The Rising Tide: A Novel of World War II (54 page)

The jeep passed by a deep, rocky chasm, men working below, shovels and pickaxes, shoring up the road. He glanced up at a bare hillside, men hauling equipment, artillery pieces rolling forward. He washed the memory of the one shirker out of his mind, focused on the wounded. They do so enjoy my visits, and, dammit, it’s my job. This army suffers too much from hesitation, from officers who would rather delay than push forward. Every damned officer I have should spend some time in his own field hospitals, see what happens to his men because he delays the fight by a day or a week. It was an obscene word to him, and he spit it out, said in a low voice, “
Hesitation
.”

I will not have anyone here compare us to Montgomery, he thought. No one will ever call me
cautious
. If I have to kick some well-dressed asses at headquarters, I will make my point. I intend to be in Messina before the British, and if it costs the lives of soldiers to accomplish that, well, that’s the price of war. But it will cost far more lives if we sit on our dead asses and
chew
about it.

He blew through a cloud of dust, a truck pulling to the side in front of him, the driver waving him past. His own driver pushed the jeep precariously to the edge of the narrow roadway, men in front of him jumping down, clearing the way, still waving, calling his name. He did not respond, was too close to them, to the faces, the sharp eyes, thought, they are the tools of war, and my job is to use them like tools of war. That’s what victory is about.

The jeep rolled out of the gorge, crested a hill, more men in a column on the road, trucks in a large park, white tents, topped by a large red cross. He saw the sign now,
93rd Evac Hospital.

“Stop here!”

His driver obeyed, the jeep turning in, men in white smocks gathering.

“Sir!”

“Welcome, sir.”

He motioned to them, a brief wave, moved toward the largest tent, caught the smell, blood and disinfectant, took a deep breath, held it for a moment, moved into the tent.

More than a dozen men were in a row, blood on bandages, heads and chests wrapped in white, bare legs, one man’s foot gone, his shortened leg ending in a clump of white gauze. Some of them were asleep, or unconscious, and he would not think of that, looked away from the wounds, searched for the smiles. They came now, low voices, and he felt the familiar tightness in his throat, spoke to each man, useless words, felt helpless, weak. He moved slowly past each bed, touched one man’s leg, heard, “Bless you, sir.”

“No, bless you, soldier.” He stopped, looked back along the row of men, wanted to say it aloud, the words choked away. Bless all of you.

He turned, moved toward the end of the row, saw one man sitting upright, no bandage, the uniform intact, the man holding his knees tight to his chest, his helmet pulled low. Patton was curious, moved close to the man, said in a low voice, “What’s wrong with you, soldier? You wounded?”

The young man looked up at him, tears on his face, white, pale skin. “It’s my nerves.”

The man began to cry aloud, heavy sobs, and Patton felt something turn inside him, thought, good God,
another one
! He stepped back, bent low, stared into the man’s face.

“What did you say?”

“It’s my nerves. I can’t stand the shelling.”

Patton felt a punch in his chest, a searing bolt of heat.
“Your nerves! Hell, you’re just a goddamned coward, you yellow son of a bitch!”

The man was still crying, the awful sobs cutting through Patton, piercing him, the anger rolling to his fists. He stepped close to the man, his brain screaming, stop that! Stop crying! He pulled his hand back, the heat driving his anger, the burning in his chest, raw fury, the man’s tear-soaked face, the awful sobbing. He brought his hand down in a quick motion, slapped the young man, knocking him sideways, shouted again.

“Shut up that goddamned crying! I won’t have these brave men here who have been shot at seeing a yellow bastard sitting here crying!”

He stepped back, saw the man pulling himself upright, more sobs, unstoppable, the man’s red eyes staring at him. But the man did not stop crying, and Patton leapt at him, swung his hand down hard again, the man’s helmet knocked away, the soldier bareheaded now, sobbing louder. Patton backed away again, realized men had gathered, the doctors, the wounded men all staring at him. He fought to calm himself, turned, saw a white-coated officer, said, “Don’t you coddle this yellow bastard! There’s nothing the matter with him. I won’t have the hospitals cluttered up with these sons of bitches who haven’t got the guts to fight!”

He looked at the soldier again, sitting upright again, red-faced, the sobs growing quiet.

“You’re going back to the front lines, and you may get shot and killed, but you’re going to fight! If you don’t, I’ll stand you up against a wall and have a firing squad kill you on purpose!”

