The Rising Tide: A Novel of World War II (50 page)

GELA, SICILY—JULY 14, 1943

He looked at the basket in the staff officer’s hands. “Champagne…and what’s that? Cheese?”

“Yes, sir, that’s all we could find.”

Patton grunted, looked around the huge room, towering ceiling, ornate paintings spread all along the alabaster walls, marble trim, the floor marble as well.

“What a waste. All this artwork in such a rathole. The whole place looks like this?”

“Yes, sir. Some local official lived here. Gone now. The place was empty. We cleaned it up a bit.”

“Clean it up a bit more. But it’ll do. Bedrooms upstairs?”

“Yes, sir. Linens were still on the beds. Not the cleanest place.”

Patton stepped past the man, hands on his hips. “I brought my bedroll. I’ll use that. Not too fond of bedbugs. Give word to the staff, set the place up, get it done quickly. For now anyway, this is home.”

“One of the rooms overlooks the courtyard, sir. Should I stow your gear there?”

“Fine. We need an office, a conference room. There something like that upstairs?”

“Yes, sir. Four bedrooms. One is quite large, private. I’ll set it up right away, sir.”

The man set the basket down on the heavy dining table, was quickly gone. Patton moved to the table, felt a rumble in his stomach, picked up a round ball of cheese, wrapped in a loose cloth net, held it close to his nose. The smell was overpowering, an image of dirty socks, and he set it on the table, turned away, thought, what kind of people could live like this? Divine beauty on the ceiling, filth in their cupboards. No wonder they can’t fight worth a damn. Not one of those Eyeties has ever eaten a steak.

The aides came in now, boxes of papers, the radio set, men moving quickly, his chief of staff directing them. The men moved past the table, and Patton could see glances at the champagne, hunger in their eyes. Oh, hell, he thought. This can’t be much worse than rations. When in Rome…he smiled, thought, yep, that’s a good one. When in Sicily, do as the Sicilians do. Well, maybe not. Pretty nasty bunch. He stepped to the table, picked up the ball of cheese, avoided smelling it, pulled out a small pocketknife. The knife blade cut easily through the cloth netting, and he sliced a wedge from the ball, slid it off the knife blade into his mouth. He tried to hold his breath, the cheese soft, melting quickly, sliding down his throat. The smell vanished with the flavor, and he was surprised, thought, damn, that’s pretty tasty. He sliced another wedge, stared up, studied the painting above him, a Madonna and child, fat cherubic angels. How old, he wondered, how long has that thing been up there? Thousand years, five hundred? You’d think they’d fight to keep us out of here. But, then they should have fought to keep the Germans out first. Now, we have to do it for them.

T
he house rapidly became his headquarters, guards outside, curious townspeople passing by. He watched them from the window of his bedroom, studying the town, the people, wondering about snipers, the nagging caution from his staff. Even from that distance he could feel the same kind of wretchedness he had too often seen in North Africa. He had as little regard for the Sicilians as he did for the Arabs, gave no thought to the
liberation
of the people who clogged the roads with donkeys and pushcarts, the annoying inconvenience to the movement of his armor. But there were problems here that the Arabs had seemed to avoid, hunger for one, the granaries empty, consumed by the needs of the war. The harvest season was approaching, some of the wide fields actually cultivated, ripening wheat, but Patton had seen few able-bodied men, thought, of course not, they’re all out there, in those hills, wondering if they should shoot at us first or are they better off shooting at the Germans next to them. They’ll find out soon enough.

Below his window, the courtyard itself was little more than a barnyard, goats and chickens darting about, protected from the people by a stout stone wall, the irony of that not lost on him. I should just turn the livestock loose, let the damned people get some meat in their cook pots. No, probably not a good idea. We don’t need to waste time managing a riot.

He backed away from the window, could hear the movement of the staff, the business of his army filling the large house. He was still hungry, thought again of the odd cheese, could smell it on his fingers still, realized he could smell it in the walls of the house. Don’t even think about that, he thought. If it tastes good, it doesn’t much matter what the hell they made it with.

He moved out into the short corridor, toward the stairway, an aide flattening against the wall, allowing him to pass. He glanced at the man’s necktie, the perfect knot, tight on the man’s collar, said, “Good! Keep it up. That will win us this damned war.”

“Yes, sir.”

His boots clicked down the marble stairway, and he aimed for the dining table, still spread with unopened champagne bottles, more of the cheese, several different kinds. It would be his lunch, the only thing his staff had come up with, thought, if I could have just one hot dog. Just
one
.

H
e heard voices, pushed back from the dining table, saw a British officer at the door, familiar, one of Alexander’s aides.

The man saluted. “Sir! General Alexander has arrived. Should he meet with you here, or do you have a more suitable location?”

Patton slid a slice of cheese into his mouth, thought, wonderful. He’s interrupting my lunch. Just jolly.

“Come in, Major. There’s a conference room upstairs, the maps are on the wall, good place to talk and have some privacy. Or
privvasee
.”

The man ignored his mockery of the accent, stood to one side, and Alexander was there now, tall, lean, the man examining the grandeur of the room.

“Quite nice, I do say. This your headquarters, General?”

“For now. Care to go upstairs? We can talk in private. Or do you have some other reason for being here?”

Alexander moved past him. “Yes, upstairs.” He turned, motioned to his aides, three men passing by, climbing the stairs, officers Patton had dealt with before, one man holding a rolled map beneath his arm. Alexander called after them, “Do see if you can locate a comfortable chair hereabouts. These roads have given me a bit of a backache.”

“We’ll find something, sir.”

Patton motioned toward the stairway. “After you, sir.”

Alexander began to climb, and Patton stopped, slipped back toward the table, grabbed the ball of cheese, stuck it under his arm, followed Alexander up the stairs.

