The Rising Tide: A Novel of World War II (38 page)

Throughout their discussions, Bradley’s grasp of the necessary strategies continued to impress Patton, a quiet confidence and firm hold on sound tactics, something Patton had not yet seen in too many of his senior officers. With Bradley staying mostly in Patton’s headquarters, filling his role as Eisenhower’s pipeline, Patton realized that there should be an opportunity for Bradley’s talents to be used for far more practical purposes. Patton’s next call to Eisenhower was simple and direct. If Bradley was to spend most of his time occupying space in Patton’s headquarters, he should have something better to do. Patton wanted Bradley for himself. To Patton’s surprise, Eisenhower consented. However, the assignment had been no real surprise to Bradley since, unknown to Patton, he and Eisenhower had already discussed such a move. Though Bradley would occasionally issue reports directly to Eisenhower, make visits to Algiers for personal meetings, he would do so as the Second Corps’s number two man. At the very least, Bradley would gain experience, learn the valuable lessons firsthand from the inevitable combat situations the Second Corps was soon to face. And Eisenhower was aware that Bradley would bring a quiet ray of calm and reason through the often tumultuous world of George Patton.

DJEBEL KOUIF, TUNISIA—MARCH 13, 1943

“Ike says I should find something useful for you to do every day, if that’s possible. I’m not talking too much out of turn there. He says you’ll probably tell me that yourself.”

Patton walked slowly, kept pace with Alexander’s methodical stride. “He’s right. I’m ready to go. We’re all ready to go. And if it’s up to me, we’ll keep going until we give Rommel a wet ass in the Mediterranean.”

Alexander laughed, and Patton eyed him discreetly, thought, he’s as British as they come. And yet…not. Curious. Alexander stopped, and Patton saw him staring out across the dirt road, saw an Arab man hoisting a water jug up onto the shoulder of a small woman. Alexander made a grunting sound, and Patton said, “Arab chivalry.”

“Perhaps you and I should go over there and jolly well kick his ass.”

Patton stared at Alexander for a long moment, saw no smile, thought, my God, he might be serious.

Alexander began to walk again. “Or, perhaps not. Might not play well in the newspapers, eh?”

Patton laughed, was surprised by Alexander, had not expected the man to be anything more than an arrogant snob. He kept pace again. “Ike would enjoy unraveling that one, I’m sure. He’s already convinced I’m going to wake up one morning and start shelling Anderson’s headquarters.”

Alexander seemed surprised himself now. “Good gracious, man, why on earth would you do that?”

Patton’s mind filled with replies, none of them worth the price he might pay for expressing them. “I promise, not in this war. Ike worries too much. Just his job, I suppose. My job is to put my foot in people’s backsides, so they’ll do the same to the Krauts.”

Alexander thought a moment. “Your promotion…I assume you received my congratulations. Bloody well appropriate.”

“Yes, thank you. Your General McCreery sent a very nice note. I’d heard a lot of talk about it, and frankly, I expected it before now. It’s a dream I’ve had, since I was a boy. I used to play army, run all over hell and gone with a wooden rifle, calling myself
Lieutenant General Patton.
At West Point, I told a few fellows I’d make it one day. Nobody doubted it. Well, not me, anyway.”

Alexander was watching him, and Patton realized he was listening carefully to every word. “That all right with you? If a man feels like he deserves something, it should be all right if he expects it.”

Alexander laughed now. “No argument here, old chap. Ike says your promotion is well earned. And of course, if you’re to command a corps, three stars is the appropriate rank for an American in your position.”

“Four is better.”

Alexander seemed to study him again, serious now. “You’ll get it too. I’d make a wager, if I could. Trouble is, nobody would pay up. I might have a thing or two to say about the promotion. Never know, of course.”

They walked down a short hill, past Arab women gathered at a muddy water hole, piles of white cloth spread out on fat rocks. It was unusual for a senior commander to simply take a stroll, out beyond the confines of the headquarters. Alexander had made it clear that he relied as much on private chats as he did on grand staff meetings, spoke more frankly than any other British officer Patton had met. Patton didn’t trust it at first, couldn’t help wondering if Alexander was doing what so many of the other Brits seemed to do, gather influence, find ways to push the Americans to the back row of the war. He knew Eisenhower didn’t agree with that, thought, all right, Ike, I’ll do it your way. He had accepted Eisenhower’s order, that no one could openly criticize anyone by his nationality. It was one thing to criticize a man for being a son of a bitch. But you had better not call him a
British
son of a bitch.

But there was nothing disagreeable about Alexander at all, and Patton had been impressed with the man’s record in the First World War, something Patton could share with pride. Both men had been decorated, and both had suffered wounds in combat. To Patton, that put them firmly on equal ground.

