by Jeff Shaara
Eisenhower knew that Casablanca could be vulnerable to German bombing raids, long-range planes at high altitude, virtually unstoppable unless you knew they were coming, and unstoppable completely if they came after dark. The Germans were fearless about night flying, something that the Americans had yet to master. It was a source of friction between men like Spaatz and Doolittle, and their British counterparts, Tedder in particular. The British had engaged in night bombing runs over Germany’s larger cities for some time now, striking deep into Hitler’s industrial centers. But the Americans had spent most of their training in daylight, and so their bombing raids were daylight as well, squadrons of B-17s absorbing horrific losses from German fighters and antiaircraft fire. It was one more detail, one more controversy Eisenhower had to listen to, one more difference in philosophy between allies who were still struggling to find common ground in every aspect of the war.
“You think we can keep to your plan, Skipper? Actually leave here tomorrow?”
“I’m counting on it. These meetings are much more about the participants than what’s really happening here. Stalin was invited, you know. Said he couldn’t make it. Got his hands full knocking hell out of the Krauts at Stalingrad. That could be huge, you know. Hitler hasn’t taken a beating like that, could take a lot of starch out of his entire military. I’d like to meet Stalin someday, see what he’s like.”
Butcher stared out, and Eisenhower saw men riding donkeys, women draped in long, cream-colored smocks, walking behind.
Butcher said, “Shoots hell out of everything I was taught as a kid.”
“What do you mean?”
“Joseph and Mary going to Bethlehem.”
Eisenhower was puzzled, waited for the joke. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Butcher still watched the Arabs, wasn’t smiling. “Well, you know, all those images of Joseph and Mary. There was one hanging in my church when I was a kid, more just like it in those Sunday-school books. They’re riding into Bethlehem, Joseph pulling the mule or the ox or whatever it was, Mary riding up on top. Very sweet, you know, the couple searching for the place to stay, ‘no room at the inn,’ all of that.”
“We’re a hell of a long way from Bethlehem.”
“Not really, Skipper. Same kind of place, same people. But one thing’s for sure. No man here walks while his wife rides on the donkey. If anyone rides, it’s the man, every time. Makes me wonder if Joseph made Mary eat dust, pregnant or not. You’d think maybe later on, Jesus would have had something to say about that.”
Eisenhower saw that Butcher was serious. “Keep that observation to yourself, Commander. I have enough gripes to contend with as it is. We didn’t come here to start another Crusade.”
“C ome in, General! Finally have some time alone. Excellent. Been looking forward to this for a while now!”
Eisenhower heard the door close behind him, Roosevelt sitting beside a fireplace, a blanket over his legs. Roosevelt turned the wheelchair slightly, pointed to a chair. “Sit! Get comfortable. No rank here, Ike. Let’s just have a chat.”
Eisenhower felt the energy from Roosevelt’s smile, the man’s enthusiasm filling the room, sweeping away Eisenhower’s exhaustion.
Roosevelt rolled himself closer to the chair, motioned again for Eisenhower to sit. “Fine dinner, eh? These people have gone too far. Magnificent hospitality. It’s to be expected of course. We’ve shown them some muscle. They respect that, you know. Always have, all throughout history. A lot of ‘eye for an eye’ hereabouts. The biggest gun gets the girl. All of that.”
Eisenhower sat, felt himself sinking into soft leather, the aching stiffness in his shoulders welcoming the comfort. He twisted slightly, eased the pressure on his back, realized that Roosevelt was watching his every move.
“Relax, General. You’ve earned it. Drink? They have some truly fine sherry here, or perhaps something with more of a punch?”
“No thank you, sir. There was a good deal to drink at dinner.”
“My critics will give me the devil about this when I get back home, you know. They’ll accuse me of taking a vacation in the middle of a war. The press won’t mind it too much. A president has to lead, and what better place than to come out here where the action is? Churchill will handle it better than I will, tell them all to go to hell. Of course, he’s been here before. I’ll speak to the people directly, tell them what a bang-up job our boys are doing here, how well they’re being led. I had to see it, you know. Had to. You can’t be commander in chief and rely on written reports. Enormous responsibility to our boys, sending them over here. I had better know what we’re doing firsthand. Churchill feels the same way. He likes to put his hand in a little deep, though. I know better. You’re the army. I’m just the figurehead.”
