by Jeff Shaara
“What the hell…?”
“It’s okay, sir. He’s entitled.”
“I’ll take care of him, sir. Had to be pretty rough for these guys. I got him.”
One man came close, held out a hand. “Here, grab my arm.”
Logan shook his head slowly, looked down at the German major. “I’m okay. Just had to do…something.”
The lieutenant moved away, and the others lingered for a moment. He felt the concern, the smiles, looked at the dirty faces and rough beards, saw men like him, men who had found their targets, who had fought the enemy and driven him away.
He put the pistol in his belt and began to walk toward the ambulance.
29. EISENHOWER
A s the Americans sealed their hold on Bizerte, the British drove hard to capture Tunis. The German defenders, surprised by the power of Alexander’s left-hook tactic, and crushed under the weight of Allied air bombardments, could not hold back the overwhelming wave of infantry and armor. By May 13, German resistance along the entire front collapsed. Except for scattered pockets and sporadic fighting, the battle for Tunisia was over.
The German and Italian soldiers who had been swept out of the cities were pressed north and east, to the final sanctuary, the Bon Peninsula, a thirty-mile-wide spit of land that jutted into the Mediterranean. It offered the only possible avenue of escape; if the troops could be evacuated onto boats and transport planes, the Axis might salvage a substantial part of their army, as the British had done at Dunkirk. But along the rocky beaches, there was no armada, no great mass of rescue vessels. Offshore, the waters were under the heavy guns of the British navy, and in the air, British and American fighters had virtually eliminated the Luftwaffe’s ability to accomplish any kind of rescue. Instead of making a mass exodus out of Tunisia, the German and Italian armies trapped on the Bon Peninsula had no choice but to surrender. The Allies captured a quarter of a million prisoners.
One final prize remained, and Eisenhower received the news the evening of May 13, confirmation that General Hans Juergen von Arnim had been captured along with his men. Eisenhower’s staff had been jubilant, as though one man’s capture meant as much as the defeat of the armies von Arnim commanded. Everyone hoped that the two men would come face-to-face, a moment for the cameras. The staff insisted that a meeting with von Arnim would fit so neatly into the chronicle of this war, two leaders, shaking hands perhaps, honorable gentlemen to the last. The idea appalled him.
TUNIS—MAY 20, 1943
It was after four in the morning, the skies over the harbor opening up, soft light rising behind the mountains on the far side of the wide bay. He stood at the window of the old hotel, stared into cool, dry air, felt the soft breeze, tugged at his jacket. He leaned out, looked down toward the streets below him, still hidden by the darkness, no sound, no movement he could see. He wanted to be there, outside, stroll along the wide street, walk down to the wharves, hear the water, watch the sunrise. Not a good idea, he thought. The MPs are patrolling, keeping a sharp eye for anyone moving around. It would be a little hard to explain why the commanding general was wandering the streets at four in the morning. Assuming they even asked at all. They might just shoot me.
He had given up trying to sleep, had suffered the same ailment for several days now. It wasn’t just the anxiety of the fight that kept him awake, the silent hours waiting for reports from front-line commanders. It was more from the incessant cables and messages, the pressure coming from the Joint Chiefs in both Washington and London. For weeks now, Eisenhower had been urged to look beyond Tunisia, to focus his energies on the planning for the next great campaign, the invasion of Sicily. It was good strategy certainly, not allowing the enemy to regroup, to hit a vital air and supply center before the Germans could compensate for their inevitable defeat in North Africa. Eisenhower accepted that the combined Allied forces should press ever forward, without delay. Already the maps of Tunisia had come down, maps of Sicily in their place, reports of troop strengths and equipment deliveries flowing across Eisenhower’s desk. Patton and Montgomery both knew what their new roles would be, and there had already been plenty of friction between the two men, the inevitable clash of powerful personalities, whose personal visions of the future didn’t include anyone else sharing their spotlight.
