by Jeff Shaara
“Ah, General Patton! Jolly good of you to come! Quite a row in these parts, wouldn’t you say? Outstanding work, outstanding!”
Montgomery held out a hand, and Patton took the hand, said nothing, Montgomery withdrawing it quickly. There was an awkward pause, Patton examining the odd black beret Montgomery wore, too big for his head, had always wanted to know why he wore it at all.
Montgomery said, “I shan’t waste our time, General. Captain Bailey, retrieve the map, please.”
The young officer responded, ducked into the car. Behind Patton, the British officers were gathering around, and the colonel, Grayling, said, “Sirs, if you will follow me this way. General Alexander has not yet arrived. We have a meeting place set up for you inside. Refreshments all around, a bit of lunch.”
Montgomery’s aide emerged from the car with a rolled-up map, and Montgomery said, “Unnecessary. We shall discuss these matters right here. No time for trivialities. Captain, spread the map out on the auto.”
The aide obeyed, unrolling the map on the car’s hood, Montgomery moving close, his fingers running across the map. Patton moved up beside him, had not yet spoken to the man.
Montgomery said, “Here. You see this line, General. I have drawn a demarcation boundary, separating our commands. Thought it might clarify things a bit. As you can see, the Hun is anchored quite firmly in the vicinity of Catania. He is using the treacherous terrain around Mount Etna to his full advantage. I am quite pleased that he is completely bottled up where he is. It allows us considerable flexibility with regard to Messina. Don’t you agree?”
“I agree that Messina must be our immediate target. My men are in position to move east with all speed.”
“Ah, yes, hoping you would say that! You have a plan, then?”
Patton was cautious, had not expected anyone at this meeting to ask him anything, especially not Montgomery. He leaned closer to the map, pointed.
“Yes. The coast road out to the east of Palermo is under our control, and once we are in position, we can use that to the greatest effect. In addition, there is this…parallel road, some twenty miles inland, passing through Nicosia and Troina. I anticipate that within a week’s time, my men can make good use of both routes to strike the enemy before he can solidify his defenses. When successful, we can drive the enemy all the way back to the Messina peninsula, trapping him there. I have planned on several amphibious operations along the northern coast, to land forces back behind various German positions. This should cause considerable havoc in their ranks and might possibly grab us a considerable store of prisoners. Naturally, I hope to gain Alex’s approval for this.”
“Ah, excellent. Yes, by all means. That’s the plan then.”
Patton stood up straight, glanced at the men gathered behind them, saw nods, approval.
“Should we not allow Alex to give his approval?”
Montgomery laughed now, surprising him. “Ah, dear boy, that is not the issue here. Alex will give this a go, no question about that. I just wanted to be sure that you and I were fighting the same war, eh? Nothing complicated here. By all means, your Seventh Army will take those two roads, with your men deployed as you see fit. I will push up from below, drive around both flanks of Mount Etna. Should give the bloody Huns a headache. They’re already looking backward, so to speak. Eye on the prize, and all.”
Patton felt a tingle on the back of his neck, thought, what prize are we talking about? He was feeling uneasy, cautious, had not expected any cooperation from Montgomery. He pointed to the eastern tip of the island. “If the enemy retreats as we expect him to, I will continue the amphibious assaults. Certainly, once he accepts that he is defeated, the enemy will attempt to use the straits to escape. For this operation to be completely successful, we cannot allow that.”
“Ah, not to worry, dear boy! The Royal Air Force is all over that one! Should the Hun elude our grasp, he will quite simply be boxed in at Messina, nowhere to go. Should be a duck shoot for our flyboys. What the bombers don’t get, the navy will, quite sure of that. Our job, you and me, is to see that Jerry stays put long enough for us to destroy him completely! Hitting him from two sides like this…excellent! Short work, certainly! We should have this entire island in our pocket in a month’s time!”
A month? Patton absorbed the words, thought, he actually believes that. Well, of course. With all his planning, he can’t do anything quickly. But a month is a damned eternity.
On the runway behind them, planes had been moving in steady procession, fighters mostly, the unending sorties against German positions to the north. One plane landed alone now, larger, a different sound, a flock of fighter escorts following behind, passing overhead.
Behind Patton, a man called out, “Sir! General Alexander has arrived!”
