The Rising Tide

by Jeff Shaara

  Eisenhower scanned the faces, then looked at Clark. “Do you?”

  Clark shrugged, an unusual response, and Eisenhower saw weariness, Clark glancing toward Patton as though he expected some comment.

  Patton said, “Never happen, Ike. It’s a mess up there. We need our people in place, with all the armor we can give them. We have too damned many people sitting on their butts in Casablanca, when they could be up there lending a hand.”

  Eisenhower pushed at his plate again, thought, not now, George. This isn’t the time.

  “Thank you for dining with me, gentlemen. I appreciate your reports. We all know what has to happen here, and I expect each of you to tackle your objectives. If you will excuse me, I have work to do. George, you mind staying awhile?”

  The others stood, and Eisenhower could feel relief in the air, the usual response when Patton had rolled over them with the energy designed to blister someone.

  Clark stood beside Eisenhower, said, “Should I stay?”

  “Not right now. Give me a while. I’ll call you if something comes up.”

  Patton sat back in his chair, pulled out a cigar, rolled it between his fingers. Eisenhower waited for the last man to leave.

  The two men were alone now, and Eisenhower caught the aroma of Patton’s cigar, the blue smoke rolling out across the table. Eisenhower stood, moved toward the fireplace, the villa’s only bit of luxury.

  “Olive wood, I think. Hard as hell, burns okay. Smells good too.”

  “What is it, Ike? Orders?”

  Eisenhower suspected that Patton had been unhappy about Clark’s new assignment, had been just indiscreet enough that Eisenhower knew Patton was pressing for the job himself. Clark was now commander of the new Fifth Army, a force building from units now in North Africa, as well as the increasing number of troops arriving from the States. The Fifth would not be involved in the fight for Tunisia, would spend their time and energies in training for future operations, which might include an eventual invasion of the European mainland. In the meantime, they would provide security in the area around Spanish Morocco, in the event the Germans suddenly pushed troops down through Spain.

  Patton seemed to be reading him, and Eisenhower said, “The Fifth needed an administrator, George. Someone to organize, to train. Wayne’s the best we have at that sort of thing.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I wish…when you decide to launch an artillery barrage on our allies, you do it outside of their company.”

  “Don’t know what you mean.”

  “The hell you don’t. Dammit, George, it does no good to attack the British, when my every effort is spent in trying to work alongside them. Anderson is doing a decent job out there, given what he has to work with. He knows what kind of shape his army is in, and he knows that he needs us to strengthen his flank. It’s not politics, it’s tactics. And I don’t need you letting everyone know how unhappy you are with my decisions.”

  Patton seemed genuinely confused. “What the hell are you talking about? I never—”

  “Your men are sitting on their butts in Casablanca because until we had this French mess sorted out, that’s where I wanted them to sit. Your man Noguès over there, he’s a loose cannon. I don’t trust him. Even Darlan doesn’t trust him.”

  “Yep. He’s a crook, for certain. Don’t think he’s a Nazi though. He respects power, will go with whoever the winner seems to be. Took him a little while to understand that our tank barrels were pointing right up his keister.”

  “Which is why I kept you in Casablanca. We can’t invade the place, then say, ‘Oh, well, thank you, now we’re off on our next job. You boys be good now.’”

  Patton chuckled, nodded. “I was just letting off steam, Ike. You know how much I hate sitting in one spot. There’s fighting to be had, and it’s east of here. I just want to get in before it’s over.”

  “It’s a long way from over, George. I’m creating a Second Corps, with infantry, and the First Armored Division. They’ll move as quickly as conditions allow and take up position on Anderson’s right. Whether we can have them in line by Christmas Eve—”

  “We won’t. It’ll take more than good weather to push all those supplies out there. Give me the word, and I’ll have those trucks moving as quick as they’ll go. We’ll burn up some gearboxes—”

  “It’s not your command, George.”

  Patton froze, the cigar between his fingers, his hand shaking slightly. “What do you mean?”

