The Rising Tide

by Jeff Shaara

  Eisenhower nodded, thought a moment, the name rolling through his mind, the code name for the invasion of Sicily, Operation Husky. “You still think Monty’s the man?”

  “Without question. He can be difficult, but there’s no one else I’d want for the job. And I assume you still want—”

  “Patton. Yep. I don’t see any reason to change those arrangements.”

  “They should make a hell of a team, Ike. We shouldn’t wait too much longer to get their people into training.”

  “I’m not sure about the team part of it. But George knows what we need him to do. One problem I have right now is that pulling him out this quick might hurt morale in the Second Corps. You change commanders in short order, they assume he’s taking the blame for their screwups. I want to keep this as quiet as we can for now. No need to tell the newspapers what’s going on, and I sure as hell don’t want the enemy to know anything about Patton being pulled out of line. Monty needs to stay where he is for now, until the job is done. You agree?”

  “Definitely. He knows he’s needed for Husky, so it will drive him to get his men into Tunis as quick as he can. He’s already told me…well…”

  “He’s told you what?”

  “Well, damn, Ike, you know Monty. Talks sometimes when he should be listening. He said he’d be willing to take one hundred percent casualties to get the job done. I’m just glad no reporters were around. How do you think that would play in the London papers?”

  Eisenhower rubbed a hand on the back of his neck, thought of Patton. Yep, they’ll make a team all right. “Let’s just get them rolling toward Sicily. Get them in front of the enemy where all those words can be put into action.”

  “When is Patton officially being replaced? Straightaway?”

  “Effective April fifteenth. I need to give briefings to everyone involved, but I don’t see a problem. George will head back to Casablanca immediately and start gearing up for Husky. He’s been poking me for a more important command as long as he’s been over here. Damn him, he wants some headlines, and he knows he’s not going to get them in Tunisia. I trust you to handle Monty. And the best way to manage George is, first of all, keep him out of a tank.”

  O n April 15, Patton’s staff quietly withdrew from their headquarters encampments and made their way westward, to begin the final planning for Operation Husky. Command of the Second Corps fell on the one man both Patton and Eisenhower considered right for the job: Omar Bradley.

  Over the next several days, the Germans were sealed into a tight strong line, the last perimeter where they could protect the crucial port cities and still maintain the stout defenses along the mountainous terrain that confronted the tightening ring of Allied forces. With Bradley in command, the Second Corps completed a masterful maneuver, slipping out of their lines and moving north, sweeping quickly and efficiently behind the position of Anderson’s First Army. As the Allies’ position grew stronger, reports reached Eisenhower that German reinforcements had been attempting to cross the Mediterranean, armadas of transport planes and troopships moving toward both major ports. But the Mediterranean and the sky above it were now dominated by Allied warships and aircraft, and the cost to the Germans was horrific. Entire convoys were either sunk or sent limping back to Italy, while above them, the diminishing numbers of Luftwaffe fighters were unable to protect their sluggish transport planes from being shot out of the sky. With the spring weather improving, the Allied commanders accepted that they were as strong as they were going to be, that the time had come to break the enemy’s last hold on Tunisia.

  One more piece of intelligence, one report, brought everyone in the Allied headquarters to stark attention. Throughout the campaign, from the worst days of Kasserine through Patton’s energetic drive in support of Montgomery, to the pressure that had now pinned the Germans into northeastern Tunisia, every Allied soldier had felt the urgency of whom they were facing. In every fight, the name Rommel had inspired the men, either from fear or from the determination to whip Germany’s most respected commander. On April 23, Eisenhower received confirmed reports that Rommel was gone, had not in fact been in Africa for several weeks. While some, especially Patton, reacted to the news with disappointment, others, including Eisenhower himself, understood the greater significance. For unexplained reasons, the Germans had lost their best man. No matter how the news affected the Allied commanders, Eisenhower knew that it would have a far more profound effect on the sinking confidence of the German troops who stood in his way.

