The Rising Tide

by Jeff Shaara

  On March 20, Montgomery opened his own attack, the weakened German and Italian defenses at Mareth collapsing under the full power of the Eighth Army. Montgomery had thrown more than a simple frontal assault at the enemy position. Despite all reports that the sand marsh to the west was impassable, Montgomery had relied on reports from scouts of his New Zealand Corps that the spongy mush of the dry lakebed was not so impassable after all. As the attack began, the New Zealanders pushed through the marsh and stunned the enemy’s western flank. With Patton closing in from above, Giovanni Messe’s combined German and Italian army fought as well as they could, turning attention from Montgomery to Patton, and back again. But Messe’s forces simply didn’t have the strength, and in a few short days, they pulled back rapidly to the north. By the end of March, Messe and von Arnim agreed that the most suitable place to retrench and confront the Allies’ next assault would be a line that led inland from Enfidaville, wrapping around northward to the coast west of Bizerte. It was the same line Rommel had suggested weeks before.

  SOUTH OF TÉBESSA—MARCH 16, 1943

  It was after eleven, and Patton stood outside his command post in the wet darkness, listened for the rumble of the big guns, the artillery of his Second Corps launching the first strike toward Gafsa. He had fought the agony of staying behind, but he would not disobey Eisenhower, would not jeopardize his career over a simple lust to be out there. There will be more of this, he thought, more fights, better fights, and when the time comes, they’ll have to put me where I want to be. He heard it now, low thunder, the flashes of fire hidden by the dismal weather. He stood quietly for a long moment, absorbed the sounds, thought, nothing else for me to do, not now. It’s all happening the way it was planned, and tomorrow, I will find out what kind of men we have.

  He moved back into the blockhouse, low lamplight, his cot in a closet-sized room in the rear. The aides stood when he came in, and he waved them off. “Nothing else to do now. Get some rest. But make sure the telephone operators are on the job all damned night.”

  He sat on the bed, pushed the door closed, his knees nearly touching the wall in front of him. His foot kicked the soft pack beside the bed, and he reached down, felt for the small, thick book, his diary, pulled it out, drew his pen from his shirt pocket. He lay back on the bed, thought a moment, knew that somewhere some radio stations across the Atlantic were already reporting the start of the assault. It was customary now, the Allied censors releasing just enough details to inform both the American and the British people that a new operation was under way, a healthy shot to civilian morale. Somewhere, he thought, some damned idiot is in some studio telling his audience that I’m right out there, at the head of the line, leading the way, sitting up high on the first tank. Damn him. Damn all of them. It’s where I should be.

  He stared at the blank page, fingered the pen for a moment, then wrote:

  Well, the battle is on. I’m taking off my shoes to go to bed.

  27. EISENHOWER

  ALGIERS

  APRIL 10, 1943

  “S ir, this message was just received from General Montgomery. Not sure what it means.”

  Eisenhower took the paper from Butcher’s hand.

  Personal. Montgomery to Eisenhower. Entered Sfax 8:30 this morning. Please send Fortress.

  Eisenhower read the words again, tried to make sense of the riddle. “Well, he’s in Sfax. That’s excellent news. He said he’d get there pretty quick and was pretty definite about it. Have to hand it to him.”

  “But…the ‘Fortress’? What’s he mean, sir?”

  “Hell if I know. Get Beetle in here.”

