The Rising Tide: A Novel of World War II (31 page)

22. EISENHOWER

DJEBEL KOUIF, NEAR TÉBESSA, TUNISIA
FEBRUARY 15, 1943

F
or several days the intelligence reports had strongly suggested that the German attack would come much farther north, near the far left flank of the American position, the junction with the beleaguered French, through the pass at Fondouk. Anderson had engineered his defensive strategy accordingly, had ordered Fredenhall to push units of the Second Corps closer to the French, to strengthen the area certain to be targeted by the inevitable German assault. Fredenhall had obeyed without argument, had accepted wholeheartedly the validity of the intelligence. As a result, the Second Corps’ armor had been spread out in small packets, with a sizable force sent to strengthen the northern flank. Every indication had been that the Germans were still coming through the pass at Fondouk. Eisenhower had listened to the reports as well, had wanted to believe that Anderson was well-informed, that the intelligence was reliable. But the maps had alarmed Eisenhower, and Fredenhall’s complacency alarmed him more, the man believing that armor and infantry in isolated pockets spread along distant roadways and mountain passes was sufficient to keep the Germans at bay. Fredenhall relied on the accuracy of the intelligence, that with the German thrust sure to come to the north, the weakened units at the center of the American position would have little to be concerned about.

Eisenhower knew that the American forces had yet to be seriously tested in battle. To ease his discomfort, he had traveled east from his headquarters at Algiers, to see for himself the various frontline positions. He had visited Fredenhall first, had then traveled farther forward to see the First Armored Division’s commander, Orlando Ward. Fredenhall was the picture of loud confidence, a man with definite opinions about everything, his faith in the disposition of his troops unshaken. Ward had seemed strangely resigned, accepting Fredenhall’s orders with mild protest, but obeying them just the same. It was unusual for Ward, especially because Eisenhower knew that Ward did not enjoy anyone else telling him how to arrange his tanks. Word had already filtered back to Eisenhower’s headquarters in Algiers of a simmering feud between Fredenhall and Ward, sharp words exchanged, calmed only by Fredenhall’s rank and authority. Ward was, after all, the good soldier. He would do what he was told.

Both Anderson and Fredenhall insisted that any German attack in the American middle would likely be a feint, a demonstration to take American attention off the real threat at Fondouk. Despite those assurances, Eisenhower had recognized the dangerous flaws in Fredenhall’s deployment and, by nightfall on February 13, had issued his own orders to correct the dangerously scattered armor and troop positions. But before Eisenhower’s orders could be carried out, the Germans had struck. And it was not at Fondouk, but farther south, where the intelligence reports had claimed no danger existed. Even as the Germans drove hard into the American armor and infantry at Sidi Bou Zid, both Anderson and his intelligence officers continued to insist it was only a feint. By midday, with the American position in shambles, everyone finally realized that the intelligence had been disastrously wrong.

When the German spearhead punched through the passes east of Sidi Bou Zid, Eisenhower had been close enough to hear the thunder. As the first waves of confused and panicked troops flowed through the positions around him, Eisenhower had obeyed the anxious protests of the officers, the men who knew this was no place for the Allied commander to be. With the American defenses collapsing behind him, Eisenhower’s jeep had made a rapid journey back to Fredenhall’s headquarters, the command center of the entire American position.

T
he road wound up a steep canyon, lined by fat rocks, studded with an uneven covering of tall, thin pine trees. Eisenhower steadied himself in the rear seat of the jeep, the driver far more calm than he had been only an hour before. In the front seat beside the young sergeant was Lucian Truscott, a fiery, no-nonsense two-star, who had made the trip with Eisenhower through the frontline positions. Truscott had come ashore north of Casablanca, a part of Patton’s Operation Torch Western Task Force. Eisenhower had known Truscott before the war, had observed him since, a man who could easily be a hard-charging disciplinarian, the kind of senior officer the green American units desperately required. After the successful completion of Torch, Eisenhower had chosen Truscott to be his field aide in Tunisia, the commanding general’s eyes and ears among the men charged with confronting the Germans. One of Truscott’s first reports had been tinged with carefully guarded annoyance, an observation that Fredenhall’s headquarters seemed to be designed to be permanent, as though Fredenhall expected to be in one spot for quite a while. Eisenhower had gone forward immediately, had confirmed that Truscott was right. Fredenhall was expending a great deal of energy creating a command post that seemed better suited to withstand an old-fashioned siege. It was Eisenhower’s first hint that the Second Corps might have a problem with its command.

