The Rising Tide: A Novel of World War II (37 page)

“See it for yourself, Erwin. The Führer is most insistent that you not rely on your old habits. There is great concern that you are allowing your own failures to cloud your judgment about the capability of this army.”

“Yes, so I am a defeatist. I have heard that before.” Rommel read the papers, saw the numbers, the careful attention to mathematics. He moved to a table, sat, the numbers filling his brain, a meaningless exercise. “Very impressive. Does the Führer have any plan to equip all of these units with the armor and weaponry they are supposed to have? Or do we simply pretend that they are at full strength?” He tossed the paper on the desk, put his arms on the table. “An army on paper. Is that what I am expected to fight with? All these regiments…does anyone in Berlin have any notion how a war is fought?” Rommel slapped his hand on the table.

“The Italians believe this nonsense as well, I’m certain. They give me a regiment, and because it is a
regiment,
they expect that their soldiers can therefore stand up to an Allied regiment. Give me ten, and we are equal to ten of the enemy. What of
supplies
? What of
weapons
? I have armored divisions who field a fourth of what they should have, and those tanks that run are barely operational. I have artillery batteries that have no artillery, some with worn-out guns and no crews! But on
paper
we are strong! I assure you, Albert, the Allies suffer no such illusions. They suffer no shortages, no depletion of their ranks. They do not hide behind lists and pretend that they are invincible, just because their leader claims it!”

Kesselring crossed his arms against his chest. “I will not hear any more of this! The Führer has long been concerned about you, your health, your frame of mind. Defeatism? Yes! Everyone in Berlin speaks of you this way! I have been your champion, I have kept you in the field when many in Berlin, and many more in Rome, said to pull you out.”

Rommel felt a rising wave of disgust, thought, oh, certainly, you are my champion when it suits you. When I give you victories. He sat back in the chair, had no energy for a fight with Kesselring, the man seeming to tower over him. His eyes clouded, and he blinked, rubbed them with a rough hand. He tried to take a breath, the tightness in his throat choking it away, and he put a hand on his neck, rubbed, could not push away the pain. Damn! How much of this can I stand!

“Are you all right?”

He ignored Kesselring, bent over, his head down on the desk, fought to breathe, the pains rolling through him, too much, too familiar. Just leave, damn you. Leave me alone.

“Erwin, I will summon the doctor. This cannot continue.”

Rommel pulled himself up, took a painful breath, his throat loosening. He looked at the papers, the Führer’s reply to his report, felt a great weight in his chest. “The doctor cannot help me. But you are correct. This cannot continue. I should see the Führer myself, speak to him. There is no chance for us here unless he can be made to understand what is happening here.”

Kesselring put a hand on his chin, rubbed, stared down. “Do you really believe he will listen?”

Rommel saw sadness on the man’s face, couldn’t help but feel it himself. He looked Kesselring in the eye, had always tried to face the man with pure honesty. But Kesselring glanced away, and Rommel could feel the gap opening up, the distance between them growing, a commander and his unruly, unrepentant subordinate. Rommel tried to stand, the weakness in his legs holding him down, and he understood now, yes, this is how it will end. He looked toward the window, felt the soft breeze, the dry, cool air, the smells he had grown used to, the sounds of his army, machines and men, moving away from him, all of it, falling from his hands, beyond his reach.

HITLER’S HEADQUARTERS, UKRAINE, SOVIET UNION—
MARCH 10, 1943

The mood at Hitler’s eastern headquarters gave Rommel a clear sign that all the talk about the Führer’s obsession with Russia was completely accurate. The staff huddled in glum silence, the dispatchers and telephone operators held their conversations in hushed voices, and when Rommel was ushered into Hitler’s private office, he was surprised Hitler was alone.

“Why are you not in Africa?”

Rommel waited for more, the furious outburst, Hitler’s usual response to things that were not exactly as they ought to be. But there was only silence, Hitler staring off toward a closed window, the curtain drawn, nothing to see. Rommel didn’t know what to do, no groveling aides directing him to sit, no one flittering around Hitler, guarding him from the unpleasantness of the facts.

“I have come because I am concerned that you have not been accurately informed of our situation in Tunisia.”

Hitler turned, looked at him, and Rommel saw the man’s eyes, heavy and black, the face worn, expressionless, none of the usual fire.

“Tunisia? We should have no concern for Tunisia. Matters there will work themselves out. We will prevail. I must face far more difficult challenges right here. Have you heard the news about Stalingrad?”

