The Rising Tide: A Novel of World War II (28 page)

Rommel ran his finger along a black line on the map. “Here. If we drive the Americans straight back toward Tébessa, we will have an opportunity to capture their primary airfields, as well as their main supply depots.”

Von Arnim leaned close. “The British will not allow that. They will attack you on the march.”

Rommel felt rising anger again, fought to hold it in. “They will not simply ignore the forces that will remain in front of them. You can make an attack of your own, prevent them from leaving their current position. Or, join the attack, General. We can effect a pincer movement, from both your position and mine. The key to our success is
speed
.” Rommel looked up at Kesselring now. “
Speed!
The Americans must be hit before they are prepared, and if we drive them back with speed, we will put the British flank at a serious disadvantage. There will be no attack from the British because they will be isolated. Their only response will be to withdraw.”

Von Arnim sat back now, ignored the maps. “I agree that the Americans can be driven back, but then, the plan must be for our forces to turn to the north, to hit the British before they can withdraw, before they can form their own counterattack.”

Kesselring seemed to weigh both ideas, stared at the map. “I tend to agree with Marshal Rommel. If we drive the Americans rapidly, we can predict that the British will put emphasis on protecting their ally. Eisenhower is an American. He will not allow the British to rescue his own people. The loss of pride would cost him his command. He will first preserve his own army. They must position reserves in such a way to respond to an assault, but the Allies will launch no counterattack because Eisenhower has never faced a situation like this. He does not know what to expect.”

Rommel had not thought of Eisenhower, had focused most of his attention on Fredenhall, the man’s inexperience, what seemed to be the poor positioning of his armor. But now, Kesselring had made his case even more strongly. Von Arnim grunted again.

Kesselring said, “General, you will send the Tenth Armor along this path…here. Rommel will command the southern wing of the attack. Together you will strike a narrow front around this village…Sidi Bou Zid. I would anticipate that you will have few difficulties pushing past the American defenses. Marshal Rommel will be in overall command of the assault.” Kesselring looked at Rommel now. “How soon can this attack be prepared?”

“As soon as General von Arnim puts the Tenth into motion on the northern road. The rest of the assault will be in motion before then.” Von Arnim seemed to flinch from the insult, and Rommel ignored him. “It would be most helpful if we received a number of the Tiger tanks on the southern flank for this assault.”

Kesselring tapped the table with his fingers, a familiar show of energy. “Yes. By all means. General Arnim, you will make arrangements. You have…how many of the Tigers in your possession?”

“Sixty, sir.”

Rommel was surprised, had no idea von Arnim had received so many of the new machines.

Kesselring said, “Half of those should add considerably to the power of your assault, wouldn’t you agree?”

Thirty Tiger tanks. If I had been given those at El Alamein…“Yes, that would be most helpful.”

Kesselring moved the map, slid another out from beneath. “What of Montgomery?”

Rommel leaned close again, pointed to the space east of the Mareth line. “He is gathering his men into position here. They are moving with no hurry. Our position there can be flanked on the right, but only with considerable effort. Montgomery might not be aware of that.”

“But he will be.”

Rommel leaned back, looked at Kesselring. “Oh, certainly, he will become aware of his options, and the vulnerability of our Mareth position. But he will not act until he is comfortable. That will take him some time.”

“You will maintain a strong defense at Mareth, yes, in the event you are mistaken?”

“Certainly. General Messe is in command there, which should please the Italians.”

Kesselring crossed his arms against his chest, smiled. “Much can be accomplished here. The Führer needs a victory, something to brighten his spirits.” He looked hard at Rommel now. “Do this, Erwin. Do it well. We shall all reap the rewards that come from success.”

Rommel looked at von Arnim, who seemed to ignore them both.

“If General von Arnim sends me the Tigers, we will have the force to drive the Americans away. And, if they do not escape, we will annihilate them.”

20. LOGAN

NEAR SIDI BOU ZID, TUNISIA
FEBRUARY 14, 1943

T
hey had moved their tanks into position near a small, dirty village, another comical name on a map, another meaningless hole in the desolate landscape. But the canvas shelters did not come out, the officers ordering the men instead to dig foxholes or narrow slit trenches. As the night had come, so too did the volume of their grumbling, low curses growing louder, anonymous in the darkness, tolerant officers agreeing discreetly with their men that soldiers in the armored division had no reason to work like infantry, no cause to put blisters on their hands working with the short-handled shovels. With the darkness had come the cold, but the men did not feel the chill, worked late, satisfying the officers, holes deep enough to protect a man from the artillery attack that headquarters said could come at any time.