They walked in silence for a long moment, and Patton felt the question rising in his mind, the last detail of the plans he had already memorized, the one thing Alexander had not yet told him.

“Are we still a go for the sixteenth?”

“Likely. Sorry to be so vague about it. It’s this damnable weather. The plan is in place, has been since before you got here. You know that, of course. You’ve met with all your commanders?”

“Yep. Good men, I think. Still some proving to do. Terry Allen’s probably the best of the four.”

“Yes, well, Ike agrees. Your plans call for his First Division to lead the way into Gafsa.”

Patton had studied the plans, the maps, understood exactly what he was expected to do. And he wasn’t happy about it. “You honestly expect that if my boys kick the Krauts off the Eastern Dorsale, they’re going to listen to an order to stop?”

“Yes, I do. So does Ike.”

Patton swallowed his protest, and Alexander said, “Monty’s got his people in line, ready to go. But he can’t make his jump-off until your people accomplish their mission. Your part of this operation is essential. You have to drive the Germans out of the hills and push the attack toward their flank. They’ll have to respond to you by pulling strength out of their main line. They can’t allow you to hover about in their left and rear and not send some pretty strong forces your way to answer the threat. That’s all Monty needs to make the breakthrough and drive the enemy back up the coast.” Alexander paused, looked him hard in the eye. “If you try to push your men east of the Eastern Dorsale, if you try to make for the coast to cut off the enemy’s retreat, you know what can happen. You’ll be spread out on a dangerous line across flat, open ground, vulnerable as hell on your flank. We don’t know what the Germans have left in their bag at Mareth, not completely anyway. This is not Monty’s operation, but it is laid out so that Monty makes the hardest thrust. Surely you understand why.”

Patton knew the word,
experience,
hated it, hated that Montgomery had been successful against Rommel, while the Americans had made such a poor showing at Kasserine. There was no argument Patton could make, he had to accept the grinding truth that Montgomery’s forces were better prepared to launch the strongest part of the offensive. But he hated it anyway.

O
n March 16, Patton’s men pushed south and east, drove the Italian outposts away from Gafsa with barely a fight. The other prongs of the Second Corps moved along parallel routes, the First Armored eventually driving up toward the passes along the Eastern Dorsale. The attack spread across the entire front where, a month before, Rommel’s attack had so devastated the Americans. In a few short days, Patton occupied most of the ground that Rommel’s troops had now abandoned, the crossroads and villages falling into American hands. From Sbiba and Fondouk in the north, down through Kasserine and Sidi Bou Zid, to Sbeïtla and Gafsa, the Second Corps pressed hard against growing enemy pressure, more and more of the German and Italian forces sent up from Mareth to hold them back. The fighting grew more brutal, the passes that led up through the Eastern Dorsale manned by German armor, thick minefields, heavy artillery stripped from their positions at Mareth. Despite the difficulty the Americans had in pushing their way completely up and over the Eastern Dorsale, the effect on the enemy’s position at Mareth was precisely what Eisenhower had hoped for.

On March 20, Montgomery opened his own attack, the weakened German and Italian defenses at Mareth collapsing under the full power of the Eighth Army. Montgomery had thrown more than a simple frontal assault at the enemy position. Despite all reports that the sand marsh to the west was impassable, Montgomery had relied on reports from scouts of his New Zealand Corps that the spongy mush of the dry lakebed was not so impassable after all. As the attack began, the New Zealanders pushed through the marsh and stunned the enemy’s western flank. With Patton closing in from above, Giovanni Messe’s combined German and Italian army fought as well as they could, turning attention from Montgomery to Patton, and back again. But Messe’s forces simply didn’t have the strength, and in a few short days, they pulled back rapidly to the north. By the end of March, Messe and von Arnim agreed that the most suitable place to retrench and confront the Allies’ next assault would be a line that led inland from Enfidaville, wrapping around northward to the coast west of Bizerte. It was the same line Rommel had suggested weeks before.

SOUTH OF TÉBESSA—MARCH 16, 1943

It was after eleven, and Patton stood outside his command post in the wet darkness, listened for the rumble of the big guns, the artillery of his Second Corps launching the first strike toward Gafsa. He had fought the agony of staying behind, but he would not disobey Eisenhower, would not jeopardize his career over a simple lust to be
out there.
There will be more of this, he thought, more fights, better fights, and when the time comes, they’ll have to put me where I want to be. He heard it now, low thunder, the flashes of fire hidden by the dismal weather. He stood quietly for a long moment, absorbed the sounds, thought, nothing else for me to do, not now. It’s all happening the way it was planned, and tomorrow, I will find out what kind of men we have.