The man began to cry again, voices behind Patton growing, the room hot, swirling, stinking air. Patton felt his stomach turn, could not escape the sound of the man’s sobs, the fury coming back, fire in his brain. He reached down, his hands wrapping around the butt of his pistol, the gun pulling loose from the holster.

“I ought to shoot you myself, you goddamned whimpering coward!”

The man was staring at the pistol, and Patton held it out, tried to point it toward the man’s face, felt the men around him, moving closer, his own hands shaking now. He glanced to the side, saw faces, men and women, doctors, soldiers, nurses, a crowd, staring, wide-eyed shock. The pistol was heavy in his hands, and he looked down, the fury pushed aside by dark horror. The gun slid back into the holster, and Patton backed away, turned toward the opening of the wide tent, looked at the officer again, cold hate in the man’s face. Patton tried to bring the anger out again, how dare you show disrespect…but the man did not move, kept his eye focused on him, unflinching. Patton turned away now, moved to the opening, the blessed air, forced the words, shouted again.

“Send that yellow son of a bitch to the front lines!”

He was outside now, more people gathering, his driver standing by the jeep, waiting, obedient, and Patton climbed into the jeep, said, “I just saved a boy’s soul, if he has one. Let’s go. Bradley will wonder where the hell I am.”

The driver complied, the jeep moving quickly, the crowd of people behind him emerging from the hospital tent, watching him drive away.

SOUTH OF MESSINA—AUGUST 17, 1943

The sun was rising, the barren hills empty of life, the chill in the night air already warming. The men made their way slowly, stepping across large rocks, piles of dirt and concrete, hands out, the men helping each other across the treacherous ground. Above them, the bridge had been blasted into rubble, the roadway simply gone. They were used to it now, the British commando units who had worked feverishly alongside their engineers, pressing forward as the Germans withdrew, threading their way across deep valleys, repairing or clearing the roads so the rest of Montgomery’s army could continue the northward push. It was too common, so many of the roads simply narrow cuts carved into hillsides, the Germans detonating the rock above, burying them under tons of debris. The deep gullies and crevices were a greater challenge still, the destruction of the bridges delaying the vehicles. The engineers had used every tool in their arsenal, every trick, pulleys and winches, levers and cables, bridging the chasms, creating roadbeds where none existed.

The commandos left the ravine, crawled up onto flat ground, stared north, waiting now as a single jeep was pulled through the ravine behind them. With one great gasping effort, more men rolled the jeep up onto the road, the grateful commandos making way for their senior officer, the man slipping into the driver’s seat, others piling on, the engine firing, the jeep making the final dash, the two-mile push into the city.

His name was Jack Churchill, a lieutenant colonel commanding the Second British Commandos. As he drove toward the city, he held the reconnaissance reports in his mind, the observers telling him what he had seen himself. There had been a sudden lack of enemy fire, artillery batteries growing silent, infantry in the rocks no longer picking targets among his men. The reports told him what any officer could see, that the Germans had pulled away into the city. But the commandos knew more than that, knew by the silence that the Germans were not manning their defenses, that the city itself was not rumbling with the activity they had expected. Night after night, the air force planes had made their runs, blindly pouring their bombloads on targets they may or may not have hit. For nearly two weeks navy patrol boats had crept close to the port, quick snatches of information, confirming massive movement in and out of the port. But the bombardment he had expected had never seemed to come. Now, the roadways into the city were scattered with broken machines, the debris of war, hillsides speckled with dark spatters, what was left of artillery pieces and the crews who’d manned them.

It had been a mystery to him, the reports coming forward to one lieutenant colonel not detailed enough to tell him exactly what was happening. It was his job to find out, after all, to press forward with his men, to confront any stronghold where the enemy might still be waiting. As he drove the jeep, he thought of the city, the dreaded inevitability of house-to-house fighting, snipers and hidden artillery. But if the Germans had pulled back even farther, the mystery deepened. He knew the maps, knew that beyond the city there was little room to maneuver, little ground to offer the Germans any serious protection. There was only one possibility, that the sketchy reports of the ongoing evacuation of Sicily by German and Italians forces had to be accurate. If the enemy was gone, had somehow managed to escape the clutches of Montgomery’s army, the officer knew there would be hell to pay, that loud voices at headquarters would want explanations. But none of that was his problem, not now, not on this gray morning, not with the plump, ripe cherry of a city straight in front of him. It was a moment he had not expected, an honor falling upon him by chance. His commandos had done excellent work, the enemy responding to so many sharp fights by backing away. He smiled, pressed the accelerator closer to the floorboard, the jeep responding, thought, yes, if the enemy is gone, truly gone, then we will have the prize. We will capture this city.
I
will capture this city.

