by Jeff Shaara
“Torch, gentlemen. I told Stalin about our plan. He didn’t care for it at first, said, no, go to France first. I told him, why stick your head in the alligator’s mouth, when you can go to the Mediterranean and rip his soft underbelly? After a while…” Churchill paused, smiled. “After several more bottles had been uncorked, Uncle Joe thought that might be a pretty good idea. So, that’s the message here, General. It’s a pretty good idea. I think so, Stalin thinks so, and I will damned well make sure everyone else thinks so, including your president.” He looked at Clark. “That what you wanted to hear, General?”
Clark’s mouth was open slightly, and Eisenhower said, “What Wayne is asking for…what I want from you, from the chiefs of staff, is simply a green light. The president has insisted that American troops be on the ground somewhere over here by the end of the year. We have been working on a plan that will accomplish that in the best way possible. We’re just frustrated by…roadblocks.”
Churchill pulled the cigar from his mouth again, looked at it. “Bloody awful mess at Dieppe, eh? Roosevelt got that message loud and clear. The only place your troops can make a good landing is North Africa. I’ll tell him that. Again. You’ll get your green light.”
Churchill sat now, called out, “We’ll have the soup!”
Waiters filed quickly into the room, bowls of steaming broth placed in front of each man. Eisenhower felt dizzy from Churchill’s energy, began to understand now that this was the one man who might actually control this entire affair. The president will listen to him, he thought. I can swap papers with Washington for all time, continue this absurd transatlantic essay contest, but in the end, it may all come down to the power of this man’s personality, his will. Roosevelt will listen to him, and Marshall will listen to Roosevelt. And we finally, finally can make this happen.
He looked over at Clark, who was stirring the soup, testing its heat. Across the table, noises erupted, Churchill leaning his face low, bathed in the steam, loud slurping noises as the spoon made the short journey from the bowl to his mouth.
He looked up suddenly, soup on his chin, said, “Fine soup, ain’t it? Just make sure you find a way to keep the French out of the damned fight.”
O n October 19, Wayne Clark flew to the British base at Gibraltar and rendezvoused with a British submarine, which transported him to the Algerian coast. The mission was secretive and exceptionally dangerous, Clark landing in the middle of the night on a desolate stretch of beach. The meeting was the result of the good efforts of Robert Murphy, the chief American diplomat in North Africa. But Murphy had one other role as well. He was a spy. For many weeks, he had sent clandestine reports to Washington, reports that were forwarded to Eisenhower. Murphy kept a close eye on French politicians and various French generals and provided Eisenhower with valuable intelligence. Unfortunately, with so much confusion and uncertainty in the French high command, Murphy could not be certain just what might happen when the Americans made their landings. No French general would confide in a simple diplomat. At Murphy’s insistence, Clark would attend a meeting himself and, as Eisenhower’s second-in-command, would presumably inspire the French to offer some firm commitment as to their intentions.
In a remote house overlooking the deserted beach, Clark met with General Charles Mast, who commanded French forces throughout Algeria. The meeting was cordial and constructive, the French offering information on troop and artillery positions, Mast insisting he was a friend to the Allies. Mast of course expected Clark to provide details of any imminent invasion, something Clark simply could not do. But Clark returned to London with Mast’s assurances that the bulk of the French army would welcome the Americans. It was certainly cause for optimism, though Eisenhower knew that conflict was likely among Mast’s peers, that the French political and military landscape was still a minefield. Once the Allied ships appeared on their horizon, the French field officers and their commanders would face the reality of an armed invasion. How they responded might have little to do with the friendly handshakes one general had offered to Wayne Clark.
