The Rising Tide: A Novel of World War II (49 page)

No one responded, the ground in front of him empty, the men gone already. The sound of steel was close, the roar of a single engine, black smoke, and one tank rolled up from the low ground, suddenly in front of him, fifty yards, easing along the hill, the turret turning slowly, searching, scattered fire from the machine guns. He raised the Thompson, reflex, pulled it back down, stared at the tank, much larger than what he had seen the day before, thought, good God, that’s a Tiger. Has to be.

The tank’s big gun fired, a long tongue of flame, thick smoke, the shell streaking right over him, a quick blast farther up the hill. He felt for the grenades, one bulging pocket, all he had left, thought, what the hell do I do? Climb up on the damned thing? The tank turned toward him, the treads ripping the ground, rolling up the hill, a surge of power, a thick cloud of smoke. The machine guns were firing again, and he ducked low, the ground shaking. He raised his head, the tank only yards away, no place to go, and he dropped, flattened himself in the shallow hole, the sounds of the tank deafening, darkness, a great steel monster, rolling over him, loud-screaming terror in his brain. The tank kept moving, slow seconds, the ground flattening around him, more smoke.

And then it was past.

He sat up, stared at the tank, sweat and mud in his clothes, dirt in his eyes, his heart racing. The tank continued up the hill, the big gun firing again, the shell ripping a flaming hole in a cluster of brush. He reached for the grenades, his hands shaking, no, don’t be a jackass! It’s too damned big! More tanks were in the distance, one turning his way, following its companion into the fight, the first tank rolling right toward the men Gorham had pulled away, the cover worthless, nothing to hold back the Tiger. Adams shouted aloud, wordless fury, crawled up out of the hole, moved low along the deep scars in the earth, the path of the huge tank. He saw men running again, emerging from cover, a mad scramble back over the ridge, machine-gun fire on the far side, tanks there as well, Gorham’s word punching him:
surrounded
. Can’t just sit here! We need bazookas! Where? He was frantic now, pulled himself up the hill, the machine-gun fire everywhere, pops of rifle fire, the infantry’s futile defense. The Tiger was gone, over the crest of the hill, and he ran up that way, his hands on the grenades. Dammit! Get close to him! You had your best chance!

The hilltop was bathed in gray smoke, a putrid fog, chaos below him, fire and tanks and running men. The men were moving off in one direction, deep-cut ground, another hill, difficult for tanks. Yes! That way! There were men around him now, shattered and bloody, some movement, the wounded, no sounds but the awful roar of the tanks, the thunder and rattle of the guns. He moved down the hill, saw men scrambling up the ragged ground, one man with a bazooka, emerging from the brush, moving into open ground, the man dropping to one knee, the bazooka on his shoulder. It was Gorham.

The tank’s gun erupted, punching the air, a blast of fire, smoke, the barrel aimed directly at Gorham. Adams felt his gut turn, ice in his legs, dropped to his knees, the smoke clearing. Gorham was lying flat, the bazooka twisted and bent, the tank moving on, more targets. Adams fired the Thompson, sparks on the tank, was running now, slid down beside Gorham, ripped, smoking earth, a deep gash in the man’s forehead, a thick flow of blood. Other men were there now, an officer, a medical bag, and the ground erupted again, a blast close behind them, another shell, the man tossed aside, rolling over on him, Adams pushed flat on his back. He tried to move, the man on his chest, crushing, the sounds a hollow bell in his ears. There were more men, and he felt hands, wiped at blood on his face, the body above him pulled away, the sounds coming again, words,
medic
. They were working on Gorham, but Adams knew the look, the stare, lifeless, the bazooka still hooked in the man’s hand, and Adams would not see it now, could not watch Gorham’s death, closed his eyes, pulled the Thompson in close to his chest, lay back on the ground. He blinked hard, wiped the dirt from his eyes, began the old ritual, searching for pains, for anything broken. Then he rolled over, pushed himself to his feet, and followed the men back into the cover.

T
he fight lasted most of the rest of the day, German armor pressing hard toward the beachheads, the paratroopers and infantry powerless to hold them back. But Gorham’s efforts, and the success of the first day’s actions, had delayed the advance of the German armor by a full twenty-four hours. With the luxury of that much time, the landings along the center of the American zone had proceeded virtually unmolested. Despite the powerful advance of the panzers, the landing zones on the southern beaches were now firmly under American control. As the landings progressed, the tanks and artillery were finally brought to the sand dunes, radiomen, observers, aided by spotter airplanes, directing communication with the gunners on board the warships. By the time German armor came within range of the beachheads, the fight had become a duel, not between German tanks and American infantry, but between the panzers and American tanks and artillery. Confronted by the additional power of the British navy’s big guns, the Germans could not sustain their attack, and by nightfall, the German commanders had no choice but to pull away, salvaging what armor they could save, and to accept that their efforts to prevent the American landings had failed.