“I
t’s Monty’s idea. He’s run into a bit more resistance than he had estimated. The enemy is backed up in the hills north of Syracuse, putting up a pretty stiff front. He suggests making a swing to his left, here, using this road, 124, through Caltagirone, then pushing up through Enna, clearing away any resistance there, then pressing the enemy from the west. Done this sort of thing before, you know, the old left hook. Quite effective.”

Patton felt a jump in his stomach, was already holding tight to his words. He studied the map, put his finger on the small town, said, “Monty’s plan puts him directly in our line of advance. Bradley’s people are moving up that way right now. It is our objective to use that road as a main artery for our advance through the mountains.”

“Yes, I realize that, of course. But Monty is most insistent, says he can wrap this whole thing up in short order, once he circles around the Huns who are dug in below Mount Etna. The enemy has made it something of a rough go at Catania, and Monty is afraid he’ll bog down. Messina is the ultimate goal of course, and with some speed, we can hit the enemy before they can withdraw and strengthen their position there. The best way for Monty to accomplish that is to flank Mount Etna from the west and bypass the strongest enemy positions.”

“That was my intention all along.”

“Ah, yes, well, Monty suggests that your people move out more to the west, thus securing his flank. There is still quite a threat out that way, of course.”

Patton felt his throat tightening, the words squeezing through. “His flank? The Seventh Army will serve to protect Monty’s flank?”

“Well, yes. Since the Eighth Army is positioned closest to Messina, it is perfectly obvious that they would push toward the goal of taking the port and shutting down the enemy’s ability to escape.”

“Except there’s a big damned mountain in the way.”

“Mount Etna, certainly. The Huns are making good use of the natural defenses thereabouts. As I said, Monty’s having a rough go pushing north. This was his plan, and I must say, it made sense to me. Once he sidesteps Mount Etna to the west, the Huns could be in a serious bind, trapped with their backs to the wall, so to speak.”

“Especially if we’re protecting his flank.”

“Your people will of course deal with enemy forces to the west. Those mountains in the island’s center should prove somewhat difficult, but Monty should manage with his people. Veterans, you know. Seen much worse, certainly. Your people can handle the open ground to the west, should find much easier going.”

Patton could see discomfort on Alexander’s face, weakness in the man’s resolve. Monty’s plan. Of course this is Monty’s plan. This was Monty’s plan when he joined the army. He doesn’t just want Messina, he wants Alex’s job. And Ike’s. And Winston Churchill’s.

“Does
Monty
have a plan on how I am to reposition Bradley’s two divisions? The Forty-fifth is definitely planning on using that same road. Enna was their next major objective.” His brain was churning, heat on his face, his hands clenched tight, and he fought to hold the words inside him, thought, maybe the Seventh Army should just go back to the beach and take a damned holiday.

“I would leave that up to you, of course. But haste is required. Monty’s already put his plan into motion. Could cause a logistical problem if his people start mingling with yours.”

“
He’s already in motion?
”

Patton stared at the map, ignored the details, red fire in his brain. It’s a good thing Monty bothered to tell Alexander what he was doing. Probably an afterthought.

Patton backed away from the map, tried to silence the fury in his brain. The room was quiet for a long moment, the other men standing frozen, silent.

Patton cleared his thoughts. “Well, then, I should talk to Bradley right away, fill him in. May I assume that my men are free to attack the enemy as we find them?”

Alexander seemed relieved at Patton’s question. “Oh, why certainly. As Monty pushes north to Enna, your people should move with him, lockstep as it were. The Hun is showing every intention of withdrawing toward Messina, but there are still stout pockets of resistance. Some of those hills west of Enna are a bit rough, could offer the enemy some good defensive positions.”

“I’ve studied the topography.”

“Oh, well, yes, of course you have.”

Patton saw the entire operation in his mind, the ego of one man, a lusty fantasy. Yep, that’s exactly what Monty has in mind. Drive the main body of the enemy back toward Messina, capture the glorious trophy of the city and destroy the enemy. And we will sit on the sidelines and be his audience. He thought of Eisenhower. Did you approve this? Do you even know about it? And if you don’t, it makes little difference. This is Monty’s war, after all.

He studied the map again, his eyes clearing, focusing on details, the western part of the island, his mind sifting through plans, the alternatives. He pointed now to the southern coastline.

“There. Would you permit us to advance westward to that port, Agrigento? Since we’re going to move out on that flank, it makes sense to eliminate any threat behind us.”

Alexander seemed to welcome the suggestion. “Oh, by all means. Good thought, that one. It is important that we clean things up as we go, secure the countryside, pacify the citizens.”

Patton looked at Alexander, the man’s sunburned skin, the mustache, the genteel bearing, the perfect British commander. Ike can only wish for that, he thought, all that
breeding
.

“Very good. I must ask if I may be dismissed from this meeting, sir. I should see General Bradley immediately, give him the details of Monty’s plan. We can’t have our people getting in Monty’s way.”

“G
eorge! Are they serious?”

“The directive comes straight from Army Group, Brad, from Alexander’s mouth. You have to shift the Forty-fifth Division from the Enna road. Monty is going to use that to flank Mount Etna and drive the enemy into Messina.”

Bradley stared at him, mouth open. “George…what the hell is going on? We’re within artillery range of the road now. We could probably take Enna in two days.”

Patton turned, glanced at the aides. “Leave us for a while, gentlemen.”

Patton waited for the door to close, chewed on the cigar in his mouth, a cloud of smoke drifting up around him. The tobacco tasted bitter, harsh, and he set the cigar down on the edge of the table, said nothing.

Bradley spoke again. “George! This will play hell with both the Forty-fifth and the First! The entire advance will stop! Both Allen and Middleton will scream bloody hell! What the hell—”