The Steel Wave

by Jeff Shaara

  Eisenhower comes to command after long years in service as an exceptional administrator, a man known for a sharp organizational mind. To the field generals who have faced the enemy, however, Eisenhower is a complete unknown, and there are grave doubts about his abilities on both sides of the Atlantic. But George Marshall has known Eisenhower for many years, considers him far more than just a capable subordinate, and convinces Roosevelt that “Ike” is the man for the job. In the late spring of 1942, Eisenhower arrives in England, where he faces the daunting challenge of uniting the armies, navies, and air forces of two separate countries into one cohesive and cooperative fighting force. Eisenhower faces another challenge as well. He is only a major general, and thus he is outranked by every one of his key British subordinates.

  On November 8, 1942, as Montgomery slowly pursues Rommel’s bloodied army, the Allies launch Operation Torch, the largest amphibious landing ever attempted. It will become America’s first land-based operation of the war and results in a relatively easy conquest of ports and territories in Morocco and Algeria, which are defended mostly by weak Hitler-dominated French forces. The victory emboldens the Americans, who begin to believe that the war will be a rapid affair, brought to a close by their superior arms and cocky enthusiasm. To Rommel, the successful invasion means that he is now squeezed between pressure from Montgomery, to the east, and the hard thrust from American and British troops closing on him from the west. With characteristic speed, Rommel reassembles his army from their lengthy retreat and strikes at the Americans, who he believes are not yet prepared for a serious fight. The Americans first meet Rommel at Kasserine Pass, Tunisia, where inept and unprepared American commanders discover that Rommel’s reputation is well earned. Kasserine Pass is an American disaster, and panicked troops and their commanders fall back to safe havens in Algeria. Despite his success, Rommel is virtually ignored by the German High Command. Though he has become a hero to the German populace, Rommel cannot convince Hitler of how inadequately his army is being supplied. As he tours the battlefield, he ruefully observes the enormity of the raw materials and tools of war the Americans have brought to the fight. No matter how often and how successfully he strikes at the enemy closing around him, defeat in North Africa is inevitable.

  By the spring of 1943, his pessimism strikes one too many nerves in Berlin, and Rommel is recalled from North Africa. Eisenhower makes a purge of his own, removing several Allied commanders who are not up to the task. As he scrambles to put the best army he can into line against the experienced German opposition, capable U.S. officers begin to emerge. To bolster the sagging spirits and ineffectiveness of the American infantry, Eisenhower names George S. Patton to command the American ground forces. Patton is a fiery and profane man, who shows every indication that he will go only forward on a battlefield. Under Patton, Eisenhower assigns command to another rising star, a West Point classmate whom Eisenhower knows well. His name is Omar Bradley.

  Within weeks, Montgomery’s forces are united with Eisenhower’s, and the Germans in Tunisia are utterly defeated. Their presence in North Africa is eliminated entirely.

  But Eisenhower does not rest on his laurels. Immediately, the Allies plan for their next assault, to strike directly into Europe. Still thwarted by the stubbornness of Winston Churchill, the Americans agree to a plan for the invasion of Sicily, to confront the powerful German armor and Italian infantry that have made the island a fascist stronghold. If successful, the conquest of Sicily will open the door for the Allies to invade the Italian mainland.

  In July 1943, the invasion is launched: the British under Montgomery, the Americans now led by Patton. Within weeks, Sicily falls, though Patton and Montgomery clash repeatedly over tactics and matters of ego—a feud that will plague Eisenhower for the rest of the war.

  With Sicily secure, the Americans continue to accept Winston Churchill’s philosophy that the best way to defeat Hitler is to strike hard at his “soft underbelly.” In September 1943, the British, again led by Montgomery, and the Americans, led by General Mark W. Clark, invade the Italian mainland. Though the invasion succeeds in driving Mussolini from power, there is no clear military victory. The Italian campaign will drag on for nearly two more years.