Patton watched the plane, taxiing close now, the engines shutting down. The officers drifted toward the aircraft, preparing their customary greetings, Patton moving with them. He looked back toward the car, saw Montgomery still there, studying the map, the young captain to one side, holding the map in place. Well, he thought, I suppose Monty speaks with Alex often enough he doesn’t need formality. Or courtesy.
The door opened, and Alexander stepped down from the plane, short, clipped words for the officers, saw Patton, said, “Welcome, General. Glad you’re here. We’re getting close, you know. Tough road still, but with the job your people have done, the enemy has to know he is beaten. Just a matter of time, I suspect.”
Yep, Patton thought. A month.
Alexander focused on Montgomery now, said, “Ah, Monty! Office in the field, I see.”
“Alex.”
Patton moved up beside the car, his eye on Alexander. He saw a hard frown, unusual, a tenseness to the man, thought, he’s looking for more from Monty. And he’s not getting it.
Alexander said, “We have some sort of strategy in mind, Monty? I should like to hear it.”
“Not to worry, Alex. George and I have ironed it all out. Quite simple, really, perfect precision. The Hun’s all but in the bag.”
Patton stood silently, watched as Alexander crossed his arms, rocked slowly, the frown settling into a hard scowl. “Monty, I should like to hear your plan, if it’s all right with you.”
Montgomery shrugged. “We’ve been over the details. George sees things the same way I do. I expect no difficulties—”
“Tell me your plan.”
It was the first time Patton had heard Alexander raise his voice, cold silence now holding them all still.
Montgomery seemed to pause, his voice low, calm. “Certainly, Alex.”
Montgomery spoke for long minutes, others joining in, the men around them offering information, filling in details, Smith contributing as well. The details did not change the overall plan, Patton realizing that his every suggestion had been accepted without argument, which was more than simply unusual. As the discussion continued, Patton mostly watched and listened, could clearly see Alexander’s anger. He felt suddenly giddy, was now overjoyed that Beetle Smith was there to witness this scene, to pass the word on to Eisenhower. Patton had rarely been the innocent bystander, the one man in the crowd who wasn’t the source of the friction.
After long minutes in the sun beside Montgomery’s car, after the details had been sketched and analyzed, Alexander silenced them all, looked at Patton. “What of it, General? This seems like a plan that offers the Americans an opportunity to share the spoils, so to speak. Ike has been most insistent about that, as have you. Is this acceptable to you?”
“Yes. Quite acceptable. It won’t take a month, though.”
Alexander glanced quickly toward Montgomery. “A bold statement, George. Victory favors the bold, certainly. But I won’t hold you to it. I must note one thing. This level of cooperation must certainly demonstrate that my command, that Fifteenth Army Group, is completely Allied in mind. I favor neither army. Ike has been assured of this many times. I hope this satisfies you on that point.”
Patton nodded slowly. “
It certainly seems that way.”
“Very well. I will return to my headquarters. You gentlemen have my perfect confidence. Let’s get the job done, shall we?”
Alexander moved away quickly, and Patton was surprised to see him board his plane. Alexander’s staff was surprised as well, the men scrambling to catch up, the pilots still in the cockpit, as surprised as their passengers. Patton looked out toward his own plane, the crew seated in the shadow of the wing, the men watching for his signal, the order that it was time to go. But Patton wasn’t sure what was happening now, thought of lunch, the suggestion offered by the British colonel. He turned to Montgomery, who motioned to his aide, the young captain rolling up the map.
Montgomery said, “I told you not to worry! Alex knows I have things well in hand here. As he said, it’s up to us to get the job done.” Montgomery moved around the car, the aide rushing to open the door. Montgomery stopped now, reached into his pocket, pulled out a small cigarette lighter. He held it out toward Patton, said, “Please accept this gift, George. Token of my esteem, and all that. We get to Messina, I’ll have a formal celebration, dinner, whatnot. You bring this along, we’ll light each other’s cigars, eh?”
Patton fingered the lighter, watched as Montgomery climbed into the car. Around him, the officers were dispersing, each man with his own job to do, no one seeming to think about lunch.
The car pulled away, and Smith was there now, said, “So, what did Monty give you?”