After so many months of planning and replanning, of advice and counsel, argument and delay, Operation Torch was finally in motion. The attack would be made in three major amphibious prongs. The westernmost assault was commanded by Patton and would move into the African coast at and around Casablanca. Patton’s men had boarded their ships in American ports and would make the journey without any land stop, would sail directly to their destination. Patton commanded thirty-four thousand troops, combined with a naval armada and air force support that he felt was sufficient to suppress any resistance he might face. The other two prongs would be launched inside the relatively tranquil waters of the Mediterranean, against the northern coast of Algeria. The central prong was to be launched at the Algerian port of Oran, thirty-nine thousand American troops under the command of Major General Lloyd Fredenhall. The eastern prong, at Algiers itself, would be led by another American, Major General Charles Ryder, who would command ten thousand American and twenty-three thousand British troops. The Americans were to lead the attack, reflecting the ever-present need to give the French the mythical impression that the British weren’t there at all. Once ashore at Algiers, the British would then fall under the command of their own General Sir Kenneth Anderson, who, once the land base was secure, would immediately push the British troops eastward toward Tunisia.
Clark’s report to Eisenhower on his mission to Africa had been reassuring in every detail except one. Mast was only a division commander, who had no authority beyond the boundaries of Algeria. While Mast seemed to be a willing ally, Robert Murphy had taken the precaution of going beyond Mast, to find a French general who might have authority over the entire theater. Murphy had found the means to contact Henri Giraud, one of the grand old men of the French military, who had been captured by the Germans in 1940. Giraud had escaped and was in hiding, and though he had been somewhat vocal in his support of the Vichy government, the Germans considered him a dangerous fugitive. Giraud had begun to assist French agents in their efforts against the Nazi occupation, which would naturally enough seem to make him an ally of Charles de Gaulle. But Giraud and de Gaulle were rivals, neither man interested in sharing the spotlight. In the French chain of command, Giraud far outranked de Gaulle, and Eisenhower had to trust Murphy’s hunch that Giraud had both the authority and the willingness to take charge of French forces in North Africa and contradict the orders from Vichy. If Giraud accepted the role, and if Murphy’s hunch was right, it might prevent a bloodbath on the beaches. At every port, the French were manning strong shore batteries, heavy guns that could devastate a large-scale landing. Each port was bristling with French artillery and infantry as well, the various airfields all filled with French fighters. But Eisenhower could not blindly share Murphy’s optimism about General Giraud. Even if Giraud was willing to offer complete cooperation, and even if he ordered all the French forces to lay down their arms, Eisenhower still had an unanswerable question: Would anyone actually listen to Giraud?
EISENHOWER’S HEADQUARTERS, THE DORCHESTER HOTEL,
LONDON—OCTOBER 24, 1942
“Word received from Norfolk, sir. The task force is under way.”
Eisenhower said nothing, looked at Clark, who glanced down, closed his eyes for a brief moment. Eisenhower would not ask, thought, we pray in our own ways. None of my business. He looked up at the map pinned to the wall beside him, said, “Weather is the enemy now.”
Clark looked at the map as well. “U-boats.”
Eisenhower shook his head. “Not likely. The fleet might be a tempting target, but the destroyer escorts will be on the ball. No navy man wants to see an army transport get hit on his watch. Not with Patton out there to blow fire up their shorts.”
Eisenhower was relieved, in spite of himself. He knew that with Patton pushing his people in Norfolk, Virginia, there would be no delays getting the men onto the ships. With that fleet already at sea, the transports in England were preparing as well, the tro
ops who would make the journey southward already loading their gear. The chiefs of staff of both armies had been briefed, and both Churchill and Roosevelt had been informed of the schedule. The landing was to be November 8. If Berlin knew that, there was nothing that anyone could do about it.
