The Rising Tide

by Jeff Shaara

  The room was full, chairs packed tightly, nearly seventy military officers in attendance. The uniforms were mixed, most of the men either British or American, a few from the British Commonwealth, Canada and Australia. A man began to speak, a British naval officer, one face in a sea of uniforms. Eisenhower tried to listen, but his mind was drifting as well. Now others spoke up, every man with his point of view.

  The arguments centered on two distinctly different goals. The Americans, led by both Roosevelt and Marshall, had advocated the invasion of the French coast, a hard strike directly into Hitler’s Europe. The proposal had amazed the British, who had already waged their own disastrous fight in France, and who seemed far more eager to launch the next major campaign in a theater where Hitler wasn’t simply waiting for them. The British were already committed in North Africa. Winston Churchill and most of his senior commanders were very clear that if Rommel could be defeated, pushed out of North Africa altogether, the way would be clear for Allied domination of the Mediterranean. With the added strength of the Americans, all of southern Europe could be vulnerable to assault, what Churchill called the “soft underbelly” of Hitler’s European Fortress. Eisenhower knew that Marshall still clung tightly to the cross-Channel attack. But America could not mount any kind of effective invasion on its own. The army was too green, too untested, and the commanders had virtually no field experience leading troops into combat. It was essential that the British and the Americans work side by side and unite their efforts.

  One other factor was pushing the decision toward the British plan. A beleaguered Russia was facing catastrophic defeat by Hitler’s army, a defeat that would unleash German troops to swarm into the Middle East, as well as all of Europe. In Moscow, Stalin vigorously demanded that the Allies stop talking and take action, opening up a second front that would deflect some of Hitler’s troop strength. Marshall had to concede that a powerful invasion on the French coast could not become reality for more than a year. Stalin could not wait. After days of debate, the British would simply not go along with Marshall’s proposed strategy. Marshall was forced to concede and agree with the British. If there was to be a campaign at all in 1942, it would have to be made in North Africa.

  The meeting was exhausting itself, and Eisenhower could feel the voices growing weak, a chorus of mumbles, the entire room seeming to empty of air. Marshall stood, and Eisenhower saw the British chief of staff stand as well. Field Marshal Sir Alan Brooke was the one man who seemed able to influence and even contradict the wishes of Winston Churchill. Here, he was recognized as the most influential British officer in the room. Brooke was near sixty, slightly younger than Marshall, a lean, spare-looking man. Both men commanded the respect of their officers, and the room was suddenly deathly silent.

  Brooke said, “Gentlemen, I do not believe further discussion will change our goal. It is essential that North Africa be targeted prior to the beginning of the rainy season there, which means, the assault should be launched within four months’ time. Since General Marshall and I have determined this course, the most urgent matter now before us is how that assault will take place, where that assault will take place, and who will mount it. Those discussions are for a later time. If General Marshall will concur…” All eyes focused expectantly on Marshall, who made a sharp nod. “Very well, this meeting is concluded.”

  Eisenhower stood, felt the entire room exhaling its final breath. He felt a hand on his arm, heard a low voice.

  “If they painted this place when we got here, it’s dry now.”

  Eisenhower was too weary to smile, looked at the tall man beside him, the thin frame topped by a long face, a nose like a sharp beak. The man rarely made jokes, but he was far more impatient than Eisenhower and would just as likely have announced his ill humor to the entire room.

  Mark Wayne Clark had been the first man chosen by Eisenhower to accompany him to London, and Marshall had immediately approved the man to be Eisenhower’s second-in-command. Clark had been two years behind Eisenhower at West Point, and even then the men had formed a friendship that was only handicapped by the separate paths their army careers had followed. When both had returned to Washington, the friendship had returned as well. Once Eisenhower began to establish himself as a force in Marshall’s headquarters, he quickly developed an instinct for those officers who could handle the extraordinary tasks of training, organization, and administration, the very tasks that Eisenhower had now been handed. When Eisenhower left for London, Clark left with him.

