The Rising Tide: A Novel of World War II (24 page)

“Hang on. Before you leave…” He thought a moment. “Keep up the good work, gentlemen. I need every good officer I can find. I can’t speak for your people back home, Marshal, but General Doolittle is very aware that in America, people are wondering what’s taking us so damned long. The newspapers fuel this damned impatience, this idiotic notion that all we have to do to take hold of a place like this is shoot up a few people, then gather all the French, the Arabs, and the Jews, sit them down in their own congress, set up an election, and that’s it. War over. Have a damned parade down Main Street.”

Tedder seemed to loosen, his shoulders sagging. He leaned forward, put his hand on the back of a chair, smiled. “The advantage of rank, sir, is that you can cure the blind stupidity in your own command. You find it, you simply order it away, send someone home, replace an imbecile with someone who can do the job. I often regret that we cannot so easily replace the civilians.”

Doolittle chuckled, and Eisenhower smiled, said, “But they can sure as hell replace us. Part of this job is tap-dancing around political minefields. Sometimes I think I should reassign myself. Put myself in charge of an infantry battalion and go find a bullet battle. Be much damned simpler. Now, get out of here. Too many meetings already today, and more to come.”

Doolittle hesitated, allowing Tedder to leave before him, the room empty now.

There were soft sounds from the fireplace, and Eisenhower looked toward the window, the day ending, dark gray clouds hovering low over the city. One more day, he thought, one more problem, one more tantrum. It wasn’t really a tantrum, of course. He didn’t scream at them, kept the anger and the frustration inside mostly, and by now, every aide, every officer who stood face-to-face with Eisenhower, knew that a dressing down was likely to be tense and subdued, none of the brash profanity of a man like Patton, or the hot sarcasm from Clark. Eisenhower had practiced holding his words, staying calm. He had read much about Robert E. Lee, a haggard man facing crisis after crisis with aplomb and dignity. Eisenhower rarely felt dignified, that trait of the aristocrat, but the job he was now doing required control, both of men and his own emotions. Getting everybody mad at you is no way to run an army, he thought. But there is always something, some little stream of stupidity flowing through everything we do. Even the best officers cannot dictate perfection to the men beneath them, and we must delegate, give responsibility to the men trained to handle it. And sometimes they screw up. But if they do it right, well, then, dammit, they deserve a pat on the back.

It was a sore point with Eisenhower now, a scolding Marshall had sent him. The newspapers seemed willing to jump on any glimpse of Eisenhower’s failures, and Marshall had responded to some editorial that claimed that Eisenhower wasn’t truly in charge, showed weakness as a leader because his subordinates were allowed to take credit for their accomplishments. Marshall’s admonition instructed Eisenhower to take more credit for himself, to speak out to the reporters, so they would know how strong a commander he truly was. Marshall should know better, Eisenhower thought, allowing himself to be pressured by some damned columnist. I don’t really believe that Tedder or Alexander or Cunningham or Clark would appreciate it if I marched up to the front of every briefing and announced how damned brilliant I am. Let’s get the job done, then worry later who gets the damned prizes.

He opened a drawer, looked at the letter, the promotion that had become official for Clark. Three stars. Lieutenant general. Yep, that’s a prize. There’ll be a bunch more stars flung around this office before this is over with. If we win.

ALGIERS—DECEMBER 10, 1942

It was Patton, in full glory.

“They talk too damned much. Always have. Roundtable discussions about what the hell they should do next. Some of those tall-brass boys should be handed a rifle and sent out into the damned mud.”

There was silence, the others glancing down, uncomfortable with Patton’s words. Eisenhower slid his fork slowly onto the white china surface, spread the film of gravy, then dropped the fork with a clatter, pushed his plate away.

“As you know, gentlemen, General Patton has sought, and I have granted, permission for him to tour General Anderson’s position. I asked General Patton to give me a report on conditions there, to see if we could push a little harder in our objectives.”

“We’ve lost the race, Ike. There’s no other way to put it.”

“Thank you, George. Yes, I agree that the enemy has made serious work of blocking our advance. General Anderson has engaged the enemy at several points near the seacoast, without success.”

“Dammit, Ike, the Brits…they seem to favor holding low ground, leaving the high ground to the enemy. They set up defensive positions in front of rivers instead of behind them. They don’t support their tanks with armored infantry. The communication lines are a mess, no one talking to anyone…except over a damned cup of tea.”

