The Rising Tide: A Novel of World War II (15 page)

Giraud turned away, sniffed, “Then I shall return to France.”

Clark leaned forward, and Eisenhower saw a strange smile on his face.

“How are you going back?”

“By the same route I came here.”

Clark laughed, and Eisenhower could see Giraud’s expression change, that even he understood what Clark was about to say.

“Nope. No, you won’t. That was a one-way submarine.”

Giraud seemed to quiver. Clark was like a lean, lanky beast, his jaw clamping down on the neck of a much-sought-after prey.

Giraud said, “Perhaps I shall wait, then, to see if you are truly intending to liberate the French people. We will not allow ourselves to be advantaged by conquerors.”

It was pure ploy, a gambit that Eisenhower could see right through. He will delay, see how the chips fall, then decide whether he will ride our wagon. There is no time for that.

Clark seemed to follow his thoughts, said to Holmes, the interpreter, “I have nothing else to say to General Giraud directly.” Clark glanced at Eisenhower, who gave a short nod. “Tell the general that if he does not go along with us and put his signature to this order, he’s going to be out in the snow on the seat of his pants.”

GIBRALTAR—NOVEMBER 8, 1942, 2:38 A.M.

Giraud was gone, had still not signed the paper, and Eisenhower had wired the annoying details of the meeting to Washington.

Cots had been brought into the tiny office, filling what space was left, and Clark and he lay side by side, each man seeking some kind of sleep, some way to sweep away the sour taste of the meeting with the Frenchman. Eisenhower’s mind had grabbed at hope, that if only one of the landings was moderately successful, Algiers, perhaps, the Americans making quick work of occupying the city, then Giraud would agree to authorize the broadcast. Lives could still be saved, French commanders persuaded not to strike back at the invaders. Surely he knows that I will not turn over this entire theater of the war to his authority. It was his bargaining chip. It had to be.

Eisenhower turned over on his side, the stiffness in his shoulders tormenting him. He could not erase the image of the tall, hollow-cheeked old man. He did not blink, he thought, did not waver. What kind of horse trader would be so inflexible? They
are
a different breed, those people. Giraud is far more concerned with how he will be regarded by the history books than by how many men will die for his arrogance. How do you believe you are holding on to honor when you sit by and allow a disaster to happen?

He turned on his back again, angry at himself now. It is not a disaster. It will not
be
a disaster. Patton, Ryder, Fredenhall, Cunningham, Doolittle…and Clark. How many
Girauds
would it take to fill any of their shoes? Have faith, General.

The door opened slowly, a crack of light splitting the room. He heard the whisper, Butcher.

“Sir?”

Eisenhower sat up, Clark as well.

Butcher said, “Word received, sir. The Eastern Task Force. First report from General Ryder indicates the landing has been successful on three beaches at Algiers. We’re ashore, sir.”

Eisenhower slid to the end of the cot, Butcher extending a hand, helping him to his feet. Clark was up as well.

Eisenhower gripped Butcher’s shoulders. “Are you certain, Harry?”

“Definitely, sir.”

Eisenhower felt the wall cracking inside him, so many months of work, the planning, the arguments, the politics. None of it mattered now. There was only one thought, and it filled him, rolled through his mind like a great boulder, crushing the fears, the annoying thoughts of men like Henri Giraud. For nearly a year America could only fight one war, MacArthur’s struggles in the Pacific, American Marines and sailors locked in a deadly game with the Japanese. No longer. Now the Germans will know what we can do, what kind of fight we can make. Now, it is not just a world war. It is America’s world war.

PART TWO

We must remember that we are no longer alone. We are in the midst of a great company. Three-quarters of the human race are now moving with us. The whole future of mankind may depend upon our action and upon our conduct. So far we have not failed. We shall not fail now.

WINSTON CHURCHILL

You name them. I’ll shoot them.

GEORGE PATTON ( TO EISENHOWER )

10. LOGAN

AT SEA, THE MEDITERRANEAN
NOVEMBER 8, 1942

H
e had fought seasickness all his life, fought it now, stared into misty darkness, tried to distract the turmoil in his stomach by searching for silhouettes of the other ships. The bow of the ship rose again, and he braced himself, the movement too familiar now, the soft wallowing as the transport rolled over the swell, his gut rolling with it. In the darkness, he saw a small shadow, a glimpse of a break in the horizon. Destroyer, maybe? No, too small. Another of the landing craft, same size as this one. Full of miserable tank crews. He gripped the rail, tried to invent a new prayer, one of dozens now, another distraction, said in a low whisper:

“Please, O Lord, giveth me calm insides, forever and I will always…”

Always what? The words drifted away. He tried to see the ship again, searched in the darkness. He had never been religious, thought, does God know that? Yeah, probably does.
Get to the end of the line, Logan. I’ll get to you after the True Believers. If I have time.
You know, God, I wouldn’t ask You if it didn’t matter.