  Having satisfied Winston Churchill’s inflexible insistence on attacking Hitler from below, the Americans begin again to promote their concept of a cross-channel invasion of France. Despite Churchill’s stubbornness and the power of his personality, the British realize that if there is to be a victory in Europe, it is American productivity and American manpower that will enable the Allies to continue the fight. Across the Atlantic, American factories are pouring out aircraft, tanks, and military vehicles at an astonishing rate, equipment that is flowing mostly into England. The German U-boat war has been blunted significantly by the use of Allied convoys, enormous numbers of merchant ships traveling in clusters, protected by numerous submarine-destroying ships and planes. There are technological advances as well, such as radar and sonar. As the number of German U-boats declines, the amount of aid and matériel flowing into England dramatically increases. The British have become enormously dependent on American industrial and agricultural production. Finally, despite his misgivings, Churchill accepts the American strategy. There will be an invasion of France.

  Throughout the summer and fall of 1943, staff officers in England labor in obscurity, executing the logistical and tactical preparations required for what will be a massive operation. Command of the planning is given to the British general Frederick Morgan. Morgan’s title, Chief of Staff to the Supreme Allied Commander, provides the name now given this stage of the operation: COSSAC. In the winter of 1943, Morgan’s plan is presented and is amended considerably by those who will carry it out, notably, Bernard Montgomery, who will command the Allied ground forces. But the basics of the plan remain. It is Morgan who suggests that any invasion of France should avoid the Pas de Calais, which is the logical and most predictable place for the invasion to occur. Calais is the closest point to Britain on the French coast, and the Germans have fortified that region to the extreme. Morgan assumes that if the Allies see Calais as the likeliest invasion point, the Germans will do so as well. Morgan chooses instead the less-well-fortified beaches on the northern coast of Normandy.

  In early 1944, Morgan’s job is complete and COSSAC ceases to exist, replaced by a far larger and more complex command system. The operation is controlled and organized from a vast infrastructure of offices, named Supreme Headquarters, Allied Expeditionary Force, or SHAEF. The invasion plan is given a name: Operation Overlord.

  In Washington, General Marshall and President Roosevelt discuss the leadership options for such an enormous and dangerous undertaking. Though Marshall puts his own name up for consideration, Roosevelt realizes that his chief of staff is far too valuable in his current position. Though disappointed, Marshall turns again to the only man who has yet demonstrated the ability to manage such a large-scale organizational nightmare: Dwight Eisenhower. Despite more grumblings from the British, notably Alan Brooke, Winston Churchill begins to champion Eisenhower as the only logical choice to command Overlord. In January 1944, Ike leaves his command in the Mediterranean and returns to London.

  Having made too many enemies in the German High Command, Erwin Rommel sits in bored obscurity in a meaningless post in northern Italy, hoping that Hitler will once again come to rely on him for some significant duty in the field. Instead, in late 1943, Rommel receives word that he is being assigned the position of inspector for Army Group West, under the thumb of one of Germany’s grand old soldiers, Gerd von Rundstedt, headquartered in Paris. A dismayed Rommel is appointed commander of Army Group B, with the responsibility to fortify and protect the French coastline. Rommel views the position with disgust, believing, with most other German officers, that he has been placed in a backwater of the war. But he attacks his job with the same fervor he has shown throughout his long career and begins to light fires under the complacent commanders who are staring idl
y out to sea. Despite no indication of an impending invasion, he recognizes that such an attack is inevitable and begins his inspections along the coast, examining what Berlin has labeled Hitler’s Atlantic Wall. Rommel is deeply disheartened at what he finds. Should the Allies come, he knows the German defenses are woefully inadequate. He observes firsthand that the defenses along much of the French coast are more fantasy than fact and that the fortresslike barriers exist only in Hitler’s mind. Since Rommel has been given a job to do, he decides to do it correctly. If Hitler insists on an impregnable defense along the coast of France, Rommel will do all he can to provide it.

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  PART ONE

  * * *

  We Germans have a far greater and more urgent duty towards civilization to perform…. We, like the Japanese, can only fulfill it by the sword. War is a biological necessity.

