scrub, another rising up beside him. More appeared now, men easing slowly up a sharp rise, coming toward them from nearly every direction. Logan’s hand went to the machine gun, and he eased the turret to one side, found the men in his gunsight, counted a dozen. But the helmets were unmistakable, and he pulled his hand from the machine gun, focused on one, a dirty face, toothy smile, the man holding a Thompson submachine gun, raising it over his head.

  Logan said, “Hey Hutch. They’re ours.”

  “Yep. Driver, shut ’er down. But these guys aren’t infantry. Let me check with Captain Gregg, see what we should do. I could use a whiz break.”

  The tank was suddenly silent, and Hutchinson spoke into the wireless, the two tanks behind them moving up close, their engines shutting down as well. Hutchinson climbed out through the hatch, stood on the hull of the tank, and Logan eased up out of his seat, stood, stretched his stiff legs, his head above the hatch for the first time in hours. He watched the soldiers climb up the rise, most of them carrying submachine guns, not the standard-issue rifle for American foot soldiers. Their uniforms weren’t standard-issue either: baggy pants legs stuffed into tall boots, pockets sagging with bulky gear, each man seeming to carry a backpack on each thigh. Logan understood now, had heard talk of these men in England, Airborne, some kind of mystique around them, rumors that they were simply lunatics, their unit a haven for the army’s misfits and psychopaths. One of the men stepped closer, limping, helped by a medic. Logan saw blood on his face, his shirt open over a mass of white bandages.

  Hutchinson said, “You’re in pretty bad shape, soldier. Can we help?”

  Gregg was there now, climbed down from his tank, stood beside Hutchinson. The wounded man seemed to gather himself, pushed the medic away, fought to stand on his own, said, “Lieutenant Colonel Edson Raff, 509th Parachute Infantry Battalion. I guess it’s a damned good idea to put white stars on American tanks. If we hadn’t seen that, we would have dropped a bag of grenades down your hatch.”

  T he 509th had been designated to be the first American airborne unit to deploy into combat by parachute. The paratroopers had come directly from England, a massive squadron of C-47 transport planes. But like so many plans drawn out so carefully on paper, plans that called for the 509th to make their drops close to the key airfields at La Sénia and Tafaraoui, strong winds and poor visibility had scattered their planes all along the North African coast. Instead of reaching their drop zones, most of the inexperienced pilots became lost in the darkness, landmarks obscured by a thick layer of cloud cover. Worse, a signal was supposed to be sent from a carefully positioned British ship, a radio beacon to guide the planes toward their drop zones. For reasons no one understood, the radios on the C-47s had remained silent. The beacon had never been received.

  When the drops were actually made, the paratroopers had no way of knowing if they were anywhere near their targets, and in fact the C-47s had scattered the battalion from points near Tafaraoui to as far away as Spanish Morocco. As had happened at Oran harbor, the French welcomed the paratroopers and their aircraft with artillery and rifle fire. Several of the C-47s had taken advantage of the slick flatness of the dry lakebed of the Sebkra d’Oran by landing there, in an effort to reload their human cargo, to transport them closer to their intended drop zones. But once the sun came up, French fighter planes swarmed above the unarmed and ponderous C-47s and either shot them out of the sky or followed them down to another landing, where the French gunners took no mercy. Colonel Raff and those who could find some means of reaching their targets overland had no choice but to follow their compasses. Though some of the scattered paratroopers found motorized transport, many were still on the march, slogging their way through the clay of the lakebed, grimly intent on reaching their target at Tafaraoui.

  “G otta be a tough son of a bitch, that colonel…what? Raff?”

  Logan ignored Parnell, focused on the desolation along the lakebed, knew Hutchinson would respond.

  “He was torn up pretty bad. The medic said he was hurt when he landed in the rocks, said they had a jeep for him. I wouldn’t want to be the one to try to stop him from going anyplace. Looked like a tough guy. All of them.”

