The Rising Tide: A Novel of World War II (17 page)

They had driven along the smooth roadway for several minutes, Logan’s nervousness fading, the tension in all of them giving way to curiosity. Away from the beach, the ground settled into low, rolling waves of rock and scrub brush. Logan’s view was more limited than that of the other three, but even he could see across the vast stretches of open ground that spread out along both sides of the narrow road. It was no place to hide an army, no suitable spot for any kind of ambush. He heard a crackle in his earphones, the voice of Parnell.

“Hey, Hutch, this looks like home. You sure we’re in Africa?”

“Pay attention, Skip. We’re a long damned way from Texas.”

Skip Parnell had grown up in the rugged scrub country west of San Antonio, was no older than Hutchinson. Logan could only see the young man’s back, knew that Parnell was peering ahead through the driver’s hatch, a flap of steel that opened forward, giving the driver a clear view in front of the tank. The rugged ground spread out in endless gray waves, the road still only a faint, pale ribbon, and Logan thought of their first objective, the details on the map he had been ordered to memorize, Lourmel. Who the hell would build a town out here? He glanced at Parnell’s back again, could hear the man’s drawl in his head, stories of deer hunting and rattlesnakes. Well, somebody had a reason to build Uvalde, Texas, so I guess the damned Arabs can build a place out here. I’m guessing we’ll know it when we see it. This road’s gotta end somewhere.

The earphone spoke, Parnell again.

“Hey, Hutch, I thought there were Frenchies out here. How we supposed to know if they’re friendly if there ain’t nobody home? You absolutely sure we’re in Africa? Leave it to the damned limeys to send us ashore in godforsaken anywhere, and Colonel Todd not to admit that we’re just plain lost.”

The sprawl of words was familiar, the Texan never allowing silence to pass for long. Even through the hard roar of the tank engine, Parnell seemed uncomfortable if no one was talking. Hutchinson responded with his usual reaction to Parnell’s gripes.

“Shut up, Skip. Drive the damned tank.”

They had come more than five miles, no sign of an enemy, no sign of anything but scrub and rock. Logan hadn’t expected this, not after so many days of gut-twisting tension. Every tank crew had been lectured on what kind of fight might be in front of them. They were certainly prepared, loud boasts of confidence, the officers and instructors believing they had the right training and the right equipment. But Logan knew from the low talk, all those prayers and letters home. Every man had wondered if the officers or anyone else could really know what was going to happen, if they would advance their tank straight into some kind of hell. But now, moving deeper into what was supposed to be hostile ground, there was still no enemy, no artillery fire, no greeting at all. And so, the tension had begun to give way to the usual comical bellyaching between Parnell and Hutchinson, exactly as it had been for so many months of training. Logan leaned down slightly, glanced at the back of the man sitting close in front of him. Through it all, Baxter had stayed silent, the fourth man in the crew so quiet he might not have been there at all. He was another man barely twenty, the first soldier to emerge from a family of Indiana farmers. Baxter was small, barely tall enough to qualify for the army, but had made it through training as well as any of the others. His size was an obvious advantage to a man whose seat was forward in the compact hull of the M3.

“You keep your mouth shut about Colonel Todd.”

“Well, hell, Hutch, he’s an officer. Ain’t seen an officer yet who wouldn’t rather be sitting back in some liquor hole, stroking some sweetie. Even Captain Gregg…”

Logan smiled, had heard it before, knew that Parnell was pumping Hutchinson for a reaction, would push far enough to get the usual explosion. He waited for it, but the earphones were silent, and suddenly Hutch’s hand was on his shoulder, a hard grip. Parnell spoke, a single word.

“Hello.”

They had crested a low hill, and Logan saw it now, a dark shape, rolling into the road in front of them. The wireless spoke, orders from behind them, from Gregg, and Hutchinson responded into his microphone. Then the earphones crackled again.

“Driver, halt! Captain says let’s give him a chance to withdraw.”

The tank slowed, then jerked to a stop, and Logan felt the hand on his shoulder again, said, “I got him in the sights, Hutch.”

“He’s not one of us. French uniforms. Where the hell did he come from? The infantry must have run right past him, probably hidden in some hole.”

They were less than two hundred yards from the truck, and Logan watched through his gunsight, the truck moving slowly, turning toward them, halting as well, in the middle of the road. Hutchinson’s voice came again.