One great variable was still to be decided: How would the Germans respond? They were, after all, the ultimate target of the operation. Far to the east of the landing zones, Erwin Rommel’s beleaguered armor and infantry still faced the British on the pinch of the hourglass below the village of El Alamein. For many weeks now there had been a lull there, time for the Germans to spread their minefields and dig a stout defensive position into the hard dirt of the desert. Beyond that, the Germans had few options, could only wait for what might happen next. Their armor could make no decisive move on its own, the fuel reserves barely able to sustain a day’s operation. If any offensive was to be made, it would have to be made by their opponent. But Montgomery had taken his time, infuriating Churchill, and testing the patience of his commander, Harold Alexander. Alexander knew that the ultimate goal of Operation Torch was to hit Rommel from behind, squeeze the Germans between Montgomery’s Eighth Army and the combined forces of Eisenhower’s command. But still, Montgomery took his time, would not be rushed by anyone, not even Churchill. There would be no attack on Rommel’s forces until he was fully prepared.
The lull had been a blessing and a curse, the British using the time to rebuild and refit, to add to their ever-growing superiority of numbers. For the Germans, the lull should have allowed them to strengthen their supply lines, to stock their fuel and ammunition dumps. Despite so many promises from the Italians, the Panzerarmee had received little of the vital necessities for waging a mobile war. Much of the fuel that had been dispatched from Italy had been sent to the bottom of the sea, Italian freighters and tanker ships easy targets for British bombers and torpedo planes. The Germans and Italians who stood fast in the desert had no choice but to allow Montgomery the next move. Worse for the Germans, they could not even draw inspiration from the man who had brought them the victories that had pushed the British so close to their home base in Egypt. Rommel’s illness had kept him away for more than a month, and so Montgomery’s delay had been a precious gift to his adversary, allowing Rommel time to recuperate. Whether Rommel would even return to the fight was a question no one on either side could answer.
Regardless of Montgomery’s reasons for delay, Operation Torch was rolling into motion. With so much at stake, even Eisenhower had begun to wonder if Montgomery intended to participate.
8. ROMMEL
SEMMERING, THE AUSTRIAN ALPS
OCTOBER 24, 1942
I t had been three weeks, but the doctors said it would take him far longer to fully regain his health. In Egypt, he had left behind careful instructions for the continuing defense of his army, to guard against the inevitable offensive that Montgomery must surely launch. From every report he received, it was obvious that the British were continuing to prepare for a new operation, were preparing massive supply dumps and pipelines to fuel an ever-expanding army, an army that the German and Italian forces might not be able to contain. Rommel knew that Montgomery’s offensive, whenever it came, would most likely succeed.
Rommel’s army was now in the hands of General Georg Stumme, a reasonably capable field commander, who had gained considerable experience in the early days of the Russian campaign. Stumme did not look the part of the lean and hungry panzer officer, was severely overweight, and had suffered a variety of ailments. Rommel had been concerned at the man’s appearance, was concerned as well that Stumme seemed to believe that his assignment was permanent. Regardless of what Stumme might have been told in Berlin, Rommel had been specific in his instructions. Stumme was expected to follow Rommel’s orders for troop positioning and defense, and if events turned particularly dangerous, Rommel fully expected to be back. Westphal’s letters came far more often than Stumme’s, and at the very least, Rommel was getting an accurate picture of how his increasingly ragged army was being used.
Throughout his stay at Semmering, his only other source of information had been the newspapers. He already knew to ignore most of what he saw there, the daily dose of pleasantries that were spoon-fed the German people. Lately, the papers seemed more interested in trumpeting the various triumphs from the other theaters of the war, the Japanese conquests of Asia, the obliteration of British and American forces in the Pacific. But the greatest headlines were reserved for the Russian campaign. The papers blared the loudest for Friedrich Paulus, who commanded the great German wave that was sure to engulf Stalingrad. The news from Paulus’s army was presented with the same flare for dramatics that Rommel had once seen spouting from Libya, dutifully reported by men like Berndt. It was their job, after all, to feed Goebbels’s propaganda machine, the machine that would then feed the German people. The reports from Russia claimed that Paulus was certain to crush the last major resistance from Stalin’s vastly inferior forces, opening the way for Hitler’s armies to sweep unmolested into the rich oil fields and breadbaskets of the Caucasus and the Middle East. Before Rommel left Africa, Kesselring had given him a sketchy report, blunt, but hopeful, a delicate optimism that there might be a measure of truth to what Hitler’s propaganda machine was reporting. Paulus could indeed crush the Russian defenses around Stalingrad, a victory so significant that Joseph Stalin would be pressured to accept peace, Hitler’s peace. Rommel accepted that Kesselring could be right after all. Both men knew that the Führer’s energy was directed far more toward Russia than it had ever been to North Africa.