As the holes pushed deeper, the officers approved their work, and finally the men dropped the cursed shovels, settled low into their private fortresses, expecting no difficulty finding sleep. But the sweat had soaked the combat jackets, and shivering, exhausted men stirred and kicked at the ground, stuffing hands deep into pockets, some abandoning their dirt beds and moving instead to their tanks, grabbing canvas, oilcloth, anything to help against the hard chill. Around them, the officers kept in motion, word spreading of orders, precautionary lectures from above, rumors that Ike himself had been at General Ward’s command post. Throughout the night, patrols had been sent eastward, heavily armed trucks probing the mountain passes, holding back just shy of the unpredictable minefields, laid by American engineers who had not yet perfected their task. Guards were posted against infiltrators, against anyone who might move close to them in the darkness. There had been guards before, the annoying work of detecting the glue-fingered Arabs, but this time the men were sent forward, and Logan had watched them go, advancing well beyond the perimeter of the tanks, shivering privates led by growling sergeants. The lookouts moved as quickly as the darkness would allow, jeep drivers plowing their way along the rutted roadway. They stopped where the scouts had marked the road, men with low flashlights halting them near the bases of high, rocky hills. Now they would walk, stumbling their way through cuts in the hard ground. They climbed as far as the rocks allowed, the sergeants obeying the order to position their men with a plain view of the larger hills beyond. No matter their weariness, the exhaustion of a long day’s work, no one had to fight to stay awake. This time, the word from headquarters carried a different kind of urgency, had silenced the gripes, keeping the lookouts alert, the spotting scopes and radios in position, the men shivering in dark anxiety, staring at distant shadows, dark shapes on the horizon, praying for daylight.

Each man tried to picture it in his mind, what might lie beyond their observation posts, what the enemy might bring. Many had seen the German armor, mostly from great distances, brief fights and holding actions to shore up the French, who had been battered back from the mountain passes. But the French were away to the north, the ground out in both directions now manned by Americans, armor and infantry, and this time, the threat lay out past the vast plain, what the scouts called the
billiard table,
low cactus and thorn bush, a wide valley that led to the row of sharp, rocky hills. The word had been passed from headquarters to the battalion commanders, to the captains and lieutenants who led the tank squads. The Germans were right
out there
. And, soon, they were coming.

L
ogan clamped his eyes shut, pulled his knees into his chest, flexed his toes. There was no warmth in the dirt beneath him, the cold stiffness in his back and legs complete and agonizing. He sat up, wrapped his arms around his ribs, pulled hard, clamped his arms tight, holding himself in a futile attempt to find warmth. No stars were above him, the darkness thick and heavy, a light breeze tossing dust and sand into his foxhole. The mud had dried out, the rain holding off for several blessed days, the soft ground hardening, a thin layer of sand drifting over the surface. With the dry weather the tank crews had tended to their machines, the repair and maintenance crews servicing the tanks, rooting out the wetness, oiling the engines, greasing the squeal out of the treads. The ammunition trucks had come as well, the Stuarts now fully armed, eight thousand rounds for the machine guns, a hundred five rounds for the thirty-seven. For the first time, they carried high-explosive shells, replacing most of the solid shot they had been issued at Oran. Some had said it had been an idiotic mistake, the solid shot more of a practice round than what they were supposed to take into combat. Logan couldn’t accept that, that the army would send men and tanks into battle without the right ammunition. But the loud talkers, the usual big mouths, had plenty to say about it, the officers finally shutting them up, everyone agreeing that no matter what stupidity might have plagued the supply units, here, now, they had plenty of firepower.

There was other talk as well, more griping about the tanks. Though his crew still drove the Stuart, others had finally been switched to the larger M-4 Shermans. There were complaints of course, but Logan had grown too accustomed to the thirty-seven, still believed that the accuracy of the man at the trigger meant a lot more than the size of the gun. He had only fired the Sherman’s seventy-five in training, thought of the men who rode them now, who bragged that they were the division’s new elite. Yeah, fine, he thought. The seventy-five packs a heavier punch, but I can damned well put a shell into any target up to five hundred yards, and even farther if the conditions are good. I made the battalion’s first kill, after all, something even the big brass knows about. Put a target in my sights, and we’ll see what that thirty-seven can do.

He hugged his sides again, stared into blackness, felt the grit scraping his face. The wind was louder now, a hissing rush over the ground above him. He heard a voice, knew the sound. Parnell. Of course, no way that damned Texan can sit still for long. But he’s not climbing in here. This is a one-man hole.

The voice was louder, and he heard his name.

“Jack, where the hell you at?”

Logan stood, chest high in the narrow hole, the wind surprising him, a blast of sand in his face. He put a hand over his mouth, caught a glimpse of a black shape, said, “Here!”

Parnell moved close, knelt down. “Something’s up. The supply and maintenance trucks are gone. Pulled out about an hour ago, no headlights. I can’t find Hutch.”

“Why aren’t you in your damned foxhole? You keep running around, you’re gonna fall on top of somebody, break your damned neck.”

Parnell ignored him. “The trucks are gone, Jack! Nobody out here but the tanks and gun carriers. I’m bettin’ it means trouble.”

There was a shout to one side, and Logan was relieved to hear Hutchinson.

“Get in your damned hole, Skip! Krauts start throwing shells at us, I don’t want my driver scattered to bits. The captain hears you, he’ll rip you a new—”

“Hutch! You hear me? The trucks are gone, sent to the rear! I heard some officers talking about it.”

Logan ducked down, escaping the wind and Parnell’s agitation, thought, you should have been in the infantry. Too much energy to sit in one place. No wonder you love Texas. Lots of room to run around. The wind grew louder, a strange, low roar, sand swirling down into the foxhole. He covered his eyes, thought, good God, what the hell is happening? He curled into a tight ball again, pulled his jacket up over his ears, no sound of Parnell now, no sound of anything but the wind.