“Looks like a fifty caliber. No other vehicles.”

No one spoke, the training in each of them. The intercom belonged to the commander now, and there would be no chatter. Logan put his right hand on the turret wheel, turned it slightly, the hydraulics centering the gunsight just above the hood of the truck. He could see heads, three men, frantic movement, rifles propped up on the windshield, aiming toward…him. Hutchinson’s voice again:

“Easy. Let’s see what they’re gonna do. We can’t fire—”

There were flashes from the truck, the tank suddenly rattled with hard pings, small punches, Hutchinson shouting, “Ahh, damn! Hatches closed! Bastards!”

Hutchinson dropped down close behind Logan now, the hatch above him still gaped open. Hutchinson said, “Son of a bitch! Is he crazy?”

There was a pause, the heavy machine gun on the truck silent, the only sound the low idle of the tank engine. Logan heard the wireless, Hutchinson adjusting his own headset, talking into the microphone, more orders from behind them. Logan felt the hand again, another grip on his shoulder, the voice in his earphones.

“Orders. Gunner…
fire
.”

Logan leaned forward, his shoulders settling against the curved rests, his heel pressed hard on the trigger pedal. He stared at the truck, could see the men, rifles still pointing at him, a wisp of smoke trailing from the big machine gun. He felt a chill, his heart racing, one word ripping through his brain:
stupid
…
stupid
…

He pressed his toe forward and the gun erupted, the recoil of the gun jolting him back. The truck erupted in a flash of fire, black smoke, seemed to come apart, the doors falling away, metal in the air…men. Logan stared into the sight, frozen, felt quick motion below him, Baxter feeding another shell into the gun. Baxter spoke now, the earphones bursting into Logan’s head:

“Loaded. Ready!”

“Hold your fire!”

Logan responded to Hutchinson’s order, raised his foot away from the pedal, realized he was shaking, the cold all through him. Hutchinson stood up behind him, peered above the hatch, and the wireless spoke again, Hutchinson relaying the order.

“Driver, advance. Let’s take a look, Skip.”

The tank rolled forward, the smell of exhaust rolling around them. Logan kept his eye at the sight, a voice in his head, the lessons, watch for movement, watch the fifty cal, someone could still be at the gun. But there was no gun at all now. The truck was on fire, the smoke spilling out to one side, caught by the low breeze.

“Driver, halt.” The tank stopped again, Hutchinson’s voice. “Man those thirties. Could be more around here. Keep an eye out.”

Logan put a hand on the trigger of the machine gun, mounted alongside the cannon, felt for another gun on his right side. The M-3 had five thirty-caliber machine guns, guns that were cursed all through training, the guns that took up precious space inside the hull of the tank. There was silence now, no one cursing anything. He heard Hutchinson speak, outside the tank, realized another tank had moved up alongside. The talk continued, voices, his earphones blocking the words. He shifted to the periscope, saw men in front of him now, walking out past the tank, Gregg, two others. They moved around the truck, away from the flow of smoke, Gregg holding a pistol, the others carrying small carbines, stared at the remains of the truck for a long moment. Gregg moved back toward the tanks again, out of Logan’s sight, more voices, Hutchinson talking, and the earphones coming alive.

“The captain says, good shooting, Jack. He’s cursing the infantry a blue streak. They should have rooted out these guys. They were Frenchies. Hey, Jack, you got our first kill.”

More orders came through the wireless, the command to advance, to continue along the road, seeking targets, seeking the enemy or the town or the airfield. Logan closed his eyes, sat back in his seat, felt the sway of the tank, the rumble beneath his feet, the power. He could still smell the smoke from the cannon fire, the remnants of gunpowder, blending with the exhaust and the dust, coating the insides of the tank, coating his skin, filling his lungs. He had wondered about this moment, what it would feel like, all those questions that his uncle would not answer. At Fort Knox, there had been so much talk about killing the enemy, so much of the training focused on taking the
thought
out of it, seeing the enemy as the
enemy
and not as a man. Or a truck full of men. He had wanted to climb out of the tank, to see for himself, to see what Gregg saw, what the thirty-seven had done to those men. It was my responsibility, dammit. He scolded himself, no, it’s not your responsibility, not for this, not for any of it. What if those bastards had had a seventy-five, or a German eighty-eight. I wouldn’t be sitting here having this little chat with myself. We’d be blown to hell, more pieces than that damned truck.
That damned truck
. The image wouldn’t leave, and he felt angry, thought of the three men, the one in command, the one who’d ordered a fifty-caliber machine gun to fire at this great steel machine. A stupid, moronic mistake. My first kill, and I killed a truck full of idiots.