He moved back into the blockhouse, low lamplight, his cot in a closet-sized room in the rear. The aides stood when he came in, and he waved them off. “Nothing else to do now. Get some rest. But make sure the telephone operators are on the job all damned night.”

He sat on the bed, pushed the door closed, his knees nearly touching the wall in front of him. His foot kicked the soft pack beside the bed, and he reached down, felt for the small, thick book, his diary, pulled it out, drew his pen from his shirt pocket. He lay back on the bed, thought a moment, knew that somewhere some radio stations across the Atlantic were already reporting the start of the assault. It was customary now, the Allied censors releasing just enough details to inform both the American and the British people that a new operation was under way, a healthy shot to civilian morale. Somewhere, he thought, some damned idiot is in some studio telling his audience that I’m right out there, at the head of the line, leading the way, sitting up high on the first tank. Damn him. Damn all of them. It’s where I should be.

He stared at the blank page, fingered the pen for a moment, then wrote:

Well, the battle is on. I’m taking off my shoes to go to bed.

27. EISENHOWER

ALGIERS
APRIL 10, 1943

“S
ir, this message was just received from General Montgomery. Not sure what it means.”

Eisenhower took the paper from Butcher’s hand.

Personal. Montgomery to Eisenhower. Entered Sfax 8:30 this morning. Please send Fortress.

Eisenhower read the words again, tried to make sense of the riddle. “Well, he’s in Sfax. That’s excellent news. He said he’d get there pretty quick and was pretty definite about it. Have to hand it to him.”

“But…the ‘Fortress’? What’s he mean, sir?”

“Hell if I know. Get Beetle in here.”

Butcher moved away, and Eisenhower tossed the paper on the growing pile on his desk. The reports had flowed in every hour, news both good and bad. The fighting had been severe, especially in the American sector, as much from the terrain as the tenacity of the enemy. But Patton had been noisy about the performance of his men, and it was no surprise of course, but his noise had been directed in hot words toward the First Armored in particular, General Ward’s command. True to form, Patton had focused most of his ire on Ward himself, finding fault with what Patton interpreted as the armored commander’s caution. Eisenhower had been concerned by that, had to believe there was something concrete in Patton’s complaints. Eisenhower knew that if Patton had one expertise, it was pushing tanks into battle, and if Ward was drawing that kind of hostility from Patton, it might be something Eisenhower would have to address himself. He could not fault Patton for singling out anyone for a good lashing. Eisenhower had forced himself to look past old friendships, old affiliations from West Point. He knew the history lessons, had read enough of George Washington and Robert E. Lee to know that inept generals produced catastrophic problems, and no matter how loyal a subordinate might claim to be, a good commander could not hesitate to remove an inept general. I wonder, he thought, if the problem there was more about Fredenhall than Ward. Fredenhall seemed too eager to make enemies. Well, that might describe Patton too. But Patton expects excellence, his own, first of all. Then he expects it from you, makes specific demands, and if you don’t live up to them, you’ll hear about it. And so will I. It could be that Ward isn’t performing in the tight situations like we need him to. Damn! I can’t ignore that.

“Sir?”

Eisenhower saw Beetle Smith at the door, Butcher right behind him, and pointed to the note from Montgomery. “You know anything about this? Monty’s asking for a Fortress.”

Smith dropped his head. “Oh, hell. Forgot about that.”

“About
what
?”

“Um…seems when I met with Monty a month or so ago, we were talking about his objectives, about his timetable for advancing up the coast. He’s a bit of a boaster, sir. Well, you know that, of course. Toots his own horn a bit too loudly, if you ask me. He insisted he would be at Sfax by April 15. I challenged him on that, and we made a bet. I told him that if he made it when he said, you’d give him a B-17 and an American crew.”

“You what?”

Smith flinched, the short man backing away a step. “I’m terribly sorry, sir. It was indiscreet of me. We were joshing a bit. I never thought he’d actually…expect payment.”

“Well, apparently he does. Dammit, Beetle, what the hell were you thinking? I’ve had enough damned trouble convincing these generals that they should be working together, without rewarding one of them with his own damned B-17! You realize what kind of precedent this sets? Patton or Clark or Anderson, they get their mission accomplished, they’ll be lining up for party favors! Are we supposed to toss out gifts to everyone who does his job? Jesus, Beetle! A B-17?”

“I didn’t think he’d take it seriously, Ike. I’m sorry.”

Eisenhower pushed himself down into the chair, rubbed a hand hard across his forehead. Butcher eased closer, stood beside Beetle, said, “Just tell Monty to go to hell, Skipper.”