  NEAR HILL 609, NORTHERN TUNISIA—APRIL 30, 1943

  They rode in a small caravan of jeeps, one fifty-caliber bringing up the rear. Eisenhower had seen too much of the great armored parades, felt no need now to surround himself with a full company of good men every time he needed to move cross-country. It had already caused difficulties, a ridiculous procession, causing transport trucks to wait at key intersections, causing attention to his presence in every camp he passed. With Eisenhower spending more time close to the front, it also became dangerous, such a cluster of vehicles likely to draw artillery fire or to present a fat target for the occasional German fighter or dive-bomber. The decision had caused grumbling among his staff, but Eisenhower had no time for anyone’s motherly concerns.

  The meetings and briefings had filled long days and kept sleep to a minimum, but it was far different now from the tedious chat-fests he had once endured in Algiers. The visits now dealt with communication and supply, the proper placement of troops, the best use of artillery, coordinating with the air command. And more often now the conversations were one-sided, Eisenhower the listener, while Bradley or one of his division commanders laid it all out for him. It was the ultimate luxury for a commanding general, to have the right men in the right place, sure of themselves and confident in the troops who followed their orders.

  He had gone that morning to see Charles Ryder, commanding the Thirty-fourth Division, the men who would hold the center of the American position. But Ryder had been farther forward, checking on his own advance command post, and with the attack imminent Eisenhower wouldn’t take the extra time just to stare over Ryder’s shoulder. On the left, the Ninth Division, under Manton Eddy, stood close to the coastline, while to Ryder’s right, the First, the Big Red One, under Terry Allen, was already pushing into broken and difficult ground where the Germans were making a sharp fight. In front of the Thirty-fourth stood a bald, rocky hill, a mile wide, what the maps called Hill 609. The Germans were dug in all along the hill, heavy artillery positions anchored into deep ravines, hidden by rock outcroppings. From their position up top, the German artillery observers could direct a precise pounding of the First Division’s flank, and Bradley had quickly seen the urgency of pushing the enemy off that hill. The job belonged to Ryder and the Thirty-fourth.

  The line of jeeps rolled to a stop, and Eisenhower could see smoke in bursts, flecks of fire. All along the route he had driven through vast formations of armor, tanks and half-tracks, the power of the First Armored Division, the big machines waiting for the infantry to clear the hills, push the German guns away from the roadways, giving the tanks an open route to cut hard into the enemy’s rear. To the south, British armor waited as well, a massive fist. Alexander had pulled strength from Montgomery’s positions, some of the Eighth Army’s forces drawn around to the west, adding to the force of the left-handed blow.

  “That’s Hill 609, sir. Right there.”

  “Hard to miss.”

  Eisenhower stared at the massive rocky mound, thought, it looks like something you’d see in Arizona, for God’s sake. No wonder the Krauts are up there. He stepped forward, stood near the far side of the ridge, the ground falling away in a sharp-sloping drop. The binoculars were in his hand, but he ignored them, stared at the vast open country, undulating, choppy ground, small clusters of trees. Beyond was a mile or more of wide-open grasslands, a rolling prairie, little cover for infantry. But the infantry was there, and he could clearly see the spreading wave of men and machines that rol
led out, trucks and jeeps, foot soldiers pushing hard into thickets of short trees that spread out from the base of the tall, rocky hill.

  There were bursts from artillery much closer to him, thin streaks of fire in a low arc, aimed at the big hill, a rippling blanket of smoke now enveloping the crest, the shells falling all along the wide peak. He felt a surge in his chest, yes, by God, those are our guns. Good shooting. After a few seconds the thunder reached him, a solid rumble, then scattered thumps, more flashes spreading across a stretch of open ground at the base of the hill. He raised the glasses now, stared at the dark specks, clusters of men, swarming up and over rocks, some disappearing into the cover of the trees, cuts in the rocks, nearly everyone moving forward. There was motion along the base of the hill itself now, another patch of open ground, and he fought to see, knew that would be the worst place, the last open stretch without cover. His heart was thundering, and he scanned the smoke, so much of the hillside hidden, the fight moving with the men, his army and the enemy slowly joining into one mass.