He opened his eyes now, felt the cool, dusty air swirling through the tank, focused on the periscope. There was silence in the earphones, no more of the chatter, no more playful insults from Parnell, no more Fort Knox and no more Ireland, no more drills and lessons. The training was over.

11. LOGAN

SOUTH OF ORAN, ALGERIA
NOVEMBER 8, 1942,
LATE MORNING

T
he infantry had found a fight, but the enemy was scattered, the confrontations mostly brief, one-sided affairs, no sign of any organized resistance by the French. Lourmel was already in American hands, and those few snipers daring to make a stand had been killed, captured, or had simply disappeared. Like the landing zones behind them, the village and the roads out in both directions were quickly secured, guarded by heavily armed checkpoints, protected by mortar crews and infantry manning antiaircraft guns.

The tanks had pushed on, moving east along a snaking ribbon of asphalt that paralleled a vast open sea of dried mud. The maps called it Sebkra D’Oran, Logan assuming the translation to be something about a lake, that perhaps once each year, or once in several years, the place actually held water. Now, it was a flat, smooth plain of gray-white sand. The armor had tested the surface, the tanks faring well enough, but the infantry had learned that what seemed to be dry, hard ground would give way, swallowing a man’s boots above his ankles, a well-disguised layer of gluelike clay below the dry crust. It was yet one more oddity in this very odd place.

As the tanks, jeeps, and foot soldiers passed through the villages and small settlements, they had an audience, Arabs who stood aside as they passed, dark, weathered men in filthy robes, often perched on the backs of scrawny burros or foul-smelling camels. Behind them walked their women, faces hidden, black eyes darting toward the huge machines. The Arabs seemed completely uninterested in the war, no flag-waving, no sign at all that they considered the Americans to be liberators. During their training, the tank crews had been lectured that the “natives” disliked the French, hated the Italians, and presumably had little use for the Germans. All of this was thought to be of benefit to the Americans, that the Arabs would gratefully open their doors. What Logan had seen convinced him that the Arabs were simply bystanders, would probably remain that way. This war was no different from other wars fought all across North Africa for centuries, fights between tribes or kings or armies far removed from the lives of the people over whose land they fought. The Arabs seemed to know that no matter the size of the tanks that rolled past them, no victor, no king, no army, ever held on to this land long enough to affect anything the Arabs had to do to survive. The Americans discovered quickly that in the twentieth century, survival seemed to mean commerce, and if the Arabs acknowledged the Americans at all, it was by offering to conduct business, trade. The soldiers found that here even paper money would buy eggs and chickens and goats, and a variety of goods, from carpets to jewelry. But the officers realized that the most valuable asset the Arabs might have was information, troop positions of the enemy. Never mind that the loyalty the Allies purchased was only good until someone else, perhaps in another uniform, made a better offer.

With the Americans pushing inland, radio dispatches, updated reports, had come from the HMS
Largs,
General Fredenhall’s command ship, sent through the outposts at the beach, driven forward or transmitted to the senior officers who led their troops and armor closer to Oran. The landings on Beach Z, to the east of Oran, had been successful as well, U.S. army rangers there subduing a coastal battery, other small fights breaking out with French troops. The tank and troop columns were in motion there as well, pushing south and west, sweeping aside most of the French resistance, as they pressed to their own objective of the Tafaraoui Airfield. Closer to Oran, French defenses were more organized, and if hope remained that the French would lay down their arms and recognize the Americans as friends, that optimism was crushed in the harbor at Oran itself. As the armored and infantry troops approached the beaches beyond the city, two small British ships, the
Walney
and the
Hartland,
entered the harbor itself. They carried a force of some five hundred men, whose mission was to capture and secure the wharves, preventing the French from scuttling their own vessels, thus keeping the entrance to the harbor unobstructed. Before the two ships could put their troops ashore, French searchlights illuminated the vessels, and in the tight confines of the harbor, shell fire from the French shore batteries rained havoc on both ships. With no room to maneuver, and no escape route, the confrontation became an Allied disaster. Nearly 90 percent of the British crews and their American cargo were either killed, wounded, or captured. While both wings of the pincer movement pressed forward their envelopment of the city, the French made it clear that in the city itself, there would be a fight.