Throughout late April and early May, Marshall prodded him to focus on Sicily, but Eisenhower couldn’t just pull himself away from Africa, couldn’t pretend that men weren’t still dying in a fight that had already lasted far longer than he knew it should have. The mistakes had been many and glaring, and Eisenhower knew they could not be repeated. The entire Allied command structure had been tweaked and rearranged, lessons learned from the errors of strategies and the mistakes of the men who carried them out, all those things that simply hadn’t worked. He knew he was hard on the men who didn’t measure up, but no harder than he had been on himself. In the long dark hours he pondered that, his mistakes.
There had been a strange and welcome inevitability to what had happened over the past few weeks. Even as Bradley and Anderson and Montgomery drove their armies into stout enemy defenses, their confidence fed his own, and for the first time he allowed himself to feel a comfortable certainty that in Tunisia, the machine was functioning, that the right men were in the right place, and there would be no more failures. For the first time in two years of the African campaign, it was clear that the Germans were beaten. The myth of Hitler’s invincibility had been shattered, first at Stalingrad, and then here, in the rocky hills of Tunisia. The British still spoke boisterously of Montgomery’s great trumpet-blowing triumph at El Alamein, and Eisenhower would not take anything away from the accomplishment. But El Alamein did not end the war in Africa, it just moved it out of Egypt and brought it closer to the Americans. No matter Monty’s bluster, every Allied general knew that once the Germans reached Tunisia, Rommel could still have turned the tide, punched a deep hole in Monty’s celebration.
His mind drifted back to Kasserine. It could all have collapsed, every plan, every hope. He caught himself glancing at the maps, studying the red lines of Rommel’s advance, pushing westward, the last deadly opportunity for Rommel to drive a spear that could have plunged the Germans right into Algiers. But then, it was done, the Germans halting their attacks, and just like that, the threat was gone. Something had certainly happened to Rommel, something no one in the Allied headquarters could explain. Eisenhower didn’t care about speculation, had no interest in theories. What mattered was that Rommel had simply gone, and with him any notion that the Germans were unbeatable.
So, now they want me to shake hands with von Arnim and smile for the cameras and pretend we share respect, that we admire each other’s grit and courage. Two good soldiers coming together as though we respect our accomplishments, we appreciate the struggle. He was baffled that his staff, the other commanders, thought such a thing was a good idea. He saw nothing gentlemanly in von Arnim, nor in Rommel, nor in any of them. The Germans had made this war, he thought. They started it and they made it what it has become, and millions of people have died. It is not about a boundary dispute, about land or treasure or politics. It is one man’s quest to conquer the whole damned world. How utterly absurd that is, something from a bad novel. The whole notion of a gentlemen’s war, that damned British thing, saluting noble warriors. There is nothing noble about von Arnim. He is simply a tool. If he had defeated us here, he would be Hitler’s darling, a great hero, one more piece of Hitler’s dream. Shake hands with him? The son of a bitch should be hanged.
He felt his heart beating, leaned out the window again, took a long breath of cool air. Damn this. You don’t need to fight this damned campaign all over again. We’ve won. Victory. Hell, there’s a parade today. What a stupid idea.
The energy behind the celebration had come from the French, and Eisenhower had far better things to do than spend hours in a reviewing stand, while exhausted soldiers marched past him. But it was unavoidable, and he had surrendered to protocol, had even i
nvited Patton to come, the man always a crowd pleaser. But he had no illusions; this entire spectacle was about French power, a show for the locals, the Arabs and displaced Italians, a clear signal that this land was again in French hands. After all, he thought, the Americans and the British won’t be here that much longer. Giraud knows that it is important that their citizens see an impressive show of power. It’s important for him as well. De Gaulle is already making noises that he expects to come here and be welcomed as the conquering hero. Jackass. Giraud outranks him by three stars and proved himself under fire. De Gaulle sits in London and makes pronouncements that France is winning the war, and so his cause is triumphant. He had heard reports that de Gaulle was demanding that French soldiers sign a loyalty oath to him alone, and Eisenhower knew it could cause trouble, not only in France but in the Allies’ own backyard. A civil war in Algeria, he thought. That’s what could come of this. Politicians and their pride. One more reason to get the hell out of here and go to Sicily.