  Above him, there were loud roars from a formation of planes, and he glanced up, didn’t have to see, knew it would be the fighters, heavy with ammunition, men focused on the hill, as he was, seeking out the enemy. They rolled past, spreading out, wide attack formations, but the roars didn’t stop, more planes, a continuous wave. High above them, the bombers rolled forward as well, but they did not focus on Hill 609, were going much deeper, punching great gaps in the roadways that fed the German troops. Some went farther still, pouring their bombs into the crowded harbors, blanketing the cities, the communication centers and supply dumps. It was the key to the entire campaign, the greatest advantage the Allies enjoyed, superiority in the air. Eisenhower thought of Tedder, and the Americans who served under him, Spaatz and Doolittle. Without your good work, this could not happen. We could not hope to make this push across open ground. Surely the enemy knows that. Surely they know they cannot stand up to that kind of power from the air.

  He lowered the glasses, heard voices behind him, radios, the officers going about the business of war. He looked again to Hill 609, saw his own artillery firing again, observers choosing targets, while just above, the fighters swirled down toward targets of their own. He felt a chill, thought of Patton, yes, George, I understand why you want to be out here. Right there. Especially now, on a day like this, when you can see it all, when you know that your army is led by good men, men who are as determined as their soldiers to drive the enemy back. And if he will not run from us, then we will drive him, and if he will not be driven, then we will kill him where he stands, and we will move past their dead and keep moving until it is over.

  28. LOGAN

  BIZERTE, TUNISIA

  MAY 7, 1943

  H e stood at the wire, a crowd of men beside him, more men emerging from the ripped tents and tin shelters. They crept forward, closer, all eyes fixed on the horizon, westward, far beyond the perimeter of the camp. Outside the wire, the guards responded, coming to life, machine guns rising slowly. The Germans were as curious now as the men they guarded, and they all began to face west, absorbed by the rumble of thunder. The prisoners ignored them, numb to the threat, fixed their gaze on a rolling cloud of haze and smoke. Logan saw it clearly, a thick, gray fog, rising slowly, pushed forward by the unmistakable sounds of artillery. From the blockhouse just outside the wire, German officers began to appear, drawn by the sounds, one man, older, ordering the guards to stay alert. They responded, moved closer to the wire, guns up, some with rifles, fixed bayonets. Out to the west the sky was growing dark with the smoke of a rugged battle. The war was getting closer.

  Logan struggled against the weakness in his legs, a deep, open sore just above his ankle, the lingering price for his forced march. He wanted to grab the wire, hold himself up, but it was instinct now, a lesson deep inside his brain: no one grabbed the wire. It had happened too often, men suddenly running into the wire, as though they had forgotten it was there. After so many weeks in the punishing filth, some had simply gone mad, desperate men who began to call out, to scream, crying, rushing to the wire toward some place in their mind they desperately needed to be. Logan had watched it too many times, the sick mostly, small wounds like his, grown worse in the filth, infections poisoning the brain. Some didn’t run at all, simply fell to the ground, a final breath, calling out to someone, a woman usually, the name cutting into each man who heard the cry, names Logan could hear in his dreams, Helen…Doris…Lola…and worst of all, Mama.

  The wire enclosure was a temporary encampment, designed to hold the men only until there was space for them on the empty transport ships. The Germans had been matter-of-fact about it, one officer in particular, a young major who spoke precise English, standing outside the wire making long, arrogant speeches. Logan had listened with curiosity, wondering if the officer was telling the truth, if the prisoners were actually going to be moved to prison camps in Germany. Beyond the major’s smugness there was menace as well, the man insisting that if Allied submarines continued to sink the transport ships, they would only kill their own, would send these helpless prisoners to the bottom of the sea. There was no purpose to the speeches, the officer goading them, arousing something in the prisoners, something Logan now felt himself. In the tank, he had been shooting at targets, things, and it was easy to forget that men were behind the faceless steel, men staring through periscopes and gunsights, trying to kill him, but not him, just another target. But once he was captured, once he was forced to march with hundreds of suffering men, when he had seen the brutality and the ease with which the Germans ignored the cries of the wounded, Logan began to feel a low burn, something stirring, rising up in his brain from a dark, hidden place. He had drawn it from the eyes of his captors, who treated their prisoners with a vicious disregard. On the long, brutal march, the Germans had ignored the desperate and dying, the men who begged only for water, and Logan had felt the burn growing, festering inside him like the ugly sore on his leg. Behind the wire, it festered still, and the German major’s arrogance, the nastiness of the man’s smile, drove the feeling to a boil, a hard, black hate. As far back as Fort Knox, the big mouths were always boasting about killing Krauts and Japs, about how they hated the enemy. But combat changed everyone, and when the guns were firing, the ones who boasted the loudest were rarely heard from. For the first time, Logan felt he understood Captain Gregg, knew why the man stayed so quiet. Gregg had the hate, held it tightly inside, and it made him a dangerous and frightening man. Now, when the German major came to the wire, as the man poured out his bile to the prisoners, the vicious smile and the infuriating smugness, Logan couldn’t control the burn, and for the first time in his life Logan felt the urgent need to kill a man, to jump up and over the wire, to claw his way through the guards and their bayonets, to grab the man by the neck, to drive his thumbs into the man’s throat and squeeze until blood poured over his fingers. As the days passed and the mud dried away, Logan found himself at the wire, waiting, hoping that the major would come, one more time, would stoke the fire, would keep the hate alive and twisting inside him. He was beginning to enjoy it.