I
t came out of the south, a low, soft rumble that crept through the cactus thickets and thorny brush like some great fat, rolling monster. The Arabs were used to it, called it the
khamsin,
a part of life in this dismal land. But the Americans had not felt it too often, had rarely heard the awful whine, the hellish sounds that rolled up out of the great desert far to the south. As the tank crews huddled low in their cover, the odd sounds brought curiosity, and they reacted, daring to peer out, to stand above their cover. It was a mistake, made worse by the darkness, sand cutting their skin, ripping at their eyes, every breath a choking gasp, ears scraped by the scouring claws, hats and helmets torn away. Anyone caught outside of a trench fought to stand, to move to any kind of shelter, some slithering under the tanks, hands covering their faces, shirts and jackets pulled high, covering their heads, futile efforts against the grinding waves of sand. Others scrambled up into the tanks themselves, slamming hatches. But even the machines gave little protection, tanks and armored trucks betrayed by small openings, slits and seams that the wind and sand could slip through. In short minutes, the storm had engulfed them all, drowning every man in a vast fog of grit and blind misery.

T
he wind had calmed, the sand inside his clothes punishing every movement. He had actually slept, curled up tightly, paid for that now, tried to unfold his knees, his arms, sharp, aching pain in his elbows and ankles. He knew not to wipe at his eyes, his hands filthy, struggled to stand, felt the chill again, put a hand up on the hard ground, pulled himself up. Voices were all around him, the tank crews rising, as he was, officers moving among them. He stood upright, felt a gentle swirl of wind, shook his jacket, freeing the sand, brushed hard at his sleeve, then used it to wipe his face, gently probing around his eyes. He saw movement, a gray shadow, Hutchinson.

“You up, Jack? Let’s go, we gotta mount up.”

Logan blew out a sharp breath, cleared sand from his ears, tried to spit, no moisture in his mouth.

“What time is it?”

Hutchinson handed him a canteen. “Almost five. Here. All I’ve got. There’s more in the tank. Let’s move. I’ll get the others.”

Logan drank, felt grit in the water, didn’t care, washed the crust from his eyes. Men were climbing up out of their shelters, an army rising from the earth, all moving toward the dark shapes of the tanks. He hooked the canteen to his belt, hoisted himself up to the flat ground, sand running down his legs, filling his boots. He tried to ignore it, followed the others toward the tanks, men already climbing up, dark shapes standing tall, catching the first gray light of the dawn. He couldn’t see faces, but knew which tank was his, knew Hutchinson would be standing up by the turret before any of the others, waiting for Baxter and Parnell to drop into position first. A low hum surrounded him, soft voices, mixed with the breeze, no loud calls, no one bellyaching about the sandstorm. He heard thunder, saw men halting, standing still, and he stopped with them, listened. There was a low rumble, and he thought the wind was rising again, but then there were different sounds, punches and thumps,
artillery,
and now, the hard voice of Captain Gregg.

“Let’s go!”

The voice shocked him, jarred him awake, the men reacting, the captain moving past them. Logan could tell that Gregg was carrying a submachine gun, unusual, and the captain moved quickly toward his own tank, one of the Shermans, hopped up, then quickly dropped down into the turret. The engines began to fire up, loud coughs, hard roars, the smell of exhaust rolling over him. Hutchinson leaned out, held his hand low, and Logan took it, pulled himself up, and with a quick swing of his legs was down in the turret.

He grabbed the helmet, adjusted the earphones, Hutchinson dropping down beside him. Logan’s stomach churned with the rumble beneath him, and he felt his pockets, found a chocolate bar, ripped away the paper, stuffed it whole into his mouth. He glanced toward Hutchinson, the young man looking back at him, making a fist, punching it forward, his voice in the earphones.

“You boys wanted to see some Krauts. Looks like we’re about to. Captain’s orders are to stay close beside him. Columns in parallel formation. The battalion’s heading out across the open, then moving to some rough ground close to those big hills. We should find some good cover there, then we’ll wait for the Krauts to pop through that pass.”

Hutchinson’s voice was tense, and Logan leaned down, looked at Parnell’s back, expected some comment about shooting prairie dogs, or some other idiocy. But Parnell was silent, waited, as they all did, for the order to come through the wireless, Gregg’s order to move out.

Logan shifted in his seat, put his foot on the thirty-seven’s trigger pedal, and Hutchinson’s voice came over the intercom again.

“Load every gun. Put one in the chamber. We’re looking for targets right off the bat.”

Baxter responded, pushed a shell into the cannon, the thirty-seven now loaded. Each man then pulled a belt of brass cartridges from a steel box beneath him, and Logan pulled the bolt back on the thirty-caliber, fed the belt of shells into the side of the chamber. He released the bolt, the reassuring sound of metal on metal, his machine gun now loaded as well. Hutchinson’s voice came again.

“Any problems? I don’t want to hear them. Driver, forward. Keep close to the captain. Let’s go find some Kraut bastards.”