Eisenhower was overwhelmed, Roosevelt’s flow of words pushing him deep into the chair. He saw a smile, the president beaming at him.
“Forgive me for saying so, sir, but you seem to be in exceptionally fine spirits.”
“I am! I don’t realize how important it is for me to get out of Washington until I do it. Like crawling out of a cave, escaping a dungeon filled with jabbering crows. Forgive me, General, but this is quite the adventure! This is what makes being president worthwhile. History is being made here, books will be written about what happens here! Just coming here, all that secrecy, all the intrigue…cloak-and-dagger stuff. How does it feel, General? What must it be like to be the victor, sweeping into the enemy’s strongholds, knowing your army has conquered its foe? A man needs to wear a uniform to feel the impact of that. No politician can know.”
Eisenhower was concerned now. “Sir, I do not feel we are conquerors. Certainly the French would not appreciate that description. They have a great deal of sensitivity on that subject. We must consider them our allies.”
Roosevelt nodded. “Yes, yes. I understand. I get somewhat…enthusiastic about this. I would not insult the French. What do you think of Giraud, or de Gaulle? Can we work with these people?”
“We already have, to some degree. Giraud, certainly.”
Roosevelt waited for more, smiled now. “Nothing to say about de Gaulle, eh? All right then, be discreet if you must. I can’t stand the man. He’s like the ruffian at an elegant dinner. Everyone tries to ignore him, but he bullies his way into every corner of the room. He’ll end up in charge too. I just know it.”
“The army seems to prefer Giraud now.”
“De Gaulle doesn’t care about the French army, General. He wants the country. He wants to be head of state. From what I’ve heard of Giraud, he’s perfectly happy commanding the French military. It’s the compromise those people will need. Giraud keeps his place, de Gaulle takes over in Paris. And, I’ll have to be so damned polite to him. Galling.” Roosevelt winked. “Good pun, eh? Now I know where it comes from.”
Eisenhower shifted in his chair. “Sir, I’m concerned that we not lose our grasp of the present. Paris is not in our plans right now. There is a considerable challenge in front of us in Tunisia. We have not fared as well as I had hoped. Our planning was not always perfect, we could not allow for every contingency. But there is much to discuss—”
“Yes, yes. You’re right of course. Understand, Ike, I leave those details to you and to General Marshall. You may have that conversation with him, contingencies and whatnot. I have to look beyond, to what will follow. Nations will be created, new governments. Look back at the first Great War. The entire map of Europe changed. My job is to deal with those kinds of changes, help them along in the proper direction. I have no doubt that your goals will be met, and I must say, General, your burden would be less heavy if you were not so pessimistic. I had hoped you would still be enthusiastic about our strategy for a cross-channel invasion. Is not Paris still your ultimate goal?”
“Well, yes, certainly.”
“Then don’t lose focus on that! These operations here are the first strokes, testing the water, putting our people into battle to harden them. Our factories are work
ing at full tilt, our people are entirely behind our efforts here. But success will come not just by strength alone. Success will come because history demands it. I will not entertain the notion that Adolf Hitler’s vision of the world can ever prevail, that one evil man can erase thousands of years of the evolution of civilized society. You do what you must do, General. Your campaigns for the new year might indeed be difficult. But you will prevail. We will prevail. It cannot be any other way!”
H e had managed to escape the Casablanca conferences as he had planned, after only one day. But the meetings had become far more than an exercise for the benefit of politicians. Eisenhower had spent considerable time with Harold Alexander, the British commander who ruled over Montgomery’s army, who held tightly to the territory that had been taken away from Rommel. Alexander was now to become the overall commander of all ground troops in the Mediterranean theater, which would include not only Montgomery’s Eighth Army, but of course, Anderson, Patton, and Clark as well. In addition, the planning for the invasion of Sicily was taking shape, projections of a summer campaign there based on the assumption that the fight in Tunisia would be won. Alexander would command the ground troops that would go into Sicily, two primary wings, one British and one American. At the headquarters of the combined chiefs of staff in London, the maps were being drawn, the numbers worked out for that operation, the planners from both countries hammering out broad details. No matter how much energy was directed toward a future operation, Eisenhower had no choice but to stay in the present and look squarely at the map of Tunisia.