Eisenhower looked up, couldn’t help but notice the contrast between the two men, different-color uniforms, Butcher a full head taller than Smith, thought, Tweedledee and Tweedledum. No, that’s not fair. I couldn’t run this place without either of them.

“No, Harry, we can’t do that. You know damned well that Monty…well, dammit, Monty’s got a big mouth. If it gets out that I’ve reneged on a bet with him…” Eisenhower paused. “All right, Beetle. You dug this hole. Now get us out of it. Call Spaatz at the air headquarters at Constantine. Tell him we need a B-17. We’re assigning it to Monty’s command. If Spaatz needs answers, tell him to call me. But he better not call me, Beetle. Explain this so that he understands the mess you’ve gotten me in and put it to bed.”

“Right away, Ike. Very sorry.”

“Go!”

Both men left the office, and Eisenhower leaned back in the chair, tried to clear his head. You wanted command, so you’ve got command. Whether it’s relieving good officers or passing out B-17s. He laughed now, couldn’t help it, imagined Montgomery crowing to his officers, giving them rides in his own private Flying Fortress. A small door opened in his brain, a question. What if Monty hadn’t made it to Sfax? What would I have won? Wouldn’t matter. No prize could make up for Monty falling down out there. We don’t need any more disasters. So, enjoy your damned plane. If that makes you a little more enthusiastic about killing Germans, then it’s for a good cause. We still have a long road.

EIGHTEENTH ARMY GROUP HEADQUARTERS,
CONSTANTINE, ALGERIA—APRIL 13, 1943

“General Ward has been relieved. General Patton has requested, and I have agreed, that he be replaced by General Harmon. General Patton has a great deal of confidence in Harmon, says he’s the first man he’d want in a tank.”

Eisenhower scanned the official order, looked at Alexander now, said, “I agree. Harmon
is
a tank. Tough nut. Perfect subordinate for George. Damned shame about Ward though. I thought he’d do the job.”

“You can’t always predict, Ike. It’s not always the man who stands tall in his dress uniform who can climb the hill in front of his men. I’ve had to spoon out a bit some hot lather myself. It’s just…command.”

The soothing tone of Alexander’s words stuck in Eisenhower’s brain, festered there, and he thought, I don’t need a lecture. “I’m not happy with some of the things going on up here.”

Alexander put his chin in his hand, nodded. “I understand that.”

Eisenhower tried to hold his temper, had begun to understand the one flaw in Alexander’s style. Alexander was undoubtedly a consummate soldier and understood tactics and strategy as well as anyone in the Allied camp. But Alexander often let the reins drop too loosely on some of his officers, handed too much responsibility to his staff. As much as Eisenhower had worked to secure harmony between the Americans and their British counterparts, he had been stunned to hear of the indiscreet spouting off from one of Alexander’s corps commanders, a hint that Alexander simply didn’t know what his senior officers were feeling.

“What are you going to do about John Crocker?”

“Yes, Sir John. Fine chap, sociable sort. Given to speaking to the press. Not always in our best interests, I’m afraid.”

“Best interests? He publicly claims that the American troops are not combat worthy! I’ve seen the reports. You know as well as I do that the attack plans for Fondouk were difficult at best. The only American units available to him had minimal training, had not worked together as a unit at all, and had spent most of their time here guarding the communications depots. Crocker throws them right into the line and expects them to punch the Krauts out of their defenses. Hell, it was a difficult assignment for anyone, and only after things fell apart did Crocker send in his own…
your
people. Even the British troops there couldn’t finish the job. The Germans were able to pull back. The whole thing was a mess, and dammit, Alex, that’s the one thing we’ve worked too hard to overcome! Crocker was in charge of the operation, and it didn’t go well, and the first thing he does is shoot his mouth off to the newspapers!”

Eisenhower was shouting, watched for Alexander’s reaction, had rarely raised his voice in the Englishman’s presence.

Alexander didn’t flinch. “You’re quite right, of course. Unwise. I’ll speak to him at once.”

Eisenhower forced himself to calm down, was surprised that Alexander was so matter-of-fact. “Good. Dammit, Alex, we have to keep a lid on this bickering. There’s too much at stake.”

“Agreed. In that light, have you given final approval to my plan? Should put your boys in a favorable light, considering all that’s been said.”