He realized the ship had slowed, unmistakable, the swells softer, less motion. There was activity behind him, and he turned, saw a brief glimpse of a flashlight, a hatch in the bulkhead opening, the light gone quickly. Voices began now, and he thought of Captain Gregg, and Hutchinson. Yeah, I know. You’ll be looking for me. Hell, I’m not lost, I’m just up here on top, trying to get my guts to behave.

The others were mostly below, the tank crews bunking in tight quarters that were no more than net hammocks slung from stout overhead plumbing. The smells had surprised him, oil and paint. There had been little sleep for those with tender stomachs, and so new smells came as well, sickness and cigarettes, the stale air of too many men huddled into too small a space. Logan had stayed mostly on deck, kept himself inconspicuous, out of the way of the officers and the British sailors, who seemed always in motion. He had grown used to the dampness, the hard, windy chill, went belowdecks only in the daytime, when the crews were assembled, lectured, schooled in what they might expect when they finally launched their tanks on the beach.

The ship was a Maracaibo class “landing ship, tank,”
LST
for short, had been converted from a shallow-draft oil tanker, originally designed to float on the relatively shallow waters of Lake Maracaibo in Venezuela. The massive oil tanks had been replaced by a layer of decking, planks coated in asphalt, a floating parking lot that could fit eighteen tanks. She was nearly four hundred feet in length, even with her nose chopped off, the bow of the ship now a flat steel plate, an inch thick. It was the “door,” the passageway that would lower like the tongue of a drawbridge. Attached to the steel panel was a hinged extension that would unfold, lengthening the platform, creating a driving surface nearly a hundred feet long, long enough, it was hoped, for tanks to move from the LST itself onto some dry surface. The ship’s draft was shallow enough that in theory torpedoes would simply pass underneath, and once the ship had reached its landing zone, she could push close enough that the tanks, trucks, or jeeps could drive from ship to shore without drowning their crews. Logan learned quickly that shallow-draft ships had one distinct disadvantage, something the British sailors seemed delighted to bring to his attention. With so little of the hull below water, the ships were unstable in rough seas, tossing side to side in even the gentlest swells. It was an observation Logan had made his first hour at sea.

They had embarked from the Clyde, in Scotland, one part of the fleet that grew into a vast armada as they sailed beyond the coasts of England. Around Logan, the rumors had flowed far faster than the rolling sea, and he had tried to distract the torment in his gut by focusing on the astounding variety of claims as to where exactly they were going. Every rumor seemed to originate only from the most reliable source, every man claiming to pass along what had come from the mouth of only the most senior officer. Norway was a popular favorite, as well as France. Some were convinced with total certainty that they were in fact going back home. But Logan knew his stars, had spent too many hot nights on the perfect beaches near his home. The fleet was sailing south, and even the most stubborn had to admit that Norway might not be the destination after all. There was one unmistakable clue: none of them had been issued winter clothing. Those who clung to the idea of a landing on the French coast had to concede that such a journey would take hours, and not days. The talk turned to the Mediterranean, and again, the rumors flowed, word of landings at most points between Gibraltar and Palestine. Logan had kept his own thoughts quiet, silently agreed with those who believed they were heading straight for Rommel.

All along the trip southward, there had been briefings and drills, and Logan had no doubt that the exercises had been more about passing the time than honing their skills. Every crew knew their own tank, knew the sounds and smells, the feel of the steel tread on all types of terrain. But then, one briefing had changed the entire mood of the ship. It was the orders, specific assignments, maps, official and direct, passed through to the officers who would lead each tank squad. And there was news as well, reports from a place called El Alamein, a magnificent British victory, Rommel’s army in shambles. The reports had raised new rumors of course, but one had been put to rest. Their target was not Rommel after all, at least not yet.

Logan had hung on the captain’s every word, the others sitting in a small semicircle as the officer read them their orders. They were part of the Center Task Force, would land to the west of the Algerian city of Oran. The landing zone was designated as Beach X, a small bay, scooped out of the African coast alongside a point of land known as Cap Figalo. The landings at Oran would be a pincer, three prongs, combining infantry and armor. One attack would be aimed at the wharves of the city itself, a quick grab to prevent the French, or anyone else, from scuttling whatever ships were berthed there, possibly clogging the harbor with wreckage. The others would involve more infantry and armor, a rapid deployment across open beaches into short hills. The question in every man’s mind was answered before any of them could voice it. The officers had no idea if anyone was going to be above or behind the beaches shooting at them.

As the ship drew closer to the landing zone, the chatter became intense, low voices, the men revealing fears, curiosity, some speaking too loudly, shows of bravado that masked little of what they fought against inside themselves. Still Logan was mostly quiet, fought the churning in his stomach, magnified now by the raw excitement—when this ship finally came to a halt, he would climb aboard the tank, plant himself in the gunner’s seat, and begin the search for his first target.

Other men were moving toward the rail, and he could feel them, electric energy, men too nervous to sleep. Many were leaning out, trying to see toward the bow, some glimpse of the land that was surely close, brief comments from the ship’s crew that the landing was virtually on schedule. Along the rail, no one spoke, each man deep in his own mind, memories, images private to each one, prayers certainly, letters already written, envelopes marked:
In the event I don’t return…

He heard a rumble, stared out toward a flash of light on the horizon. Men pointed, and more flashes came, the sounds reaching them, soft thumps. More men began to gather behind him, questions, and there was a voice, older, the deep, crusty growl of Captain Gregg.

