The Rising Tide

by Jeff Shaara

NOVEMBER 10, 1942

  T he enemy planes had taken off long before dawn, and the radios had buzzed with warnings about bomb runs, the men staying close to their guns, staring into darkness toward an enemy no one could have seen. But the French planes did not attack, and if the men in the tanks did not understand, the commanders did. With Tafaraoui securely in American hands, La Sénia would be next, and many of the French pilots had made a wise decision. Once the sun came up, the American armor and artillery would most certainly capture or destroy any French aircraft still on the ground. To prevent their destruction, the pilots simply took their planes and left. But not all. As the First Armored Division pushed steadily toward the airfield, French resistance crumbled. The Americans captured sixty remaining planes, and more than a hundred fifty prisoners.

  “N ot much of an airport.”

  Logan ignored Parnell, was surprised that Hutchinson did as well. The tank column rolled out into flat, open ground, passed bomb craters, drifting clouds of smoke. There were low block buildings, white walls lining a gray tarmac, several trucks, one of them a shattered black wreck. Troops were there as well, clusters of MPs, larger groups of French soldiers, hatless, grimy men, most simply sitting on the hard ground.

  The wireless had continued to pour out messages, instructions, Hutchinson spending as much time talking to officers as he did his own crew. The orders came again, and Hutchinson responded, then said, “Driver, forty degrees left. Move to that row of low hills.”

  The tank swiveled, Parnell’s voice in Logan’s ear: “Fine with me, Hutch. We don’t need to be sitting out here like ducks on a pond. I guess all them Frenchies are mighty glad to see us.”

  Logan said nothing, thought, is that why they were shooting at us?

  The tanks spread out in formation, most pointing north, and Logan could see the other machines out on both sides, turrets making slow circles, gunners testing their fields of view. The hills were no different here then they had been near the beach, rocky, sliced by small cuts and ravines, speckled with dull gray brush. Parnell rolled the tank into a narrow cut, good cover. Hutchinson said, “Keep it right here, Skip. Shut her down. We’ll wait for orders, see what the colonel wants us to do next.”

  The tank clattered into silence, the echo still in Logan’s ears, welcome heat rolling forward from the engine behind him. The air through the hatch was chilly and damp, a soft breeze, stirring the thin crust of dried mud that coated every surface. During the night there had been a storm of sleet and icy rain, blowing a hard chill through narrow passages in the heavy steel of the tank, a storm that might have kept the rest of the French fighter planes from escaping capture. But the storm had subsided, and whether or not it had cost the Americans a larger prize at La Sénia, the tank crews were grateful. Inside the shelter of the tank, no one expected to be wiping cold mist out of their eyes.

  Parnell broke the silence, typical.

  “We gotta just sit here, or they gonna let us take a little walk?”

  Hutchinson seemed to ignore him, stood high, peered out, then sat again, spoke into the wireless. Logan watched him, knew Hutchinson’s look, careful, no misunderstanding what the voice was ordering him to do.

  Hutchinson spoke into the intercom now. “Okay, we get a break. Everybody out. Yeah, take your damned walk, Skip. Don’t need you pissing in my tank. Colonel Todd says we’re to wait here, let the rest of the units gather up.”

  Hutchinson climbed up and out of the tank, and Logan followed quickly. The air was cool and damp, a thick gray overhead, the horizons clouded by a dark haze. Logan jumped down from the hull of the tank, his boots splashing mud, the other two out now as well, Parnell down beside him, scampering off quickly toward a low bush.

  Hutchinson stood at the front of the tank, watched Parnell’s haste. “Man’s got a bladder like a girl. Should rig him some kind of tube, let him pee right out the front of the tank.”

  Logan smiled, but there was no humor in Hutchinson’s dirty face, the man pulling off his goggles, clean white rings around his eyes. The fourth man, Baxter, was down beside them now, said nothing.

  Logan tapped the quiet man on the shoulder. “How you doing, Pete?”

  Baxter shrugged. “Thought we’d smack into it this morning. The French just ran off, I guess.”

  “Don’t count on it, soldier.”

  The voice came from beyond the tank, the familiar growl of the captain. Logan saw the dusty uniform, the same raccoon eyes as Hutchinson. He stiffened, the old reflex.