Patton scanned the room now, focused on the British officers. “No offense intended.”

Eisenhower let out a long breath. “Did you offer these observations to General Anderson?”

“Damned right. He agreed with me. Said they’d discuss it.
Discuss
it. He mentioned that Wayne suggested the British stop using American units as gap-pluggers. He agreed with that too. More discussions to follow, no doubt.”

Eisenhower grabbed the opportunity to turn the talk toward Clark. “What of it, Wayne?”

Clark leaned forward, had been enduring Patton’s outrage with silent stoicism. “General Anderson says that as we send more American units to the front, he expects them to become a separate command, under an American commander. He was most cooperative about that.”

Patton slapped a heavy hand on the table. “Well, good, then, dammit. Time we showed our allies what we can do. And not against the damned French.”

Clark continued, “As we all know, General Anderson had scheduled a major advance against German positions to begin this week. But weather has delayed that. He believes our push can begin on December twenty-fourth.”

Eisenhower scanned the faces, then looked at Clark. “Do you?”

Clark shrugged, an unusual response, and Eisenhower saw weariness, Clark glancing toward Patton as though he expected some comment.

Patton said, “Never happen, Ike. It’s a mess up there. We need our people in place, with all the armor we can give them. We have too damned many people sitting on their butts in Casablanca, when they could be up there lending a hand.”

Eisenhower pushed at his plate again, thought, not now, George. This isn’t the time.

“Thank you for dining with me, gentlemen. I appreciate your reports. We all know what has to happen here, and I expect each of you to tackle your objectives. If you will excuse me, I have work to do. George, you mind staying awhile?”

The others stood, and Eisenhower could feel relief in the air, the usual response when Patton had rolled over them with the energy designed to blister someone.

Clark stood beside Eisenhower, said, “Should I stay?”

“Not right now. Give me a while. I’ll call you if something comes up.”

Patton sat back in his chair, pulled out a cigar, rolled it between his fingers. Eisenhower waited for the last man to leave.

The two men were alone now, and Eisenhower caught the aroma of Patton’s cigar, the blue smoke rolling out across the table. Eisenhower stood, moved toward the fireplace, the villa’s only bit of luxury.

“Olive wood, I think. Hard as hell, burns okay. Smells good too.”

“What is it, Ike? Orders?”

Eisenhower suspected that Patton had been unhappy about Clark’s new assignment, had been just indiscreet enough that Eisenhower knew Patton was pressing for the job himself. Clark was now commander of the new Fifth Army, a force building from units now in North Africa, as well as the increasing number of troops arriving from the States. The Fifth would not be involved in the fight for Tunisia, would spend their time and energies in training for future operations, which might include an eventual invasion of the European mainland. In the meantime, they would provide security in the area around Spanish Morocco, in the event the Germans suddenly pushed troops down through Spain.

Patton seemed to be reading him, and Eisenhower said, “The Fifth needed an administrator, George. Someone to organize, to train. Wayne’s the best we have at that sort of thing.”

“If you say so.”

“I wish…when you decide to launch an artillery barrage on our allies, you do it outside of their company.”

“Don’t know what you mean.”

“The hell you don’t. Dammit, George, it does no good to attack the British, when my every effort is spent in trying to work alongside them. Anderson is doing a decent job out there, given what he has to work with. He knows what kind of shape his army is in, and he knows that he needs us to strengthen his flank. It’s not politics, it’s tactics. And I don’t need you letting everyone know how unhappy you are with my decisions.”

Patton seemed genuinely confused. “What the hell are you talking about? I never—”

“Your men are sitting on their butts in Casablanca because until we had this French mess sorted out, that’s where I wanted them to sit. Your man Noguès over there, he’s a loose cannon. I don’t trust him. Even Darlan doesn’t trust him.”

“Yep. He’s a crook, for certain. Don’t think he’s a Nazi though. He respects power, will go with whoever the winner seems to be. Took him a little while to understand that our tank barrels were pointing right up his keister.”

“Which is why I kept you in Casablanca. We can’t invade the place, then say, ‘Oh, well, thank you, now we’re off on our next job. You boys be good now.’”