  Parnell said, “Nuts. That’s what they are. Nuts. Jump out of airplanes, hope like hell some oversized bloomer keeps you alive. Give me a damned tank. You still awake back there, Logan? We might need that gun of yours. Just ’cause you got our first kill don’t mean you can take a holiday.”

  Logan didn’t smile, said, “Shut up and drive.”

  They moved back toward the main road, the three tanks rolling off a rocky mound, crushing a trail through more of the thorny brush. The road was crowded with men and jeeps, and Hutchinson stayed up, outside the hatch, was talking to someone, the wireless squawking, Hutchinson ducking back inside, speaking into the microphone.

  “Driver, move past these men. Captain says we’re to join up with the other tanks farther ahead. They’re holding up for some reason. Might be the enemy.”

  They moved past shouting men, rifles in the air, men who knew the value of armor. They pushed along the roadbed for more than a mile, and Logan could see dust clouds in front of them, more tanks, the machines spread out in a wide fan, sweeping eastward.

  The intercom crackled, Hutchinson’s voice: “There’s smoke. Stay awake. Something’s happening up front of us.”

  Logan shifted the turret, scanned the horizon, the road splitting two low hills, tanks and heavy trucks out on both sides. He saw the smoke as well, closer now, a black column rising from a truck. He sat upright, grabbed the sight, realized…Hutchinson’s words:

  “That’s one of ours. They hit a gun carrier.”

  Logan could see that the truck was split open, the frame visible under thick, billowing smoke. The doors had blown free, one tossed aside, wedged into the dirt, standing upright. Logan saw it now: the white star.

  Men had gathered near the truck, one body lying close, too close to the heat, the medics helpless. Logan thought, nobody’s gonna live through that. Parnell drove the tank past the burning wreck, but there was no way to avoid the smoke. He kept to the road, pushed the tank through the black cloud, and Logan braced himself for the smell, held his breath, but the smoke drove into him, the hard stench of burning oil, and worse, a stink he didn’t want to identify. The tank rolled forward, and he emptied his lungs, the stench still trapped inside him.

  Logan blinked hard, focused toward the periscope, the intercom quiet. He eased the turret to one side, scanned the low hills, and suddenly the tank jumped, a hard, thunderous lurch, smoke, dirt clouding the periscope, the tank leaning to one side, then settling back with a hard, crunching drop. His helmet had been jolted to one side, the intercom crackling, Hutchinson shouting above him:

  “Ahh, damn! Button up! Hatches closed!”

  Logan grabbed at the crooked helmet, pulled it hard onto his head. The tank was still moving, Parnell holding it steady, still on the road.

  Hutchinson said, “Incoming fire! Turn left, thirty degrees! Some of our boys are behind those hills. They’r
e taking fire! Gunner, ready!”

  There was smoke in every direction, thick clouds of dirt, and Logan spun the turret to the left, saw the tanks, more smoke, shells bursting in the hills just above the armor. Hutchinson was down beside him now, the intercom alive with Parnell’s cursing.

  Hutchinson said, “Shut up! Anybody hurt?”

  “No.”

  “No.”

  “Okay here.”

  Hutchinson was leaning against Logan’s shoulder, peering forward through the observation port, said, “That was close, boys. I guess the French can’t shoot that good.”

  Parnell said, “It was good enough for me. Damned thing hit ten feet from the left tread, right in front of me. Mighta knocked out a tooth or two.”

  Logan watched Hutchinson, thought, easy Hutch, we’re alive.

  Hutchinson said, “Driver, left, move in behind that cluster of rocks. There’s one M-3 thirty yards on our left flank. Another farther out. Infantry coming up behind us. The enemy…not sure yet.”

  Hutchinson spoke into the wireless microphone, words Logan couldn’t hear.

  “The damned radio’s not working! Coulda knocked the antenna off.”

  Logan was surprised to see Hutchinson rise up, the hatch opening, dust and daylight pouring into the tank. No, not a good idea, Hutch.

  Hutchinson shouted, talking to someone Logan couldn’t see, more shouts, Hutchinson dropping back down. The intercom spoke again, Hutchinson’s voice.