He moved away from the window, stood motionless in the dark, thought of rousing Butcher out of bed. No, let him sleep. And, I’ll bet he is sleeping too. All of them. Basking in the glow. There was a fair amount of alcohol flowing around here last night. No harm done, I suppose. Let them have their party. They sure as hell earned it. The whole world is telling them so. Telling me so. I should read all of those notes again. For crying out loud, you ought to be thankful someone’s paying attention. What the hell is wrong with me? I can’t sleep, I can’t enjoy one hearty congratulation, I can’t read a single damned letter without this hard knot in my chest.
The letters had flowed in, from London and Washington, from every theater of the war, even a congratulatory letter from the Russian chief of staff. The headquarters had been festive, pats on the back rattling around like so much applause, the other headquarters, Alexander, Bradley, Montgomery, all the rest, certainly the same way. Word had already been received that Marshall was coming from Washington, that Churchill would probably visit as well. It was to be expected of course, and Eisenhower had tried to keep his mind away from all that pomp and official planning.
He saw a light in the harbor, watched for a moment, realized it was a reflection off a ship’s tower. The sun was creeping just above the rim of the far hills, the harbor a ripple of activity, ships moving silently, the wharves coming to life. Victory. He tried to hold the word in his mind, to feel what so many of the men around him found so easy to accept. He thought of Marshall, well, all right. Come on, have your look around, pass out the congratulations, give out the medals. And then sit down with me and remind me not to get comfortable. There were footsteps in the hall, someone trying to step quietly. He moved to the door, pulled it open, saw the blue uniform.
Butcher stood straight, surprised, and Eisenhower said, “No need to sneak around, Harry. I’ve been up for hours. Same damned thing. I go to bed, sleep for an hour, then wide-awake.”
“Anything I can do to help, Skipper?”
“Yeah. Find a way to end this damned war.”
ALGIERS—MAY 29, 1943
It was a parade of a different sort, confined to conference rooms and dining halls, Churchill, General Marshall, and a mass of senior commanders and staff officers. It was entirely reasonable that with the battles in Tunisia now past, Churchill would make a visit. Eisenhower was fully aware that since the beginnings of the North African campaign, Churchill had played a crucial role in the Allied success, a chess game of sorts, the prime minister making his moves by shifting or removing British commanders, putting what he saw as the best man in the best place to get the job done. Despite grumbling from some of the field commanders that Churchill had meddled too deeply in the operations of the British army, the success of the campaign took the starch out of the critics. Now, it was perfectly appropriate for Churchill to visit the scene, to walk the bloody fields, strut admiringly among the soldiers. Along the way, if someone wished to lay credit at his feet, so be it.
Eisenhower knew that his days would not be his own, as long as Churchill and Marshall were close by. He couldn’t help thinking of Patton, the man’s disdain for armchair officers. Eisenhower knew that the visits were self-serving, the Brits and Americans still sizing each other up, comparing their influence, each one measuring his own place in the success of the North African campaign.
A ll eyes were on Churchill.
“I am well aware that there is sentiment in the United States that our emphasis be placed on an invasion of France. My position on this is clear. Our first priority must be to eliminate the Italians. They are teetering as we speak, and should Italy bow out of this war, Hitler’s position on the European continent shall be weakened considerably.”
Eisenhower glanced at Marshall, saw a hint of a frown.
Churchill didn’t wait for comment, continued, “When Sicily falls, our immediate goal should be the defeat of those Axis armies in Italy. Any attack on the Italian mainland will only hasten the desire of the Italian people to remove the shackles put upon them by Mussolini. I have always maintained that Italy is the highway that will lead us straight into the heart of Hitler’s fortress. I believe that still. The Russians believe it as well. They are most insistent that we move against Germany as quickly as possible. There are expectations that Hitler is planning another monumental offensive against our Allies to the east, and Premier Stalin is anxious that we remove some of that pressure from his beleaguered armies.”