W
ith Lourmel secured, the column had been reorganized, eighteen tanks now accompanied by infantry, engineers, and tank-destroying artillery. Most of the column made good use of the paved road, the tanks fanning out into patches of flatland, seeking out any resistance, any place where French troops might attempt an ambush.

Hutchinson’s crew still led the way, Captain Gregg bringing up the rear of the squad, three Stuarts sent to probe a smaller road that dipped close to the great, dry lakebed. The trail wound through desolate scrub, the tanks rumbling up and over short, choppy hills, past narrow cuts and ravines. Hutchinson was above the turret again, his head and shoulders exposed, better to search the small nooks as they passed. Behind him, the other M-3s kept their distance, a gap of fifty to a hundred yards, more precaution. The other commanders stood tall as well, suffering through the dust from Hutchinson’s steel treads.

Logan peered through the gunsight, then scanned with his periscope, anything to gain a wider field of vision. He rotated the turret slightly, the barrel of the thirty-seven sweeping past nothing, just empty land, bare hills. Closer to the main road, they had seen signs of scattered fighting, pillars of smoke, streaks of fire from artillery batteries miles away, no idea if the guns were friendly, or if somewhere in this desolate place a garrison of Frenchmen had decided to make a stand.

“Planes!”

The word punched him, and Logan looked up, peered into the only sky he could see, through the open hatch above his head.

Hutchinson said, “Driver, halt! Let’s see what they’re going to do. If they come this way, try to use the thirties. Gunner, check your elevation. They come in low, you might have a shot.”

The intercom came alive again, Parnell. “I see ’em, Hutch. Three of ’em, looks like fighters. Doing some dipsy-doodle moves. Jesus, they’re shooting at something!”

Logan felt blind, wanted to stand, see something more interesting than dry hills through a dusty periscope.

Hutchinson scanned through binoculars, said, “They’re French. Going after something out there. Along the edge of this lake.”

Logan was frustrated, said nothing, knew it wasn’t the gunner’s place to become a sightseer.

Parnell said, “They’re going in low. Jesus, shooting like hell at something. Damn! Hope it ain’t our boys.”

Logan felt helpless, said, “Who the hell else would it be? We’re the only ones out here. They’re either shooting at us, or their own people.”

Hutchinson said, “They’re leaving. Finished what they came to do, I guess. Maybe we ought to see if somebody needs help.” He spoke now into the wireless, passing the word to the other tanks, then once more into the intercom. “Let’s move, driver.”

The tank lurched forward, and Logan whipped the turret to one side.

Hutchinson’s voice: “Easy, gunner. You trying to throw me out of this thing?”

Logan didn’t answer, stared through the periscope, could see an open sea in front of him, the dry lakebed spread out to the horizon.

Hutchinson said, “Holy Jesus! There they are. C-47s. What the hell?”

Logan could see them as well. A quarter mile out from the rocky hills, a cluster of aircraft seemed tossed about, no order. At least one of them was wrecked, smoking. Around them, men scrambled like so many ants.

Parnell said, “There’s people hurt out there, Hutch. We gotta give ’em a hand.”

Hutchinson said nothing, and Logan glanced up, saw Hutchinson staring to one side, then heard in the intercom, “Target! Driver, halt!”

Logan turned the periscope as far as he could twist his body, could see a single man, standing in the scrub, another rising up beside him. More appeared now, men easing slowly up a sharp rise, coming toward them from nearly every direction. Logan’s hand went to the machine gun, and he eased the turret to one side, found the men in his gunsight, counted a dozen. But the helmets were unmistakable, and he pulled his hand from the machine gun, focused on one, a dirty face, toothy smile, the man holding a Thompson submachine gun, raising it over his head.

Logan said, “Hey Hutch. They’re ours.”

“Yep. Driver, shut ’er down. But these guys aren’t infantry. Let me check with Captain Gregg, see what we should do. I could use a whiz break.”