  Butcher moved away, and Eisenhower tossed the paper on the growing pile on his desk. The reports had flowed in every hour, news both good and bad. The fighting had been severe, especially in the American sector, as much from the terrain as the tenacity of the enemy. But Patton had been noisy about the performance of his men, and it was no surprise of course, but his noise had been directed in hot words toward the First Armored in particular, General Ward’s command. True to form, Patton had focused most of his ire on Ward himself, finding fault with what Patton interpreted as the armored commander’s caution. Eisenhower had been concerned by that, had to believe there was something concrete in Patton’s complaints. Eisenhower knew that if Patton had one expertise, it was pushing tanks into battle, and if Ward was drawing that kind of hostility from Patton, it might be something Eisenhower would have to address himself. He could not fault Patton for singling out anyone for a good lashing. Eisenhower had forced himself to look past old friendships, old affiliations from West Point. He knew the history lessons, had read enough of George Washington and Robert E. Lee to know that inept generals produced catastrophic problems, and no matter how loyal a subordinate might claim to be, a good commander could not hesitate to remove an inept general. I wonder, he thought, if the problem there was more about Fredenhall than Ward. Fredenhall seemed too eager to make enemies. Well, that might describe Patton too. But Patton expects excellence, his own, first of all. Then he expects it from you, makes specific demands, and if you don’t live up to them, you’ll hear about it. And so will I. It could be that Ward isn’t performing in the tight situations like we need him to. Damn! I can’t ignore that.

  “Sir?”

  Eisenhower saw Beetle Smith at the door, Butcher right behind him, and pointed to the note from Montgomery. “You know anything about this? Monty’s asking for a Fortress.”

  Smith dropped his head. “Oh, hell. Forgot about that.”

  “About what?”

  “Um…seems when I met with Monty a month or so ago, we were talking about his objectives, about his timetable for advancing up the coast. He’s a bit of a boaster, sir. Well, you know that, of course. Toots his own horn a bit too loudly, if you ask me. He insisted he would be at Sfax by April 15. I challenged him on that, and we made a bet. I told him that if he made it when he said, you’d give him a B-17 and an American crew.”

  “You what?”

  Smith flinched, the short man backing away a step. “I’m terribly sorry, sir. It was indiscreet of me. We were joshing a bit. I never thought he’d actually…expect payment.”

  “Well, apparently he does. Dammit, Beetle, what the hell were you thinking? I’ve had enough damned trouble convincing these generals that they should be working together, without rewarding one of them with his own damned B-17! You realize what kind of precedent this sets? Patton or Clark or Anderson, they get their mission accomplished, they’ll be lining up for party favors! Are we supposed to toss out gifts to everyone who does his job? Jesus, Beetle! A B-17?”

  “I didn’t think he’d take it seriously, Ike. I’m sorry.”

  Eisenhower pushed himself down into the chair, rubbed a hand hard across his forehead. Butcher eased closer, stood beside Beetle, said, “Just tell Monty to go to hell, Skipper.”

  Eisenhower looked up, couldn’t help but notice the contrast between the two men, different-color uniforms, Butcher a full head taller than Smith, thought, Tweedledee and Tweedledum. No, that’s not fair. I couldn’t run this place without either of them.

  “No, Harry, we can’t do that. You know damned well that Monty…well, dammit, Monty’s got a big mouth. If it gets out that I’ve reneged on a bet with him…” Eisenhower paused. “All right, Beetle. You dug this hole. Now get us out of it. Call Spaatz at the air headquarters at Constantine. Tell him we need a B-17. We’re assigning it to Monty’s command. If Spaatz needs answers, tell him to call me. But he better not call me, Beetle. Explain this so that he understands the mess you’ve gotten me in and put it to bed.”

  “Right away, Ike. Very sorry.”

  “Go!”

  Both men left the office, and Eisenhower leaned back in the chair, tried to clear his head. You wanted command, so you’ve got command. Whether it’s relieving good officers or passing out B-17s. He laughed now, couldn’t help it, imagined Montgomery crowing to his officers, giving them rides in his own private Flying Fortress.
A small door opened in his brain, a question. What if Monty hadn’t made it to Sfax? What would I have won? Wouldn’t matter. No prize could make up for Monty falling down out there. We don’t need any more disasters. So, enjoy your damned plane. If that makes you a little more enthusiastic about killing Germans, then it’s for a good cause. We still have a long road.

  EIGHTEENTH ARMY GROUP HEADQUARTERS,

  CONSTANTINE, ALGERIA—APRIL 13, 1943

  “General Ward has been relieved. General Patton has requested, and I have agreed, that he be replaced by General Harmon. General Patton has a great deal of confidence in Harmon, says he’s the first man he’d want in a tank.”