It was the real reason for Eisenhower’s visit. Montgomery’s push from the south had backed the Germans into hard defensive positions in severely mountainous terrain near the Tunisian east coast, a formidable obstacle for the Eighth Army. With Montgomery bogged down, it would be up to the Allied forces to the west to punch holes in the German perimeter, with one of the first goals being the capture of the crucial port of Bizerte. Alexander’s strategy had positioned Anderson’s First Army as the left hook, to attack eastward, parallel to the northern coastline. As the noose tightened around the German-held territory, the maps showed a clear picture of what Alexander’s plan would mean. With Montgomery in the south and Anderson in the west, the narrowing front effectively squeezed the American Second Corps right out of the picture. The plan did not sit well with Eisenhower and had inspired a profane explosion from George Patton. In response, Alexander wisely modified his plan, to allow two of the four American divisions, half of the Second Corps, to move up to the north, to become the far left flank of the operation. Eisenhower knew it was not enough.

“I believe you’ve had some conversations with my naval aide, Lieutenant Commander Butcher.”

“Quite so, yes. Amiable chap.”

“Harry just got back from a three-week jaunt to the States, took care of some personal business and did some things for me. I guess you could call them official errands. His report gives me a pretty clear picture what’s going on at home, and it’s something we have to consider here. There is a great deal of…” Eisenhower paused. “Damn, I hate to use the word, but it is what it is. Competition. We’re fighting a war on two fronts, and Doug MacArthur is pretty good at making himself known to the newspapers and the Congress.”

“Competing for attention? Seems rather trivial in a war, wouldn’t you say?”

“Well, there’s that. But it’s more substantial. Supplies, equipment, resources. We’ve been pretty good about supplying your people with top-of-the-line weapons, and now, we’re doing the same for ourselves. But there is sentiment in the States to focus less on Hitler and more on the Japanese.”

Eisenhower paused again, tried to form the words. Alexander seemed patient, waited, and after a moment, Eisenhower said, “When word of what happened at Dieppe hit the papers back home, there was hell to pay. Congress, newspapers, every damned voice on the radio, started telling the American people that, good God, we’re beat. No need for American boys to die against Hitler’s impregnable defense. It’s hopeless. That surprised the hell out of me, but there it was. Made recruitment a real problem and turned a bunch of congressmen into pacifists, which made life pretty tough for Roosevelt. Now, with the Germans so close to being whipped here, the American people are being fed something entirely different, entirely the opposite. Hell, Marshall tells me that Roosevelt is as bad about it as anyone else. The public has this attitude now that the war here is nearly over, Hitler’s done, so start up the parades. Pull everybody out of here and haul all the resources to the Pacific to help MacArthur. We can’t explain every move we make to every damned reporter, and so, they just figure it out on their own, make their guesses, and dump all their
information
on the American public. I had a hell of a time trying to explain to Marshall, who had a hell of a time explaining to Roosevelt, why we stopped Patton on the Eastern Dorsale and didn’t let him go all the way to the coast. All the damned armchair generals, and even Roosevelt, were asking out loud, what the hell was wrong with us? Why didn’t we let Patton end the war? It’s so damned convenient for civilians five thousand miles from here to look at a map and draw straight lines and assume everything falls into neat little packages.” Eisenhower stopped, saw Alexander watching him, a slight smile on the man’s face. “Well, hell, you don’t need to hear this from me. You’ve been through this already.”

“Quite so. I’ve had a few run-ins with the prime minister. You want to know about civilian interference, talk to Claude Auchinleck. Cost him his career.”

“Well, it damned near cost me mine. All this Darlan business…my brother Milton tells me that there were papers calling me a fascist, that since I supported some Vichy jackass, I’m in bed with Hitler! Thank God for Marshall. He took the heat, kept me out of the grip of some pretty thickheaded congressmen. It’s politics, plain and simple. Roosevelt has his enemies, and they look for any noose to hang him with. He doesn’t need me tossing them the rope. We need to win this thing, win it the right way and win it quick, or that’s exactly what I’ll be doing.”

Alexander still listened patiently, and Eisenhower was grateful, his rant exhausted. “Sorry, Alex, but I’m not just bellyaching. There’s a point to all this. Your plan to divide up the Second Corps and keep half those boys out of the fight isn’t going to fly back home. And, frankly, Alex, it doesn’t fly with me. It’s not just the politics. These boys have earned some spoils, and I can’t let the British troops get all the headlines. I hear from Patton that some of his people are pretty miffed about this whole Crocker business. They know they got walloped at Kasserine, and they aim to make up for that. They’ve earned that chance, and I intend to give it to them. I want the Second Corps kept together and moved up to the north, to go at Bizerte. It’ll be a hell of a logistics operation, moving so many men across Anderson’s rear, but we’ll do it. And once this thing kicks off, no one in the British army will be shooting their mouth off about how much
gut
the American soldier has.”