The Rising Tide: A Novel of World War II (9 page)

He fought through the cold coffee, set the cup aside, stared blankly at the wall. For two weeks he had forced himself to see past the personalities, focus only on the plans, the maps, some strategy that would put the troops ashore in North Africa where they might actually accomplish their mission. There would be casualties of course. There were always casualties in a plan like this. Eisenhower had spent most of his career viewing troop counts as merely figures on paper, had never marched through the horror of what his orders could do to the men who carried them out. He leaned back in his chair, stared at the dull plaster on the ceiling. So, you had better give the right orders, decide on the right plan. Because if it doesn’t work, the mistake will be yours. Your responsibility. And no time to cry about it. You asked for this. You worked for it, dreamed it would happen, and now, here you are. Don’t muck it up.

“Sir?”

He saw Butcher leaning in.

“What is it, Harry?”

“General Clark’s here, sir.”

Eisenhower called out, “Come on in, Wayne.”

Butcher turned away, and Clark moved up beside him, both men in the doorway. Butcher said something to Clark, kept his voice low enough that Eisenhower couldn’t hear him. Clark’s frown turned quickly to a self-conscious smile. Butcher was gone, and Clark stepped into the office, moved papers from a chair, sat. There was silence for a moment, Clark suppressing the smile. Eisenhower was used to this, knew that Harry Butcher could always be relied on for some inappropriate comment, something raw and indiscreet. He had known Butcher for more than fifteen years, their paths crossing in Washington more in social circles than either man’s specific job. Butcher was a naval reserve officer, the only blue uniform in Eisenhower’s sea of khaki, referred to himself now as “Ike’s naval aide,” which implied that he had some influence on the relationship between Eisenhower and the navy brass. But Eisenhower knew that Butcher was on his staff only because Eisenhower had asked for him.

“You going to share the joke?”

“Nope.”

“Just as well.” Eisenhower let out a long breath, felt a dull ache in his shoulders, long days settling across his back like some great barbell. “I need to talk to you about the French.”

Now Clark let out the breath. “De Gaulle?”

“Oh, hell no. We’ll talk about de Gaulle only when we have to. I’m much more concerned with the larger picture. Torch. The Brits believe that no matter where we land, the French will fight us. There are different opinions on the matter. Some say that, depending on where we go ashore, we’ll be welcomed as liberators. If the Free French are running the show, whoever’s in charge will put up American flags as soon as our ships come into view. They’ll start shooting their Vichy collaborators as quick as they can line ’em up. Others say the Vichy leadership has more influence than we think, that their troops will follow Vichy’s orders. You heard anything more? What do you think?”

Clark seemed overwhelmed by the question. “You’re asking me if I am willing to predict whether our landing will be a stroll on the beach, or a bloody massacre. I’d say, we should be prepared for the worst. If they shoot at us, shoot back.”

“That’s the point. We can only shoot at them if they shoot first.”

“Ike, the Nazis are running that show, make no mistake about that. The French can claim to be neutral or hostile, or our best friends. But the Krauts aren’t going to just sit by and allow us to put an army in Rommel’s backyard. Algeria, Tunisia, French Morocco. Doesn’t matter. The French will weigh the cost of fighting us against fighting the Nazis. We want to come ashore, the Nazis are already there.”

There was commotion in the outer office, one loud voice.

Eisenhower nodded that way, said, “Well, if the French are going to make a fight of it, we’ve got the right man to lead the way.”

Clark looked toward the door, seemed to recognize the voice as well, said, “Can’t argue that one, Ike.”

There was motion at the doorway, heavy boots on the wood floor. The man burst into the room, slammed his bootheels together, made a crisp salute, said, “So, Ike, when do we kill some Krauts?”

Eisenhower stood. “Wayne, I believe you know George Patton?”

P
atton unrolled a coil of paper, and Eisenhower saw the magazine, the tattered cover of
Life.

“Right here, Ike. Yep, here it is. Impressive photo of our gallant leader, with his name clearly spelled out: ‘D. D. Eisenberger.’”

Eisenhower had seen the photo, had hoped no one else would remember. But of course, he thought, George Patton would never forget anything like this. At least they got the initials right.