“That’s Oran. They’ve hit the port.”

Logan stared in silence, felt the churn in his gut again, different now. Men were tight along the rail, alongside him, low voices.

“I thought they wasn’t gonna fight back.”

“Looks like a fight to me.”

“Back up, boys.” It was the captain again, Gregg, making his way to the rail. “Get below, prepare to disembark. You’ve got your instructions. You don’t need to be sightseeing up here.”

They began to move away, nervous chatter growing, men stumbling into each other in the dark. Logan waited, saw the short, thick shadow of the captain standing at the rail, staring out, watching the flickers of light to the east. The rumbles continued, and Logan moved closer to the stocky man, said, “How soon till we roll off this ship, sir?”

“Not long. You know where you’re supposed to be, soldier? It’s not up here, is it?”

“No, sir. I’m a tank gunner. Private Jack Logan.”

The captain ignored him, and Logan suddenly felt like an idiot. Yeah, of course, he wants to be my pal. He had always liked Gregg, had noticed him immediately on the grounds of the tank school, a man who drew attention by the way he walked, the orders he gave. Logan had no idea if Gregg had ever been in combat, though he didn’t seem old enough to have been in the Great War. The captain was just one of those men who commanded respect, a hard man who knew his job, none of the meaningless fury that some of the officers spewed out at their men. If you gave him no crap, he gave you none as well. Logan had wondered what the man would be like outside the army, if he was married, kids maybe, destined to follow their father into the service. When they’d first reached England, Logan had wondered if he would actually serve under the man, or if he would see no familiar officers at all, the tank crews scattered. He had heard the officers complaining, and so, more rumors had grown, that the battalion would be reorganized, units shifted from one command to another. But Gregg was still there, would still command the squadron of M-3 Lights, and no matter what kind of enemy they faced, no matter all the talk from the others, jabbering about combat, the unknown, the fear, the stupid bravado, Logan had convinced himself that if there was one man in the First Armored Division who simply had no fear, it was Captain Gregg. It was the one lesson he repeated to himself, that if the men simply did what the captain told them to do, there would be no screwups, no one would have to feel afraid of anything. The captain knows what the hell he’s doing, and if we stick our M-3 close to his, we’ll get the job done and get out of this in one piece.

Logan felt a jolt under his feet, a hard vibration, the ship now stopped completely. Gregg leaned out, stared into darkness, and a man moved past them quickly, his voice low, urgent.

“H hour minus two. Crew, man the plank!”

The voice was British, with the crisp efficiency of the sailors that had impressed Logan as well.

Gregg backed away from the rail, said, “Let’s get moving, Private.”

The captain led the way, and Logan followed, the two men moving toward the steps down to the main deck. Logan followed the stocky man down, reached the bottom, pitch-darkness, his eyes seeking shapes, the columns of tanks waiting for them. He hesitated, could tell that Gregg was still in front of him, and he waited for the man to move forward, to clear the way. The captain dropped to one knee, and Logan was surprised, thought, he’s praying, I guess. Never thought he would have needed that. Move on, let him be. Then the captain bent over, face close to the deck, and threw up.

A
fter Pearl Harbor, the lines had wound around the Federal Building in St. Petersburg for more than a block, young men tossing aside thoughts of school and girls and jobs, for a chance to join the army. The posters had been colorful and direct, designed to inspire patriotism, a call to the brave, but the brave didn’t need posters to inspire them. There was glory in a soldier’s life, or so Logan had been told, stories from the older men, his best friend’s father, his own uncles. They spoke of heroes, Sergeant York, Eddie Rickenbacker, of whipping the Hun, marching into Germany to toss Kaiser Bill into a cesspool. But Logan had surprised his friends, had enlisted months before the Japanese attack, when so many still believed the country had no business joining anyone else’s war.

The army was always in his future, the path opened for him before he was born. Those who had joined up before him had seemed inspired by a kind of patriotism Logan couldn’t fathom, so much lust for glory, boys hoping to become men by mimicking Hollywood, Gary Cooper, Clark Gable. Logan had his own hero. His father had been a pilot in the Great War, had flown the absurdly fragile biplanes, had flown once too often, and so, he was still in France, buried in some piece of ground alongside a thousand comrades, some place Logan had never seen. His mother had told him as much as she could, but it was nothing a boy wanted to hear, a widow’s loss, the pain and loneliness. There were no artifacts, no uniforms, none of his father’s legacy except a handful of unmarked photographs. His mother had kept them carefully matted into wooden frames, the usual poses: his father in a uniform; another; a group of men, his father’s squad perhaps, boyish smiles. But Logan’s favorite photo was the smallest, no more than three inches tall, his father standing beside a two-winged Nieu-port, one hand up on the machine gun, the other a fist, raised like a fighter’s, a playful frown. His mother didn’t care for that one, and so, it became his.