  Gregg said, “We’ll be here for a little while. According to Colonel Todd, Colonel Robinett is out that way, pushing toward us. There’s another column coming up from the south, Colonel Waters’s group. Once we’re in place, we’ve got one place left to go.” He pointed to the north. “Oran’s about five miles that way. The First Infantry’s perched out to the west, ready to move in and take the place. Be kinda nice if the armor could save them some trouble. Those boys have a pretty high notion of how good they are. Wouldn’t hurt us if we moved in there first. Show the infantry that we can kick some ass too.”

  The First Infantry. The Big Red One. Logan felt comfort in that, the army’s best foot soldiers heading toward the same target. So, we’re going to have a race? Didn’t know this was a contest.

  Parnell was back now, said, “Hey, Captain, you figure there’s some good-looking women in Oran? I ain’t seen a looker yet out here in this scrub country. Arab women won’t even let you have a peek.”

  Parnell was the only man in the company who could make the captain laugh, something that had impressed Logan.

  Gregg was smiling. “Easy, cowboy. We’ve got a job to do first.”

  “Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but don’t seem like these Frenchies care enough to stop us from doin’ it.”

  Gregg wasn’t smiling now. “I said, don’t count on that. They shot the hell out of our boys in the harbor. According to Colonel Todd, they’ve given us a pretty good fight down south. Waters ran into a column of armor from the French Foreign Legion. Hell of a fight. We had to call in some Spitfires, a few British bombers to soften those fellows up.”

  Logan said, “Foreign Legion? I thought they’d be on our side.”

  “Hell, Private, I thought this whole place would be on our side. Every damned rumor we hear turns out to be wrong. Instead of a welcome mat, we get shot at. Then, we get ready for a heavy fight, and they back off. Foreign Legion. Hell, the only thing I know about those fellows is what I saw at the movies. Gary damned Cooper. Why they’d fight alongside the Nazis is a mystery—”

  The air was ripped by a sharp scream, the blast coming behind them, out in the open ground. There were more shells now, falling farther to the side, out away from the tanks.

  Gregg darted away, shouted, “Mount up!”

  Logan ducked low, waiting for the next blast, leaned close to the heavy steel of the tank treads. He waited for Parnell and Baxter, who scampered up onto the hull, then up and over through the hatch. More shells came, farther out, the ground shaking beneath him, and Hutchinson slapped him on the back, said, “Go!”

  Logan climbed up, paused, saw a row of explosions farther out, hard blasts punching the muddy ground, harmless, no damage to anything but the scrub. Hutchinson was up beside him, and Logan said, “They can’t be shooting at us. Even the French can aim better than that.”

  Hutchinson stared out with him, the blasts moving away still, the air still ripped above them, but no impacts anywhere close. Hutchinson said, “Looks like they’re not shooting at anything. Just…shooting. Big ones too, maybe one fifties.”

  Logan swung his legs into the open hatch, looked toward the other tanks, saw men peering out of their hatches, the captain, faces turned toward the rising clouds of dust.

  Hutchinson said, “Hell of a waste of ammunition.”

  “I bet it’s just a show, Hutch. They’re ticked off, and they know they gotta pull back to Oran, so they’ll make like it’s a big artillery attack. Lighten their load. Make it easier for th
em if they don’t have to haul their shells.”

  Hutchinson pushed him down through the hatch. “Mount up, gunner. Nobody’s made you a general yet.”

  T he enemy artillery batteries had been silenced, good work from the increasing swarm of American forces, the armored cars and gun carriers that pressed forward, either capturing or destroying the French guns. With the final wall of French resistance crumbling, two columns of American armor were ordered to push northward directly into the city of Oran. They advanced on a parallel course, Colonel Todd’s tankers moving parallel to another column led by Lieutenant Colonel John Waters.

  T he palm trees stood tall over low-slung buildings, white walls topped with ornate iron railings. Captain Gregg took the lead now, kept the squad of tanks at a slow pace, the hatches closed, buttoned up, no one’s head exposed. They turned down a narrow street, the doorways and windows close enough to hide snipers, or worse, an enemy who might toss a grenade right into an open turret.