  “There’s French artillery out in front of us. A thousand yards, behind the next row of rocky hills. Might be a whole battery, or just a couple guns. The seventy-fives are coming up behind us. Colonel Todd is here somewhere, says nobody can talk to command. It’s not just us. Bad radio contact.”

  No one responded, and Logan moved the turret again, thought, a thousand yards. He put his hand on the breech of the thirty-seven. I could hit a target…maybe. It would have to be dead-on, kill the gun crew. But then what? This isn’t enough gun to take out anything really heavy. And we can’t just charge out into the open. We’d be roasted.

  There was a hard thump to one side, one of the tanks firing. The response came quickly, shells whistling over them, sharp thunder beneath them, the tank rocking, smoke, a shower of dirt and rocks raining on the tank. Hutchinson again:

  “Dammit! We’re not in good cover here! We need those seventy-fives!”

  Logan swung the turret to the right, searching for any sign of a target, caught a glimpse of movement, moved to the periscope, saw a truck moving past, stopping a few yards away.

  Parnell shouted, “Yee hah! The cavalry’s here!”

  Logan stared, knew the seventy-fives, the largest mobile guns the unit had, mounted in heavy armored trucks. He watched the barrel of the heavier gun, adjusting, elevating, thought of the gunner. Who? That crackpot Jenkins? Maybe Sweeney, the guy who can’t hit a garbage can at ten yards. Let it be Fowler, somebody who shoots straight.

  All eyes were on the seventy-five beside them, and now the eruption came, the hard punch of the gun, a stream of smoke.

  Hutchinson stared forward with the binoculars, a long few seconds, then said, “He got something. Again, hit ’em again, keep firing!”

  Logan glanced into the gunsight, saw a small gray cloud, heard the seventy-five fire again, waited for the impact, another long second, another burst in the hills. More of the armored trucks were pulling up, a chorus of thunder, the seventy-fives raining their shells into whatever enemy stood in their way. The wireless spoke to Hutchinson again, and the order came into the intercom.

  “Driver, advance! Get past these rocks, make hard for that smoke. Full out, Skip!”

  The tank kicked into motion, and Logan braced himself, the tank rocking with the uneven ground.

  “Gunner, make ready. Targets ahead!”

  Logan glanced at Baxter, the man holding a shell in his hands, another already in the thirty-seven, a sharp nod from the quiet young man. The tank rolled forward, more tanks on either side. The seventy-fives continued their fire on the enemy positions, French crews and their guns obliterated by the accuracy of the artillery. Logan stared out through the periscope, felt the cool wind swirling down through the open hatch, the tank running at top speed, the hills in front of them close. He could see men in the rocks, some scrambling up the hill, some firing rifles, a toothless enemy, and he felt the rage, the cold steel in his chest, put his hand on the machine gun, and pulled the trigger.

  T hough the French continued to put obstacles in their paths, the French defenses were not coordinated, no large-scale deployment of troops, artillery, or air support. As the first day of Operation Torch concluded, the pincer movement around Oran drew tighter. By midday, the airfield at Tafaraoui had been captured and secured, and though the French still struck at the invaders, the American noose continued to tighten. From General Fredenhall’s command ship, word had been sent back to Gibraltar, the anxiously awaited “okay” for British cargo and fighter planes there to begin their own missions, bringing in the supplies and reinforcements that would turn Tafaraoui into an Allied base.

  La Sénia was now more of a priority than ever, since the French could still launch air strikes that could reach American troop and armor positions in mere minutes. With darkness finally closing in on the first day of the operation, the First Armored Division’s tank crews still followed their maps, gathering strength, the officers pulling the squads together, fueling and resupplying the tanks for the next day’s fight.

  12. CLARK

  GIBRALTAR—

  NOVEMBER 8, 1942

  “G iraud has changed his mind.”

  Clark stood, blinked, tried to focus on Eisenhower’s face, the commander leaning against the open doorway. It was good news, but Eisenhower was not smiling.

  Clark said, “When?”

