The Rising Tide

by Jeff Shaara

  Eisenhower had moved his headquarters here on November 23, the entire staff happy to be free of the damp caves of Gibraltar. But Algiers was yet no safe haven, and despite the effort to secure the city as a major hub of command and supply activity, the antiaircraft batteries were inadequate. And so, the bombers came, nightly raids that rattled the windows and sent the populace into terrified hiding. To Eisenhower, the raids were far more than a frightening annoyance. It was a symbol that despite all the talk of victory, a war was still being fought in Algeria. Any thoughts of a simple and rapid conquest of Tunisia were being blown to rubble.

  The carefully worded agreement with Admiral Darlan had brought an immediate consequence Eisenhower had not predicted. All across England and America, newspapers began to hammer away with outrage, pouring out editorials that blasted Eisenhower for dealing with “the Nazi devil.” If the civilian population back home had known anything of Darlan at all, it was only through his association with Pétain and Vichy, a clearly defined role as Nazi collaborator. Now, the newspapers painted a portrait of a hapless Eisenhower standing beside him. But the critics could not sway their civilian leaders. Eisenhower had gone to enormous lengths to explain the Darlan arrangement to both Churchill and Roosevelt, and though both men had publicly responded with “caution,” privately they issued Eisenhower strong letters of support for his judgment. Those who mattered seemed to understand that in the field, political matters are never as simple as they appear from thousands of miles away.

  The Darlan deal was certainly not perfect, and problems persisted among various parts of the North African population, French or not. The Vichy French officials had made no secret of their disregard for the Jewish populations in the region, and various civic laws discriminated against Jews in the management of their own affairs, as well as in their various freedoms. But now, French leaders, including Darlan himself, were facing pressure from British and American government officials to liberalize their laws, so that there would be little resemblance to the German ways of doing things. Though many of the local French officials responded to Darlan, some did not, some holding tightly to an unshakable loyalty to Marshal Pétain. It seemed not to matter that their towns were now encampments for Allied soldiers. From Casablanca to Algiers, Darlan’s subordinates made indiscreet noise that the only way to actually control the civilian population was to put the muscle of the American military behind the command of the civilian governments. To Eisenhower that meant an army of occupation, something no one had planned for. Despite the swirl of controversy around Darlan and the wildly differing levels of loyalty from those beneath him, Eisenhower had neither the manpower, the inclination, nor the orders to even consider creating a military government in North Africa.

  “I don’t understand the French.”

  Murphy nodded, rubbed his chin, pondered the words. “Well, sir, it’s like this. The French want to be seen in the best light. They want history to hold them in the highest esteem, want to salute their heroes as the men who profoundly affected history. They want to win the wars, and if they can’t actually do that, they at least want to be listed on the winning side.”

  Eisenhower waited for more, but the diplomat seemed unconvinced by his own explanation.

  “So, you don’t understand them either. Tell me, Robert, when was the last time they won a war?”

  “Yes, sir, I know my history. At least, it seems we can depend on them to help us win this one.”

  Eisenhower stared out the window, rain falling in hard sheets, the streets below crowded with dark green vehicles, clusters of European cars, donkey carts, an unending stream of men pulling small wagons filled with…something. With what? Whatever they’re carrying, it’s wet. He shivered, turned toward the small fireplace. It was his single greatest luxury in a hotel that had once offered a great deal more.

  “I’m cold all the damned time. Where the hell my staff finds this wood is a mystery. No way anything in this whole country will burn.” He held up his hands to catch the warmth, studied the charred firewood. “Furniture, probably.”

  He looked at Murphy again. “I hope you’re right. We need them to fight. We need them to help control the Arabs in Tunisia. Hell, it’s their land, you’d think they’d be happy to fight for it.”

  “Who, sir? The French or the Arabs?”

  “I’m talking about the French. Well, hell, I guess I could be talking about the Arabs too. But the Arabs don’t seem to care whether or not they own anything. They’ll take whatever you have to give them, or whatever they can steal, but then, they don’t seem to care who’s in charge. Maybe we’re just fooling ourselves. Maybe they’re in charge after all. They’ll make friends with whoever wins this war.”

  Murphy still rubbed his chin. “Just as the French will.”

  “I’m awfully tired of hearing how the French made a half-assed effort against us, and now that they’re on our side, we can probably expect them to do the same against the Krauts. They fought like hell while they had the chance.”

  “They’ll still fight, sir. They’re motivated, enthusiastic about getting the Germans out of Tunisia. Admiral Darlan assures me that they will do the job. They’re already organizing in Oran, putting their people into the field. So I’ve been told.”

  Eisenhower studied Murphy’s face, thought, you have no idea what you’re talking about, do you? He couldn’t be angry with Murphy, knew the man was making his best effort in a role where a diplomat’s efforts now meant very little.