“Yes, sir. Of course. Terrible tragedy.”

“It is my fault. I put my army in the hands of traitors and office boys. We needed men, fighters, and instead we crumble in the face of an inferior enemy. It has become a disaster, a ruinous catastrophe. Because of the incompetence and corruption among my generals, the Russians are allowed to grow stronger every day. They are helped by the Americans, enormous convoys of shipping passing through our sea-lanes with barely a hint of our grand and glorious U-boat screen. The U-boat command has been useless, completely ineffective at stopping the shipping, and so, one race of savages helps another.”

Rommel had nothing to say, felt a strange barrier, as though Hitler were speaking to someone else, anyone, even himself.

“They try to stand in my way, every step is blocked. Weak men who will not allow me to fulfill our destiny. They have betrayed the German people. I am surrounded by those who dwell only on failure. There is great danger in that. Defeatism causes one to make wrong conclusions. Pessimism leads to mistakes!” Hitler looked toward him again. “I asked you why you are not in Africa.”

Rommel felt weak, his legs giving out, looked toward a chair. “Might I be allowed to sit?”

Hitler waved his hand, turned away, stared again at the closed window. Rommel moved toward the chair, sat heavily.

Hitler said, “You do not look well. I have heard of your sickness. You should take leave.”

“There has been no time, Mein Führer. Please, I must tell you…I must offer a suggestion. If we do not withdraw and consolidate our defenses in Tunisia, we cannot survive there. And that is but a temporary measure. The Allies are gaining strength, and…it is only a matter of time before we are driven out of Africa altogether.”

Hitler looked at him, and Rommel saw the flash of black fire, waited for the explosion, but Hitler turned away again. “Nonsense. You have become an annoying pessimist. How did that happen? You were the best field commander I had. If I had sent you to Russia, we would be in Moscow now. Or perhaps not. Perhaps you would have grown despondent there as well. Is it not enough that you are celebrated as a great hero? The people adore you, they speak your name with reverence. Why can I not depend on you to
fight
?”

“I will fight. But I do not relish throwing my army away in a lost pursuit. Forgive me, Mein Führer, but there is no good fight to be had in Africa. Allow me to move my command to Italy, to withdraw the good troops we have in Tunisia. We can preserve our armor, our best fighting troops. We can make a new stand, hold the Allies away from southern Europe until they recognize the superiority of our position. They will exhaust themselves against our resolve. I promise you…I pledge to you that I will keep the enemy out of southern Europe. It may be our best chance to hold on to all this army has gained.”

“Italy? You wish me to retreat to
Italy
? That would be unacceptable to our allies in Rome. And it is unacceptable to me. There is no need to withdraw from Tunisia. You make excuses…you have squandered all that we have provided to you, and now you would dare to suggest that we should run away? We have suffered greatly in Stalingrad, and no one there is running away!”

Rommel felt the man’s anger now, knew there was no argument to be made, thought, there is no one left at Stalingrad to run anywhere. Hitler rose from the chair, paced slowly.

“I will not hear talk of abandoning Africa. It is the sickness in you, this disease that has taken your resolve. You must recover. Go again to Semmering, to the hospital. There are good doctors there. Take some time to regain your health. Don’t come to me with any more talk of Tunisia. That is no longer your concern.”

Rommel felt the punch of Hitler’s words. Of course. Now it is official.

“Please, I wish to resume my command. If I return to Tunisia, I can organize the best kind of defense.”

“I am sick of hearing about defense. You will report to Semmering immediately. I want you fit for your next campaign. When you have regained your spirit, report to my headquarters to begin planning the new offensive.”

Rommel felt a spark, watched as Hitler moved more quickly, the pacing more deliberate. “New offensive?”

Hitler stopped, spun toward him, clenched his fists, shook them in the air. “Yes! We will soon launch a full-scale strike against Casablanca. We shall drive the Americans into the ocean! I want you to lead the assault, and you must be in good health. Do you understand? Do not return to me until you are prepared to defeat the enemy!”

T
he plane rolled forward, gaining speed, pressing him into the seat, and he turned away from the window, stared ahead, tried to embrace the pleasant days he was facing, the quiet of the hospital, the care of the doctors, all the fluttering about from so many nurses in their white gowns. He held tightly to the hope that the illnesses would fade, that rest and recuperation would make all the difference, would bring him back, give him the fire once more. But far to the south, he knew that his men waited in dirt tombs, helpless to hold back the tide that was coming, the strike from the great beast that swarmed around them on two sides. I should be there, he thought. No matter what any of them say, Kesselring, von Arnim, or even Hitler. That is my army and they need me with them. I should not be resting in a soft bed while the
Panzerarmee
struggles to survive.