ALGIERS—JANUARY 23, 1943
Marshall stared at the map, pointed to the red line that stretched across the southern part of Tunisia.
“You’ve ordered the change?”
“Yep.”
“Alexander pretty certain? We thought Rommel might do an about-face, hit back at Montgomery pretty hard. Didn’t think he’d give up Tripoli without more of a fight.”
Eisenhower waited, and Marshall turned to face him.
Eisenhower said, “Tripoli doesn’t matter to Rommel. He cares first about his tanks. He’s not going to risk his strength fighting for a place he can’t hope to keep. I hoped he would have dragged his feet a bit more. I truly thought we would have the time to cut Tunisia in half.” He thought of Marshall’s question now. “There was no choice but to kill the original plan. Rommel is dug in south of Gabès, and he’s too close to Sfax for us to consider a quick push across. We could be caught in the open, cut to pieces. I’ve ordered Anderson to put Fredenhall in a defensive posture for now.”
Marshall sat, thought a moment. “You comfortable with Fredenhall?”
Eisenhower moved to the map, stared at the network of lines, numbers, Fredenhall’s position.
“Good man. Handled himself well at Oran.” He smiled. “Patton wanted that job, of course. Not sure he would have been the man.”
“Hell, Ike, Patton wants every job. Yours, mine. He’d take over the navy if someone told him to.” Marshall paused. “You need to keep a rein on him. We’re going to need him on the battlefield before this is over. I hear too much grumbling from his people, grapevine stuff. He’s a world-champion bellyacher if you give him the room. We can’t afford to be pissing off the Brits. How’s he handling things in Casablanca?”
Eisenhower turned, shrugged. “Pretty damned good job. I give him credit for not pounding his victory into the faces of the French. Shows them respect, gives them their due. You’re right though. He’s chomping at the bit.”
“How’s he handling the command structure? He get along with Alexander?”
Eisenhower smiled, but the humor faded quickly. The command structure throughout the entire Mediterranean had been formalized, had been the one direct benefit to him from the Casablanca conference. As far as he could guess, it was the real reason Marshall had come to see him in Algiers. Eisenhower was now formally in command of the entire theater, assisted by three top deputies, all of them British. Alongside Alexander, Arthur Tedder headed up the combined air forces, and Andrew Cunningham controlled the navies. A fourth part of the command, the French, seemed content to serve under Giraud, who also accepted his role as Eisenhower’s subordinate. The grumbling Marshall referred to had come from lower-echelon officers, Americans mostly, who saw the British domination of the command structure as some sort of insult, making a British show out of an effort that might become mostly American. Eisenhower had done all he could to stifle that kind of griping, but Marshall was right. The man most capable of beating a barrel with complaints was George Patton.
Eisenhower said, “Patton will get along with anybody I tell him to. He knows how to follow orders.”
“Good. This is a hell of a thing, Ike. Two countries, one army. Hell, three countries, if you count the French. Far as I know, nobody’s ever done this before. So, how are you handling it?”
Eisenhower walked toward the tall window, stared out, chose his words.
“Good men, every one of them. Couldn’t have picked anyone better myself. They show me proper respect, no one parading his medals. So far, I don’t see any real problems.”
Marshall stood, moved to the window beside him. “Except what?”
Eisenhower was embarrassed now, had hoped he wasn’t so transparent. But Marshall had known him for too many years, and Eisenhower felt suddenly as if he were under the gaze of a stern parent.
“Well, I wasn’t going to mention this. Figured it would work out in time.”
“What?”
“I was wondering if there were any plans to promote me to full general. Since I still only have three stars, every senior commander who answers to me…outranks me.”
Marshall laughed. “See? You should be making more noise. You might have had your fourth star by now. Don’t worry about it. The Brits don’t care. Things will straighten out with that soon enough.”