Eisenhower stared at the rocks, the road, the vast blanket of heavy cover that guarded the entrance to Fredenhall’s command center. Beyond the fortresslike formidability of the ground, Eisenhower understood now that there was another serious problem with Fredenhall’s decision. As the push into Tunisia had progressed, the maps of this part of the country had been brought up-to-date. When Fredenhall’s position was first marked, Eisenhower had thought the aides had simply made a mistake, or that the maps themselves were in error. But Eisenhower had made the trip himself now, not just to see Fredenhall, but beyond, to the frontline positions, to observe the various officers whose men pushed into the positions Fredenhall had assigned them. Caught by the stunning surprise of the German attack, Eisenhower had been forced to retreat in a mad dash, and so the location of Fredenhall’s headquarters had become more than simply a blue ink spot on a map. Now, Eisenhower had endured the long miles on muddy roads, too many miles, had felt too much of the misery of the jeep’s rock-hard tires, had slipped into too many ditches, making way for long caravans of trucks, the Red Ball Express, American vehicles pushing hard toward the front. He knew now that the maps were not wrong, and along every mile his anger grew, a blossoming fury at Fredenhall for finding himself this exaggerated safe haven against what Fredenhall must have thought was the imminent threat from German bombers and strafing Messerschmitts. Lloyd Fredenhall had put the Second Corps headquarters in a natural fortress that was
eighty miles
from the disastrous fighting at Sidi Bou Zid.

The jeep rolled to a stop, the road ending at a thicket of dense pine trees. Officers were there, surprised men who studied Eisenhower even as they raised their automatic salutes. He waited for Truscott to climb out, then stepped onto the muddy white ground, saw a familiar staff officer, Colonel Akers, Fredenhall’s aide, the man rushing forward with a hasty salute.

“Sir! Welcome back! If I may lead you. Just follow me this way. I believe you’re familiar with the trail. Notice the white tape on the pine straw, leading through those trees.”

Eisenhower said nothing, held a tight grip on his anger, had no reason to attack Akers for his helpfulness. They began to walk, and Eisenhower heard the hard, low roar of a diesel engine, stopped, saw a bulldozer emerging from a wide trail in the trees. The machine carried a wide steel bucket, which hung heavily in front, weighed down by fat, white boulders. Eisenhower watched as the dozer spun to one side, the bucket spilling forward, dumping the rock into a narrow ravine. The machine backed away, turned, disappeared quickly up the trail, and Eisenhower’s mind began to fill with questions. Fredenhall’s aide waited patiently, and Eisenhower followed him again, moved along the soft mat of pine straw, climbed toward a clearing. Eisenhower could see men in motion everywhere, the sound of more heavy equipment, men with shovels and pickaxes. There were officers, a cluster of three men huddled over a small wooden table, thick with paper, drawings.
Engineers.
He ignored the aide, moved that way, said, “What is happening here?”

They turned to him, snapped upright, saluted, and one man said, “Sir, General Fredenhall has ordered us to make further improvements to the security of his command center, to protect the headquarters against even the strongest enemy bombardment. We are making use of existing caves and other deep crevasses in the rock walls along the deepest parts of the canyon, extending corridors and shelter space far back into the rocks.”