  “The Second Corps will be commanded by Lloyd Fredenhall. Next to you, he’s the best man for the job.”

  Patton seemed to sputter, stood up, tossed the cigar into the fire. He spun around, stared hard at Eisenhower.

  “Next to me?”

  “George, this war won’t stop when we’re done in Tunisia. The Joint Chiefs are pushing me to look ahead, start work on the next operation. We’re talking about Sicily first. Then Italy, maybe. The French keep screaming at us to invade southern France, but that’s not in the cards. George, I need you to get involved in planning for an invasion of Sicily. Once the Germans are pushed out of North Africa, we have to move quickly.”

  “Sicily? When? What kind of timetable?”

  “Summer. Six months. We put Torch together quicker than that, so I’m giving you more time than you probably need. Alexander will be in command of the ground troops, you’ll head up our part of the operation.”

  Patton seemed stunned, put his hand into a pocket, seemed to search for something, another cigar, but the hand came out empty.

  “Ike, I had hoped to get into this damned fight quicker than that. I can make a hell of a lot of difference in Tunisia.”

  “We have those pieces in place, George. Once the weather gives us a break, we’ll be ready to give the Krauts a pretty good pounding. With Monty on the far side, the enemy’s caught in a vise. No matter how strong the Krauts make Tunisia, they can’t hold out forever. And if somehow they keep us out of there, we still have to look for the next plan. We won’t win the whole war in Tunisia, but we won’t lose it either.”

  “Six months. Jesus, Ike.”

  “I don’t want to hear it, George, you’ve got plenty of work to do. And, by the way, I know you’re itching for something else too, so I’ll scratch it. You’re getting your third star. That make you feel better?”

  Patton nodded, stared down toward Eisenhower’s feet. “Thanks, Ike.”

  He could see that Patton was crushed, that even with the promotion, Patton was more subdued than he had ever before seen him. He had nothing else to say to Patton, had thought the promotion would be tonic enough, thought, dammit, he already knows he’s the best we’ve got. He doesn’t have to hear it from me every time he gets the mopes. Patton looked at him now, seemed to pull himself together.

  “Anything else, Ike?”

  “You think I should go up front, see Anderson myself?”

  Patton stiffened, and Eisenhower saw a flicker of fire in the man’s eyes.

  “You want to lead these people, Ike, you better get the hell out of this cozy mansion and see what they’re doing. Their damned headquarters is a hundred miles from the front lines. That’s ninety-five miles too far. Fredenhall? You better kick him in the ass a few times before you send him up there. Man seems half-asleep every time I talk to him. The paratroopers, Raff’s bunch. Give them some medals. They’re out there with a bunch of French hoboes holding the Krauts off the entire southern flank. Better yet, give them some tanks. And real tanks too, not those pissy little Stuarts. For chrissakes, Ike, stop giving all our Shermans to the Brits. Let our boys have a chance at some real firepower…”

  Patton rambled on, and Eisenhower moved toward the fire, stared down, smiled, let the flow of hot words fill the room.

  SOUK EL KHEMIS, WESTERN TUNISIA—DECEMBER 23, 1942

  They traveled in a four-vehicle caravan, Eisenhower’s armored Cadillac and one large Packard, led by a machine-gun-bearing jeep, one more following behind. The roads were a slick m
ire, the rain never ending, the men in the jeep suffering from the misery of the weather, as well as the burden of responsibility for protecting the Allied commander in chief. The threat was from above, the constant danger from German aircraft. It was one great disadvantage of the routes that led to the Tunisian front. There was only one usable railway line, and few roads, so that any Luftwaffe commander could guide his planes to the same places they had bombed before, and could expect to find targets again.