Marshall moved away from the window, sat again, and Eisenhower stared out toward the hillside, olive trees and white villas. Wonder if I’ll ever come back here? Bring Mamie, an actual vacation. Seems like a damned pleasant place, when there’s not a war on. Marshall cleared his throat, and Eisenhower turned, saw the older man staring into his hands.
Marshall seemed to hesitate, then said, “You’re being mighty careful, Ike. Monty was driving Rommel pretty hard. Everything I heard told me that Rommel was beating a hard retreat. You think so much caution is called for?”
It was a dangerous question, and Eisenhower studied Marshall’s face, stern, unyielding, no hint of a smile.
“To Montgomery, sure, it’s a retreat. He drove Rommel right into our shaky defenses. Rommel seems to be digging in, but who the hell knows what he’ll do next? We’ve observed columns of reinforcements beefing up his position at Mareth, new tanks, guns. And, besides Rommel, the enemy is far stronger in the north than we thought he would be. The French have shown time and again that they can’t hold the center. Our armor is having to spread itself thin to give them enough support so they don’t let the enemy cut us in two. The Germans must know how weak we are there. In the south, Fredenhall is pulling people into line as quickly as we can send them up there, doing what he can to block every pass, defend against any route Rommel might decide to use. We can’t assume that he’s going to simply stay put. He is still Rommel. It would have been damned convenient if Monty had actually caught him instead of pushing him right at us.” Eisenhower stopped, realized his voice had risen, felt the sudden silence, thought of the ears in the offices outside. “I’m doing the best I know how, George. But, no matter how good something looks on paper, if we jump too soon, it could all fall apart.”
“You can’t plan for every variable, Ike.”
“Oh, we didn’t. We most certainly didn’t. Like the mud. We didn’t plan for mud, and it stopped us as effectively as ten German divisions. Forgive me, George, but I don’t agree with you. I had damned well better plan for any variable that could stand in our way.”
Marshall frowned, rubbed his hand
across his forehead. “Some newspaper, I forget which one. Some columnist ran a piece on you, said that ‘mud is a silly alibi.’ His exact words.”
Eisenhower closed his eyes, thought, give him to me, just a week. Let me see what kind of alibi…he stopped himself. Dammit, this is no good.
“I can’t worry about reporters.”
“No, you can’t. Newspapers are a great place for cowards and malcontents to have their say. You start paying attention to all of that…well, the point is, you know what’s happening out there in front of the guns. No one in Washington can speak to that, no one can really speak out for you and know what he’s talking about. You know how I feel about you being back here, so far from the lines. It’s giving some people the wrong impression, that you’re not really in charge. You need to put yourself out front for the damned photographers, get yourself some headlines.”
“Like MacArthur.”
“Say what you want to about Doug’s style, but no one has any doubts who’s running our campaign in the Pacific. Frankly, there are some doubts about you. Not from the Brits. They’re behind you completely. It’s our own people, damned congressmen, some of the president’s own advisers.”
Eisenhower thought of Roosevelt, the man’s raw enthusiasm. “I didn’t hear any of that from Roosevelt. He surprised me, actually. Pretty enthusiastic about the job we’re doing here.”
“He said that? Well, of course. You were in private. But he’s not saying that in Washington, Ike. It’s just the reality. I’m surprised sometimes how naïve you are. It takes thunder to grab people’s attention. MacArthur’s good at that, doesn’t give his critics any room to move, drowns ’em out. You’re too quiet, Ike. Right now, a lot of people are just standing back, letting you put your neck in the noose, waiting to see if you hang yourself. Not much I can do about that. Hell, not even the president can change that. Our job is to come up with some kind of plan and then give you the men and equipment to make it work. But don’t think anyone in Washington is going to stake their career on you, or on what’s happening over here. Everybody is cautiously optimistic. Privately, the president supports you wholeheartedly, but he can’t just jump in with you publicly. It’s the way the game is played.” Marshall paused. “Just do your damned job. If you make good decisions, if you win this thing, everybody will toss medals at you. But if you lose, if you can’t kick the Germans out of Tunisia, then there will be no Sicily, no invasion of France. If it all falls to pieces, don’t expect the president to put an arm around your shoulder.”