The Rising Tide: A Novel of World War II (18 page)

“That’s one of ours. They hit a gun carrier.”

Logan could see that the truck was split open, the frame visible under thick, billowing smoke. The doors had blown free, one tossed aside, wedged into the dirt, standing upright. Logan saw it now: the white star.

Men had gathered near the truck, one body lying close, too close to the heat, the medics helpless. Logan thought, nobody’s gonna live through that. Parnell drove the tank past the burning wreck, but there was no way to avoid the smoke. He kept to the road, pushed the tank through the black cloud, and Logan braced himself for the smell, held his breath, but the smoke drove into him, the hard stench of burning oil, and worse, a stink he didn’t want to identify. The tank rolled forward, and he emptied his lungs, the stench still trapped inside him.

Logan blinked hard, focused toward the periscope, the intercom quiet. He eased the turret to one side, scanned the low hills, and suddenly the tank jumped, a hard, thunderous lurch, smoke, dirt clouding the periscope, the tank leaning to one side, then settling back with a hard, crunching drop. His helmet had been jolted to one side, the intercom crackling, Hutchinson shouting above him:

“Ahh, damn! Button up! Hatches closed!”

Logan grabbed at the crooked helmet, pulled it hard onto his head. The tank was still moving, Parnell holding it steady, still on the road.

Hutchinson said, “Incoming fire! Turn left, thirty degrees! Some of our boys are behind those hills. They’re taking fire! Gunner, ready!”

There was smoke in every direction, thick clouds of dirt, and Logan spun the turret to the left, saw the tanks, more smoke, shells bursting in the hills just above the armor. Hutchinson was down beside him now, the intercom alive with Parnell’s cursing.

Hutchinson said, “Shut up! Anybody hurt?”

“No.”

“No.”

“Okay here.”

Hutchinson was leaning against Logan’s shoulder, peering forward through the observation port, said, “That was close, boys. I guess the French can’t shoot that good.”

Parnell said, “It was good enough for me. Damned thing hit ten feet from the left tread, right in front of me. Mighta knocked out a tooth or two.”

Logan watched Hutchinson, thought, easy Hutch, we’re alive.

Hutchinson said, “Driver, left, move in behind that cluster of rocks. There’s one M-3 thirty yards on our left flank. Another farther out. Infantry coming up behind us. The enemy…not sure yet.”

Hutchinson spoke into the wireless microphone, words Logan couldn’t hear.

“The damned radio’s not working! Coulda knocked the antenna off.”

Logan was surprised to see Hutchinson rise up, the hatch opening, dust and daylight pouring into the tank. No, not a good idea, Hutch.

Hutchinson shouted, talking to someone Logan couldn’t see, more shouts, Hutchinson dropping back down. The intercom spoke again, Hutchinson’s voice.

“There’s French artillery out in front of us. A thousand yards, behind the next row of rocky hills. Might be a whole battery, or just a couple guns. The seventy-fives are coming up behind us. Colonel Todd is here somewhere, says nobody can talk to command. It’s not just us. Bad radio contact.”

No one responded, and Logan moved the turret again, thought,
a thousand yards
. He put his hand on the breech of the thirty-seven. I could hit a target…maybe. It would have to be dead-on, kill the gun crew. But then what? This isn’t enough gun to take out anything really heavy. And we can’t just charge out into the open. We’d be roasted.

There was a hard thump to one side, one of the tanks firing. The response came quickly, shells whistling over them, sharp thunder beneath them, the tank rocking, smoke, a shower of dirt and rocks raining on the tank. Hutchinson again:

“Dammit! We’re not in good cover here! We need those seventy-fives!”

Logan swung the turret to the right, searching for any sign of a target, caught a glimpse of movement, moved to the periscope, saw a truck moving past, stopping a few yards away.

Parnell shouted, “Yee hah! The cavalry’s here!”

Logan stared, knew the seventy-fives, the largest mobile guns the unit had, mounted in heavy armored trucks. He watched the barrel of the heavier gun, adjusting, elevating, thought of the gunner. Who? That crackpot Jenkins? Maybe Sweeney, the guy who can’t hit a garbage can at ten yards. Let it be Fowler, somebody who shoots straight.

All eyes were on the seventy-five beside them, and now the eruption came, the hard punch of the gun, a stream of smoke.

Hutchinson stared forward with the binoculars, a long few seconds, then said, “He got something. Again, hit ’em again, keep firing!”

Logan glanced into the gunsight, saw a small gray cloud, heard the seventy-five fire again, waited for the impact, another long second, another burst in the hills. More of the armored trucks were pulling up, a chorus of thunder, the seventy-fives raining their shells into whatever enemy stood in their way. The wireless spoke to Hutchinson again, and the order came into the intercom.