On Rommel’s journey northward, he had stopped first in Rome, had been met with accolades and bright flourishes from Mussolini. The talk was the same, promises of vast fleets of tankers and cargo ships, the Italians seemingly more convinced than ever that some monumental success was only days away. Rommel had gritted his teeth through the speeches, the backslapping congratulations that met him at Comando Supremo. He had become accustomed to the strange blindness of the Italian military, but what he saw in Rome had been far worse. The city itself, vast throngs of civilians, seemed oblivious to any crisis, rolling through their daily lives as though no war even existed. It was a marked contrast to what Rommel knew was happening in Germany, where the cities endured constant Allied bombardment, food and fuel shortages beginning to creep through the countryside. But Rome showed no signs of shortages or deprivation at all. As much as Rommel despised the incompetence and inept leadership that tormented his command, he could not help feeling an odd respect for Mussolini. The man had an amazing ability to wield a unique kind of power, not with the boot or the gun, but with the minds of his subjects. Mussolini had told the perfect lie, had convinced the Italian people that everything was going their way, and they had believed him. If there was a war at all, it was for the good, would insure Italian peace and prosperity for generations. Mussolini’s ridiculous ambition for a new Roman Empire had actually been achieved in the man himself, in how the Italian people accepted, even celebrated, his self-proclaimed grandeur. To Rommel, Italy felt like a dream, some bizarre fantasy. And then, he had gone to see Hitler.
The Führer showed him respect, was pleased at Rommel’s progress. Clearly, Hitler was still attached to Goebbels’s portrait of Rommel the Great Hero. The setback at Alam Halfa was merely a minor delay in the grand scheme, Hitler and his staff convinced more than ever that the British were destined to collapse in front of the vast power of Rommel’s tanks, tanks that Rommel knew simply didn’t exist. Promises were made, renewed efforts at supplying the Panzerarmee by sea, an enormous navy of new flat-bottomed cargo ships, impossible to torpedo, and heavily armed against any British threat from the air. Rommel had endured the outpouring of glorified optimism, had felt too weak and too sick to object to any of it. If there was one perfect symbol of Hitler’s amazing visions of the war, it came from Hermann Göring, the German air commander. Rommel had been plain and direct that British air superiority had entirely ch
anged the African campaign, and that if the British continued to dominate the sky, there could only be one dismal outcome. But Göring had loudly dismissed Rommel’s report, had insisted that the Luftwaffe was far superior and would soon sweep the British away. To Rommel’s grinding distress, he could see that Hitler leaned heavily on Göring’s boastfulness. As he left Hitler’s lair, Rommel tried to hold to the promises, tried to believe that what the Führer had told him might be true. But that dream had faded as well, the blissful air of victory confined only to the staff rooms and quarters of the men who had glued themselves to Hitler’s unreal dreams. Beyond the walls of Hitler’s headquarters, Rommel felt the depression returning, rammed into him by his illness, and by the truth of what was happening to his men. He carried that with him to the hospital at Semmering, had begun his rest and recuperation under a dark cloud. Despite the attention of the doctors, despite three weeks of pampering relaxation, the cloud stayed with him. He stared out toward the tranquil beauty of the Alps but saw only Africa, could not escape from the visions of his men, good soldiers who squatted in hard, rocky dryness, who manned the ragged tanks and worn-out artillery, who could only wait for the inevitable at El Alamein.