To the east, Colonel Gavin had found himself far beyond where he was supposed to be, had come down closer to the Forty-fifth Division’s landing zone. But Gavin had done as Gorham had done, gathered what few men he could find, making the best fight he could make. Gavin accomplished his own unplanned objectives, a difficult series of fights that gave the Americans there precious time to secure their position. Along every beach, in every zone from the British landings on Sicily’s eastern coast, to the Third Infantry Division’s landing in the westernmost zone near Licata, progress was being made, the enemy resistance wilting, unable to stand up to the strength of the invasion.

By all measures, the paratroop drops had been a dismal failure, the thirty-four hundred men scattered well beyond the primary drop zones, some of the C-47s and their human cargo blown as far as the British positions to the east. But at Piano Lupo, the goals had been met, the objectives captured, an enormously powerful force of the enemy held away. The death of Lieutenant Colonel Arthur Gorham could not overshadow his accomplishments. Though his orders had specified that he attack his objectives with a full combat battalion, he had accomplished extraordinary success with less than a hundred men.

35. PATTON

D
uring the original planning sessions for Operation Husky, Eisenhower had approved Patton’s authority to call in more manpower at certain points along the beachheads, as Patton saw fit. With the hold on the beaches close to Gela still fragile, Patton believed he should add strength to the troops that were struggling to drive the panzers away, and so, early on July 11, Patton had made a call to Matthew Ridgway, commanding the Eighty-second Airborne. Ridgway had been prepared for Patton’s order, that the Eighty-second send a second wave of paratroopers to make a drop around the Ferella Airfield, west of Gela, adding considerably to the strength of the ground troops who might still be under a serious threat from German armor.

On July 9, only one section of the 504th Regiment had made the first jump with the 505th, but most, some two thousand men, had stayed behind. As the desperate fighting rolled over the hills of southern Sicily, the men of the 504th milled about at the airfields around Kairouan, wondering if they were destined to remain behind in Tunisia, sitting idly while the rest of the Eighty-second Airborne earned a glorious reputation in Sicily. But by late morning on July 11, Ridgway had passed along Patton’s instructions to his officers, and once those orders reached the paratroopers, their mood changed from gloom to raucous enthusiasm. By dusk, the equipment had been loaded, the men strapped into the chutes. Near eight o’clock, with darkness drifting over the fields, 144 C-47 transports took to the sky. The pilots had been instructed to fly the same circuitous routes that many of them had flown two nights earlier, but the winds had calmed, and despite the darkness navigation was thought to be far less complicated for this second jump. But there was one adjustment to the routes the pilots had flown through the horrific gale of July 9. With so many navy ships anchored just offshore from the Sicilian beaches, it was thought to be far safer for the lumbering C-47s to fly the last thirty-five-mile leg of the mission more to the north, just over the land itself, avoiding nervous antiaircraft gunners on board the ships, who had already endured numerous assaults from enemy planes.

During the first jump on July 9, the C-47s had drawn ground fire from the beaches themselves, scattered gun emplacements, manned mostly by Italian troops who had no real idea what was happening around them, who had no reason to expect that the drone of airplane motors above them heralded the start of an enormous invasion. But this time, those same beaches were held by weary American and British troops, with antiaircraft guns of their own, who knew exactly what the enemy could do, who had been bombed and strafed by German planes both night and day since the landings began.

Patton knew there was a potential for serious mistakes, and orders had gone out to every one of his primary subordinates, to Bradley and the division commanders, passed down to the officers who held tight rein on the discipline of their gunners. The orders were plain and direct, details of the 504th’s mission, when and where the C-47s were coming. The final caution was given to gunners on both land and on sea, that antiaircraft batteries had to be certain of their targets before firing.

Throughout the day and the early evening on July 11, well before the men of the 504th took to the air, German planes had continued to attack, the Allied antiaircraft gunners responding with weary intensity. By ten thirty that night, those gunners were anticipating another long night of assaults, itching for another chance to knock the enemy planes out of the sky. As the drone from the C-47s drew louder, the orders from the ground commanders became meaningless, the officers unable to control the nervous intensity of the men at the guns. When the planes began to pass, it began with one man, his discipline giving way, sweating hands on a steel trigger. No officer could control what the man saw in his mind, glimmers of moonlight from planes flying closely overhead, his mind replaying the image of so many dive-bombers, the black crosses, too many near misses, the ground quaking beneath him too many times. When the man pulled his trigger, the reaction was predictable and tragic. From the batteries along the sand dunes, to the gunnery stations on the nearby ships, the single streak of fire ripped the taut nerves of every man at every gun. Within seconds, the sky was alive with a storm of red tracers.