The tank was suddenly silent, and Hutchinson spoke into the wireless, the two tanks behind them moving up close, their engines shutting down as well. Hutchinson climbed out through the hatch, stood on the hull of the tank, and Logan eased up out of his seat, stood, stretched his stiff legs, his head above the hatch for the first time in hours. He watched the soldiers climb up the rise, most of them carrying submachine guns, not the standard-issue rifle for American foot soldiers. Their uniforms weren’t standard-issue either: baggy pants legs stuffed into tall boots, pockets sagging with bulky gear, each man seeming to carry a backpack on each thigh. Logan understood now, had heard talk of these men in England,
Airborne,
some kind of mystique around them, rumors that they were simply lunatics, their unit a haven for the army’s misfits and psychopaths. One of the men stepped closer, limping, helped by a medic. Logan saw blood on his face, his shirt open over a mass of white bandages.

Hutchinson said, “You’re in pretty bad shape, soldier. Can we help?”

Gregg was there now, climbed down from his tank, stood beside Hutchinson. The wounded man seemed to gather himself, pushed the medic away, fought to stand on his own, said, “Lieutenant Colonel Edson Raff, 509th Parachute Infantry Battalion. I guess it’s a damned good idea to put white stars on American tanks. If we hadn’t seen that, we would have dropped a bag of grenades down your hatch.”

T
he 509th had been designated to be the first American airborne unit to deploy into combat by parachute. The paratroopers had come directly from England, a massive squadron of C-47 transport planes. But like so many plans drawn out so carefully on paper, plans that called for the 509th to make their drops close to the key airfields at La Sénia and Tafaraoui, strong winds and poor visibility had scattered their planes all along the North African coast. Instead of reaching their drop zones, most of the inexperienced pilots became lost in the darkness, landmarks obscured by a thick layer of cloud cover. Worse, a signal was supposed to be sent from a carefully positioned British ship, a radio beacon to guide the planes toward their drop zones. For reasons no one understood, the radios on the C-47s had remained silent. The beacon had never been received.

When the drops were actually made, the paratroopers had no way of knowing if they were anywhere near their targets, and in fact the C-47s had scattered the battalion from points near Tafaraoui to as far away as Spanish Morocco. As had happened at Oran harbor, the French welcomed the paratroopers and their aircraft with artillery and rifle fire. Several of the C-47s had taken advantage of the slick flatness of the dry lakebed of the Sebkra d’Oran by landing there, in an effort to reload their human cargo, to transport them closer to their intended drop zones. But once the sun came up, French fighter planes swarmed above the unarmed and ponderous C-47s and either shot them out of the sky or followed them down to another landing, where the French gunners took no mercy. Colonel Raff and those who could find some means of reaching their targets overland had no choice but to follow their compasses. Though some of the scattered paratroopers found motorized transport, many were still on the march, slogging their way through the clay of the lakebed, grimly intent on reaching their target at Tafaraoui.

“G
otta be a tough son of a bitch, that colonel…what? Raff?”

Logan ignored Parnell, focused on the desolation along the lakebed, knew Hutchinson would respond.

“He was torn up pretty bad. The medic said he was hurt when he landed in the rocks, said they had a jeep for him. I wouldn’t want to be the one to try to stop him from going anyplace. Looked like a tough guy. All of them.”

Parnell said, “Nuts. That’s what they are. Nuts. Jump out of airplanes, hope like hell some oversized bloomer keeps you alive. Give me a damned tank. You still awake back there, Logan? We might need that gun of yours. Just ’cause you got our first kill don’t mean you can take a holiday.”

Logan didn’t smile, said, “Shut up and drive.”

They moved back toward the main road, the three tanks rolling off a rocky mound, crushing a trail through more of the thorny brush. The road was crowded with men and jeeps, and Hutchinson stayed up, outside the hatch, was talking to someone, the wireless squawking, Hutchinson ducking back inside, speaking into the microphone.

“Driver, move past these men. Captain says we’re to join up with the other tanks farther ahead. They’re holding up for some reason. Might be the enemy.”

They moved past shouting men, rifles in the air, men who knew the value of armor. They pushed along the roadbed for more than a mile, and Logan could see dust clouds in front of them, more tanks, the machines spread out in a wide fan, sweeping eastward.

The intercom crackled, Hutchinson’s voice: “There’s smoke. Stay awake. Something’s happening up front of us.”

Logan shifted the turret, scanned the horizon, the road splitting two low hills, tanks and heavy trucks out on both sides. He saw the smoke as well, closer now, a black column rising from a truck. He sat upright, grabbed the sight, realized…Hutchinson’s words: