The Rising Tide: A Novel of World War II (26 page)

17. LOGAN

NEAR SOUK EL KHEMIS, TUNISIA
CHRISTMAS 1942

“I
think I got trench foot.”

Logan was in no mood for Parnell’s complaining. “You ever actually been in a trench?”

Parnell examined the crust of mud on his boots. “Well, no. Not here anyway.”

“And, trench foot is all about feet, not boots. I’m betting your feet are all pearly pink. But don’t show me.”

Parnell scraped at the mud, seemed to ignore Logan’s logic. “Boots are ruined. Shoulda left ’em in the tank and gone barefoot. Hell, back home, it rains like this, which ain’t often, nobody wears shoes.”

“Don’t give me that. Where you come from, nobody wears shoes at all.”

Parnell puffed up now, pointed to Logan. “Shows how much you know. You go steppin’ on a prickly pear, or a damned scorpion, you’ll wear shoes every day, including Sunday.”

Logan leaned back against a fat rock, pulled at his jacket, tried to hold away the wet chill. They sat beneath a canvas shelter, tin plates between them, what was left of a dinner of C rations. To one side, Baxter was poking the black skeleton of a barely flickering fire, smoke drifting past him, out through an opening above his head. He dropped his tool, a thin stick, said, “Too wet. Nothing gonna burn.”

Logan looked at him, saw frowning frustration, thought, that’s the first thing he’s said all day. Maybe all week. They sat in rare silence, Parnell occupied again with chipping mud off his boots. Logan looked up, stared at the darkening canvas, thought of his blanket, rolled up in the storage bin of the tank. The tanks were parked in staggered rows a hundred yards away, camouflaged by an uneven carpet of netting and canvas. Around them, men had built shelters, dug holes into whatever dry place they could find, anyplace uphill from the flowing mud. He hadn’t been to the tank since that morning, a routine firing of the engine, the oil and fuel trucks coming through to service as many of the machines as they could. The service had been done mostly at night, but over the past few days the rains had grown heavy again, thick gray skies darkening to black, the skies free of bombers, so that work could be completed during the day. Obviously, the weather had finally become too much for the Germans. The daily bombing runs had stopped, a blessed relief to the antiaircraft gunners, who could actually spend their shifts under some kind of shelter.

Parnell pounded his foot on a rock, dislodging a chunk of hard mud from his heel. “I’d sure like a cup of coffee.”

Logan reached down, tossed him the small can from the remains of the C rations. “Here. You can have mine.”

Parnell looked at the can, made a sour face. “Can’t drink this stuff. Whoever heard of coffee you don’t have to cook? I’m not so sure this is coffee anyway. I heard talk it’s more like ground-up animals and stuff.”

“I’ve heard you’re an idiot. So give it back. You’ll wish you had this stuff when we’re out in the field somewhere. Mix it up right in your canteen.”

Parnell tossed the can back to Logan. “Nasty stuff. I’d rather drink mud. Right now, I want coffee, the real thing. How ’bout you, Pete? I’ll buy, you go get it, Jack.”

Baxter ignored him, stared at the failure of a campfire, seemed lost in thought. Logan tossed the can of instant coffee into the pile of tin plates, alongside the empty cans, some kind of meat and bean stew. He felt a rumbling in his stomach, thought, he’s right, dammit. Powdered coffee. Leave it to the army. I’ll never tell him that though. We ever run out of ammo, I’ll just shoot that stuff at the enemy. Logan shivered, was truly missing his blanket now, said, “I’m not filling my boots full of water for a damned cup of coffee. My feet are cold enough now. You want it, get it yourself.”

Parnell grunted. “They need waitresses out here. They’d make some pretty good tips about now.”

Baxter seemed to wake up, pulled himself to his feet, his hands pushing up against the low canvas ceiling.

“I’ll go. Gotta hit the latrine anyway.”

Parnell slapped Baxter’s leg as he moved past him. “Good boy. Bring a whole damned pot if they’ll let you.”

There were heavy footsteps, the edge of the canvas tossed back, a spray of mud and rainwater. It was Hutchinson, the man ducking in quickly, stepping right onto Baxter’s futile campfire.

“Damn! This is some fun!”

Logan shielded himself from the chilly waterfall that seemed to roll off the man. “What you find out?”

Hutchinson shook himself, rubbed his hands together. “No campfire? What the hell?”

Baxter moved past him. “Nothing will burn. I’m getting coffee.”

Hutchinson sat, pulled off his jacket. “Not for me. Had ten cups. Headquarters had the biggest pot I ever saw. That’s why I’m shaking. That, or this wonderful
A-rab
winter.”

Baxter ducked out, was gone now, and Logan said again, “What you find out?”

Hutchinson shook the water from his jacket. “No go. There are some Shermans coming up, but we’re not getting them, not yet anyway. They’re parceling them out between our boys and the Brits. Just not enough of them to go around.”

Parnell rubbed his back against a rock. “Well, hell, you might figure the limeys will get first crack. I knew I shoulda said something to Ike: ‘Hey, we’re Americans, you know. You’re shipping brand-new tanks over here just to give ’em to somebody else.’ Ain’t right.”

Hutchinson wiped mud from his hands. “Yeah,
Buffalo Bill,
that’s what you should have done. The Old Man comes up here to see how we’re doing, and you’d just turn the tank right into his path, stop him cold. I’d like to watch you chew out General Eisenhower. I’m sure that would have changed everything.” Hutchinson shifted his weight, tried to find a comfortable place to lean, the rocks jutting out in mostly sharp angles. “The captain made a good case for us. Told the brass that our damned thirty-sevens are no more than popguns. The Shermans have seventy-fives, which according to the brass is about the only thing we got that can stand up to the Krauts. But for now, we gotta make do.” Hutchinson looked at Logan. “Make every shot count. Hit ’em in the treads, or, better yet, we try to flank them, put a shell into their ass end.”

Logan stared at the ground. “Ridiculous. They send us into a fight with a gun that can’t kill anybody.”

“I don’t want to hear that crap. You’re a good shot, so…make good shots. There’s nothing a Stuart can’t do. We can outmaneuver and outrun anything the Krauts have.”

Logan let the words fill his brain, wouldn’t say them out loud.
Outrun.
That may be a good thing.

Hutchinson was still looking at him. “There’s something else. Colonel Todd was killed. Artillery shell hit him when he was outside his tank.”

Logan sat up straight. “Where?”

“With the French, up near Pont du Fahs.”

Parnell said, “Where the hell is that?”

Hutchinson spit a spray of water toward Parnell’s feet. “Does it matter?”

“No, I guess not. Damned shame.”

“General Ward’s supposed to be up here tonight. The whole damned division is heading out this way. Lots of talk about what’s coming.”

The canvas rolled back again, Baxter breathing heavily, shouting, “Out here! They need some help!”

He was gone again, and Hutchinson scrambled to his feet, Logan as well, the two men moving out into thick, wet air. Men were gathering near the road, a jeep turned up on its side, half-buried in a narrow ditch. Others were down in the muck, pulling at the driver, the man screaming, someone else shouting, “Medic! Get a medic!”

Hutchinson jumped down into the ditch, Logan following, mud and water up over his knees, the men pushing against the jeep.

“It’s stuck! Push again!”

They worked in unison now, the jeep rocking, more screams from the driver, the men at Logan’s feet yelling, “Got him! He’s free!”

They pulled the man up and out of the ditch, medics there now, the man’s screams calming to a soft whimper. The jeep suddenly gave way, the mud loosening, the jeep rolling upright. A heavy wave of mud and water washed over Logan, and he tried to pull himself out of the ditch, felt a hand under his arm, a hard pull. He wiped the sludge from his eyes, saw Hutchinson staring down at the injured driver, soft words on Hutchinson’s lips.

“Oh, dear God.”

Logan wiped at his face, fought to see, the medics close beside him, the driver still making soft, shivering noises, medics talking in low, hushed voices. Logan saw now, the man’s leg was gone, cut off at the knee, blood flowing into the mud, a black stream oozing into the ditch. The man began to shake, a low sound from his throat, a single note, then a choking cough, a soft rattle. Then he was silent. The medics still worked, a white cloth turned filthy wrapping the stump of a leg. Logan ignored the rain, the dirty water in his boots, soaking his pants and shirt. He stared at the man’s bloody pants leg, felt sick, weak in the knees, but Hutchinson still held him, no one speaking.

A man moved close beside Logan, older, an officer, said, “He’s done for. Let him be.”

A medic looked up, and Logan saw tears, red eyes, the man still working the bandage.

The officer said, “Let him be, soldier. Get a stretcher. You boys jump down there. We need to find his leg. It has to be in that mudhole, right there. A man oughta be buried with all his parts.”

Logan stared down at the silent face of the driver, the dead man’s mouth open, soft rain wetting his face.

T
he rains had grown lighter, glimpses of sunlight through broken clouds. The mud was there still, filling the roadways, the ditches, trapping more jeeps and more trucks, spraying filth on any man who tried to walk near the roadways. The First Armored was growing stronger every day, new tanks and half-tracks making their way on the one fragile rail line, machines assembled and fueled and oiled at the gathering points, where the crews would mount up, driving them to the east.

Logan rolled the canvas cloth into a fat roll, Parnell on the other side, Baxter waiting to help them hoist the heavy cloth into the metal chest on the stern of the tank. Hutchinson was up in the turret, testing the hand crank, moving the gun barrel in a slow, wide arc. No one spoke, each man holding his thoughts, what might happen now, what a change in the weather might bring. Orders had cut through the rumors that in a few days there would be a new advance, and the rumors had grown louder that the armor was going hard for the seacoast, to drive a wedge into the German position. Logan had ignored the talk, tried to take himself somewhere else, someplace where the sun shone brightly, where a man could walk on a silent stretch of beach and not be afraid of anything. The fantasy was foolish, the dreamy thoughts broken by the face of the young jeep driver, the missing leg, by the men who knelt in the thick ooze to put their hands on the missing piece of the dead soldier. But the nightmares came more from the face of the medic, a young man with soft red eyes, crying for a man he could not save. Medics don’t cry, he thought. Medics are cold and precise and do their job without emotion. He carried the image everywhere he went now, a medic reacting with grief, a man trained for a job he was not yet prepared to do.

Baxter tightened the last cord around the canvas, and Hutchinson climbed up out of the turret, stood high above them, waiting for them to climb aboard. They had no orders to confront the enemy today, would simply move forward, establishing a new tank park, a new camp, making room for the units coming up from behind. One by one they jumped up on the tank hull, Parnell and Baxter dropping down inside the turret, moving forward, opening their hatches. Logan was up as well, stopped, stared down into the turret, to his seat at the breech of the gun.

“Go on, Jack. Mount up.”

Logan gripped the hatchway with both hands, took a breath, glanced up, across the rows of tanks, half-tracks, and armored trucks moving into line. He watched as the oil trucks moved away, could see muddy piles of C-ration cans, slit trenches, and deep ruts across the rocky, open ground. He ignored Hutchinson, repeated a thought that had rolled through his mind many times before. One little tank, a tiny piece of power in a vast machine, an entire army rolling into place, generals making their next
great plan.
Hutchinson put a hand on Logan’s shoulder.

“You okay?”

Logan looked into Hutchinson’s eyes, saw the medic again, fought against the thought, the nightmare that had come to him every night since the jeep driver had died. Are we ready for this? Do we know what will happen when we face a
real
enemy?

He blinked, tried to clear away the image, swung a leg over the side of the hatchway, said, “Yep. I’m fine. Let’s go find some Krauts.”

18. EISENHOWER

ANFA, OUTSIDE CASABLANCA, MOROCCO
JANUARY 15, 1943

T
he site was crawling with security people, civilians and soldiers, the Secret Service and British security mingling uncomfortably with uniformed guards. The meetings were taking place on Patton’s turf, and so Patton was in charge of security, a comforting thought to everyone in attendance. As far as anyone in the Allied camp could determine, the arrival of both Churchill and Roosevelt was still a secret, in North Africa as well as back home. But the assassination of Admiral Darlan had reminded everyone that threats could come from unlikely and unexpected sources.

Eisenhower had arrived in late morning, a harrowing trip on a B-17 that lost an engine en route, the crew and their passengers donning parachutes in the event the plane failed altogether. Eisenhower had not made a jump before, but he could not remain clamped into his tight seat, and so he had stayed close to the waist gunner, both men eyeing the misery of the terrain below them. As black oil streamed from the failed engine, Eisenhower had caught the distinctive sound of another engine failing, a loud crack, a second prop twirling uselessly. But the plane still flew, and when Casablanca finally appeared, the roar of the two remaining engines could not disguise the audible sighs of relief, especially from Harry Butcher.

“I
’d just as soon not do that again, if it’s all right with you, Skipper.”

Eisenhower climbed into the car. “I’m with you there, Harry. And, frankly, I’d rather not do the rest of this either.”

They sat in silence, more cars pulling up close behind, the ever-present jeeps lining up on both ends of the short caravan, machine guns pointing up and out. It would be a short trip, Eisenhower knowing full well that Patton would greet them at the airport’s entrance, would give them a proper escort that might even include heavy armor. At the least, Patton would have his gunners eyeing the sky.

Eisenhower knew that Casablanca could be vulnerable to German bombing raids, long-range planes at high altitude, virtually unstoppable unless you knew they were coming, and unstoppable completely if they came after dark. The Germans were fearless about night flying, something that the Americans had yet to master. It was a source of friction between men like Spaatz and Doolittle, and their British counterparts, Tedder in particular. The British had engaged in night bombing runs over Germany’s larger cities for some time now, striking deep into Hitler’s industrial centers. But the Americans had spent most of their training in daylight, and so their bombing raids were daylight as well, squadrons of B-17s absorbing horrific losses from German fighters and antiaircraft fire. It was one more detail, one more controversy Eisenhower had to listen to, one more difference in philosophy between allies who were still struggling to find common ground in every aspect of the war.

“You think we can keep to your plan, Skipper? Actually leave here tomorrow?”

“I’m counting on it. These meetings are much more about the participants than what’s really happening here. Stalin was invited, you know. Said he couldn’t make it. Got his hands full knocking hell out of the Krauts at Stalingrad. That could be huge, you know. Hitler hasn’t taken a beating like that, could take a lot of starch out of his entire military. I’d like to meet Stalin someday, see what he’s like.”

Butcher stared out, and Eisenhower saw men riding donkeys, women draped in long, cream-colored smocks, walking behind.

Butcher said, “Shoots hell out of everything I was taught as a kid.”

“What do you mean?”

“Joseph and Mary going to Bethlehem.”

Eisenhower was puzzled, waited for the joke. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Butcher still watched the Arabs, wasn’t smiling. “Well, you know, all those images of Joseph and Mary. There was one hanging in my church when I was a kid, more just like it in those Sunday-school books. They’re riding into Bethlehem, Joseph pulling the mule or the ox or whatever it was, Mary riding up on top. Very sweet, you know, the couple searching for the place to stay, ‘no room at the inn,’ all of that.”

“We’re a hell of a long way from Bethlehem.”

“Not really, Skipper. Same kind of place, same people. But one thing’s for sure. No man here walks while his wife rides on the donkey. If anyone rides, it’s the man, every time. Makes me wonder if Joseph made Mary eat dust, pregnant or not. You’d think maybe later on, Jesus would have had something to say about that.”