  They passed by camps, scattered tents, disguised by brush piles, pitched under shattered donkey carts, dug into muddy hillsides. There were farmhouses as well, many of them destroyed, those still standing a certain target for the dive-bombers, a death trap for anyone who sought a little dry comfort. They passed men and equipment as well, grumbling sergeants and military policemen, who battled with words and tempers, fighting to keep the flow of supplies and men moving forward. There were tanks as well, the M-3 Stuarts mostly, machines that made the generals nervous, reports having come frequently from Montgomery’s army that German tanks could roll right through the fire from the Stuart’s small cannon. But on the road into Tunisia, the tanks Eisenhower passed by were American, part of the First Armored Division’s Combat Team B, men who had come ashore at Oran, who had punched the French resistance away, who’d swept the city clear for the infantry. The tank drivers kept their machines out to the side of the road, so their steel treads wouldn’t obliterate the roadbeds altogether. They drove instead alongside the caravan, churning the deep mud, tossing back high wakes of brown spray. Eisenhower watched them as he passed, men who smiled, who stood tall in the tank turrets and saluted, word passing by wireless radio that someone big was moving up with them. He waved, wondered if they knew anything of the enemy they were going after, if they questioned the power of these machines that carried them once more toward the war.

  “I have analyzed our situation to great extent. I have ordered various rehearsals of our proposed advance by experimenting with different types of machinery, trucks, tanks, armored vehicles of every kind we have at hand. I tested them all to see which ones were best suited to the conditions in which we find ourselves. They were consistent in one key regard. None of them worked.”

  Kenneth Anderson was a rugged, compact man, thick chested, with a face that never broke a smile. He seemed perfectly at home in the sea of mud. Eisenhower had not expected so much gloom from the man, waited for some sign that Anderson’s plan still included an attack on the enemy.

  Anderson continued, “I have spoken to many of the local farm people around here, French mostly. They say the rainy season extends into February. I had thought that wouldn’t hold us back, but then…it is damned well going to hold us back. Unless you can have the American armor brought forward at a more rapid pace, and unless I can begin to receive double the supply caravans now reaching this area, double the ordnance, double the petrol, I am convinced that no attack should begin for at least six weeks.”

  Eisenhower paced the small room, the headquarters of the British Fifth Corps. There were radios to one side, a cluster of men gathered in what seemed to be a large closet. Noise spilled from the room, a sudden burst of swearing coming across the communication line. Anderson moved that way, pulled the door closed, said, “My apologies, sir. I try to maintain some decorum on the communication lines, but too many of these men have fought the greater part of their war against the sludge at their feet. I suspect they’ll feel better when they face a human enemy. Assuming, of course, you believe the Huns are human.”

  It was Anderson’s notion of a joke, no one laughing.

  Eisenhower stood with his hands on his hips, said, “Don’t waste your efforts trying to keep your men from being pissed off. Hell, everybody’s pissed off. I’m pissed off. I expected a fight up here, I expected to be in Tunis by now.”

  Anderson seemed to bristle. “Sir, we have done all that was possible.”

  Eisenhower held his hand up. “Never mind. I’m not attacking you, General. My decorum is suffering too.” He moved toward one wall, stared at a large map of Tunisia. “I had hoped that by now your people would be closing in on the ports, keeping the Germans pinched against the seashore. The enemy in front of you is still concentrated in the mountain passes and defensive positions close to the sea, right?”

  “Mostly, yes.”

  “Rommel’s people are still in the south, at Mareth, right?”

  “Quite.”

  “That leaves a hefty gap between them. We need to cut those roads, keep them split apart. I had hoped that by now, we could be pushing an American armored column to the sea, to cut the German supply lines to Rommel, cut the whole damned country in half. I want a spear driven right through Tunisia, aimed…here. These coastal towns, Sousse or Sfax. Maybe Gabès. Do we know how well positioned Rommel is in that area?”

  “Not completely. Monty has only reported that there is no enemy directly in his front.”

  “I’ve seen Monty’s reports. It would be convenient to our purposes if General Montgomery pressed Rommel a little harder, keeping a clear eye on what kind of shape Rommel’s in, where he’s digging in. Make sense to you?”

  “Quite, sir.”