  FRIEDRICH VON BERNHARDI (1849–1930)

  We are determined that before the sun sets on this terrible struggle, our flag will be recognized throughout the world as a symbol of freedom on the one hand, of overwhelming power on the other.

  GENERAL GEORGE C. MARSHALL, 1942

  * * *

  1. THE COMMANDO

  * * *

  AT SEA, BAY OF THE SEINE

  JANUARY 25, 1944

  The air underwater was foul and wet, five men pulling against the thinning oxygen. He sat erect, his back painfully pressed against a coil of wire, part of the electrical system of the craft. She was an X-5 class midget submarine, designed to deliver a magnetic mine or similar explosive device, something to be attached to the bottom of an enemy ship. They were stealthy, of course, no blip on anyone’s radar screen, so the British navy had used them on raids all along the coastline, from Norway to the Mediterranean, usually with enormous risk to both the subs and their small crews. But tonight the sub was not armed, and where explosives had once been stored she now carried three passengers and their equipment.

  He tried to stretch his back—no room—and twisted his shoulders instead, working out the kinks. The air was growing worse, thin and acrid, bitter smells of oil and wet cloth. There were no dry places in the small sub, every surface had a slick coating of oily grease or water, mostly condensation. The engine made a low hum, deadened by the steel of the bulkhead, the sub lurching slowly from side to side, held now by long low waves that rolled silently toward the beaches.

  “Suit up, lads.”

  The voice was low, a croak from the lieutenant. He knew the order was coming, yanked hard at his small duffel bag, and retrieved it from the tight gap beneath his feet. Inside were all the tools he would need for the mission. The first priority was unrolling the tight spool of the rubber suit, a single piece, zipped open down the front. There was little room to stand, and he fought to slide the thin rubber over his legs, working his feet downward, pushing. He slid the suit beneath his bottom, pushed his arms into the narrow sleeves, freed his fingers, gave one loud grunt, and pulled the suit up over his shoulders. The others were grunting as he was, straining in the tight space, backs and arms bent low, each man forcing himself into his taut suit. He tried to relax, leaning back against the bulkhead, and took a breath, sour air filling his mouth, took another, felt his chest heave in a futile gasp. He was sweating, worse inside the suit, and the air was growing fouler still. No matter how the air cleaners strained, they were not designed to handle the nervous breathing of five men.

  He leaned forward again, pulled the zipper tight against his neck, then tugged at the headpiece, sliding it over his ears, snug, only his face revealed. He reached again into the bag, found a small tube of grease, black and oily, squeezed a thick stream onto his fingers, and rubbed it on his face, coating any part that would reflect moonlight. The duffel was nearly empty now, but he found his knife, his only weapon, and strapped it to his leg, tight and secure, then went into the bag again for a small bundle, a cloth pouch attached to a thin belt, and slid it around his waist. The man beside him gave him a nudge with his elbow.

  “All set here. You all right, Dundee?”

  “Yep. You tight in? Ready?”

  The man slapped his hands on Dundee’s leg. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

  Dundee leaned forward, looked past, and said to the third man, “Lieutenant? You set, then?”

  The lieutenant scanned both men. Dundee could see his face sweating, a dull wet mask, lit by the yellow glow from the sub’s instrument panel. Then the officer began to smear his face with the black grease.

  “Don’t concern yourselves with me. My job is to worry about you. And right now I’m ready to get this little show moving.”

  From the main control seat, the sub’s commander turned around toward them.

  “We’ll be on the surface in half a minute. On my command, Mr. Higgins will open the hatch, and out you go. Make it quick. I’ll not chance there’s some Jerry lookout who’s good at his job. This tub won’t take pleasantly to incoming fire, and the sooner I can drop us out of sight, the better I like it.” He looked at his watch. “Orders say two hours. I’ll wait for three if I have to, but that’s it. I’m not about to sit out here and wait for the damned sun to come up. Sitting ducks, all of us. You got that?”