Patton chuckled, nodded. “I was just letting off steam, Ike. You know how much I hate sitting in one spot. There’s fighting to be had, and it’s east of here. I just want to get in before it’s over.”

“It’s a long way from over, George. I’m creating a Second Corps, with infantry, and the First Armored Division. They’ll move as quickly as conditions allow and take up position on Anderson’s right. Whether we can have them in line by Christmas Eve—”

“We won’t. It’ll take more than good weather to push all those supplies out there. Give me the word, and I’ll have those trucks moving as quick as they’ll go. We’ll burn up some gearboxes—”

“It’s not your command, George.”

Patton froze, the cigar between his fingers, his hand shaking slightly. “What do you mean?”

“The Second Corps will be commanded by Lloyd Fredenhall. Next to you, he’s the best man for the job.”

Patton seemed to sputter, stood up, tossed the cigar into the fire. He spun around, stared hard at Eisenhower.

“Next to me?”

“George, this war won’t stop when we’re done in Tunisia. The Joint Chiefs are pushing me to look ahead, start work on the next operation. We’re talking about Sicily first. Then Italy, maybe. The French keep screaming at us to invade southern France, but that’s not in the cards. George, I need you to get involved in planning for an invasion of Sicily. Once the Germans are pushed out of North Africa, we have to move quickly.”

“Sicily? When? What kind of timetable?”

“Summer. Six months. We put Torch together quicker than that, so I’m giving you more time than you probably need. Alexander will be in command of the ground troops, you’ll head up our part of the operation.”

Patton seemed stunned, put his hand into a pocket, seemed to search for something, another cigar, but the hand came out empty.

“Ike, I had hoped to get into this damned fight quicker than that. I can make a hell of a lot of difference in Tunisia.”

“We have those pieces in place, George. Once the weather gives us a break, we’ll be ready to give the Krauts a pretty good pounding. With Monty on the far side, the enemy’s caught in a vise. No matter how strong the Krauts make Tunisia, they can’t hold out forever. And if somehow they keep us out of there, we still have to look for the next plan. We won’t win the whole war in Tunisia, but we won’t lose it either.”

“Six months. Jesus, Ike.”

“I don’t want to hear it, George, you’ve got plenty of work to do. And, by the way, I know you’re itching for something else too, so I’ll scratch it. You’re getting your third star. That make you feel better?”

Patton nodded, stared down toward Eisenhower’s feet. “Thanks, Ike.”

He could see that Patton was crushed, that even with the promotion, Patton was more subdued than he had ever before seen him. He had nothing else to say to Patton, had thought the promotion would be tonic enough, thought, dammit, he already knows he’s the best we’ve got. He doesn’t have to hear it from me every time he gets the mopes. Patton looked at him now, seemed to pull himself together.

“Anything else, Ike?”

“You think I should go up front, see Anderson myself?”

Patton stiffened, and Eisenhower saw a flicker of fire in the man’s eyes.

“You want to lead these people, Ike, you better get the hell out of this cozy mansion and see what they’re doing. Their damned headquarters is a hundred miles from the front lines. That’s ninety-five miles too far. Fredenhall? You better kick him in the ass a few times before you send him up there. Man seems half-asleep every time I talk to him. The paratroopers, Raff’s bunch. Give them some medals. They’re out there with a bunch of French hoboes holding the Krauts off the entire southern flank. Better yet, give them some tanks. And real tanks too, not those pissy little Stuarts. For chrissakes, Ike, stop giving all our Shermans to the Brits. Let our boys have a chance at some real firepower…”

Patton rambled on, and Eisenhower moved toward the fire, stared down, smiled, let the flow of hot words fill the room.

SOUK EL KHEMIS, WESTERN TUNISIA—DECEMBER 23, 1942

They traveled in a four-vehicle caravan, Eisenhower’s armored Cadillac and one large Packard, led by a machine-gun-bearing jeep, one more following behind. The roads were a slick mire, the rain never ending, the men in the jeep suffering from the misery of the weather, as well as the burden of responsibility for protecting the Allied commander in chief. The threat was from above, the constant danger from German aircraft. It was one great disadvantage of the routes that led to the Tunisian front. There was only one usable railway line, and few roads, so that any Luftwaffe commander could guide his planes to the same places they had bombed before, and could expect to find targets again.