  There were voices around them, the room full of impatient men forced to wait for another long moment as the most senior officers filed from the room. Eisenhower was surprised to see Marshall looking at him, no smile, no emotion at all, just a silent stare.

  Eisenhower began to move that way, and Clark was beside him now, standing a head taller than many of the men around them, saying, “Sleep would be good. An hour, maybe. Seems we’ve finished here.”

  Eisenhower began to move along with the flow, said to Clark, and to no one at all, “Nothing is finished. It’s only just begun.”

  CLARIDGE HOTEL, LONDON—JULY 26, 1942

  Marshall stared out past him, seemed lost for a moment, said, “Stubborn chaps. Dig their heels in with more gusto than my wife, Katherine.”

  Eisenhower said nothing, saw Marshall drift away, thoughts that reached far beyond the lavish room. He knew the place Marshall had gone, could see it in the man’s face, the mention of his wife giving him a brief glimpse of home. Already, it was a moment Eisenhower knew well.

  Marshall focused on him again, said, “The president understood them. I think he has a pretty stout relationship with Churchill. In the end, it came down to whether or not we could carry out our own campaign, alone. FDR was testing me, though God knows why he feels he must do that. ‘Sure, George, stick to your guns, if you think you can go it alone.’ Well, no, we’re not going anywhere alone, not yet. Admiral King’s not convinced we should do anything here at all, still thinks it’s a mistake not to push Japan. Try telling Doug MacArthur how he should have pushed Japan.” Marshall stopped, sat back in the thick cushion of his chair. “You know what’s in front of us, Ike? What we have to do here? The full coordination of air, sea, and land. Never been done before. A good many of these officers around here don’t believe it can be done now. Pessimists on both sides. If it wasn’t for Churchill, I’m not sure how the Brits would even be in this thing, not after Dunkirk, Singapore, Tobruk. But they’re not licked, not yet, and they have the one thing we don’t have: battlefield experience. I cannot order our people to march into a fight I don’t believe we can win, and without the Brits…we can’t win. So. We’ll do it their way.”

  There was something instinctive about Marshall, silent authority, none of the big talk or the showmanship of men like MacArthur. Eisenhower had served with both, had learned a great deal by simply observing. MacArthur believed in the force of his own personality, as though he could will his men to victory, inspire them just by ordering them to win. As revered as MacArthur was, a special darling of the newspapers, the American forces in the Pacific were a long way from winning anything. The disaster in the Philippines had snuffed out whatever optimism had followed MacArthur, the absurd notion that once our boys got into a fair fight, the Japanese would simply fold. After a vicious fight on the Bataan peninsula, and then, the last-gasp defense at the fortress at Corregidor, the Japanese had captured seventy thousand American and Filipino soldiers. Before the final collapse, MacArthur had escaped to Australia, inspiring some claims that it was a victory after all, that the man himself was worth as much to the American army as five corps of fighting men. Caesar would return. But as much respect as MacArthur inspired, Marshall and many others in the War Department believed that they would need more than the image of a Caesar to defeat either the Japanese or the Germans.

  Marshall was looking at Eisenhower now. “You know how the Brits feel about you, Ike. You’ve impressed them every step of the way. I wonder how many of them e
xpected us to ride in here like a flock of idiotic cowboys, shooting up the place? There’s a good bit of that kind of thinking, you know. We’re still colonials to some of them. The great unwashed, Daddy Warbucks with lots of money and no class. Some of them forget what Pershing did here, what it took to whip the kaiser. It’s up to us to show them again. Well, no, not us. You.”

  Eisenhower was hanging on Marshall’s every word now, was surprised, said, “Me? Why—”

  “You command the American forces in Europe. Until now. The British have agreed…well, Mr. Churchill has agreed with me, and with the president. We’re agreed that we will unite both armies into one Allied strike force, including both navies and air forces. This is more than simply a partnership effort. It is a combined effort, one army, one mission. And, one commander. Actually, it was about the only topic we didn’t have to argue about. You’re in command, Ike. Torch. All of it.”