Patton held up the lighter, examined it for a moment, flicked the small wheel, saw a faint flicker of spark. “Probably cost about a nickel. Someone must have given him a box of the damned things.”
Smith said nothing, and Patton began to walk now, moving across the tarmac, Smith calling out, “I’ll tell Ike about this. All of it. We’re behind you, George.”
Patton raised a hand, a brief wave, moved toward the plane, his mind on the maps, the two roads that led to Messina, Montgomery’s boast, his plan for a dinner, lighting each other’s cigar. Where will we do that, Monty? In my headquarters or yours? I guess that might depend on who gets to Messina first.
37. KESSELRING
ROME
JULY 25, 1943
I t was late, the city darkened by rumors of Allied bombing raids. It had been a struggle to convince anyone in the Italian government that the city was under threat, but Kesselring had heard too many radio intercepts and too many intelligence reports, had to believe that the Allies were giving strong consideration to violating the informal agreements that Rome should be spared. It is our fault, he thought. We have put this place at risk. It is one thing to man the nearby airfields and ring the city with troop encampments, but now…the war has come too close. This city could become a battlefield. Would we bomb it if they were here? He shook his head, knew the answer to that already.
He stared into the darkened streets, saw cars with headlights, a direct violation of the blackout order. It had been that way since the lights had gone out, so many of the Italians still oblivious to the war. He marveled at that, thought, they are a unique race, so enraptured by their history that they are incapable of seeing the present. We are so different from that. So much of the Führer’s strength comes from using the past as a tool, inspiring Germany against those who have struck her down, who would keep her down still. It is an imperfect strategy, of course. So often, Hitler has chosen to look away from things as they are, dreaming of a world as he wishes it to be. That is a luxury a soldier does not have.
He backed away from the window, pulled the black shroud over the tall glass, moved to his desk, lit the small lamp. Who is right, after all? A soldier cannot think on that either. We do not weigh the value of our cause, we simply fight to preserve it. We might certainly be fighting now just to preserve ourselves. He reached for the bottle of brandy, pulled the cork, held the bottle to his nose, breathed in the sharp, flowery warmth. The small glass snifter sat empty on the desk, and he poured a small amount from the bottle, thought, not too much. I don’t need any headaches in the morning. He turned toward the curtain, thought, a warm night, no breeze. I should take a walk. I should truly enjoy that. No, it’s foolishness to think of that. Far too late. Much to do tomorrow. There is always much to do. I must see the reports, I must know what the enemy is doing. I should send for Hube, meet with him face-to-face. We are fortunate to have such a man in Sicily, a man I can depend on. He thought of Rommel, had once felt the same way about him. Rommel is in the Führer’s lap now, and it must be killing him.
Rommel had spent six weeks in the luxury of Semmering, recovering from his illness, and Hitler had patiently waited for his return, still regarded the Desert Fox with a biased affection that boiled the blood of the senior German staff. For some weeks Rommel had stayed close to Hitler, serving as an adviser, in reality, a man with nothing to do. But then, German intelligence had become convinced that the Allies would attempt an invasion of Greece, to drive a wedge west of the beleaguered German army that was still embroiled in a massive campaign against the Russians. Rommel had been chosen to lead the forces that would presumably confront the Allies when they came ashore in Salonika, the Greek peninsula that jutted into the Aegean Sea, the most logical place for such a landing.
Rommel is there now, he thought, pulling men together for an invasion that even Rommel knows will never come. No matter, he will do the job. He will live out the perverted joke, poring over intelligence reports from men who still believe the invasion of Sicily is a feint. There are still men in Berlin who believe the Allies have so many resources, they can mount operations anywhere they choose. Kesselring smiled through his gloom, thought of Hitler. Ah, but none of that matters to you as much as holding Rommel close to you, so you can keep one hand on his shoulder. Greece is better than Africa. The Führer knows what I know, that Rommel cannot always be trusted to do what we wish him to do. And if he were not in Greece, then he would be here. What would he do in Sicily? How would he deal with Montgomery this time? We will never know the answer to that. The Italians will not have him. It is my security, the one thing that keeps me in good graces with all those nattering generals in Berlin. No one else can get along with the Italians.