  The lieutenant pointed at his own watch. “I know my orders, Captain. We’ll be back in two hours. Don’t go off sightseeing. You’ve got a periscope—keep an eye in it. I don’t plan to tread water any more than I have to.”

  “I know my tub, Lieutenant. And we’re lucky tonight. The surface is pretty smooth right now. A dicky bird swims within a hundred yards of me, I’ll spot her. You just do the swimming; I’ll see you.”

  Swimming. Dundee swallowed the word silently. Most of the commando operations were launched from surface crafts, LCNs, small and rugged navigation boats. The LCNs slipped in close to shore, depositing their commandos in folbots, folding canvas boats, flimsy canoes the men would paddle hard to the beach. But there was too much tide and too much current along this stretch of the French coastline, and a folbot might swamp and drown the men before they could even reach the shore. It was a painful lesson; several men had been lost already in earlier operations. Besides being a danger to her crew, a folbot had to be hidden from German patrols, patrols that were growing vigilant. And so, tonight, they would swim.

  The captain turned toward his instruments and pulled a lever, the sub tilting upward, the bow rising. Dundee pushed his hands into the narrow metal seat, his back leaning hard against the tight coils, and tried to distract himself, thought suddenly of the captain’s boast. What the hell is a dicky bird? The sub swayed, rolling to one side, then upright again, and Dundee’s stomach rolled, the stink in the air filling his head with a dull pain, now growing worse. He heard the splashing of water against the bulkheads; the sub was level again, and the captain’s lone crewman stood, his hands pressed upward against the narrow hatch, and stared forward toward his captain.

  “On your order, sir.”

  “Steady, Higgins. Not quite on the deck. Wait for it.”

  They sat quietly, feeling the low hum of the engine and, now, silence, the captain shutting down the engine. Dundee took a long breath, tried to ignore the sickening smell, his head pounding, a quiver in his hands. He shook his head, thought, All right, Henry, hold on to yourself. They taught you this. It’s all about lack of oxygen. We’ll be out of this damned can in a few—

  “Now, Higgins.”

  The crewman pulled hard on a round crank: The hatch was suddenly open, cold air filling the cabin, a splash of water. The lieutenant stood, hunched over by the overhead close above him, moved toward the hatch, slapped the captain on the shoulder, said nothing. Dundee waited for the man beside him, Henley, up and moving, the well-rehearsed routine, Dundee close behind him. The air was cold and delicious; a blast against Dundee’s face and the headache had vanished. He pressed forward, following the other two toward the blessed opening, watched the lieutenant pull himself up through the hatch, now just his legs and then gone. Henley followed quickly, up
and out of the way, and Dundee grabbed the edges of the hatch and pulled himself up, his head clear of the dismal space. He was outside now, in cold darkness, and he pulled his knees up between his arms, thrust out his feet, sat on the edge of the hatchway, the deck of the sub narrow and flat. The water was black and silent, long low swells. Now came the splashes, the other two already swimming, the lieutenant leading the way, long strokes of his arms, already distancing himself from the sub, Henley trailing behind him. Dundee looked out that way, saw the shoreline, a vast shadow against the night sky. The sub suddenly rocked, caught by a swell, and Dundee released his hands, slid down, let the motion of the sub push him away, pressed his feet against the steel hull, and gave one sharp push, his arms and legs working the water, the training taking over. He moved with precise rhythm, his face bathed by the cold. He was a strong swimmer, essential for this job, slicing quickly through the water, lifted by more swells, the cold gone now, the strength returning, the power taking over: so many miles of swimming and running, months of lifting and climbing, all condensed into these long moments.

  His brain kept count of the number of strokes, an exercise that might have no meaning at all. But in the dark, they would make this swim again, and if the captain was wrong, if the waves picked up or the surface became choppy, at least the men could swim out to within yards of where they had left the sub. It had always seemed to be a foolish gamble, but here, in the black water, it might be the only chance they had to be picked up again.