Eisenhower saw that Butcher was serious. “Keep that observation to yourself, Commander. I have enough gripes to contend with as it is. We didn’t come here to start another Crusade.”

“C
ome in, General! Finally have some time alone. Excellent. Been looking forward to this for a while now!”

Eisenhower heard the door close behind him, Roosevelt sitting beside a fireplace, a blanket over his legs. Roosevelt turned the wheelchair slightly, pointed to a chair. “Sit! Get comfortable. No rank here, Ike. Let’s just have a chat.”

Eisenhower felt the energy from Roosevelt’s smile, the man’s enthusiasm filling the room, sweeping away Eisenhower’s exhaustion.

Roosevelt rolled himself closer to the chair, motioned again for Eisenhower to sit. “Fine dinner, eh? These people have gone too far. Magnificent hospitality. It’s to be expected of course. We’ve shown them some muscle. They respect that, you know. Always have, all throughout history. A lot of ‘eye for an eye’ hereabouts. The biggest gun gets the girl. All of that.”

Eisenhower sat, felt himself sinking into soft leather, the aching stiffness in his shoulders welcoming the comfort. He twisted slightly, eased the pressure on his back, realized that Roosevelt was watching his every move.

“Relax, General. You’ve earned it. Drink? They have some truly fine sherry here, or perhaps something with more of a punch?”

“No thank you, sir. There was a good deal to drink at dinner.”

“My critics will give me the devil about this when I get back home, you know. They’ll accuse me of taking a vacation in the middle of a war. The press won’t mind it too much. A president has to lead, and what better place than to come out here where the action is? Churchill will handle it better than I will, tell them all to go to hell. Of course, he’s been here before. I’ll speak to the people directly, tell them what a bang-up job our boys are doing here, how well they’re being led. I had to see it, you know. Had to. You can’t be commander in chief and rely on written reports. Enormous responsibility to our boys, sending them over here. I had better know what we’re doing firsthand. Churchill feels the same way. He likes to put his hand in a little deep, though. I know better.
You’re
the army. I’m just the figurehead.”

Eisenhower was overwhelmed, Roosevelt’s flow of words pushing him deep into the chair. He saw a smile, the president beaming at him.

“Forgive me for saying so, sir, but you seem to be in exceptionally fine spirits.”

“I am! I don’t realize how important it is for me to get out of Washington until I do it. Like crawling out of a cave, escaping a dungeon filled with jabbering crows. Forgive
me,
General, but this is quite the adventure! This is what makes being president worthwhile. History is being made
here,
books will be written about what happens
here
! Just coming here, all that secrecy, all the intrigue…cloak-and-dagger stuff. How does it feel, General? What must it be like to be the victor, sweeping into the enemy’s strongholds, knowing your army has conquered its foe? A man needs to wear a uniform to feel the impact of that. No politician can know.”

Eisenhower was concerned now. “Sir, I do not feel we are conquerors. Certainly the French would not appreciate that description. They have a great deal of sensitivity on that subject. We must consider them our allies.”

Roosevelt nodded. “Yes, yes. I understand. I get somewhat…enthusiastic about this. I would not insult the French. What do you think of Giraud, or de Gaulle? Can we work with these people?”

“We already have, to some degree. Giraud, certainly.”

Roosevelt waited for more, smiled now. “Nothing to say about de Gaulle, eh? All right then, be discreet if you must. I can’t stand the man. He’s like the ruffian at an elegant dinner. Everyone tries to ignore him, but he bullies his way into every corner of the room. He’ll end up in charge too. I just know it.”

“The army seems to prefer Giraud now.”

“De Gaulle doesn’t care about the French army, General. He wants the country. He wants to be head of state. From what I’ve heard of Giraud, he’s perfectly happy commanding the French military. It’s the compromise those people will need. Giraud keeps his place, de Gaulle takes over in Paris. And, I’ll have to be so damned polite to him. Galling.” Roosevelt winked. “Good pun, eh? Now I know where it comes from.”