He sniffed the brandy, swirled it in the glass, took a small sip. How much longer will that matter? How much longer will the Italians allow us to fight this war on their soil? Despite what Mussolini tells his ministers, the Italian army is crumbling, falling apart, and that will only get worse. The only force holding the enemy back in Sicily is German. Hans Hube is the best we have right now, perhaps even better than Rommel. We can no longer dream of driving the enemy into the sea. There is no victory to be had in Sicily, there is only survival. Rommel understood that in Tunisia, tried so hard to convince all of us to withdraw and save the army. But Berlin would not yet hear that kind of talk, and Rommel was too noisy about it, paraded his cause with heavy boots, was never a diplomat about anything. He believed he was fighting the war himself, that if it was not Rommel’s way, it was failure. It didn’t matter that he might be right. He made enemies.
Kesselring shook his head. He has one friend though. I do not understand why Hitler loves him so. If I had disobeyed so many orders, I would have been shot.
He finished the brandy, thought, they will come. There will be bombs in this place, and the Italians will be outraged. The Führer must believe that will help us, inflame the Italians to be better fighters, to drive the Allies off their soil. He shook his head, moved toward the lamp. No, it will only make them quit. These people are not the British. They do not have that kind of resolve, will not watch their country destroyed and vow to fight on.
He paused at the lamp, was not yet ready for the dark, thought, so many errors, so many disastrous errors of judgment and strategy and planning. We are supposed to learn from our mistakes, but there can be no lessons when the mistakes never end.
There was a soft knock at the door, and Kesselring said, “Yes. Enter.”
The door swung open, and he saw Westphal, Romme
l’s former aide, now Kesselring’s chief of staff.
“Sir, my apologies. But it is most urgent!”
Kesselring tilted his head, his ear trained to hear the sound of bombs, but there was only silence. “What has happened?”
“Word has come from the palace, sir, directly from the king himself. Herr Mussolini has been deposed by the Fascist Grand Council. He has been placed under arrest.”
Kesselring leaned against the desk, felt the air leave him. “But I spoke to him yesterday. He was fully confident in their loyalty. There was no hint that anything was wrong.”
Westphal said nothing.
Kesselring stood straight again. “Just like that? Tonight? Without warning?”
There was no answer to his question, and he stared past Westphal, tried to shuffle through the names and faces, all the men who would scramble to the top, the fights that were bound to erupt. Who had remained loyal to Mussolini, and who had betrayed him? It has to matter. Who is in command now? He thought of the king, the fragile old man, Victor Emmanuel. It had been a tenuous relationship between the monarchy and Mussolini, and though Mussolini had taken the power, he had wisely left the king to his throne, knowing that the Italian people loved the old man and respected his influence.
“Send word to the king. I must meet with him as soon as possible. This changes our situation considerably.”
“Right away, sir! Heil Hitler!”
Westphal was gone, and Kesselring felt the warmth from the brandy, reached for the bottle again, pulled the cork, said aloud, “Yes. This changes our situation considerably.”
G eneral Hans Hube was a veteran of the First World War, had lost his right arm at Verdun, but unlike so many who carried horrific wounds, he had lost none of his spirit for the fight, had continued what was now a lengthy career in the army. Hube had served well at the Russian front, surviving the disaster of Stalingrad, while catching Hitler’s eye as one of the premier fighting generals in the German army. Now, he commanded the German forces in Sicily and, in that theater, was subordinate only to Kesselring. Hube had gained the command not by his own ambitions, but by a strong recommendation from Rommel, who had convinced Hitler that Hube was the right man to turn the tide against the power of the Allied invasion. Kesselring gave little credence to Rommel’s reasons for supporting Hube, had even wondered if Rommel had suggested Hube for the command because he thought Hube would fail. Kesselring could not avoid speculating that Rommel’s separation from the front lines was more painful to him than the illness he had carried home from the desert. If Rommel truly missed life among the tanks, Kesselring had to believe that Rommel might be tempted to engineer a disaster, just so Rommel could ride south and save the day. But any doubts Kesselring had about Hube had been put to rest. In the two weeks since Hube’s arrival, Kesselring had seen none of Rommel’s defeatism and rebellious independence. Even better, Hube seemed completely free of the delusional fantasizing that surrounded Hitler and his staff. Hube understood exactly what was happening in Sicily, what his role was, and he was going about the job with perfect efficiency.