There were nods, all of them from the British commanders. Eisenhower scanned the faces, the men who had done such good work in Africa. Across from him was Tedder, the air commander, Admiral Cunningham beside him, Alexander at the far end of the table. Eisenhower expected some response from Marshall, but the American chief of staff said nothing, and Eisenhower felt the awkwardness of the silence.
After a moment, Eisenhower said, “I understand your wish to end this war by the best means possible. But before committing myself to an attack on the Italian mainland, I must first take all possible measures to insure our success in Sicily.”
Churchill rolled his cigar in his fingers, looked at Marshall, studied him, then looked at Eisenhower, said, “Certainly, General. Without Sicily in our bag, a conquest of Italy is just a dream. Do what you must. What is your next step, if I may ask?”
Eisenhower pondered the strangeness of Churchill’s question. If you may ask? It was suddenly clear to him, all the talk that had come from the States, the reports from Butcher and Beetle Smith, both men surveying the attitudes, testing the waters in Washington. For all of Eisenhower’s efforts at uniting the two allies, the testiness and divisiveness was there still, an ongoing contest of wills. He knew that Roosevelt had sent Marshall to Africa to push forward the American priority of a cross-Channel invasion of France. But Churchill’s priorities had been clear for more than a year, and around the conference table the British officers, who still followed Eisenhower’s orders, were obviously in agreement with their prime minister. Eisenhower felt the spotlight falling on him, knew that Marshall would absorb and examine his every word, wondering if Eisenhower’s priorities were consistent with his superiors’ in Washington.
He took a long breath, said, “Our first goal is the elimination of the enemy’s air bases and U-boat service facilities on the island of Pantelleria. That island lies directly along the path from Tunis to Sicily, and if we do not eliminate the enemy’s presence there, our assault on Sicily could be greatly compromised. I know you are all aware of the details, but for the prime minister’s benefit, and so that any questions might be answered right here and now, I would like to offer the plan of attack on Sicily as agreed upon by the combined chiefs. The assault will be made by two wings, comprising the Fifteenth Army Group, commanded by General Alexander. The easterly wing will consist of the British Eighth Army and will be commanded by General Montgomery. The westerly wing has been designated the American Seventh Army and will be commanded by General Patton.”
There were nods again, and Eisenhower waited for
the questions. It was his decision alone, agreed to by Alexander, that Patton’s forces should be designated an army and so would be on the same level of command as Montgomery’s. It was inconvenient enough that most of the American senior officers were outranked by their British counterparts. Eisenhower knew there would be plenty of personality clashes as it was without having to deal with some issue of rank between the two temperamental commanders.
Churchill held his cigar firmly in his teeth, said, “Seventh Army, eh? Good idea, that. Level playing field.”
Eisenhower let out a breath. Thank God. At least George will be happy.
“General Montgomery’s overall objective will be the capture of Messina, which will place the Strait of Messina under our control. General Patton will move first toward Palermo and then will sweep eastward, to link the two armies together. We anticipate that the Italians will fight vigorously to defend their own soil. We also anticipate that the German High Command will recognize the importance of this island to their own security and will offer us a stout resistance.”
Churchill pointed a finger at Eisenhower, spoke past the cigar. “I would bloody well like to see another quarter of a million prisoners! Damned fine job, that.”
“I agree. Our ultimate success will come if we can accomplish in Sicily what we accomplished in Tunisia. We have an opportunity to destroy another significant enemy stronghold, and with it, a sizable number of enemy forces.”
He paused, saw Churchill leaning forward, waiting for more. Eisenhower glanced at Marshall again, no reaction, thought, so, it’s up to me to say something about Italy.
“Once Sicily is secure, we must look toward operations on the Italian mainland, and beyond, to our overall strategies that might best end this war.” It was his best attempt at diplomacy.
Churchill smiled, ignored Marshall now, said, “I would anticipate, General, that events will move along in a sprightly fashion. Sicily will be ours, Italy will be ours, and by this time next year, we will be making every effort to drive the Hun out of France. Well done.” Churchill paused, the room silent, then turned in his chair, looked behind him, said, “Now, where the hell is the brandy?”