  Logan ignored the gunsight, nothing to see here, no targets except thick stone walls, glimpses of brown brush behind arching entryways. He peered through the periscope, felt the familiar churning in his gut, cold and uncomfortable, growing worse, the tension coming more from the tight spaces they rolled through than from the enemy who might be anywhere at all. The wireless was silent, every tank commander inside his own fortress, no one seeking instructions beyond what Gregg had already told them: Stay close, stay behind me. They were third in line, and Parnell kept them fifty yards behind the man in front, who was fifty yards behind Gregg. Logan leaned down, looked at Parnell’s back, soaked with sweat, the Texan silent, staring through a slit in his hatch cover, keeping the tank precisely where it needed to be. The air in the tank was growing warmer, thick with the smell of the men, and something new now, houseguests, the first occupants of the city to offer their own particular greeting. The tank was now full of flies.

  Logan watched them enter through every crease and slit in the hard steel, thought, what’s drawing them? Our smell? The metal? One by one, dozen by dozen, the flies made their way inside, then darted about, seeking some landing place, gathering in a growing swarm on men and equipment. He forced himself not to watch them, swatted them away from his eyes. Damn you. What have we got in here you can’t get out there? I’m guessing this city’s got plenty of things for you to paw through.

  He looked again through the periscope, saw sunlight, the street opening wide, the close walls falling away behind them. He felt the pressure lift off him, heard Hutchinson in the intercom.

  “Glad to be out of that tight squeeze. At least we can see something.”

  No one responded and Logan smiled, thought, you can’t be a tanker and have claustrophobia. But I’d rather be out in that open scrub brush. At least if somebody’s gonna shoot at us, we can shoot back.

  The wireless crackled now, and Hutchinson spoke into the microphone, then said, “Straight ahead, driver. Follow the wider streets. I guess the captain’s not too keen on those narrow alleys either.”

  Logan knew not to ask, but the questions rose inside his head, and he looked toward Hutchinson. “Hey, Hutch. They tell you where we’re going? Is this Oran yet?”

  Hutchinson looked at him, nodded, waved a hand. “Looks like a city to me. Ritzy downtown Oran. Or maybe uptown. No signposts I saw. All I know is we’re moving east. Captain tells me anything else, I’ll let you know.”

  There was a sharp ping above him, and Logan flinched.

  Hutchinson said, “I’ll be damned. Somebody shot at us. Sniper. These damned Frenchmen may be the dumbest soldiers in the world.”

  Logan glanced over to him, said, “Just keep your head inside. For all we know, the Arabs are shooting at us too. Might even be a few Krauts around here.” He paused. “I do like a tank.”

  The wireless spoke again, Hutchinson responding, and he said through the intercom, “Driver, halt.”

  The tank jerked to a stop, Logan leaning hard against the shoulder braces of the thirty-seven.

  “Jesus, Skip, no need to slam on the damned brakes.”

  “He said halt. I halted.”

  Hutchinson pushed the hatch open, the sunlight flooding in, stirring the flies. He stood, and Logan looked through the periscope again, saw uniforms, men coming forward. There were voices outside, Hutchinson’s, and more. Hutchinson leaned in, shouted, “Shut ’er down, Skip!”

  The tank was silent now, and Hutchinson climbed up and out, then leaned his head back inside the tank. “Looks like we’re home, boys. Somebody sent a welcoming committee.”

  Logan was curious, heard laughter, stood, his head outside the hatch. He pulled off his helmet, saw Gregg, other officers, men gathering behind them, infantry. They wore the shoulder patch, unmistakable, the simple red numeral 1. The men moved closer, gathered around the tanks, rifles on shoulders, lean and young, dirty faces, smiles breaking out as they felt the steel of the big machines.

  Hutchinson was down, close to the captain, called back to Logan, “Hey, Jack. Say hello to the Big Red One.”

  The officers moved away in a group, and behind him, Logan heard the last of the tank engines shutting down. The wide streets were still filling with soldiers, and there were handshakes, more officers, Captain Gregg talking to a colonel. Hutchinson came back to the tank, stood in front, spoke to the open hatches down front, to Baxter and Parnell.

  “Come on out. Looks like we’ll be here for a while.” He moved around to the side, toward Logan, slapped the tank hull, said, “We’re damned lucky, Jack. The First was about to open up with their artillery, blow hell out of the city. They were expecting to fight their way in. Good thing we didn’t run out of gas a mile back, we’d have been caught up in a real mess. They didn’t know we were here.”