  Eisenhower stood, felt a cold turn in his chest. “Thank you, sir. I had thought Lord Mountbatten…”

  “Yes, well, Louie Mountbatten is certainly qualified. But he spoke out for you. He’s one of your strongest supporters. And there were a good many more. Accept it, Ike. This fight needs a man at the top who knows how to manage an army. You’re the best man for this job, Ike.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “I’m heading back to Washington pretty quick, and I’ll push the formal paperwork through channels. But you’ve got the job, Ike. This whole operation has to be drawn up from scratch. And, you’ve got less than four months to bring it off.”

  EISENHOWER’S HEADQUARTERS, THE DORCHESTER HOTEL—

  AUGUST 9, 1942

  He had barely slept, routine now, most of his staff putting in as many hours as their commander. In front of him, papers spread across the desk, with more papers on the conference table, on the floor, all of it merely the sharpened tip of a monstrous iceberg. There was no avoiding the plague of conferences, continuing arguments over various theories, a swirling storm of words and documents, all flowing in his direction. But there was no argument over the mission, only how to bring it about.

  He fought through the cold coffee, set the cup aside, stared blankly at the wall. For two weeks he had forced himself to see past the personalities, focus only on the plans, the maps, some strategy that would put the troops ashore in North Africa where they might actually accomplish their mission. There would be casualties of course. There were always casualties in a plan like this. Eisenhower had spent most of his career viewing troop counts as merely figures on paper, had never marched through the horror of what his orders could do to the men who carried them out. He leaned back in his chair, stared at the dull plaster on the ceiling. So, you had better give the right orders, decide on the right plan. Because if it doesn’t work, the mistake will be yours. Your responsibility. And no time to cry about it. You asked for this. You worked for it, dreamed it would happen, and now, here you are. Don’t muck it up.

  “Sir?”

  He saw Butcher leaning in.

  “What is it, Harry?”

  “General Clark’s here, sir.”

  Eisenhower called out, “Come on in, Wayne.”

  Butcher turned away, and Clark moved up beside him, both men in the doorway. Butcher said something to Clark, kept his voice low enough that Eisenhower couldn’t hear him. Clark’s frown turned quickly to a self-conscious smile. Butcher was gone, and Clark stepped into the office, moved papers from a chair, sat. There was silence for a moment, Clark suppressing the smile. Eisenhower was used to this, knew that Harry Butcher could always be relied on for some inappropriate comment, something raw and indiscreet. He had known Butcher for more than fifteen years, their paths crossing in Washington more in social circles than either man’s specific job. Butcher was a naval reserve officer, the only blue uniform in Eisenhower’s sea of khaki, referred to himself now as “Ike’s naval aide,” which implied that he had some influence on the relationship between Eisenhower and the navy brass. But Eisenhower knew that Butcher was on his staff only because Eisenhower had asked for him.

  “You going to share the joke?”

  “Nope.”

  “Just as well.” Eisenhower let out a long breath, felt a dull ache in his shoulders, long days settling across his back like some great barbell. “I need to talk to you about the French.”

  Now Clark let out the breath. “De Gaulle?”

  “Oh, hell no. We’ll talk about de Gaulle only when we have to. I’m much more concerned with the larger picture. Torch. The Brits believe that no matter where we land, the French will fight us. There are different opinions on the matter. Some say that, depending on where we go ashore, we’ll be welcomed as liberators. If the Free French are running the show, whoever’s in charge will put up American flags as soon as our ships come into view. They’ll start shooting their Vichy collaborators as quick as they can line ’em up. Others say the Vichy leadership has more influence than we think, that their troops will follow Vichy’s orders. You heard anything more? What do you think?”

  Clark seemed overwhelmed by the question. “You’re asking me if I am willing to predict whether our landing will be a stroll on the beach, or a bloody massacre. I’d say, we should be prepared for the worst. If they shoot at us, shoot back.”

  “That’s the point. We can only shoot at them if they shoot first.”