They rolled past small, white buildings, taller buildings beyond, the black water of the straits spreading out to the east. He pulled the jeep around a tight curve, slowed, the road opening into a wide street, flat-topped houses, and now…people.

They stood beside the road, some waving, some just silent, watching this strange, new army roll into their city. But it was hardly an army at all, just a few men on one jeep, and Churchill ignored that, thought only of the prize, the city of Messina. He saw a wide square, slowed, more people, flowers, loud voices, and he moved slowly, crept into the square, saw a crowd of people on the far side. He stopped the jeep, his men rolling off, rifles held ready, the crowd parting slowly. Churchill pushed through the faces, all civilians, held a carbine, poked it through more of the crowd, women, the crowd opening, uniforms, a cluster of men sitting on the steps of a small church.

“Well, good morning!”

Churchill lowered the carbine, knew the uniforms, the men calling out to him again, “Good morning! You’d be British, right? Welcome to our town!”

Churchill glanced at his own men, felt their energy draining away, low curses, the carbines going up on their shoulders. He stepped forward, saw an officer, a young lieutenant, hold out his hand. If it wasn’t to be his moment, his conquest, it was a victory after all. The men were Americans. Patton had won the race.

39. EISENHOWER

ALGIERS
AUGUST 17, 1943

“ ‘I
am attaching a report which is shocking in its allegations against your personal conduct. I hope you can assure me that none of them is true; but the detailed circumstances communicated to me lead to the belief that some ground for the charges must exist. I am well aware of the necessity for hardness and toughness on the battlefield. I clearly understand that firm and drastic measures are at times necessary in order to secure the desired objectives. But this does not excuse brutality, abuse of the sick, nor exhibition of uncontrollable temper in front of subordinates…’”

Eisenhower stopped, looked at the secretary, the pencil poised for the next words. He saw wide-eyed surprise in the man’s eyes, said, “Don’t say a word, Sergeant. Give me a minute.”

He stood, paced slowly, felt sweat in his shirt, put a hand up on the wall, stretched the aching muscles in his shoulder. Damn you, George. Damn you to hell.

He moved back to the desk, ignored the sergeant, weighed the words, fought for the right phrase. So what do I do now? Rip the man’s stars off his shoulder? How often has he done this sort of thing already? If not for the indignation of one army doctor, I might not know about this at all. Bradley probably knows, and God knows who else. Kept their damned mouths shut, and I can’t punish anybody for that. But I should. Hell, the reporters know about it already. Damned doctors aren’t soldiers, they don’t care who hears their gripes. Thank God the press boys listen to me, or Patton’s name would be all over every newspaper in the States: the general who slaps his sick soldiers.

He looked toward the map on the wall, Sicily and Italy, red marks showing the new operation, what they called Avalanche. For long weeks, the army and navy planners had struggled to find the most effective way to capture the port at Naples, had debated the least dangerous strategy for striking and possibly capturing the massive airfields at Rome and Foggia. He saw Patton in his mind, thought, I don’t need your stupidity right now, George. Is this the price I have to pay? You win a campaign, and you give me a reason to sack you, all in the same week. I wanted your name in the newspapers, but not for this, not for being a jackass. He looked at the sergeant, the man still waiting, pencil point on the paper.

“All right, Sergeant. Let’s go on. ‘In the two cases cited in the attached report, it is not my present intention to institute a formal investigation. Moreover, it is acutely distressing to me to have such charges as these made against you at the very moment when an American army under your leadership has attained a success of which I am extremely proud.’”

He stopped again. There could be hell to pay for this. If I don’t make some kind of stink publicly, I could be accused of covering up the charges. George’s head won’t be the only one going on the block. Dammit! What do I do with you now, George? Where can I put you where you can still do some good? Slapping men in a hospital. Someone else would court-martial you. Someone else might be right. But I need you, George. This army…
every
army needs someone who spits in the enemy’s eye, who kicks a few asses. But it can’t be like this. A man can’t lose control of himself.

He looked at the sergeant, moved toward the chair, eased down slowly. There were sharp pains in his back, spreading out from the incurable pain in his shoulder. The sergeant was watching him and Eisenhower said, “Hell of a thing, isn’t it?”

The man nodded slowly. “Yes, sir.”

“Toughest letter I’ve ever had to write. You better be damned good about keeping your mouth shut.”

He regretted the words, had no reason to doubt the man’s ability to keep a secret.