The plane made a sharp dip, the air rough, churning, and he couldn’t avoid the weakness, the queasy turn in his stomach. He let out a breath, wanted to look at his watch, knew it was a long time yet, thought, I must endure this. I will be there in due time. He tried to fill his mind with Lucy’s image, knew she would be waiting for him at Semmering, the strong woman with the soft heart, who only wanted to care for him, who cared so much for all of it, who would listen and understand all he had to say. He thought of the letter he had written, days before:

If only I had what one needs to make war here…

He had referred to the dismal supply lines, the
tools,
but he knew she would see it differently, would know he was talking about himself, the strength in his back, the resolve in his own mind. He thought of Hitler, the awful meetings. No matter how our fortunes may have turned, there can be no victory, no end to this that will not destroy our country. We are led by a madman.

26. PATTON

SECOND CORPS HEADQUARTERS, DJEBEL KOUIF, TUNISIA
MARCH 7, 1943

T
he sirens blared, a half dozen armored trucks leading the way, the caravan rolling up the ragged, dusty road. They passed the various checkpoints, the carefully placed barriers that Fredenhall had used to secure his safety, pushed past the startled guards, the sounds of the sirens announcing with perfect clarity that the Second Corps had a new commander. Patton’s promotion to lieutenant general was not yet official, and so he had adhered to protocol, his command car bearing only the two stars of his current rank. But there was no mistaking whose car it was. The stars themselves were an adornment far more pronounced than what the staff officers at Djebel Kouif were accustomed to seeing, large and silver, backed by an oversize red plate positioned squarely below the car’s grill. Patton stood tall, his steel helmet clamped down hard, two stars again, stamped into the steel above his scowling brow, his jaw set hard, no smile, no casual greeting to the men who stood by and saluted gamely as he passed.

Fredenhall was still there, tending to details of his own, gathering his personal effects, whatever need he had to conclude his affairs in his own way, to shake the hands of those on his staff who were remaining in Tunisia. As Patton stormed into the command center, the contrast between the two men was graphic and startling, and the men who manned the phones, who handled the paperwork for the Second Corps, were quick to understand that the changes to the corps would be far more profound than a new nameplate on the commander’s desk.

“W
here is General Fredenhall? I expected him to meet me.”

The aide seemed to quiver, held his salute. “Sir, the general is still at breakfast.” The man pointed to one side, out past the door, then let his arm drop, still held the salute.

“Breakfast? It is ten o’clock! Tomorrow morning, breakfast will commence at dawn, and no officer will be served after six thirty. Enlisted men may eat afterward, and the kitchen will cease to serve food at seven thirty. Is that understood?”

The man still held the salute. “Certainly, sir. I shall have the mess sergeants informed.”

“Is there a reason why you cannot inform them yourself? It is my job to delegate. It is yours to get the job done. Your hand frozen to your forehead?”

The man snapped his arm down to his side. “No, sir.”

“And what the hell do you call that?”

“I’m sorry, what, sir?”

“That uniform. You on leave, soldier? This some sort of vacation for you?”

The man seemed confused, and Patton pointed to the collar, open, a glimpse of undershirt. “Where the hell is your necktie, Lieutenant!” Patton glanced around the room, the others standing, every man wide-eyed. “Where the hell are all your neckties? Every damned one of you is out of uniform. I will not tolerate that. I don’t see a single helmet. I was told that a war is happening out here. Has no one told
you
?”

The lieutenant said, “Sir, General Fredenhall—”

“To hell with General Fredenhall, soldier! There is no such man, do you hear me?”

“Sir? He’s having breakfast—”

Patton leaned close to the young man’s face, startled him into silence. “General Fredenhall is no longer your commanding officer! Or did no one inform you of that?”

“Yes, sir. We were informed, sir.”

Patton was fully energized now, looked closely at each man, the room utterly silent, even the radios quiet, the equipment itself waiting for his next command.

“There will be changes here, gentlemen. Immediate changes. In short order, this corps will engage the enemy. I intend that we destroy him, and we will not accomplish that unless every one of you operates in accordance with my way of doing things. General Eisenhower did not put me here because he wanted business as usual.
Your
business as usual was an embarrassment to this army, and an embarrassment to my country! There will be no further embarrassments!” He looked hard at the young lieutenant, his voice now in full bloom, a hard, high-pitched shout.
“Now, where the hell is my office?”