  There was sarcasm even in Anderson’s response. It was Anderson’s way, an air of superiority that Eisenhower had already experienced. He had no energy for anyone’s snottiness, not now, not after so much disappointment, not after so much good planning had come apart in the rain. He stared at the map.

  “Your people need to continue to strengthen their positions and support the French to your right flank.”

  “Unfortunately, sir, the French require more than our support. They seem game enough, but should the Hun direct his attack into their portion of the line, there isn’t much the French can do to stop it.”

  “My plan, General, has always been to support them with American units. It makes sense politically, since you and I both know that the French have some…discomfort taking orders from you. One more thing. Up until now, we’ve been piecemealing our troops among the British units, which, until we got organized, couldn’t be helped. Speed was the priority, and putting fighting men on the line took precedence over everything else. But we have to move past that now, create an organized front, and I think coordination is best served by separating the units, putting American soldiers into American commands, giving them their own part of the line.”

  “I quite agree, sir.”

  Eisenhower was surprised that Anderson had no objection, had expected the man to fight for every soldier he could add to his section of the line.

  “Well, good. Glad to hear it. General Fredenhall will command the American Second Corps.”

  “Yes, sir. I have made his acquaintance.”

  Eisenhower stared at the map again. “I can’t stomach a six-week delay, General. Is there any way you can push your people forward slowly, shelling positions to their front as they go? Infantry could move with some stealth in these conditions, and once enemy positions are captured, armor can come up to hold the place. Then, do it again, like a damned game of leapfrog.”

  “I quite agree, sir. It would have to be methodical, but it could be done. But unless the French to our right move with us, our flank would be exposed. We could open ourselves up to some vulnerability there.”

  “Yes, I know. We can’t just ignore the weakness there. Well, the whole damned First Armored Division is headed up here. We can position them where we can make good use of the French and not just order them into a meat grinder.” Eisenhower turned, saw Butcher sitting in a corner, the man’s raincoat glistening in the dull light.

  “Let’s mount up, Harry. I want to get to the French position, have a talk with General Juin. Wake up the drivers.” Eisenhower looked toward Anderson again. “How do you get along with Juin?”

  “Splendidly, sir. Decent sort of chap. His men, however, won’t obey British orders.”

  “That’s why we’re getting our people up here as quick as we can. They’ll listen to Freden
hall.”

  “What of Giraud, sir?”

  The name stuck in Eisenhower’s gut like a cold, dull knife. “He’s in overall command of the French troops throughout North Africa. He answers to Darlan, and I’m told that the French soldiers actually respect him. Most of them, anyway.”

  Anderson seemed surprised by Eisenhower’s show of diplomacy. “I’m told, sir, that your headquarters received a rather touchy demand from him only this week. I don’t wish to intrude where my authority does not extend—”

  “Giraud sent me a note, insisted he be given command of the entire military operation in Tunisia. Have you received any orders from him?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “And you won’t. It’s just his way. He has to crow like a rooster, make sure we haven’t forgotten him, make a grand show once in a while to let his people know he’s putting France first. I’ve learned to put up with him, because I have to.” Eisenhower turned toward the door, saw Butcher standing in the opening, staring out into a blowing swirl of rain. “General Anderson, with God’s help, we’ll win this thing. But before we pray for anything else, let’s pray for some good weather.”

  FRENCH HEADQUARTERS, TUNISIA—DECEMBER 24, 1942

  “There is a call for you, General Eisenhower.”

  Eisenhower was surprised, looked at Juin, who stood, backed away from the table, made a short bow. “Right this way, General. Please use the telephone in my room. I shall allow you privacy.”

  Eisenhower followed, saw the telephone, the French general ordering people away. He waited for the door to close, picked up the receiver, heard the voice of Clark.

  “What is it, Wayne?”

  The words filled him, another piece of the absurd puzzle, a black comedy that never seemed to end. He put the phone down, moved out through the doorway, saw Juin, Butcher behind him, several French aides. They watched him silently, and he looked at Butcher, knew the man was reading him, knew that something important had happened.