  For the first few weeks the rains had kept them huddled low in their shelters, crowded together beneath sheets of rusty tin, strips and patches of canvas, whatever the Germans seemed willing to toss over the wire. The ground was mud of course, a thick blue ooze, coating every man’s feet and legs, and the faces of those men who had fallen, whose legs would no longer hold them. It was routine, the stronger men helping as best they could, keeping the wounds clean, as clean as the mud would allow. But some of the fallen could not rise at all, their final breath choked away by the wounds and the sickness, lifeless forms that the strong could only drag toward the wire. The guards would come then, but not often enough, the Germans reacting in their own time, pulling the bodies away to some place no one wanted to think about. For the first few days, Logan had done what many had done, had tried to clean his wound and himself by standing out in the rain. It had seemed to
work for him, but there was a price, the rain stripping away the ragged cloth of his uniform, dissolving and rotting what remained of his boots. For the others, the weaker men, the chilling cold caused more problems than it cured. Even under the makeshift shelters the sicker men succumbed to uncontrollable bouts of shivering, blue-lipped men who could not be kept warm. The Germans tossed in blankets, soiled and worn, but with the rain, the wool stayed stinking and wet. Even with the painful sore on his leg, Logan knew he was one of the lucky ones, and after so many days of soaking-wet misery, he stopped worrying about being clean. When there was no reason to be at the wire, he huddled in chilled agony alongside the men under the makeshift shelters.

  When the rains stopped, the shroud of death seemed to draw away, offer relief to the weak and damaged men. As the sun finally appeared, they emerged from their shelters like so many frightened animals, desperate for warmth. The mud began to dry, and the energy returned, the men welcoming the sunshine with grateful thanks, quiet prayers, some staring blindly at blue sky and white clouds, the sunshine offering some symbol of hope.

  With the dryness came the need to open up the infested shelters, and Logan had worked with several others, the men who had somehow kept their strength, pulling the shelters apart, tearing back the rotten canvas, bringing the sun into the dark places, drying the ground and the wet filth that surrounded the men who were too sick to move. Even the guards welcomed the sun, seemed more willing to do their own jobs. From the beginning the prisoners had been fed from great metal buckets, hauled on wheeled carts. But with the endless rain, the guards more often chose to stay dry, and if the prisoners were not fed, it only meant that when the food did come again, there would be fewer men to hold a plate. Logan had welcomed the food, no matter what it might be, no one complaining, and only the men who were too sick to eat stayed away. It was mostly a soft, white mush, usually cold, each man given a scoop that flowed out on his rusted tin plate, spilling onto filthy hands. The mush triggered something strange in him, his weakened mind grasping at a memory, trips out beyond the city, places like Dade City and Brooksville. The road trips had been adventures to a young boy, and his father always stopped at one country diner, where women with a deep southern drawl heaped a child’s plate with fried bacon, dark, spicy gravy poured over creamy cornmeal mush, what they called grits. But he couldn’t hold the memories for long, the pleasant times sucked away by the aching hunger, or worse, buried under so many ladles of whatever he was forced to eat now, the resemblance to grits dissolving in the sickening horror of dead rodents, mice mostly, fished out of the buckets by laughing guards.