  Logan climbed out of the hatch, stood high on the tank hull, saw a jeep coming from the east, more trucks, heard tanks coming up from behind, more men emerging. He saw familiar officers, Colonel Waters, Colonel Todd. The two men came forward quickly, were greeted by the infantry officers, more handshakes, quick words, serious. Logan saw another jeep now, coming up behind the infantrymen, another officer, older, the man stepping out, standing tall, thick-chested, the walk of an athlete. He came closer to the tank, and Logan saw the man’s shoulder, two stars.

  Hutchinson saw him too, said, “You know who that is?”

  “Gotta be Terry Allen.”

  The man who commanded the First Infantry Division moved toward Colonel Waters, who faced him, a sharp salute. The soldiers around them were nearly silent, very aware of Allen’s presence.

  Waters said, “General, may I offer you the city of Oran?”

  Allen put his hands on his hips, shook his head. “I suppose we’ll take it. Guess you boys saved us some trouble.”

  There was commotion to one side, shouts, a rush of color. Logan saw the infantry reacting, rifles coming down. But he could see now, it was civilians, women, men in suits, emerging from barricaded doors. One man was older than the others, carried the tricolor, the French flag, waved it over his head. The man spoke in a torrent of French, the soldiers eyeing him carefully, the man moving closer to the tanks. Soldiers began laughing, calling out to him, rude jokes, then silence, as their commander pushed past them, made his way toward the old man through the parting sea of soldiers. But the Frenchman ignored the general, ran straight at the tank. Logan reached down, felt for the grip of his pistol, but the old man stopped, tossed the flag, draped it across the hull of the tank. The man was sobbing, fell to his knees, his hands up on a wheel of the tank.

  “Vive l’Amérique! Vive les Américaines!”

  Other civilians were shouting out, calling to the soldiers, their courage growing, men and women old and young stepping into the crowd of soldiers, the soldiers responding, hugs and handshakes. Logan watched the old man, red-faced, more tears, Captain Gregg beside him, leaning low. The man stood, Gregg helping him, Hutchinson there as well. The man seemed to compose himself, more French words, then made a de
ep bow, moved away into the growing celebration.

  Parnell and Baxter had climbed out of the tank, Parnell sitting on the turret, and he said, “That looked like a full-out surrender to me. Damn, this is better’n anything I ever seen. All we gotta do now is find some Krauts.” He slapped Logan’s back. “Hey, Jack, give me just one chance at a shot. Just one. I’ll show you how to aim that gun. This has been a chicken shoot so far. If the enemy can’t do no better than this, we’ll be going home by Christmas.”

  Gregg looked up at Parnell, no smile, the man staring hard at the Texan. There was no humor in his eyes. Logan wanted to say something, could feel the grim toughness in the captain, realized the stupidity of Parnell’s words. The Texan was oblivious, was calling out to the crowd of soldiers, something about kissing the girls. Logan watched as Gregg moved away, the captain returning toward his own tank. The words kept coming from Parnell, a flow of insults and jokes about the enemy, how simple this was, this victory, this glorious display of perfect might, the unstoppable power that would simply drive the Germans right out of the war.

  W ith the three primary targets of Operation Torch resting firmly in the hands of the Allies, attention turned toward the ongoing turmoil in the French high command. Regardless of whose authority carried weight with French soldiers and civilians, the absurd haggling and bickering had already caused costly delays that had kept the next phase of the plan from moving forward as quickly as Eisenhower had hoped. There was more to the French chaos than control of the ports in Algeria and Morocco. Tunisia was occupied by French troops as well, commanders who might still be loyal to Vichy, or men whose fear of the Germans might subdue their willingness to join the Allied fight. While the Americans in Casablanca and Oran celebrated their victory, in Algiers, the British were scrambling to put their men into motion, the first wave of the march eastward that would bring Tunisia into Allied hands. Whether the French in Tunisia would obey Darlan’s neutrality order, or whether they would actually fight the Allies, was another nagging question Eisenhower could not answer. But the longer it took Anderson’s troops to occupy the precious Tunisian airfields and ports, the longer the door remained open for Hitler’s generals to pour in men and equipment, adding considerable power to the garrisons and defensive positions that guarded Tunisia’s western border. Both sides understood that the ports and airfields in Tunisia were the final lifeline and the last refuge for Rommel’s army, where the supply ships and cargo planes could sustain what remained of the Panzerarmee, an army that was drawing closer day by day.