Patton sat, pointed a hard finger toward Eisenhower, said to Clark, “I outranked him, you know. His whole damned career. Hell, couple years ago, when I was taking command of the armored division, I tried to get Ike assigned to be my chief of staff. A plum job, that one. You’d have done a good job too, Ike. Hell, I guess somebody made you a better offer.”

Clark laughed, said, “I guess General Marshall pulled rank on you, George.”

“Hmm. Yep. Marshall. He’s concerned, you know.”

Patton’s mood had abruptly shifted, and Eisenhower saw the hard, familiar glare. Patton had been chosen to be the senior American commander for Operation Torch, would lead one of the three prongs of the invasion, the westernmost landings at Casablanca. But Patton had no real reason to be here now, in London. His part of the assault would come directly from the east coast of the United States, a naval armada that would carry the Casablanca force across the Atlantic.

Eisenhower said, “What’s going on, George? Marshall’s got problems with Torch?”

“Yep. That’s the real reason I’m here. Sent me to look things over, report to him on my conclusion. Hell, there’s nothing for me to see in London. Damned ugliest women. Fattest ankles I’ve ever seen.”

Eisenhower thought, Patton would be the world’s worst spy. Marshall wouldn’t send George here just to eavesdrop on us. Of course he’s concerned. Anyone who looks at these plans should be concerned.

“We’re working on every detail, George. But there is one enormous uncertainty. The French. Lots of opinions on what they’ll do, no one knows for sure.”

Patton sniffed. “I can handle the French. We get a battleship to drop a few sixteen-inchers into downtown Casablanca, they’ll come around. If that doesn’t work, I’ll charm them. You ever know a Kraut to charm anybody? I’ll have Casablanca in my pocket in two days’ time.”

It was the tonic Eisenhower needed. But he saw the scowl, Patton’s bluster changing again.

Patton said, “What about the other two landings, Ike?”

“Fredenhall and Ryder will command. You know the plan.”

“Yeah, I know the plan. But what about the damned Brits? They going to wait for us to go in first? You know what the French will do if they see British uniforms on those damned beaches. All hell will break loose.”

The British had acknowledged the problem from the start. Any landing that hoped to find a cooperative French reception had to be led by American soldiers, with American officers in command. This kind of annoyance had plagued the Allies throughout the First World War, and now, the centuries of animosity between Britain and France could boil over into a major conflict in North Africa.

“The Brits will wait for us, George. Once we’ve secured our bases on the Mediterranean, the Brits will move overland and occupy Tunisia.”

Clark said, “Rommel won’t know what hit him. He’ll be squeezed like a grape.”

Eisenhower watched Patton’s reaction, saw a flicker of disgust. He wasn’t sure how Patton felt about Clark, and Eisenhower had no time and no patience for personality clashes. No, he thought, George doesn’t make friends.

Patton stared at Eisenhower for a moment, said, “We do the work, and the Brits grab the victory, that it? Or, will the damned Krauts grab it first? You think we can coordinate three major amphibious assaults, quiet the damned French, then bring the British in, equipment and all, and send them marching into Tunisia? And all the while, the Krauts are just gonna sit and watch? There’s a fight to be had, Ike. Rommel, or someone else. They’ll pour reinforcements into Tunisia, and if the British don’t get there in God’s own hurry, the Krauts will be waiting for ’em, begging those limey bastards to march right up to those Kraut tanks.”

Eisenhower felt his gut tighten, saw Clark twist slightly in his chair, thought, dammit, George, I don’t need to hear that kind of talk. Patton seemed oblivious to his insult of the British.

Eisenhower said, “You’re right on one count. This is a complicated operation. It won’t succeed without cooperation. The British understand that clearly, and it’s up to all of us to make it work.”

Patton shook his head. “Fifty-fifty, Ike. The landings, no real problems there I can see. Tunisia, different story.”

Eisenhower looked at Clark again, could see that the man shared his gloom, had not expected pessimism from Patton.

Eisenhower said, “Those might be the best odds we can get. But if we don’t do this—”

“We’ll do it, Ike. That’s what I’ll tell Marshall. We’ll do it, or we’ll die trying.”