In the planes, the helpless paratroopers knew it was friendly fire, lessons from training. The enemy’s tracers were white, Allied fire was red. With only sluggish maneuverability, the C-47s couldn’t avoid the devastating effects of the fire. Some simply came apart, exploding in midair, a
victory
for the gunners, which only stoked their manic enthusiasm. Some of the planes were disabled, the pilots steering helplessly toward the shallow waters, a desperate attempt to save their men and themselves. Survivors struggled from the wreckage, only to be machine-gunned by soldiers on the beach, the men who watched the show proud of the deadly accuracy of their gunners. Some of the pilots simply panicked, illuminating the green jump light prematurely, the paratroopers obeying, anxious to escape, some not reaching land at all, men drowned by the weight of their gear. The lucky ones made it through, and those pilots at the tail end of the caravan, who recognized what was happening, turned away, either moving inland quickly or turning back altogether, to find their way once more to the safety of Tunisia.

Though a good many aircraft completed their run to the target, most were damaged, some barely able to stay in the air. Twenty-three aircraft were destroyed altogether, some still occupied by the helpless men of the 504th. Many more paratroopers died as a result of their jumps, some never to be found.

THE HMS MONROVIA, PATTON’S HEADQUARTERS,
NEAR GELA, SICILY—JULY 12, 1943

From the first minutes of Eisenhower’s arrival, Patton knew that the visit was to be a dressing down. But Eisenhower’s fury wasn’t reserved just for Patton, and Patton understood that no matter how much blame was assigned to anyone below him, the responsibility for any disaster lay firmly on the shoulders of the commanding officer. For now, Patton could do nothing but listen, absorbing Eisenhower’s wrath, building wrath of his own, shaping and harnessing his temper, hoping that he would find out himself what had gone so terribly wrong. Despite the good work of the troops along the beaches, the efforts of so many good men who had done so much, the entire operation now had a bitter taste, a pall cast over it by an outrageous act of stupidity. The word was repeated by Eisenhower,
tragedy,
and Patton could only nod, allow Ike to complete the tirade, the man red-faced, pacing the cabin. But Patton was growing more annoyed, did not care to be dressed down by anyone, not even Eisenhower.

“Dammit, Ike, we sent out word to everyone, told every commander in every zone that the planes were coming! What the hell else was I supposed to do?”

“I don’t want to hear that, George. This is your command, and it was your responsibility to make sure that your people knew when those C-47s were coming over. What do you think is going to happen back home when the newspapers hear of this? What do you think Marshall will say, or the president? What do they tell the parents of those boys? ‘Sorry, but we made a mistake. Nobody’s to blame.’ I won’t accept that, George! And neither will the American people!”

Patton turned away, walked to one corner of the cabin, turned back, faced him. I have enough problems, he thought. I don’t need a full-blown war with Ike.

Eisenhower said, “Start an investigation, George. Talk to the navy people. The British had a hand in this too.”

“Of course the British had a hand in it. I’m glad you see that. I know you have to jump on my ass. Fine, I can take that. But there’s a few other asses who need jumping on too.” He saw a deep frown on Eisenhower’s face, dammit, shut up! Don’t stir this pot again. “Sorry. That’s not the point, of course. Look, Ike, I’ve already sent inquiries to the navy, to every ground commander. So far, no one is saying anything. No twenty-year-old is going to step up and tell his commanding officer that he fired the first shot. You want me to start relieving people? All right I will. I’ll send every damned lieutenant home. Will that satisfy the president?”

“Knock it off, George. I’m not looking to hang some kid because he made a mistake. But this happened because that kid wasn’t prepared for it. That’s his commander’s mistake, and if his commander wasn’t prepared, it’s your mistake. If you want to run the big show, George, you have to accept responsibility for it. There’s no such thing as
nobody’s responsible
. I’m quite sure that we may never know how this started. But we have to finish it, and not just by burying paratroopers. For one thing, we will make damned sure this never happens again!”

Patton stiffened. “You can be certain of that.”

Eisenhower paced slowly, and Patton could hear artillery in the distance. Eisenhower stopped, listened, the thunder growing, different, not cannon, hard thumps: bombs.

“I thought we cleared the skies. The enemy still hitting us from the air?”

Patton shrugged. “Scattered attacks. There are thirty airfields on this island, Ike. We’ll get to ’em soon enough. Gotta admire those Nazi pilots. They know they probably won’t make it back to their bases before the Spitfires knock them out.”