“Yes, sir, I understand. I’d have a tough time with this too. Is it all true, sir? Did General Patton really do this?”

Eisenhower leaned back in the chair, wiped a warm hand across his forehead. “Afraid so. The doctor’s report is pretty explicit. He claims a dozen or more witnesses. The press people came to me as well. George really put his foot in it.”

The sergeant still watched him, questions on the man’s face.

“You’re wondering if I’ll relieve him, right?”

“It’s not my place to ask, sir.”

“I need to hear George’s side of this. Hopefully, I can convince him to issue a personal apology, to the specific soldiers, and to his command. If it was up to me, that would be it. We’d file this away and never think about it again. Problem is, it might not be up to me.” He searched the man’s face, the sergeant looking down, a tight frown, the man shaking his head. “What is it?”

“Just wondering, sir, how his men will take this. His soldiers, I mean. I can’t speak for anyone else, but if my commanding general did such a thing to one of my buddies, I wouldn’t feel too friendly toward him, if you know what I mean, sir.”

“I know what you mean. But, dammit, sergeant, he
wins
. He doesn’t make excuses, he doesn’t find reasons why he should sit still, he’s not cautious. He knows what his men can do, and he puts them in the place they need to be. There are very few people in this theater of the war who can think like he does, who can get the results he does. That means something, Sergeant, and no matter if this blows up in my face, and no matter if the damned newspapers get this on their front page, we have to have men like Patton on the front lines. I just wish…” He stopped, had said too much already, thought, you don’t need to bury this man in your bellyaching. “I just wish I could do my job, and everyone else could do theirs.”

T
he intrigue in Rome was increasing daily. With the fall of Mussolini, the Italian government was in shambles. Eisenhower had expected there to be infighting, that surely there would be a number of Italian officials still loyal to Hitler, men who would do all they could to maintain some kind of control, to convince Hitler that Italy was still an ally. He scanned the reports, the Ultra intercepts, London quickly passing to him any dispatches offering some word on how the Germans were responding to the chaos.

He sat at the desk, read the latest dispatch, thought, if the Germans believe the Italians are going to quit this war, there could be blood everywhere. They might start bombing Italian cities, a show of strength, just to intimidate whoever’s calling the shots there. Will the king allow his people to be massacred? Would Hitler kill civilians just to punish them? Stupid question. He already has. At the very least, the Germans will be testing loyalties, finding out which Italians can still be trusted. How many will that be? How many of them will be more interested in preserving their palaces than in getting the Krauts out of their country? How many of them are willing to fight a bloody battle to make their point? Any civil war would be a one-sided affair, surely. If the Germans had help from a good percentage of the Italian army, they could crush anyone who spoke against them. Unless we were there to help them. Will they ask us? Tricky situation there, certainly. With Mussolini out of the way, is there anyone in the Italian government with guts enough to risk turning on the Germans? They’d have to be damned discreet about it. How much effort will Hitler make to hold on? Would he risk killing the king?

The planners of Avalanche had speculated that the Germans might simply pull away, shift their troops north of Rome, allowing the Allied landings to move in unopposed. Wishful thinking, he thought. The Germans can’t simply hand us those airfields, can’t offer us a perfect launching ground for our bombers. We can already reach German cities from bases in England. This would give us so many more options. The long-range bombers might even be able to reach the Russian positions, or come close enough to raise hell with the Kraut supply lines there. That would sure as hell make Stalin happy. No, Hitler won’t make it that easy. He may have an Italian mess on his hands, but he won’t just hand us the country. So how long will it take until someone in Rome contacts us, asking for help? Someone in the Italian hierarchy must surely see the opportunity here, that the smart move would be to pull Italy out of the alliance with Hitler.

He thought of Palermo, his visit to Patton. The city had been utterly destroyed by Allied bombing, too many military targets to ignore, targets whose destruction brought down far more of the city than anyone would have wanted. Dammit, it’s war. The Vatican begs us not to bomb Rome, and so, the Germans use it as a staging area. How long can we put up with that? Or will the Germans fight us for every inch of every street, use the Colosseum as a tank park, the Roman Forum as an ammo dump? What happens then? Just like Palermo, do we obliterate the city? Surely that’s incentive enough for the Italians to want out of this war. But they will need our help.