“Driver, advance! Get past these rocks, make hard for that smoke. Full out, Skip!”

The tank kicked into motion, and Logan braced himself, the tank rocking with the uneven ground.

“Gunner, make ready. Targets ahead!”

Logan glanced at Baxter, the man holding a shell in his hands, another already in the thirty-seven, a sharp nod from the quiet young man. The tank rolled forward, more tanks on either side. The seventy-fives continued their fire on the enemy positions, French crews and their guns obliterated by the accuracy of the artillery. Logan stared out through the periscope, felt the cool wind swirling down through the open hatch, the tank running at top speed, the hills in front of them close. He could see men in the rocks, some scrambling up the hill, some firing rifles, a toothless enemy, and he felt the rage, the cold steel in his chest, put his hand on the machine gun, and pulled the trigger.

T
hough the French continued to put obstacles in their paths, the French defenses were not coordinated, no large-scale deployment of troops, artillery, or air support. As the first day of Operation Torch concluded, the pincer movement around Oran drew tighter. By midday, the airfield at Tafaraoui had been captured and secured, and though the French still struck at the invaders, the American noose continued to tighten. From General Fredenhall’s command ship, word had been sent back to Gibraltar, the anxiously awaited “okay” for British cargo and fighter planes there to begin their own missions, bringing in the supplies and reinforcements that would turn Tafaraoui into an Allied base.

La Sénia was now more of a priority than ever, since the French could still launch air strikes that could reach American troop and armor positions in mere minutes. With darkness finally closing in on the first day of the operation, the First Armored Division’s tank crews still followed their maps, gathering strength, the officers pulling the squads together, fueling and resupplying the tanks for the next day’s fight.

12. CLARK

GIBRALTAR—
NOVEMBER 8, 1942

“G
iraud has changed his mind.”

Clark stood, blinked, tried to focus on Eisenhower’s face, the commander leaning against the open doorway. It was good news, but Eisenhower was not smiling.

Clark said, “When?”

“Right after we concluded the meeting. I saw you slip out. Don’t worry about it. We need every break from this mess we can get. The last report from Oran did it. Just as I thought, we give him just enough details to convince him we haven’t fabricated this whole operation. He didn’t believe Algiers had fallen so quickly, that we had the airfield there, until he heard French radio bellyaching about it.”

Clark was still annoyed at the obnoxious Frenchman. “So, he was surprised that we took Algiers so quickly?
Surprised?
That means he anticipated resistance there. That’s why—”

“It was all a game, Wayne. He wouldn’t play ball because he thought we’d get our asses kicked.” Eisenhower seemed to collapse into his chair. “Now, he’s on our team. Fully committed to our cause. As though we should never have doubted him. Jackass.”

Clark knew what was coming, what his own role in the operation would be now. “When do you want me to leave?”

“Tomorrow. Giraud is going to Algiers first thing in the morning. Insists on a French plane, French pilot, wants to make his grand entrance into Algiers so he can write in his memoirs what it was like the day he won the war. Surprised he hasn’t asked for a planeload of brass bands. You’ll be right behind him. General Ryder will be expecting you. I’m preparing an order that you will present to Giraud on Algerian soil. He’s in command of the French military and is now governor of the place. But he answers to me, and until I establish my own headquarters there, he answers to you. Once you arrive, you bring our headquarters with you. Make damned sure he understands that. No grand pronouncements, no parades, no orders to anyone without your approval. You’re in charge, Wayne. Don’t take any crap from Giraud or anybody else.”

Clark tried to feel the energy behind Eisenhower’s orders, the authority he would carry to Africa, some enthusiasm that the annoying Frenchman might finally contribute something useful to the operation. But there had been almost no sleep for nearly two days, and the only news that could inspire him at all was word that Oran had been captured, or that Patton’s Western Task Force had secured Casablanca.

Eisenhower leaned back in his chair, said nothing, his mind focused on some other business at hand. Clark knew that he was anxious about Patton. The only word from Casablanca had come by circuitous routes, Allied intelligence picking up sketchy broadcasts from French military outposts, reports of losses of artillery batteries along the coast, confrontations with American tanks and infantry at several outlying villages. The news was encouraging, broad hints of panic among the French, calls for retreat and regrouping. But no one at Gibraltar could feel comfortable while their only news came from a disorganized enemy. Patton’s landing had been scheduled to begin at four thirty that morning, and the navy had reported that, surprisingly, the typically rough seas along the West African coast had calmed. But then, there had been only silence. As the hours passed, Eisenhower had grown increasingly anxious, the entire staff aware that if anyone would crow about the results of a good fight, it would be George Patton. By late afternoon, reports had begun to filter in, passed along by wireless from British naval ships. The fights were difficult, stiff French resistance from naval and land forces, but the landings had successfully been made, the noose closing in on Casablanca as it had around Oran. Patton’s silence had been caused by a bad radio on board his command ship, nothing more. Clark had smiled at that, knew that once Patton realized his broadcasts had dissolved only into static, the faulty radio and its operator would likely be tossed into the sea.

