In spite of all optimism at the outset, the future they could see ahead of them was but dimply perceived now. Anton Fedorov might have laid out the broad strokes, the slow probing engagements that lay ahead in North Africa as the American Army sputtered and learned and improvised its way into a force worthy of battle. Ahead lay Casablanca, and the drive north to Tangier, only the first in a long series of battles that might eventually lead them to Tunisia. Where Kasserene Pass had become a proving ground for American will and fighting skill, and a test of morale, those tests would likely be given at some other place now.
That was the consequence of Fedorov’s own intervention. The history was now so twisted that it was beginning to take on a new life of its own, and to write into the record of war a whole new series of battles and engagements where there was no longer any clear connection of reference point to the old events he once knew. In North Africa, instead of chasing the British 8th Army all the way to its stubborn last stand at el Alamein, Rommel was the one to retreat from Gazala, and it was he who would settle into a deeply entrenched defensive position at Mersa Brega. Whether he could ever do what Montgomery did, build up and then launch yet another bold offensive into Cyrenaica, remained to be seen.
The truth of the matter was that Rommel’s chances for any such renewed offensive were now a quickly diminishing prospect. The Americans were coming, a breed of ordinary citizen soldiers, green as they came stumbling off the transports for the most part, glassy eyed with sleep, missing sweethearts back home, looking like disheveled tourists in uniform, always eager to trade a candy bar or cigarette for something they had taken a fancy too in the local settings where they would soon find themselves. They would appear as a motley, unshaven, naive band of marauders to some, a legion of saviors to others. Yet soon, in the harsh dry and deeply weathered land of North Africa, they would begin to learn the craft of killing, the art of war, the heartless cold soul of it all that was nowhere apparent as they first boarded the transports in New York and other Atlantic ports.
Their worries then were whether they had enough socks and underwear in their swollen duffel bags. Memories of the waving crowds seeing them off at the wharves and quays were still dancing in their minds as they slept those first nights at sea, along with the faces and limbs of their sweethearts back home. Soon they would stand on decks of their ships, looking for sun in the sallow grey sky, and their thoughts would turn to darker things as they stared out as the slow procession of the convoys. Were there German U-boats waiting for them out there? The news of what had happened to that convoy to Murmansk cast a dark shadow.
Yes, the Americans were finally coming, going “over there” again, just as the Doughboys had in the first war. But this fight would be different. It had already burned through Europe once like a fast moving fire, and now the flames of that war would be rekindled and driven on by a heartless wind to Germany. This was all that lay ahead, city after city sleeping quietly, for the bombers had not yet come. Their buildings and streets still stood in a reasonable semblance of order. The tanks had not ground up the cobblestone byways. The artillery had not shattered the classic old storefronts and dormered hotels. The fire had not yet rained down from the sky, consuming, consuming, and extinguishing ten thousand human souls in a hour’s time. And it would get worse that that—far worse.
As Fedorov flipped through the pages of his old history books, he could glimpse an outline of what was to come. Casablanca, Oran, Algiers, Tunis, Bizerte, all cities that would eventually have to be taken by the Allies in time. Where the fires or war would go next remained uncertain. Would the Allies then leap to Sicily and into Italy to dethrone Mussolini, or might they aim their swords at the proverbial “soft underbelly of Europe?”
If they ever did muster the force and will to return to France, would it be from the south, or follow George Marshall’s hope for a hard landing on the coasts of Brittany, Normandy, or the Pas de Calais. And if they did come, would they prevail as they once did with a massive operation like Overlord, a grinding breakout like Cobra, a daring leap towards the Rhine like Market-Garden? Would the Germans mount again that last desperate counteroffensive that was once to be called the Battle of the Bulge? All that remained to be seen, battles waiting like sheathed swords in fate’s armory.
Now, in July of 1942, the man who might lead this new Allied effort forward was only just beginning to take on that mantle of command. Dwight D. Eisenhower took up residence in Norfolk House in London at the outset to continue on with what he called the ‘thrashing about in the dark’ where all these war plans were concerned. The Operation that had once been called “Super-Gymnast” was now getting a new code name. It would simply be called TORCH.
Eisenhower’s high forehead, soft blue eyes, thinning hair, and amenable disposition did not at first seem to project the presence that could unite the Allies and forge an alloy strong enough to shatter the steel of the mighty Wehrmacht. He was not the surly, growling and aggressive soul that a man like George Patton was, nor again the starchy, proper, but methodically implacable soul that was Montgomery. A big man, with a strong, athletic build, Eisenhower wore the uniform well, every inch a soldier, and his signature grin would vie with a notoriously quick temper as his moods shifted with circumstances.
Yet behind the ticking of that pendulum, behind that high forehead, Eisenhower possessed a sharp cool intelligence, a talent for planning and organization, and one other attribute that he was to need in abundance in the days ahead—patience. That and a penchant for giving fair treatment and hearing to every side of an argument, led all those associated with him to believe he was worthy of their trust, a most valuable commodity. His easy smile could be disarming, and others warmed to him quickly, conceding him their good regard in a way that was almost effortless.