  “Right after we concluded the meeting. I saw you slip out. Don’t worry about it. We need every break from this mess we can get. The last report from Oran did it. Just as I thought, we give him just enough details to convince him we haven’t fabricated this whole operation. He didn’t believe Algiers had fallen so quickly, that we had the airfield there, until he heard French radio bellyaching about it.”

  Clark was still annoyed at the obnoxious Frenchman. “So, he was surprised that we took Algiers so quickly? Surprised? That means he anticipated resistance there. That’s why—”

  “It was all a game, Wayne. He wouldn’t play ball because he thought we’d get our asses kicked.” Eisenhower seemed to collapse into his chair. “Now, he’s on our team. Fully committed to our cause. As though we should never have doubted him. Jackass.”

  Clark knew what was coming, what his own role in the operation would be now. “When do you want me to leave?”

  “Tomorrow. Giraud is going to Algiers first thing in the morning. Insists on a French plane, French pilot, wants to make his grand entrance into Algiers so he can write in his memoirs what it was like the day he won the war. Surprised he hasn’t asked for a planeload of brass bands. You’ll be right behind him. General Ryder will be expecting you. I’m preparing an order that you will present to Giraud on Algerian soil. He’s in command of the French military and is now governor of the place. But he answers to me, and until I establish my own headquarters there, he answers to you. Once you arrive, you bring our headquarters with you. Make damned sure he understands that. No grand pronouncements, no parades, no orders to anyone without your approval. You’re in charge, Wayne. Don’t take any crap from Giraud or anybody else.”

  Clark tried to feel the energy behind Eisenhower’s orders, the authority he would carry to Africa, some enthusiasm that the annoying Frenchman might finally contribute something useful to the operation. But there had been almost no sleep for nearly two days, and the only news that could inspire him at all was word that Oran had been captured, or that Patton’s Western Task Force had secured Casablanca.

  Eisenhower leaned back in his chair, said nothing, his mind focused on some other business at
hand. Clark knew that he was anxious about Patton. The only word from Casablanca had come by circuitous routes, Allied intelligence picking up sketchy broadcasts from French military outposts, reports of losses of artillery batteries along the coast, confrontations with American tanks and infantry at several outlying villages. The news was encouraging, broad hints of panic among the French, calls for retreat and regrouping. But no one at Gibraltar could feel comfortable while their only news came from a disorganized enemy. Patton’s landing had been scheduled to begin at four thirty that morning, and the navy had reported that, surprisingly, the typically rough seas along the West African coast had calmed. But then, there had been only silence. As the hours passed, Eisenhower had grown increasingly anxious, the entire staff aware that if anyone would crow about the results of a good fight, it would be George Patton. By late afternoon, reports had begun to filter in, passed along by wireless from British naval ships. The fights were difficult, stiff French resistance from naval and land forces, but the landings had successfully been made, the noose closing in on Casablanca as it had around Oran. Patton’s silence had been caused by a bad radio on board his command ship, nothing more. Clark had smiled at that, knew that once Patton realized his broadcasts had dissolved only into static, the faulty radio and its operator would likely be tossed into the sea.

  With the various Algerian airfields secured, the Spitfires waiting at the compact airfield at Gibraltar could finally offer support, squadrons of fighters swarming toward various trouble spots. By vacating the tarmacs, the fighters had made room for bombers, for a limited number of B-17s waiting in London, which could only make the trip southward if they had some place to park.

  Clark had stayed closely in touch with Admiral Cunningham, the British naval commander keeping tight rein on unpredictable confrontations with French warships that had emerged from various harbors along the African coast. The British were also keeping a vigilant eye on any naval force that might suddenly appear from Italy. While Clark focused more on what was actually happening on the ground, Eisenhower himself had continued to deal with the potential danger from political fronts, particularly Spain, for any word that the dictator Franco was reacting to news of the invasion of North Africa with some kind of blusterous outrage, political noise that could justify bringing Hitler’s troops into his country, troops whose first goal might be Gibraltar.