With the various Algerian airfields secured, the Spitfires waiting at the compact airfield at Gibraltar could finally offer support, squadrons of fighters swarming toward various trouble spots. By vacating the tarmacs, the fighters had made room for bombers, for a limited number of B-17s waiting in London, which could only make the trip southward if they had some place to park.

Clark had stayed closely in touch with Admiral Cunningham, the British naval commander keeping tight rein on unpredictable confrontations with French warships that had emerged from various harbors along the African coast. The British were also keeping a vigilant eye on any naval force that might suddenly appear from Italy. While Clark focused more on what was actually happening on the ground, Eisenhower himself had continued to deal with the potential danger from political fronts, particularly Spain, for any word that the dictator Franco was reacting to news of the invasion of North Africa with some kind of blusterous outrage, political noise that could justify bringing Hitler’s troops into his country, troops whose first goal might be Gibraltar.

And now, there was Giraud.

Clark looked at his watch, thought, it’s dark outside. You’d never know it in here. There was commotion in the corridor, Butcher’s jovial face at the door.

“Skipper, we got a cable from London. General Brooke has sent confirmation that the Chiefs of Staff believe it is now an appropriate time to give news of the operation to Monsieur de Gaulle. I’d love to be there for that one. Sir.”

Eisenhower nodded, said to Clark, “Giraud hates de Gaulle. Says he had too much of an ego. Pot calling the kettle black, I’d say.”

Butcher said, “There’s more, sir. Reports picked up from Vichy say that Admiral Darlan is in Algiers, directing the defense.”

Eisenhower sat up straight, seemed to come awake. “Darlan’s in Algiers?”

Clark was surprised by Eisenhower’s reaction. “It’s all bull, Ike. There’s no defense to direct. What else did they say, Harry? They throwing us back into the sea? It’s just propaganda, Ike.”

Eisenhower stood, seemed energized now. “It’s more than that, Wayne. Harry, get a cable out to General Ryder, and to Murphy. Find Darlan. Vichy’s number two man could be a hell of a plum, if we can grab him. Wayne, get down there first thing in the morning. Find Major Tibbets, use the
Red Gremlin
. First things first. We’ll give Giraud time to strut around, have his show. The first priority is to get the shooting stopped. Like it or not, we could use the French beside us, and not in our gunsights. As soon as we can get command and communication posts established, once the bases are secure, and the supplies are flowing, the Brits can start moving toward Tunis.” Eisenhower stopped, smiled. “Darlan’s just the icing on the cake.”

ALGIERS, ALGERIA—NOVEMBER 9, 1942

The weather had closed in on Gibraltar, and though Giraud’s flight had managed to slip out under the dense cloud cover, Clark’s flight had delayed. Finally, after hours of boiling impatience, Clark had boarded the plane, the B-17 skimming across the Mediterranean surrounded by a flock of Spitfires, a protective escort against an enemy who did not appear. By the time the
Red Gremlin
touched down at Maison Blanche airfield, Clark’s curiosity had grown as fierce as his lack of patience. If Giraud had accomplished his mission, the fighting might already be over.

M
ajor General Charles “Doc” Ryder was in command of the Eastern Task Force, the man responsible for leading the assault that had produced the quickest success thus far, the capture of Algiers. Ryder had graduated West Point the same year as Eisenhower, had earned his second general’s star only that June, after taking command of the Thirty-fourth Infantry Division. Ryder understood that once Algiers was secure, his command would be handed over to British general Kenneth Anderson, who would then lead the push toward Tunisia. It was one of those necessary cosmetic touches, American generals leading the assaults, convincing the French that Torch was an American operation. Ryder not only accepted his temporary command, he had been one of Eisenhower’s most valued aides, helping to plan this part of the overall assault. Until Anderson assumed command, Ryder was the most senior Allied soldier in Algiers, the man to whom any French officials would have to report. Clark knew that Ryder was an excellent soldier and, like most fighting generals, had little patience for politicians.

Clark slapped him on the arm, and Ryder said, “Damned glad you’re here, Wayne. No time for this bull. I got French politicians crawling on me like ants.”