7. EISENHOWER

THE DORCHESTER HOTEL, LONDON
AUGUST 16, 1942

“I
t’s the election, Ike. A bunch of congressmen are afraid that if we fall on our face here, they’ll have to give out bad news to their voters. I hate politics.”

Eisenhower nodded at Clark’s words, looked at him through a thick fog in his eyes. “That’s Marshall’s problem. My orders haven’t changed.”

Clark pointed to the copy of the letter that covered one corner of Eisenhower’s desk. “I don’t know, Ike. Doesn’t seem like the chief of staff is bearing up well. The pressure on him must be overwhelming.”

Eisenhower stared at the paper, Marshall’s words a blur. But the shock was still in him, the sting of Marshall’s sudden doubts about the entire operation.

There is unanimity of opinion that the proposed operation appears hazardous to the extent of less than a fifty percent chance of success.

Unanimity. Everyone. Eisenhower had read the letter too many times already, said, “You think he’ll call it off?”

Clark shook his head. “How can he, Ike? After all this? Everything…the planning, the personnel.”

“He can if he chooses to, Wayne. Or Churchill, or the president. Hell, if it was up to the navy, there never would have been a plan at all. The Brits think they’ll lose half their fleet just getting everybody into position. Admiral King…good God, Wayne. The American chief of naval operations sits in Washington and launches his dispatches toward two major theaters of war, telling everyone that everything we’re doing is wrong. When he was here, he kept insisting we focus on the Pacific. By the time he went home, he seemed convinced that Torch was the right plan. But now that he can bellyache out of earshot of the British, he’s telling Marshall it’s all a mistake. How’d you like to be Admiral Ingersoll, commanding the whole Atlantic fleet, working your tail off to prepare for this assault, only to hear that your chief in Washington thinks the whole idea is suicidal? We’d be well served if some of these people were simply shot.”

Clark stared at him, and Eisenhower regretted the words, thought, thank God I can trust him. But this is no good. I need to take a walk, maybe go somewhere, into the country. He called out, “Harry!”

Butcher appeared at the door.

“Round up the damned car.”

“Where we off to, Chief?”

Eisenhower sat back in his chair, had no explanation to offer. “Just get the car.”

Clark said, “Ike, the navy’s coming around. No matter what Admiral King is saying in Washington, and no matter how much moaning the British are doing here, they’re all coming together. The air people are all in line, all pushing for the plan. Jimmy Doolittle’s like a kid with a new toy, since he was told he’ll be flying cover for Patton’s landing. The British air people, Tedder, the whole lot…and that’ll spread, Ike. As the pieces come together, everyone will fall in line. Even the navy. Both navies. Until anybody says differently, it’s still your show. And it’s a good plan.”

Eisenhower saw a hopeful smile on Clark’s face, felt the man’s friendship, his effort to pull away the dark curtain.

“I just need a breath or two, Wayne.”

Butcher was back now, stood at the door. “Car’s ready to go, Chief. Uh, before you go, there’s a message just arrived from the French. From de Gaulle.”

The name sent a dull blade into Eisenhower’s chest. He closed his eyes for a brief moment. “And?”

“His people are still pretty itchy to know what the plans are. I think they’re a little upset.”

Eisenhower closed his eyes again, could see the face of Charles de Gaulle, the man’s perfect sneer etched in his mind. Their first meeting had been an unpleasant and snippy affair, de Gaulle insisting in flatly arrogant terms that Marshall see him before the American chief of staff returned to the States. De Gaulle had been a midlevel governmental minister and a brigadier general, commanding French armor, when the Germans swept through France. Rather than surrender along with most of the French army, de Gaulle had escaped to England and had immediately proclaimed himself head of a Free French State. The one-man pronouncement had in fact inspired some of his countrymen, and a resistance underground of sorts had begun to spread through the German-occupied territory. Most of France regarded de Gaulle as an opportunist, a lonely voice in a wilderness of propaganda, and he was blithely dismissed by the Vichy government as an outcast rebel. But de Gaulle would not be ignored and found a voice in various British newspapers. Soon he had insisted on more than patriotism from his French followers, and more than simple respect from his British hosts. He had made it known that he expected to be regarded as a head of state, and that as such, he was entitled to know exactly what the Allies planned to do to recover his country. To Marshall he had demanded to know the details of whatever second-front operation was in the works. Whether de Gaulle had actually heard of Operation Torch was something no one could be certain of. Regardless of what de Gaulle might have heard, whether through rumors or leaks in security, Eisenhower had no intention of telling him anything.