W
ord had come first by way of Lisbon, Portugal, brought by the hand of General Giuseppe Castellano, who claimed to be a representative of Marshal Badoglio himself. Castellano carried documents of introduction from the British minister to the Vatican, documents that seemed to verify the man was authorized to speak for the Italian government. Castellano’s proposal was simple and direct. If the Allies were to land troops onto the Italian mainland, the Italian government would respond by issuing an order of surrender and would immediately join with the Allied cause by taking up arms against the Germans.

It was excellent news. But Eisenhower had no power to respond officially, could only forward the inquiry to the Allied governments. After a long day of tense anticipation, Eisenhower received permission to respond to Castellano in definite terms. The Allies would only accept unconditional surrender. It would also be expected that the senior officers in the Italian army would influence their men to do whatever they could to cooperate with Allied operations. Though Eisenhower didn’t expect the Italians to suddenly start firefights with the Germans camped alongside them, the Allies insisted that the Italians make strenuous efforts to sabotage their infrastructure, including bridges, roadways, and airfields, as well as attacking or capturing any sources of local supply that the Germans used to sustain their men in the field.

As Castellano waited in Lisbon for some official response, Eisenhower received authorization to send two of his own people to deal with him. Logically enough, he chose his chief intelligence officer, Brigadier General Ken Strong, as well as his own chief of staff, Beetle Smith.

ALGIERS—AUGUST 20, 1943

“You look pretty whipped, Beetle.”

Smith had sunk low in the chair, his round body sagging into the dark leather.

“I don’t know about all this spy business, Ike. There’s something about looking over your shoulder for Gestapo agents that doesn’t have appeal. I’d liked to have spent more time in Lisbon. Seems like a nice place.”

Eisenhower was already impatient. “This wasn’t a vacation. Tell me what happened.”

Smith took a deep breath. “Castellano hates the Krauts, no confusion about that. The Italians are insisting they be allowed to stand side by side with us as a fully recognized ally. He claims the Italian army is ready to change sides at a moment’s notice and start shooting Germans.”

“I’m not authorized to offer him anything like that. London and Washington have made their position clear. We don’t even know who’s behind this offer in the first place, who Castellano speaks for, how many of their people will actually go along with it. It takes guts to do something like this with a hundred thousand Germans in your backyard. They can’t just call themselves our allies until we know what that means. My orders authorize me to secure their promise that they will serve us as collaborators. Did you say that?”

“My exact words. I emphasized that to him. Not sure he recognized the difference between a collaborator and an ally. Not sure I do either. I think he expects that if he promises they won’t shoot at us, we’re supposed to do the same thing. I explained to him it wasn’t that simple, that the precise definition of
surrender
is one of those things that ministers and diplomats deal with. It seems that he’s a soldier first and doesn’t care about nuances, specific terms of treaties. But one thing’s clear. He’s sure as hell an Italian. He spoke long and hard about Italian honor, how important it was, how they had to preserve it for their grandchildren. In the next breath, he’s talking about how eager they are to change their loyalties, and how perfectly cunning they were in arranging Mussolini’s removal. Honor seems to be defined as whatever works at the time. Reminds me of the French.”

“He tell you where Mussolini is now, where they’re holding him?”

Smith laughed. “Nope, not a hint. I think he knows too. He says Hitler would love to know that as well, Gestapo agents all over the place, trying to find clues where the king squirreled him away. Castellano’s scared of the Germans, for sure, figures they’ll shoot him on the spot if they find out he’s involved in this.”

Eisenhower sipped from his coffee cup, felt a low burn in his stomach. He glanced at his watch, after midnight. “You have to be pretty exhausted. I’ve been spending every damned minute with the staff and the planners, going over all the logistics of Avalanche. Wayne will be here in a day or so, getting his final instructions. Monty and Alexander are ready to go, but it’s not likely that Monty’s part of the operation will be as tough. If we’re lucky…” He paused, hated the word. “If all goes according to plan, we’ll have Naples in the bag pretty quick. Ought to make Churchill happy as hell. Monty’s chewing at his reins waiting to cross the straits. You know how he gets. Keeps telling me he’ll just roll right up the toe. That’s the kind of talk Churchill will expect to hear. Monty might be right. From everything we’ve seen, the Germans have already pulled a good ways away from the Strait of Messina.”

Eisenhower finished the coffee, saw a deep yawn spreading across Smith’s face.

“Excuse me, Ike. Long damned day. Oh, one more thing. I guess this is pretty important. Castellano was eager to show off everything he knew about the German positions, troops strengths, all of that. Laid it out in pretty good detail.”

Eisenhower sat up straight. “Yes, that would be considered important. Jesus, Beetle, you just think of that?”