The Rising Tide

by Jeff Shaara

  And now, there was Giraud.

  Clark looked at his watch, thought, it’s dark outside. You’d never know it in here. There was commotion in the corridor, Butcher’s jovial face at the door.

  “Skipper, we got a cable from London. General Brooke has sent confirmation that the Chiefs of Staff believe it is now an appropriate time to give news of the operation to Monsieur de Gaulle. I’d love to be there for that one. Sir.”

  Eisenhower nodded, said to Clark, “Giraud hates de Gaulle. Says he had too much of an ego. Pot calling the kettle black, I’d say.”

  Butcher said, “There’s more, sir. Reports picked up from Vichy say that Admiral Darlan is in Algiers, directing the defense.”

  Eisenhower sat up straight, seemed to come awake. “Darlan’s in Algiers?”

  Clark was surprised by Eisenhower’s reaction. “It’s all bull, Ike. There’s no defense to direct. What else did they say, Harry? They throwing us back into the sea? It’s just propaganda, Ike.”

  Eisenhower stood, seemed energized now. “It’s more than that, Wayne. Harry, get a cable out to General Ryder, and to Murphy. Find Darlan. Vichy’s number two man could be a hell of a plum, if we can grab him. Wayne, get down there first thing in the morning. Find Major Tibbets, use the Red Gremlin. First things first. We’ll give Giraud time to strut around, have his show. The first priority is to get the shooting stopped. Like it or not, we could use the French beside us, and not in our gunsights. As soon as we can get command and communication posts established, once the bases are secure, and the supplies are flowing, the Brits can start moving toward Tunis.” Eisenhower stopped, smiled. “Darlan’s just the icing on the cake.”

  ALGIERS, ALGERIA—NOVEMBER 9, 1942

  The weather had closed in on Gibraltar, and though Giraud’s flight had managed to slip out under the dense cloud cover, Clark’s flight had delayed. Finally, after hours of boiling impatience, Clark had boarded the plane, the B-17 skimming across the Mediterranean surrounded by a flock of Spitfires, a protective escort against an enemy who did not appear. By the time the Red Gremlin touched down at Maison Blanche airfield, Clark’s curiosity had grown as fierce as his lack of patience. If Giraud had accomplished his mission, the fighting might already be over.

  M ajor General Charles “Doc” Ryder was in command of the Eastern Task Force, the man responsible for leading the assault that had produced the quickest success thus far, the capture of Algiers. Ryder had graduated West Point the same year as Eisenhower, had earned his second general’s star only that June, after taking command of the Thirty-fourth Infantry Division. Ryder understood that once Algiers was secure, his command would be handed over to British general Kenneth Anderson, who would then lead the push toward Tunisia. It was one of those necessary cosmetic touches, American generals leading the assaults, convincing the French that Torch was an American operation. Ryder not only accepted his temporary command, he had been one of Eisenhower’s most valued aides, helping to plan this part of the overall assault. Until Anderson assumed command, Ryder was the most senior Allied soldier in Algiers, the man to whom any French officials would have to report. Clark knew that Ryder was an excellent soldier and, like most fighting generals, had little patience for politicians.

  Clark slapped him on the arm, and Ryder said, “Damned glad you’re here, Wayne. No time for this bull. I got French politicians crawling on me like ants.”

  “Ike says it’s in my hands until he gets down here.” Clark put a hand down to his side, tapped at an imaginary holster. “I’m guessing they’ll fall into line. Giraud thinks I’m a lunatic anyway. We’re all a bunch of cowboys to these people. Shoot first, diplomacy later.”

  “Giraud? So, you haven’t heard?”

  Clark saw the annoyance on Ryder’s face. “Heard what?”

  “Well, as soon as he stepped off his plane here, he started telling me how he was the commander in chief of the French army and had control over all civilian activities. I knew that Ike had given him all sorts of authority, so, I put him in front of a radio transmitter, and he makes these announcements, telling the French garrisons to cease fire, that we’re all on the same side. Sounded pretty good to me.”