Eisenhower stepped closer, couldn’t hide the menace in his expression. The man seemed surprised, and Eisenhower said, “You are telling me that the engineers are putting their energy to fortifying a corps headquarters? Are you aware what is happening east of here? What
has
happened? Why aren’t your people out there, where they can assist the troops fighting the enemy? We require minefields, fortified defenses. Those damned bulldozers need to be sent east, and quickly!”

He tried to hold his voice down, but the fury was complete, the three officers backing away, eyes wide.

Another man spoke, a captain, clean uniform, clean-shaven, the voice of a boy. “Sir, the combat companies have their own engineers for that sort of work. We are assigned here by General Fredenhall’s orders, to fortify and strengthen—”

“That’s enough, Captain.” Eisenhower tried to calm himself, knew they were not to blame. He had enormous respect for the engineers, knew they were good men, well-trained, certainly understood their orders. “All right. Go about your work. Move your damned rocks and dig your holes. But be prepared for
new
orders.”

Eisenhower spun away, moved again toward the strips of white tape, the pathway through the pines, the long trail that would take him to the man who was comfortably safe in his impregnable headquarters.

T
he climb through the pines had drained him of anger, the desperate situation at the front seeping into his thoughts. This is no time for an ass-ripping, he thought. I need Fredenhall and Ward, all of them, I need them doing their jobs. I can either jump down their throats, or I can find out just what the hell’s going on. Before I start tossing people out windows, it’s probably better if I act like a damned diplomat. I hate diplomats.

“Sir! This way!”

Eisenhower followed Akers across a clearing, the village square of the remote settlement, occupied mostly by Arabs who had long worked the various mines in the area. The streets were muddy, hardly streets at all, rutted alleyways that disappeared into dark canyons. Akers led him to the far side of the square, to a lone block structure, what had been a schoolhouse, one of the larger buildings in the dismal village.

The inside was dark and damp, the floor swept clean, the thick walls adding a chill to the room. There were rooms beyond, passageways dug right into the rock, aides in motion, radio operators, several telephones. He saw Fredenhall, sitting next to a corporal, the corps commander gripping the man’s telephone receiver, the corporal pulled close by the tangle of wires. Fredenhall slammed his fist onto the table in front of him, shouted in the receiver, “Hell no! Get those people on the road! I don’t care what I told you this morning! I’ll have your ass for lunch,
you understand me
?”

He tossed the phone receiver down on the table, pointed a finger at the corporal, who flinched, said, “Damn you to hell! You will tell those people that I won’t listen to this nonsense! I expect…oh.” He saw Eisenhower now, stood, seemed suddenly nervous, self-conscious, rubbed his palms on his shirt. Older than Eisenhower, he was short and stocky, red-faced, known by everyone who served with him as a short-tempered man of many words and a mountain of opinions. From early in the war, Fredenhall had been one of George Marshall’s favorites, and Marshall’s selection for command of the Center Task Force for Operation Torch had not been questioned. Fredenhall had done the job, had impressed Eisenhower with his handling of the capture of Oran. Despite his rough edges, Eisenhower had believed that Fredenhall would continue to lead his corps with hard-driving discipline and strong command of his tactical situation. Eisenhower watched as Fredenhall seemed to compose himself, thought, so why in hell are you eighty miles from your front lines?

“Ike! Ah, good. Welcome back. We’re pulling together on this one, pulling together. I’ve finally been able to convince Anderson of the seriousness of our situation, and he’s sending help from the north. That’s the problem with the Brits, you know. The man just wouldn’t listen. Tried to tell him days ago we might have a problem. He’s agreed to release the rest of the First Armor from Fondouk, Robinett’s boys, send them down here where they belong! We’ll toss the Hun back in no time!”

“I need more than optimism, General. What do we hear from the command posts?”

Fredenhall seemed to deflate, hesitated. “Damn them, Ike. Bad communication lines. Can’t get reports back from the regimentals. Company commanders ignoring my calls. There’ll be hell to pay when this is over. I’ll take care of it. No need to worry you with details. But quite a few colonels will be put behind desks for this.”