“Ike says it’s in my hands until he gets down here.” Clark put a hand down to his side, tapped at an imaginary holster. “I’m guessing they’ll fall into line. Giraud thinks I’m a lunatic anyway. We’re all a bunch of cowboys to these people. Shoot first, diplomacy later.”

“Giraud? So, you haven’t heard?”

Clark saw the annoyance on Ryder’s face. “Heard what?”

“Well, as soon as he stepped off his plane here, he started telling me how he was the commander in chief of the French army and had control over all civilian activities. I knew that Ike had given him all sorts of authority, so, I put him in front of a radio transmitter, and he makes these announcements, telling the French garrisons to cease fire, that we’re all on the same side. Sounded pretty good to me.”

“That’s what he was supposed to do.”

“Except, nobody paid any attention to him. Nobody. I don’t know who this guy thought he was, but every French official I talked to said he had no authority here, and they had no intention of following his orders. Didn’t really matter anyway, at least not around Algiers. The shooting’s over. But pretty quick he skedaddled out of here. My people say he’s hiding out, that he’s got some friends who put him up in some villa near here. I’m not sure he’s in any danger, unless somebody tries to
ignore
him to death.”

C
lark’s staff had arrived on a second B-17, the
Boomerang,
and Clark had set up a makeshift headquarters at the Hotel St. George in Algiers. The only sounds of a fight came from German bombers, small waves of Junkers, making the trip from bases in Sicily, most of them less concerned with dropping bombs than making firsthand observations of just what was happening in Algiers. If there was confusion and uncertainty among German commanders across the Mediterranean, it only emphasized the value of a plan Clark had proposed weeks ago, while he was still in London. The Germans maintained offices in Casablanca, Oran, and Algiers, staffed by officers whose credentials stated they were part of the German Armistice Commission. It was a poor disguise for men whose duties included close observation of French officials, making sure no one was plotting anything that might upset German and Vichy control. It was one wolf watching the other. When Clark received intelligence reports on the activities of these Germans, he was convinced that, as the Torch landings were rolling ashore, assassination squads should be prepared to target the Germans. At the very least, it might delay word of what was happening on the beaches from reaching Berlin. At best, it could disrupt enemy communication and supply coordination all through this theater of the war. But the idea was dismissed in London, described as too uncivilized. Clark had been astounded that killing rear-echelon officers was considered an affront to the rules of war, the same rules that Hitler had tossed out the window in 1939. Whether or not the plan would have accomplished its goal, Clark could only wonder at the German bombers flying high overhead, if they were observing for themselves or simply confirming reports sent from carefully hidden German agents all through the battle zones.

With his staff in place, the office began to function, updated reports relayed back to Gibraltar. The dispatches had continued to flow in, passed on to Eisenhower, word mostly of the ongoing fights around both Casablanca and Oran. With the comic absurdity of Giraud pushed out of his mind, Clark now confronted the same challenge Giraud was supposed to have prevented. Those French commanders who had sided with the Americans were facing challenges of their own, some of them arrested by their own officers, or senior commanders in overlapping commands. No matter the continuing firefights that ringed two of the three primary targets, Clark’s first priority now was to find a French official who was actually in charge of something, who could give the order to the men in the field that might actually be obeyed. The man’s name kept rolling through Clark’s brain,
Darlan,
the man no one trusted, the man whose loyalties were said to rest squarely on the Vichy shoulders of Marshal Henri Pétain in Paris. One of the first visitors to Clark’s headquarters had been Robert Murphy. The diplomat brought word that not only was Pétain’s most trusted deputy actually in Algiers, but that Murphy had been in contact with him. With Eisenhower’s second-in-command now on French African soil, Admiral Jean Darlan sent word through Murphy that he wanted to talk.

ALGIERS—NOVEMBER 10, 1942

They met in a small room off the lobby of the Hotel St. George, and on Clark’s orders the hotel entryways were now guarded by a platoon of American soldiers. The French had reacted nervously to the presence of so many rifles, but assurances had been passed from Clark, through Murphy, that it was simply for the protective custody of Admiral Darlan. Clark wondered if anyone confused that bit of nonsense with the reality. Regardless of what happened at the meeting, afterward no one was going anywhere without Clark’s permission.

Darlan was a surprise, bore no resemblance to the tall, lean arrogance of either Giraud or de Gaulle. He was in fact quite short, fidgeted nervously, constantly swiping at beads of sweat on his bald head. He stared up at Clark with watery blue eyes, a soft frown on a round, pudgy face, seemed to flinch at Clark’s every move.

The room was too small for the number of officials who filled it, French officers from every branch of their military, along with civilian ministers whose names Clark had already forgotten. Clark had his own people as well, Murphy, who had arranged the meeting, who seemed as nervous as Darlan, others, including Colonel Holmes, the interpreter.