He was a modest man, generous with subordinates, dedicated to his duty, and honest and fair in all his dealings with others. Then again he was a driven man as well, bent on success, and willing to pit himself against heavy odds to prevail. His affable and gregarious nature won him friends easily, and people saw in him a quiet sense of dignity and honor that inspired confidence. His ability to hide his rough edges and self-doubts was a part of all that. He bore no grudges, had no thirst for revenge, hated no other man, but would stand up to anyone who he thought was on the wrong side of an argument.
These were just a few of the qualities that would make him the leader he was to become, very far from the haughty and almost imperial personage of a Douglas MacArthur, a man Eisenhower once served as a clerk. He was farther yet from a man like Vladimir Karpov, with none of the darkness that undermined the latter’s soul, and no real animosity for anyone in his heart.
In spite of these qualities, Eisenhower would face many hardships along the way. No man is ever immune to doubt, or even despair. Eisenhower would face many doubts in the months and years ahead and also face down both depression and despair, which he cleverly hid behind that easy smile. Any man of Eisenhower’s age and maturity who still carried what he thought to be a lucky token in his pocket, was one who still faced doubt and uncertainty, in spite of the experience delivered with age. Eisenhower had not one, but three lucky coins in his pocket, a favorite silver dollar that he always carried but never spent, a five guinea gold piece, and a single French Franc.
That last coin was much on his mind, shifting between his long fingers as he considered what would come of this first confrontation with French forces in North Africa. He would hash out the possibilities ahead with his opposite number, one Walter Bedell Smith, a man Eisenhower personally requested as his Chief of Staff. While often called Ike’s “Hatchet Man” for the toughness he could display in dealings with others, Smith also had a knack for handling the British. He wasn’t Eisenhower’s friend, and the two men seldom spent social time together, but they cooperated well as planners and organizers, which was what was needed now.
The time had come to put the divisive argument aside and start planning that war, and Eisenhower had Sm
ith in hand to think it through, along with General Mark Clark. They were about to put the finishing touches on the plan for the first great Allied offensive of the war, but the situation facing the Allies was considerably different in this telling of events.
The Med was closed. There could be no landing in Algiers or Oran, and no rapid movement into Tunisia. The United States had also declared war on Vichy France, so all embassies were shut down and Wild Bill Donavan’s OSS would never use them to flood French North Africa with agents and saboteurs. With Gibraltar in German hands, the closest allied airfield would be at Madeira in the Atlantic. They would have to bring everything else with them on carriers until new airfields were seized. Portugal was a reluctant co-conspirator, wary of exposing itself to the ravages of war. All of Franco’s Spain stood between the planned British landing at Lisbon and their objective at Gibraltar.
These were only some of the difficulties they would face, and then there was the fact that France would be unquestioningly hostile, on land and at sea, and backed by German troops from the very beginning of the operation.
Eisenhower was very much against the plan at the outset. “This is a black day,” he said. “The Limeys have had their way with this whole thing, and now our only chance is for Roosevelt to veto this TORCH plan.”
“He won’t,” said Clark. “He’s thick as thieves with the Prime, and this is what Churchill wants.” The Americans had taken to calling Churchill that, ‘The Prime,’ as if he was a cut of some particularly good steak or rib roast. Clark was correct, for in spite of renewed attempts by Marshall to get the operation cancelled, Roosevelt insisted that TORCH should go forward.
And that was that.
Chapter 18
A month later, after a lot of haggling and planning, Eisenhower still had grave doubts. “We ought to invade Spain and French North Africa at the same time,” he said, “but we just don’t have the shipping. By God, we’ll have to divide our forces in this thing, transports, troops, naval air support allocations. The British were whining we weren’t hitting the French coast hard enough in SLEDGEHAMMER, now look at this mess.”
“They want Gibraltar back,” said Clark. “They seem obsessed with it. I suppose I can understand that in one sense. It’s was the first real British outpost the Germans took from them. If they landed on Cuba and took Guantanamo Bay, we’d sure as hell be dead set on kicking them out. But there’s something more to it than that. I’ve heard things.”
“What is that suppose to mean?” said Eisenhower.
“I’m not really sure, but there have been some odd whispers about Gibraltar. I’m told their Navy insists it be taken as soon as possible.”
“Understandable,” said Smith. “As it sits now, they’ve a very long sea route around the Cape to supply Egypt.”
“That’s another thing,” said Clark. “Egypt. Now they’ve done quite well there, wouldn’t you say? It looked like Rommel was going to run them into the Suez Canal a while back, and then he got stopped cold. Well, there’s something going on over there, something fishy, and we’ve been left out of the loop.”
“What have you heard?” said Ike.
“First off, what’s all this about a Russian ship popping off with advanced rocketry?”
“Yes, I did read that when it circulated,” said Eisenhower.