  “That’s what he was supposed to do.”

  “Except, nobody paid any attention to him. Nobody. I don’t know who this guy thought he was, but every French official I talked to said he had no authority here, and they had no intention of following his orders. Didn’t really matter anyway, at least not around Algiers. The shooting’s over. But pretty quick he skedaddled out of here. My people say he’s hiding out, that he’s got some friends who put him up in some villa near here. I’m not sure he’s in any danger, unless somebody tries to ignore him to death.”

  C lark’s staff had arrived on a second B-17, the Boomerang, and Clark had set up a makeshift headquarters at the Hotel St. George in Algiers. The only sounds of a fight came from German bombers, small waves of Junkers, making the trip from bases in Sicily, most of them less concerned with dropping bombs than making firsthand observations of just what was happening in Algiers. If there was confusion and uncertainty among German commanders across the Mediterranean, it only emphasized the value of a plan Clark had proposed weeks ago, while he was still in London. The Germans maintained offices in Casablanca, Oran, and Algiers, staffed by officers whose credentials stated they were part of the German Armistice Commission. It was a poor disguise for men whose duties included close observation of French officials, making sure no one was plotting anything that might upset German and Vichy control. It was one wolf watching the other. When Clark received intelligence reports on the activities of these Germans, he was convinced that, as the Torch landings were rolling ashore, assassination squads should be prepared to target the Germans. At the very least, it might delay word of what was happening on the beaches from reaching Berlin. At best, it could disrupt enemy communication and supply coordination all through this theater of the war. But the idea was dismissed in London, described as too uncivilized. Clark had been astounded that killing rear-echelon officers was considered an affront to the rules of war, the same rules that Hitler had tossed out the window in 1939. Whether or not the plan would have accomplished its goal, Clark could only wonder at the German bombers flying high overhead, if they were observing for themselves or simply confirming reports sent from carefully hidden German agents all through the battle zones.

  With his staff in place, the office began to function, updated reports relayed back to Gibraltar. The dispatches had continued to flow in, passed on to Eisenhower, word mostly of the ongoing fights around both Casablanca and Oran. With the comic absurdity of Giraud pushed out of his mind, Clark now confronted the same challenge Giraud was supposed to have prevented. Those French commanders who had sided with the Americans were facing challenges of their own, some of them arrested by their own officers, or senior commanders in overlapping commands. No matter the continuing firefights that ringed two of the three primary targets, Clark’s first priority now was to find a French official who was actually in charge of something, who could give the order to the men in the field that might actually be obeyed. The man’s name kept rolling through Clark’s brain, Darlan, the man no one trusted, the man whose loyalties were said to rest squarely on the Vichy shoulders of Marshal Henri Pétain in Paris. One of the first visitors to Clark’s headquarters had been Robert Murphy. The diplomat brought word that not only was Pétain’s most trusted deputy actually in Algiers, but that Murphy had been in contact with him. With Eisenhower’s second-in-command now on French African soil, Admiral Jean Darlan sent word through Murphy that he wanted to talk.

  ALGIERS—NOVEMBER 10, 1942

  They met in a small room off the lobby of the Hotel St. George, and on Clark’s orders the hotel entryways were now guarded by a platoon of American soldiers. The French had reacted nervously to the presence of so many rifles, but assurances had been passed from Clark, through Murphy, that it was simply for the protective custody of Admiral Darlan. Clark wo
ndered if anyone confused that bit of nonsense with the reality. Regardless of what happened at the meeting, afterward no one was going anywhere without Clark’s permission.

  Darlan was a surprise, bore no resemblance to the tall, lean arrogance of either Giraud or de Gaulle. He was in fact quite short, fidgeted nervously, constantly swiping at beads of sweat on his bald head. He stared up at Clark with watery blue eyes, a soft frown on a round, pudgy face, seemed to flinch at Clark’s every move.