  Eisenhower scanned the official order, looked at Alexander now, said, “I agree. Harmon is a tank. Tough nut. Perfect subordinate for George. Damned shame about Ward though. I thought he’d do the job.”

  “You can’t always predict, Ike. It’s not always the man who stands tall in his dress uniform who can climb the hill in front of his men. I’ve had to spoon out a bit some hot lather myself. It’s just…command.”

  The soothing tone of Alexander’s words stuck in Eisenhower’s brain, festered there, and he thought, I don’t need a lecture. “I’m not happy with some of the things going on up here.”

  Alexander put his chin in his hand, nodded. “I understand that.”

  Eisenhower tried to hold his temper, had begun to understand the one flaw in Alexander’s style. Alexander was undoubtedly a consummate soldier and understood tactics and strategy as well as anyone in the Allied camp. But Alexander often let the reins drop too loosely on some of his officers, handed too much responsibility to his staff. As much as Eisenhower had worked to secure harmony between the Americans and their British counterparts, he had been stunned to hear of the indiscreet spouting off from one of Alexander’s corps commanders, a hint that Alexander simply didn’t know what his senior officers were feeling.

  “What are you going to do about John Crocker?”

  “Yes, Sir John. Fine chap, sociable sort. Given to speaking to the press. Not always in our best interests, I’m afraid.”

  “Best interests? He publicly claims that the American troops are not combat worthy! I’ve seen the reports. You know as well as I do that the attack plans for Fondouk were difficult at best. The only American units available to him had minimal training, had not worked together as a unit at all, and had spent most of their time here guarding the communications depots. Crocker throws them right into the line and expects them to punch the Krauts out of their defenses. Hell, it was a difficult assignment for anyone, and only after things fell apart did Crocker send in his own…your people. Even the British troops there couldn’t finish the job. The Germans were able to pull back. The whole thing was a mess, and dammit, Alex, that’s the one thing we’ve worked too hard to overcome! Crocker was in charge of the operation, and it didn’t go well, and the first thing he does is shoot his mouth off to the newspapers!”

  Eisenhower was shouting, watched for Alexander’s reaction, had rarely raised his voice in the Englishman’s presence.

  Alexander didn’t flinch. “You’re quite right, of course. Unwise. I’ll speak to him at once.”

  Eisenhower forced himself to calm down, was surprised that Alexander was so matter-of-fact. “Good. Dammit, Alex, we have to keep a lid on this bickering. There’s too much at stake.”

  “Agreed. In that light, have you given final approval to my plan? Should put your boys in a favorable light, considering all that’s been said.”

  It was the real reason for Eisenhower’s visit. Montgomery’s push from the south had backed the Germans into hard defensive positions in severely mountainous terrain near the Tunisian east coast, a formidable obstacle for the Eighth Army. With Montgomery bogged down, it would be up to the Allied forces to the west to punch holes in the German perimeter, with one of the first goals being the capture of the crucial port of Bizerte. Alexander’s strategy had positioned Anderson’s First Army as the left hook, to attack eastward, parallel to the northern coastline. As the noose tightened around the German-held territory, the maps showed a clear picture of what Alexander’s plan would mean. With Montgomery in the south and Anderson in the west, the narrowing front effectively squeezed the American Second Corps right out of the picture. The plan did not sit well with Eisenhower and had inspired a profane explosion from George Patton. In response, Alexander wisely modified his plan, to allow two of the four American divisions, half of the Second Corps, to move up to the north, to become the far left flank of the operation. Eisenhower knew it was not enough.

  “I believe you’ve had some conversations with my naval aide, Lieutenant Commander Butcher.”

  “Quite so, yes. Amiable chap.”

  “Harry just got back from a three-week jaunt to the States, took care of some personal business and did some things for me. I guess you could call them official errands. His report gives me a pretty clear picture what’s going on at home, and it’s something we have to consider here. There is a great deal of…” Eisenhower paused. “Damn, I hate to use the word, but it is what it is. Competition. We’re fighting a war on two fronts, and Doug MacArthur is pretty good at making himself known to the newspapers and the Congress.”