“Then there was that odd meeting in Siwa with Churchill after they first stopped Rommel. Now they’ve kept their cards fairly close to their chests over there. I was in Alexandria to see about a possible mission to slip into French North Africa and see if we could talk some sense into Darlan, and believe me, the British treated me like a pariah. I had the distinct feeling that they were hiding something. I was all set to tour the front, and lord knows they found fifteen reasons to kill that idea. They had a staffer with me every goddamned day, and at time they would drive me about in a limousine with curtains on the windows—for my security, or so they said. Then, when I asked about the scuttlebutt concerning some new tanks they might have, they looked at me like I was asking them for their daughter’s virginity!”
“We got the same runaround,” said Eisenhower, “and I’ve heard that same thing—some new British tank over there kicking the hell out of Rommel’s Panzers—probably their new infantry tank to replace the Matilda. Well, if it’s true, why are they still pan handling for more of our Grants?”
“Good point,” said Smith. “And they also want to restrict our air operations in this new TORCH plan. They’ll accept planes, mind you, but in the 8th Army Theater, they want total control of all air operations, and they want to use all British pilots.”
“Well correct me if I’m wrong,” said Eisenhower, “but I thought beggars shouldn’t be choosers. It’s almost as if they had something over there that they flat out don’t want us to see. Who knows, maybe it’s this tank that been in the rumor mill. Frankly, all this is for Marshall to worry about. What I’ve got to worry about is this goddamned plan. Beetle, what are we really going to be looking at when we do land at Casablanca? What have the French got there in the way of an active garrison?” Those that knew Smith had taken to using, and spelling, his middle name that way—Beetle instead of Bedell.
Smith leaned back, looking over the latest intelligence report. “Casablanca Division—three regiments of infantry there, two others in the general vicinity, but with little in the way of any armor, and poor artillery. But there’s three other divisions in Morocco, one at Fez, another at Marrakech, and a third at Meknes just west of Fez. That last unit does duty on the coast from time to time, at Rabat north of Casablanca.”
“Four divisions… And the Germans?”
“Most of the troops around Casablanca are Luftwaffe, but they just moved the 327th Infantry Division into Marrakesh.”
“No Panzer Divisions?”
“Not in Morocco. The 16th is in Southern France, and intel picked up what looks like advanced units of that division in Barcelona. They could be getting ready to move the whole lot into Spain. Other than that, they’ll have a good veteran infantry division handy, the 15th Infantry, but it’s also in southern France.”
“Nothing in Spain?”
“The 337th at Madrid, garrison troops at Gibraltar and Tangier, shore batteries, Ack Ack units, service troops and some naval personnel.”
“Well hell, Beetle, it doesn’t seem like they’re on to us with this operation. We just might catch them with their pants down.”
“Except for the 16th Panzer Division,” said Smith. “It they move that into Spain, it will be a problem for the British. But we must also consider what they do with the troops they have in the Canary Islands. They’ve got two air mobile divisions there, the 7th Flieger and 22nd Air landing—both tough outfits. There’s a mountain regiment there that they took from Rommel last spring, and General Kubler is the nominal commander of that entire force.”
“Once we hit the beaches at Casablanca, all those troops are out on a limb,” said Eisenhower.
“Which is why we’ve still got to worry about them. They can move by air, perhaps only one regiment at a time, but that means we could eventually face a buildup to the south.”
“We’ve accounted for that possibility in the plan,” said Ike. “The German division at Marrakesh could move to Safi and raise hell with our optional landing there. But otherwise, it will certainly come north to Casablanca. Those airborne troops will be used to reinforce their lines after we’ve landed and they see what cards we have in our hand. What I can’t figure is why they don’t have anything north of Rabat.”
“They probably think we can’t hit them there under their land based air power.”
“True, but that means no German troops of note between Casablanca and Tangier. So far I like that, because I don’t think they’ll be able to reinforce Morocco once this thing starts. Patton will like it too.”
“You sure about Patton?”
“He’s the best man for the job. He’ll have all of 2nd Armored Division, and the 3rd and 9th Infantry Divisi
ons—eventually. 3rd Division is scheduled for D+3, the 9th Division for D+5—assuming the U-boats don’t get them first.”
The British asked for our 1st Armored at their end of things—in Spain.”
“If they do have a new tank, it sure doesn’t sound like they have much confidence. Why do they want our armor in Spain?”
“You said it yourself,” said Eisenhower. “Given the fact that 16th Panzer may be moving as you suggest, I think we’d better agree to that—in part. We were going to lead with the 9th Infantry, but I’ve asked for the Big Red One instead on D-Day.
“That rips up Fredendall’s Corps,” said Smith. “The British get his armor and Patton takes the rest.”
“I’ll let him down easy,” said Eisenhower. “He still has the Corps, only he’ll be standing in Patton’s shadow, that’s all. And the Brits just get one combat command in floating reserve. I’m going to use Hatch and CCB in the first wave south of Casablanca”
“What about Harmon’s Division?”
“2nd Armored? Hell, it will sit in the UK waiting for those transports to get back there after they deliver the Brits to Lisbon. That means we can’t expect that division to arrive until D+5.”
“What does Patton think of all this?”
“He wasn’t happy the first go round,” said Eisenhower. “Said he thought the troops were too green. Then again, after I handed him the 1st Infantry Division, he changed his tune.”
Second Front (Kirov Series Book 24) Page 15