  The room was too small for the number of officials who filled it, French officers from every branch of their military, along with civilian ministers whose names Clark had already forgotten. Clark had his own people as well, Murphy, who had arranged the meeting, who seemed as nervous as Darlan, others, including Colonel Holmes, the interpreter.

  Clark had moved behind a small table, stood a head taller than any other man in the room. Darlan had placed himself in front of the others, a show of authority the French officers and civilians had clearly accepted. Clark knew that Murphy had already presented paperwork to the Frenchman, details of an armistice, a carefully worded arrangement designed to stop the fighting. The document offered assurances that the French were considered to be allies of both the Americans and the British and were welcomed as a capable partner in the fight yet to be waged to push the Germans out of Africa. Clark looked squarely at Darlan, who seemed to lean backward under the American’s glare.

  “We have work to do to meet the common enemy. Are you ready to sign the terms of the armistice? It will cover all French Africa. It is essential that we stop this waste of time and blood.”

  Darlan looked away, seemed to struggle with words. “I have sent your terms to Vichy. There will be no reply until the Council of Ministers meets this afternoon.”

  Vichy. Clark clenched his fists, looked at Murphy, who shook his head, some kind of helpless apology. Clark thought, dammit, you’re the diplomat! What are we supposed to do now? Wait for some meeting in France that might not even take place? He leaned forward, closer to Darlan, who flinched yet again.

  “I do not propose to wait for any word from Vichy.”

  “General Clark, I want to see hostilities stopped as soon as possible. But I have been given strict orders by Marshal Pétain to enter into no negotiations until his instructions are received. My associates and I do understand that further hostilities are fruitless. But I can only obey the orders of Pétain.”

  Clark stood up straight, folded his arms across his chest. “Then I will end these negotiations and deal with someone who can act. You have thirty minutes to decide.”

  It was a toothless demand. He held his pose, thought, who else can I talk to? Darlan knows there is no one who has more authority here. Clark glanced at Murphy again, saw wide eyes, stared hard at the diplomat, a silent order, say nothing.

  Darlan seemed gripped in hand-wringing anguish and, after a long moment, said, “I urged acceptance of your terms. I am confident that Pétain will agree. We must allow them time to consider the matter.”

  “We cannot stand here while government ministers debate. If you will not issue instructions for the cessation of hostilities, I will go to General Giraud. He will sign the terms and the necessary orders.”

  Clark knew he had gone too far. Darlan looked at him, the milky eyes closing into slits. He shook his head. “I am certain that the troops will not obey General Giraud. This can only mean the loss of more time, and there will be more fighting.”

  Clark looked at Murphy again, the man seeming to stagger from the glare. What now? Dammit, I am no good at this! There was a low murmur from the men behind Darlan, and Clark felt vulnerable, as though his authority was slipping away. He rolled his hand into a fist, leaned forward again, struck down hard at the table. The men jumped, surprised, and Darlan took a step back, the fear returning to his face. Clark let the words come now, as he had with Giraud, no diplomacy, no tact.

  “If the admiral is so sure of the decision from Vichy, why can’t you issue the cease-fire order now?”

  “I can’t assume such responsibility—”

  “Your delay means that more Frenchmen, more Americans, and more Britons will die. I presume you know that Oran is nearly in our hands. All Frenchmen and all Americans have the same interests at heart, and here we are fighting among ourselves, wasting time. I know that the admiral wants to stop the fighting between our troops. We will get your signature on the order for the cessation of hostilities right now, or you will bear the cost of a new responsibility. We have a hundred fifty thousand troops on the ground in North Africa, and right now, they are killing Frenchmen. And yet, we have the means of equipping those same French soldiers, bringing them into our fight, our common struggle, and making North Africa a base from which we can launch operations into France itself. How anybody who holds honor and loyalty to France in such high personal regard…how anyone like that can fail to join us in an operation that can mean the liberation of France…is beyond my understanding.”