Butcher said, “Chief, de Gaulle’s people are requesting you schedule a meeting with one of his representatives. I doubt he’ll see you himself.”

Eisenhower tried to ignore the words, forced himself to leave the desk. He moved past Clark, fought through the fog, put a hand on Butcher’s shoulder, said, “You drive.”

“S
o, Harry, you think I should be out there inspecting the troops? More parades?”

Butcher laughed. “You’re the chief. Inspect anybody you want to.”

“The Brits expect that, you know. Damnedest ritual, a general strutting through his men, showing off his medals, making sure everybody knows how high his promotions have gone, how important he is. If he thinks about it, he pretends to make sure his men are in tip-top shape. How the hell you going to know if a soldier’s any good by how he buttons his shirt?”

“Patton would disagree with you.”

Eisenhower smiled, nodded. “Yep. Never saw a man more obsessed with a crisp salute. For him, it works. Discipline, can’t argue with that. Despite what Georgie may try to tell his men, he’s not perfect.”

Butcher glanced at him, steered the car past a slow-moving tractor, an unusual sight on the paved road. Gasoline restrictions had made driving anywhere a luxury for British civilians. Eisenhower was lost for a moment, looked into the face of the farmer, an old man, ignoring the staff car as it swerved past him. The whole world is moving past that old man, and likely he doesn’t care one bit. He’s seen this before, probably done his part already.

“So, you going to tell me?”

Butcher brought him back into focus, and Eisenhower said, “About Patton? A while back, war games, down in Louisiana. Lots of Washington brass, everybody watching, pretty impressive. Georgie commanded the Second Armor. He won the day. Pulled a pretty neat trick, got into the enemy camp, took the prize. The official observers said that what he did was impossible, turned the whole event up on its ear. Nobody could figure out how he did it.”

Butcher was waiting for more, and Eisenhower stared ahead, braced himself against a shallow pothole in the road.

“Well? How did he do it?”

Eisenhower stared ahead, smiled. “He cheated. Took his armor across country outside the designated boundaries. He’d made a deal with private gasoline stations along the country roads, paid for the gas with his own money, so I was told. Planned it all out in advance.”

“He cheated?”

The smile faded, the rhythm of the car pulling him toward a nap. He turned toward Butcher. “He
won
.”

Butcher laughed, and suddenly Eisenhower didn’t share the humor. “It was funny at the time, I guess. I got my first star just after that. He already was a major general. Now, I have to look at him in a different way. He’ll do whatever we need him to do, I know that. But he doesn’t like orders. Might not be the best man for following a plan. Improvisation is good, essential in combat. But he’s only one part of something far more complicated than any of us have tried to do before.”

“Forgive me, Chief, but that’s what people like Patton are for. No matter what anyone says in Washington, no matter how much bitching and doubt falls on Marshall or Churchill or FDR, it’s the men in the landing craft and the assault craft who matter, the men who fire the big guns. If they do their job, then you’ll have done yours. Sir.”

Eisenhower looked at Butcher, nodded slowly. “Thank you, Harry.”

They rode for another mile, past small farms set deep into thick, green fields. The fog was gone now, the energy returning, and Eisenhower pointed to an intersection ahead. “Turn us around. Too much to do.”

Butcher slowed the car, swung wide, made a U-turn, hammered the accelerator, speeding them back to the office. Eisenhower felt the energy of the car, realized how slowly Butcher had been driving. He knew it was calculated, that once Eisenhower had cleared the fog in his brain, he would want to be back to the work
now
. The farms blew past and already they were moving into the outskirts of the city.

He stared ahead. “Make sure Wayne comes to breakfast tomorrow. Be sure Churchill’s people put us on his calendar when he gets back from Africa. I want to send a reply to Marshall, plenty of details, logistics, supply, troop, air, and naval numbers, to reassure him. Patton’s leaving for the States next week; I want him prepared to give Marshall a full report on progress, not griping. Arrange a meeting with the British Home Office, Mr. Mack, I believe. He has his finger on the French problem.”