Eisenhower shifted in his chair. “Sir, I’m concerned that we not lose our grasp of the present. Paris is not in our plans right now. There is a considerable challenge in front of us in Tunisia. We have not fared as well as I had hoped. Our planning was not always perfect, we could not allow for every contingency. But there is much to discuss—”

“Yes, yes. You’re right of course. Understand, Ike, I leave those details to you and to General Marshall. You may have that conversation with him, contingencies and whatnot. I have to look beyond, to what will follow. Nations will be created, new governments. Look back at the first Great War. The entire map of Europe changed. My job is to deal with those kinds of changes, help them along in the proper direction. I have no doubt that your goals will be met, and I must say, General, your burden would be less heavy if you were not so pessimistic. I had hoped you would still be enthusiastic about our strategy for a cross-channel invasion. Is not Paris still your ultimate goal?”

“Well, yes, certainly.”

“Then don’t lose focus on that! These operations here are the first strokes, testing the water, putting our people into battle to harden them. Our factories are working at full tilt, our people are entirely behind our efforts here. But success will come not just by strength alone. Success will come because history demands it. I will not entertain the notion that Adolf Hitler’s vision of the world can ever prevail, that one evil man can erase thousands of years of the evolution of civilized society. You do what you must do, General. Your campaigns for the new year might indeed be difficult. But you will prevail.
We
will prevail. It cannot be any other way!”

H
e had managed to escape the Casablanca conferences as he had planned, after only one day. But the meetings had become far more than an exercise for the benefit of politicians. Eisenhower had spent considerable time with Harold Alexander, the British commander who ruled over Montgomery’s army, who held tightly to the territory that had been taken away from Rommel. Alexander was now to become the overall commander of all ground troops in the Mediterranean theater, which would include not only Montgomery’s Eighth Army, but of course, Anderson, Patton, and Clark as well. In addition, the planning for the invasion of Sicily was taking shape, projections of a summer campaign there based on the assumption that the fight in Tunisia would be won. Alexander would command the ground troops that would go into Sicily, two primary wings, one British and one American. At the headquarters of the combined chiefs of staff in London, the maps were being drawn, the numbers worked out for that operation, the planners from both countries hammering out broad details. No matter how much energy was directed toward a future operation, Eisenhower had no choice but to stay in the present and look squarely at the map of Tunisia.

ALGIERS—JANUARY 23, 1943

Marshall stared at the map, pointed to the red line that stretched across the southern part of Tunisia.

“You’ve ordered the change?”

“Yep.”

“Alexander pretty certain? We thought Rommel might do an about-face, hit back at Montgomery pretty hard. Didn’t think he’d give up Tripoli without more of a fight.”

Eisenhower waited, and Marshall turned to face him.

Eisenhower said, “Tripoli doesn’t matter to Rommel. He cares first about his tanks. He’s not going to risk his strength fighting for a place he can’t hope to keep. I hoped he would have dragged his feet a bit more. I truly thought we would have the time to cut Tunisia in half.” He thought of Marshall’s question now. “There was no choice but to kill the original plan. Rommel is dug in south of Gabès, and he’s too close to Sfax for us to consider a quick push across. We could be caught in the open, cut to pieces. I’ve ordered Anderson to put Fredenhall in a defensive posture for now.”

Marshall sat, thought a moment. “You comfortable with Fredenhall?”

Eisenhower moved to the map, stared at the network of lines, numbers, Fredenhall’s position.

“Good man. Handled himself well at Oran.” He smiled. “Patton wanted that job, of course. Not sure he would have been the man.”

“Hell, Ike, Patton wants every job. Yours, mine. He’d take over the navy if someone told him to.” Marshall paused. “You need to keep a rein on him. We’re going to need him on the battlefield before this is over. I hear too much grumbling from his people, grapevine stuff. He’s a world-champion bellyacher if you give him the room. We can’t afford to be pissing off the Brits. How’s he handling things in Casablanca?”