  Darlan seemed ready to cry, and Clark pounded the table again, tried to ignore the pain in his hand.

  Darlan sagged. “I cannot act, General, until I receive authority from Pétain.”

  “By the time that authority arrives here, if it ever arrives here, we might not need the armistice. Talk to your generals. Ask them how much longer they wish to watch their men die. Ask them how much longer Oran can hold out. How many French ships have been sunk? How many cannon destroyed?”

  Darlan wiped his brow again, said in a low voice, “Perhaps you will allow me to discuss this with my staff. I ask five minutes.”

  C lark moved back into the crowded room, all talk growing silent. He resumed his position behind the table, Darlan standing across from him.

  Darlan put a piece of paper in front of Clark. “If you will sign this document, General, this will confirm that the Americans have not accepted our refusal to declare an immediate armistice.”

  Clark fought through the jumbled meaning of Darlan’s words, looked at Murphy, who said, “May I examine this, sir?”

  “Damned right.”

  Murphy picked up the paper, read, looked at Clark. “Admiral Darlan is stating that further battle is futile, and that since Marshal Pétain would certainly agree that the loss of French North Africa would be a catastrophe to French honor and national interests, Admiral Darlan proposes that hostilities cease, and that French forces here assume a posture of complete neutrality.”

  Clark saw a slight smile on Murphy’s face, felt a hard weight pressing down on him, the dreariness of trying to comprehend the twists and turns of diplomatic posturing. Murphy handed him the paper, said nothing, would reveal no sign of acceptance to Darlan. Clark saw no satisfaction on Darlan’s soft face, just the same tearful passivity. He saw through it now, realized that Darlan was far more clever than Giraud. There was no pomposity in the man, just the ingratiating humility, the perfect walk down the tightrope. Of course, he thought, how else do you survive dealing with Nazis? Clark pondered the word on the paper, neutrality. He wanted to ask Murphy about that, but the questions could wait for later. At worst, it means that French soldiers can choose for themselves which way they want to go. It’s a convenient way for Darlan to pass any responsibility to his subordinates, and so, Darlan cannot be labeled a traitor. It doesn’t matter, not now. The mission here is to get the shooting to stop.

  Clark leaned forward again, said to Darlan, “I want a clear and specific order to all French naval, air, and ground forces to cease hostilities immediately. All units will be returned to their bases, where they will stand down. I want it in your handwriting, signed by you.”

  Darlan nodded. “And what will you do with General Giraud?”

  Clark was surprised by the question, saw Murphy lower his head. Of course, Clark thought: a diplomat’s nightmare. We’re dealing with two kingpins. It is the final question, the issue that has far more weight with these people than whether their troops are dying in the field. Whose cream rises to the top?

/>   “It is of the utmost importance that you and General Giraud reach a working agreement. The Allied governments have granted General Giraud the position as commander in chief of the French forces here, as well as civilian authority.”

  “The army is with me. They will not obey him.”

  “Then, Admiral, you must see that they do.”

  I n response to Darlan’s request that Marshal Pétain authorize the signing of the armistice documents, Pétain instead issued an order relieving Admiral Darlan of his command. The chaos of French politics quickly spread through the headquarters of the various French commands across North Africa, some officers obeying Darlan’s cease-fire order, others responding more to Pétain, keeping their troops in the field, opposing the steady advance of the Americans. Clark could do little, yet the question nagged at him, as he knew it would frustrate Eisenhower: How could any Frenchman, especially an old war hero like Henri Pétain, collaborate so completely with German interests? Clark had no doubts that in Pétain’s office, his order to remove Darlan had been dictated by men in black uniforms, Hitler’s watchdogs, who manipulated the old man’s fragile strings.

  Clark understood that this was a political snake pit that might only be solved when the last firefight had grown silent.

  13. LOGAN

  LA SÉNIA AIRFIELD, ALGERIA—