“Sir, Mack, yes, sir. He dealing with de Gaulle now, Chief?”

“De Gaulle? I have no idea. I’m talking about the real French problem, those fellows in Africa who may or may not decide to blow us to hell.”

AUGUST 21, 1942

By the morning of August 21, Eisenhower was given the official report from Lord Louis Mountbatten, the dashing young British commodore who now ranked among the most influential of the British chiefs of staff. The report confirmed the raid at Dieppe had been a complete disaster.

The raid on the French port city had been planned primarily by the British, mostly Mountbatten himself, aimed at capturing a moderate French target, holding the beach and the port long enough to convince both the British and their beleaguered allies on the European continent that an amphibious assault could succeed in putting a sizable force into place, long enough to allow the possibility of major reinforcements over water. Dieppe was not intended to be any permanent prize, only a demonstration that Hitler’s Atlantic Wall could be punctured. Of the six thousand men who participated in the raid, most were Canadian, supplemented by British and a small, symbolic contingent of American commandos. What the careful planning could not account for was the German defense, a stout barrier tailor-made for defending against this kind of amphibious attack. The reports were dismal. Half the men who took part in the raid were either killed or captured. As tragic as the raid had been, Eisenhower grasped a subtlety in the British dispatches, a tinge of meaning that the horrified public would never receive. The raid on Dieppe was proof that Hitler would not simply stand by and allow any French port to be so easily assaulted. It was annoyingly clear to Eisenhower that the inclusion of the small force of Americans, who fared as badly as their British and Canadian comrades, would generate the kinds of headlines in the States that no one in the War Department wanted. Men had died, American men, attacking a French port against a formidable defense that would not simply crumble away. After Dieppe, the voices who had continued to speak out against the North African campaign were virtually silenced. If Operation Torch wasn’t popular, Dieppe had provided a convincing message that Torch might have a better chance of success than another assault against the French coast, an assault that would slam straight into Hitler’s stoutest defenses.

#10 DOWNING STREET, LONDON—AUGUST 26, 1942

The invitation came from Churchill, dinner at his official residence. Eisenhower had endured these kinds of dinners before, drawn-out, tedious affairs. With the prime minister just returning from Africa and Russia, he would be certain to dominate his audience with all the various details of his travels, some of it military, much simply Churchill himself, basking in the attention. At least Eisenhower would have one valuable reinforcement: Wayne Clark accompanied him.

They were ushered into the dining room, and Eisenhower saw no one else in the room. Clark was beside him, and Eisenhower said, “Appears we’re early.”

Clark checked his watch. “Nope, don’t think so.”

There was a burst of noise out beyond the dining room, and Churchill was there now, padded heavily in, said, “Welcome! Sit! Appetite?”

Eisenhower caught the familiar smell of the cigar, the permanent fixture implanted into Churchill’s mouth. The man wore a large smock, shuffled himself to his chair on fat slippers.

Clark moved toward the back of Churchill’s chair, polite instinct, and Churchill said, “I can manage, General. Sit down, both of you. Good to be home, you know. No matter where I go, no matter how much hospitality my generals or anyone else gives me, there’s nothing to compare with one’s own hearth, eh?”

Eisenhower could see that Churchill’s mood was far more cheerful than his own.

Churchill was looking at him, said, “Bad day, General? You miss high tea? Don’t pay much attention to that myself. Tea’s for dowagers and diplomats. Much prefer
high whiskey
.”

Eisenhower said nothing, glanced at Clark. Marshall’s gloomy cable had been discussed at a hastily called meeting, an American affair, with no one else in attendance. It wasn’t a conscious choice on Eisenhower’s part to exclude anyone—it had just come about that way. Churchill pulled at the cigar, smoke drifting around his round face, his expression unchanging. Eisenhower thought, he knows, of course. Somehow, he always knows.

“Sir, there is concern, still, in Washington.”

Churchill slapped his hands on the hardwood table, seemed prepared with a response.