  “Competing for attention? Seems rather trivial in a war, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Well, there’s that. But it’s more substantial. Supplies, equipment, resources. We’ve been pretty good about supplying your people with top-of-the-line weapons, and now, we’re doing the same for ourselves. But there is sentiment in the States to focus less on Hitler and more on the Japanese.”

  Eisenhower paused again, tried to form the words. Alexander seemed patient, waited, and after a moment, Eisenhower said, “When word of what happened at Dieppe hit the papers back home, there was hell to pay. Congress, newspapers, every damned voice on the radio, started telling the American people that, good God, we’re beat. No need for American boys to die against Hitler’s impregnable defense. It’s hopeless. That surprised the hell out of me, but there it was. Made recruitment a real problem and turned a bunch of congressmen into pacifists, which made life pretty tough for Roosevelt. Now, with the Germans so close to being whipped here, the American people are being fed something entirely different, entirely the opposite. Hell, Marshall tells me that Roosevelt is as bad about it as anyone else. The public has this attitude now that the war here is nearly over, Hitler’s done, so start up the parades. Pull everybody out of here and haul all the resources to the Pacific to help MacArthur. We can’t explain every move we make to every damned reporter, and so, they just figure it out on their own, make their guesses, and dump all their information on the American public. I had a hell of a time trying to explain to Marshall, who had a hell of a time explaining to Roosevelt, why we stopped Patton on the Eastern Dorsale and didn’t let him go all the way to the coast. All the damned armchair generals, and even Roosevelt, were asking out loud, what the hell was wrong with us? Why didn’t we let Patton end the war? It’s so damned convenient for civilians five thousand miles from here to look at a map and draw straight lines and assume everything falls into neat little packages.” Eisenhower stopped, saw Alexander watching him, a slight smile on the man’s face. “Well, hell, you don’t need to hear this from me. You’ve been through this already.”

  “Quite so. I’ve had a few run-ins with the prime minister. You want to know about civilian interference, talk to Claude Auchinleck. Cost him his career.”

  “Well, it damned near cost me mine. All this Darlan business…my brother Milton tells me that there were papers calling me a fascist, that since I supported some Vichy jackass, I’m in bed with Hitler! Thank God for Marshall. He took the heat, kept me out of the grip of some pretty thickheaded congressmen. It’s politics, plain and simple. Roosevelt has his enemies, and they look for any noose to hang him with. He doesn’t need me tossing them the rope. We need to win this thing, win it the right way and win it quick, or that’s exactly what I’ll be doing.”


  Alexander still listened patiently, and Eisenhower was grateful, his rant exhausted. “Sorry, Alex, but I’m not just bellyaching. There’s a point to all this. Your plan to divide up the Second Corps and keep half those boys out of the fight isn’t going to fly back home. And, frankly, Alex, it doesn’t fly with me. It’s not just the politics. These boys have earned some spoils, and I can’t let the British troops get all the headlines. I hear from Patton that some of his people are pretty miffed about this whole Crocker business. They know they got walloped at Kasserine, and they aim to make up for that. They’ve earned that chance, and I intend to give it to them. I want the Second Corps kept together and moved up to the north, to go at Bizerte. It’ll be a hell of a logistics operation, moving so many men across Anderson’s rear, but we’ll do it. And once this thing kicks off, no one in the British army will be shooting their mouth off about how much gut the American soldier has.”

  Alexander smiled again, surprising him. “We can make it work, Ike. It will work. Has to. I don’t want to hear any more rubbish out of London than you do from Washington.”

  He had expected more protest from Alexander, realized now why he liked the man. “Well, good, glad you agree. I’d whole lot rather be putting my eyes toward Tunis and Bizerte than looking over my damned shoulder.”

  “One thing, Ike. The planners have a pretty good handle on what we have to do to kick off the next campaign. I know you’re going to get pressure from the States on this, and we better be ready to move quickly. I don’t believe we’d be jumping the gun if we keep our eyes focused beyond Tunis.”