A
s word of the fights that swirled around Kasserine rolled into Morocco, Patton’s boredom had grown far worse than tedious. A fight was going on, a real fight against an enemy who was capable of winning, who might destroy everything that Operation Torch had accomplished. Throughout the landings, as his men had punched their way through difficult barriers all across the western landing zones, it had never occurred to him that the Americans might actually lose. But with rumbles coming to him about the ponderous decision making, the inept tactics at Kasserine, he had begun to realize his greatest frustration yet: the entire mission in Africa could become a dangerous failure, and he might have nothing to say about it.

His lack of discretion had caused him problems from the earliest days of his career, every commander he served under wrestling with Patton’s mouth. Patton’s outspokenness and independent behavior had caused problems as far back as the First World War, and his friendship with Black Jack Pershing had likely allowed Patton’s career to survive many bouts with superior officers who seemed to him to be too obtuse or too inflexible to comprehend Patton’s clear perception of his own role in the army, especially an army at war. He could never grasp why generals insisted he stay at the rear of his troops. Now, that same warning had come from Eisenhower, and Patton quietly chafed at that, knew too much of history, of men like Stonewall Jackson, had never believed any soldier could be inspired from behind. He had learned much from Rommel, had marveled at the German’s instinct for putting himself at the most crucial point of attack. Patton hated the notion that in modern warfare, a general’s place was in some remote command post, reading reports, issuing orders by radio to men who might be far too involved in their own survival to pay attention to any radio.

Patton believed without doubt that Eisenhower’s command had come about only because the English liked him and accepted him to be the proper figurehead that would fill the difficult role of bridging the two armies, a voice for both American and British concerns. Patton bristled at that, still believed that the British had every intention of running the show, and that any victory would become their own, at the expense of the Americans. One by one, Patton had watched as the senior American generals seemed to be shoved aside, to make way for an Allied force dominated by British commanders. Every branch of the service was run by the British now, what Patton saw as an outrageously blatant conspiracy.

He had little affection for Wayne Clark and had privately seethed when Clark had been given command of the Fifth Army, no matter that Clark outranked him. But it was no surprise to Patton that Clark had been sent to Morocco as well, stuck in the backwater of the war, while men like Alexander and Anderson controlled operations in Tunisia. If Eisenhower wanted Clark to stay put and keep an eye on some meaningless threat from German-friendly Spanish Morocco, that was fine with Patton.

His meeting with Fredenhall had been brief and cordial, and Patton had not addressed any of the changes that would follow the man’s departure. Fredenhall was clearly a defeated man, wore a shroud of gloom, something Patton had expected. But Patton had admired the man’s deportment, no outbursts, no grousing, accepting Patton’s occupation of his headquarters with dignity, offering to help the transition in any way Patton found useful. Patton had been polite and gracious, would not add salt to the man’s wounds, and by the next morning Fredenhall was gone.

NEAR TÉBESSA, TUNISIA—MARCH 10, 1943

He had ridden forward with Omar Bradley, realized with some annoyance that Bradley seemed to be watching him, studying his performance. After a long silence, Bradley said, “It’s my job, you know.”

Patton turned toward the side, stared out the car’s window. “I don’t need Ike coddling me, and I don’t need a damned spy in my headquarters. He wants a job done, he should let me do it. You going to tell him every damned thing I say, give him a report on every butt I chew out?”

“I’m not a schoolmaster, George. You’re being a little too unreasonable. Ike has sent me out here to observe as much as I can. If there’s a problem, he needs to know, so it can be fixed. You know full well there are problems out here. We can’t afford another Kasserine.”

Patton sniffed, stared out toward a muddy field, tanks parked in uneven rows. He couldn’t really feel anger toward Bradley, knew the man’s exceptional reputation, why Ike had chosen him for the job. Bradley gave every hint of that key instinct that made an officer a good fighting man, a man who could handle himself in the worst crisis. Patton felt that even as they rode quietly through the American positions, visited the camps and command posts. Bradley had something intangible that Patton rarely saw in anyone of high rank. Marshall was an exception, others, such as Ernie Harmon and Jimmy Doolittle, Charles Ryder, and Terry Allen. Patton had felt it for his son-in-law as well, John Waters, the young man still missing in action. They each carried some special
thing
that commanded respect, and Patton had been surprised to find it in Bradley, the fact that Bradley seemed destined for some role on Eisenhower’s staff.