“The only enemy I admire is one who surrenders, George.”

Patton frowned, turned away again. He couldn’t let Eisenhower know how he felt, but he had no interest in hearing bluster from a man who had never stood up to enemy fire. It was too common, the men at the top, big noise about forcing the enemy to do this and that. Try it sometime, Ike. Then tell me how to make them surrender.

Eisenhower seemed to ignore his scowl, moved to a small wooden chair, sat, glanced out the porthole.

“I had serious problems with the whole plan for this airborne assault, George. Clark, Ridgway…I let them convince me. Not sure I would do it again.”

Patton moved closer in front of him. “I can’t agree, Ike. Those boys opened the door. Damned Krauts had a hell of a lot more armor here than our boys expected. We might not have made it if those Tiger tanks had been waiting for us right at the beach.”

“Maybe. But I understand the paratroopers were scattered all over hell. We’re lucky we didn’t lose the whole lot of them.”

Patton tightened the grip on his words, took a slow breath. “I disagree again, Ike. It worked to our advantage. They raised hell behind the enemy lines in far more places than we had intended them to. Allen’s people tell me they were responsible for holding up the panzers for hours, if not all damned day. There’re some medals to be handed out, Ike. Lots of them. From the reports I’ve seen so far, they came down over a sixty-mile area. Sure, you can describe that as
scattered to hell
. I describe it as putting good men in more places than the enemy can handle.”

Eisenhower shook his head. “But if that
sixty miles
had been farther inland, or to the west, they’d have been stumbling around in the middle of nowhere, with no enemy in sight. It would have been a wasted effort. We’ll take a hard look at this, when this is over.”

Patton clenched his jaw, said slowly, “Whatever you say, Ike.”

There was a silent moment, and Patton rocked back on his bootheels, hands clasped behind his back, thought, leave, dammit. I have work to do.

Eisenhower said, “Did Alex tell you he wants to meet with you? Both you and Monty, once we’re in a more secure position. Monty’s front seems pretty tight, the port of Syracuse is under our control. The enemy there is backing away towards the big hills to his north. You know what you have to do here. Keep the enemy moving backward, keep those panzers off our front lines. We’re stepping up the air attacks, tracking down those tanks wherever we can find them. That should keep them on the run. I understand the Italians are surrendering in boatloads.”

“Yes, sir, they are. That will continue. If we push hard enough.”

“No one’s stopping you, George.”

Patton said nothing, waited for more.

Eisenhower stood, adjusted his jacket. “I’m off, then. I’d like to go ashore, see some of the positions along the beach before I head back to HQ. I understand the Canadians did some exceptional work east of here. I’d like to offer them a congratulations, help their morale if possible. I think some of their people back home assume we don’t give them enough credit.”

“Good idea.”

Eisenhower was at the cabin door now, glanced toward the maps, hanging low on one wall.

“Nice work, George. Let’s wrap this up, capture the whole lot of them.”

“Already planning on it, Ike.”

Eisenhower ducked through the doorway, and Patton let out a long breath, felt a pain in his chest, like some giant fist holding him upright. The cabin was both his office and his stateroom, and he moved into the small bedroom, sat on the narrow bed. He thought of the tragedy, the loss of so many paratroopers, the stupidity of that. It was the darkness, pure and simple. Why the hell couldn’t we just send them in broad daylight and guard the hell out of them with Spitfires? Who is making these decisions? It had gnawed at him for months now, the control the British seemed to have over Eisenhower. He thought of Eisenhower’s shoes, the first thing he’d noticed when the man had arrived. Brown suede shoes, just like something a British field marshal would wear. Dammit, Ike, you’re becoming more
British
than they are. Keep everyone happy, don’t make any decision until it is talked to death. This won’t last, can’t last. They’ll use you up, spit you out when they’re done with you, and the rest of us will find out what they’ve been planning all along. This war isn’t about Hitler, it’s about England. We’re here because the English want us here, but dammit, Ike, when this is over, you’ll see how little use they have for us.

One thing I have to admire, he thought. I’m still here. Ike could have yanked me for this paratroop mess, and he didn’t, at least not yet. I probably owe him for that. But they’ll find something, sooner or later.

He stood, moved out into the main cabin, stared at the maps, heard voices outside, British crewmen moving past. He peered through the porthole, ships spread out along the shore, movement everywhere, the landings still ongoing, supplies and equipment moving ashore in a steady flow. I need to be off this ship, he thought. Pretty soon, we should be able to move the command center to Gela, or someplace close, set up a permanent HQ. I’ll get flack about that, I’ll bet. The British will want me here as long as they can convince Ike this is where I should be. Damned ship is like a prison. Can’t take a pee without some limey writing it down.