  “Ike, the Nazis are running that show, make no mistake about that. The French can claim to be neutral or hostile, or our best friends. But the Krauts aren’t going to just sit by and allow us to put an army in Rommel’s backyard. Algeria, Tunisia, French Morocco. Doesn’t matter. The French will weigh the cost of fighting us against fighting the Nazis. We want to come ashore, the Nazis are already there.”

  There was commotion in the outer office, one loud voice.

  Eisenhower nodded that way, said, “Well, if the French are going to make a fight of it, we’ve got the right man to lead the way.”

  Clark looked toward the door, seemed to recognize the voice as well, said, “Can’t argue that one, Ike.”

  There was motion at the doorway, heavy boots on the wood floor. The man burst into the room, slammed his bootheels together, made a crisp salute, said, “So, Ike, when do we kill some Krauts?”

  Eisenhower stood. “Wayne, I believe you know George Patton?”

  P atton unrolled a coil of paper, and Eisenhower saw the magazine, the tattered cover of Life.

  “Right here, Ike. Yep, here it is. Impressive photo of our gallant leader, with his name clearly spelled out: ‘D. D. Eisenberger.’”

  Eisenhower had seen the photo, had hoped no one else would remember. But of course, he thought, George Patton would never forget anything like this. At least they got the initials right.

  Patton sat, pointed a hard finger toward Eisenhower, said to Clark, “I outranked him, you know. His whole damned career. Hell, couple years ago, when I was taking command of the armored division, I tried to get Ike assigned to be my chief of staff. A plum job, that one. You’d have done a good job too, Ike. Hell, I guess somebody made you a better offer.”

  Clark laughed, said, “I guess General Marshall pulled rank on you, George.”

  “Hmm. Yep. Marshall. He’s concerned, you know.”

  Patton’s mood had abruptly shifted, and Eisenhower saw the hard, familiar glare. Patton had been chosen to be the senior American commander for Operation Torch, would lead one of the three prongs of the invasion, the westernmost landings at Casablanca. But Patton had no real reason to be here now, in London. His part of the assault would come directly from the east coast of the United States, a naval armada that would carry the Casablanca force across the Atlantic.

  Eisenhower said, “What’s going on, George? Marshall’s got problems with Torch?”

  “Yep. That’s the real reason I’m here. Sent me to look things over, report to him on my conclusion. Hell, there’s nothing for me to see in London. Damned ugliest women. Fattest ankles I’ve ever seen.”

  Eisenho
wer thought, Patton would be the world’s worst spy. Marshall wouldn’t send George here just to eavesdrop on us. Of course he’s concerned. Anyone who looks at these plans should be concerned.

  “We’re working on every detail, George. But there is one enormous uncertainty. The French. Lots of opinions on what they’ll do, no one knows for sure.”

  Patton sniffed. “I can handle the French. We get a battleship to drop a few sixteen-inchers into downtown Casablanca, they’ll come around. If that doesn’t work, I’ll charm them. You ever know a Kraut to charm anybody? I’ll have Casablanca in my pocket in two days’ time.”

  It was the tonic Eisenhower needed. But he saw the scowl, Patton’s bluster changing again.

  Patton said, “What about the other two landings, Ike?”

  “Fredenhall and Ryder will command. You know the plan.”

  “Yeah, I know the plan. But what about the damned Brits? They going to wait for us to go in first? You know what the French will do if they see British uniforms on those damned beaches. All hell will break loose.”

  The British had acknowledged the problem from the start. Any landing that hoped to find a cooperative French reception had to be led by American soldiers, with American officers in command. This kind of annoyance had plagued the Allies throughout the First World War, and now, the centuries of animosity between Britain and France could boil over into a major conflict in North Africa.

  “The Brits will wait for us, George. Once we’ve secured our bases on the Mediterranean, the Brits will move overland and occupy Tunisia.”

  Clark said, “Rommel won’t know what hit him. He’ll be squeezed like a grape.”

  Eisenhower watched Patton’s reaction, saw a flicker of disgust. He wasn’t sure how Patton felt about Clark, and Eisenhower had no time and no patience for personality clashes. No, he thought, George doesn’t make friends.