“You don’t belong on Ike’s staff. You should be in the field.”

“I belong where Ike wants me to be. The rest…if there’s something else for me to do, I’ll accept that when the time comes.”

Patton continued to stare out. “Look at this miserable place. Perfect for a war. Blast everything to hell, and no one will care. You ever see so much damned rain? This whole place is like hell. Everywhere you look, there’s ruins, like damned skeletons sticking in the sand. Roman, mostly, but God knows who else. All those stone pillars, busted columns. Looks like shipwrecks. We just better make damned sure the same thing doesn’t happen to us.” He saw trucks lined in a row, a cluster of men, felt a stab of fury. “Oh, hell. Driver! Stop the car! Hit the siren! Wake those bastards up!”

The car was slowing, and he pushed open the heavy steel door, stepped out with the car still moving, the blast of the siren propelling him forward.

“Who’s in charge here?” He saw the officer, a captain, the men all standing back, some staring past him toward the source of the high-pitched siren. “You know me?”

The captain glanced toward the car, then to the stars on Patton’s helmet. “No, General. But, welcome to the maintenance battalion.”

“Welcome, hell. Where’s your helmet? Where are their helmets?” He turned to the men, more gathering behind them. He saw some men in wool caps, every shape of hat. “Every one of you! Snatch that beanie off your head!” He glanced behind him, his aides easing up close, Bradley with them, turned to the soldiers again. “Hand them over!”

The men looked at each other, uncertain, the officer starting to speak, and Patton felt the man’s protest coming, didn’t want to hear it. He raised a hand, silenced the man. “This is your first offense, Captain. Next time, it costs you a fifty-dollar fine. Your men will pay twenty-five. I want to see regulation uniforms on every man in this corps! Every man!”

“Yes, sir. I understand, sir. May I ask…does this apply to the men working on the trucks?”

“Damned right, Captain! They’re soldiers, aren’t they?” Patton stood stiffly, put his hands behind his back, waited. The hats were coming off, the men unsure what to do next, and Patton had no patience now. “Were my orders not understood? Hand those beanies forward and present them to my aide. They are not regulation, and I am confiscating them.”

The collection of hats gathered in one man’s arms, and he stepped forward, held out the bundle. Patton’s aide took them, returned to the car.

Patton said, “Helmets and neckties, gentlemen, every damned day. And I want to see some precise salutes from every one of you. The damned British laugh at us for our casual salutes. No more! Your training was not just how to handle a rifle or turn a wrench. You were taught how to salute, and I expect you to remember that. Now, back to work! We have a job to do, and the whole damned United States of America is counting on men like you to get it done.”

The men snapped to attention, tossed up perfect salutes.

“Yes, that’s right. Get used to it.”

Patton returned their salute, spun around, moved back to the car. The aide was waiting, and Patton motioned to him, the man opening the trunk. Patton watched as the hats were tossed in, adding to the growing pile, and he smiled, looked at Bradley, felt the stir of accomplishment.

“You see, Brad? This is what we have to do. I won’t have the Second Corps remembered for their pile of beanies.”

“But, George, fining them so much money for their uniforms?”

Patton was surprised by Bradley’s question, thought, wonderful, already he’s making a list for Ike to gripe at me about. Schoolmaster indeed.

“Listen to me, Brad. This is my corps and I’ll run it in the best way I know how. I could spend every hour of this inspection tour yelling my lungs out, and it would work for only so long. Hell, I’d run out of breath. But hit them in the pocketbook! Hah! You don’t have to say another word. And they’ll damned well remember it.”

They climbed into the car, the armored trucks moving out in front, machine guns trained forward, lookouts scanning the thick, gray sky for enemy planes. They rode for a long mile, the rains coming hard again, Patton scanning the countryside, heavy mist clouding his view. He went over the command list in his head, three divisions of infantry, the First, the Ninth, the Thirty-fourth, plus the First Armored. Good men, all of them. Four strong divisions. Just let us go, Ike. Let me give them another crack at Rommel. They’ll
stuff
all that bellyaching from here to Washington.

P
atton spent long hours with Bradley, going over the commands of each of his divisions, the best talents of the men in charge. There was little time for lengthy planning, rehearsal exercises, and less time for Patton to test the abilities of various officers for the key jobs in the command structure of the Second Corps. To the south, Montgomery was gearing up for his major push into the Mareth line, and Patton’s role had been defined even before he took command, in plans drawn up by Eisenhower and Alexander not long after Rommel had pulled away from Kasserine.