  F or the most part the French military was responding as Eisenhower had hoped, organizing and mobilizing units to march eastward, to join in with the beleaguered French forces already in Tunisia. Those troops had manned outposts that had seen no fighting at all, had grown complacent, confident that the war might avoid them altogether. Suddenly, they had been confronted with waves of German transport planes, heavy guns and tanks, and massive numbers of German soldiers. Many of the French commanders there were pro-Vichy, but the Germans pushed them aside as though they were of no consequence. The Germans were now in control of Tunisia, and in both Algeria and Tunisia, the French officers seemed to understand what many of their civilian officials did not: political chest beating is a poor defense against tanks and artillery. No matter how confused their senior officers seemed to be, how shaky their loyalty to whatever regime happened to be convenient, the French soldiers seemed far more inclined to fight alongside the Allies. No one in a French uniform had much affection for the Germans, especially now. Hitler had responded to news of the Allied invasion of North Africa by tossing out his agreement with Pétain’s Vichy government, the agreement that called for the southern half of France to remain free of Nazi occupation. In November, the Germans trampled the meaningless boundary between occupied France to the north and the Vichy-controlled territory that stretched to the French Riviera, pushing armies of occupation all the way to the seaports on the Mediterranean. Anyone who held to the illusion that Vichy was somehow free of direct Nazi control reacted with outrage, as though the fragile and increasingly senile Marshal Henri Pétain had ever really had any influence with Adolf Hitler.

  Eisenhower knew the reality. Even had the French tried to keep the Germans out of Tunisia, their troops there were only a skeleton force, equipped with none of the heavy armament necessary to keep the Germans from grabbing every major port, airfield, and defensive position in that country. Worse, should the Germans make a strong move westward, no French unit in place along the mountain ranges could hope to hold them back. The only way to counter German superiority was to strike first, before the Germans were fully prepared.

  But then, Eisenhower learned something new about North Africa. The planners of Operation Torch had been aware that December brought the rainy season. But the planners had never seen just what the rain would do to the roads, and worse, what would happen to the hard-packed dirt runways and tarmacs of the Algerian airfields. Allied aircraft were a key part of the strategy that called for punching holes in the German artillery defe
nses, as well as keeping German dive-bombers out of the air. As the rains intensified, so too did the mud, especially on the flat ground that housed the Allied airfields. In Tunisia, the key German-held airfields had paved runways and hard graveled roadways, and German airpower was backed up by the fields in Sicily and Sardinia. In Algeria, the runways and taxiways began to grow soft, and as precious days passed, the Allied pilots watched helplessly as their planes simply sank into deepening mud.

  “T hey’re coming out of Sicily as well, all night long. We can send a few fighters at them, carrier-based mostly, but at night, well, we simply can’t shoot what we cannot see.”

  Eisenhower glanced at Doolittle, who kept silent, had nothing to add that would make Eisenhower feel any less angry. Eisenhower waited for Tedder to say more, but the man stared ahead, waited for what they all expected to be an explosion.

  He had enormous respect for Arthur Tedder, Britain’s air commander. Tedder was expected by all to become Eisenhower’s senior deputy for the combined air forces, a position Admiral Cunningham had filled with the naval arm. The inclusion of British senior officers was a logical plan, giving Eisenhower key aides that would give the army a truly “allied” flavor. It didn’t hurt that Eisenhower was confident they were the best men for the job. Jimmy Doolittle was Tedder’s subordinate, head of the American Twelfth Air Force, and was already a certified American war hero. Colonel Doolittle had received a Medal of Honor and a promotion to brigadier general after his extraordinary raid over several Japanese cities, including Tokyo, early in 1942. The raid was far more symbolic than any kind of strategic victory, inspiring a much needed morale boost in America, and shaming the Japanese commanders who’d allowed a force of sixteen B-25 bombers to reach the Japanese homeland. Now, Doolittle had accepted his role as subordinate to Air Marshal Tedder, a role that at the moment was an advantage. Eisenhower’s wrath would be directed past him, right toward Tedder.

  Eisenhower composed himself, had read the reports, the same complaints coming from the ground and sea forces, the utter lack of cooperation between them. But that would wait for now. Eisenhower had received one more report, a piece of paper he held in his hand. He stared at it, said, “Marshal Tedder, would you please explain to me the new technology your planes are supposed to be equipped with? Something about night radar?”

  Tedder cleared his throat, still stared straight ahead. “Yes, well, quite so. A new form of radar, said to be a true marvel at locating enemy aircraft at night. Quite remarkable achievement for our engineers.”

  “So, apparently it doesn’t work? It says here we are still unable to track or shoot down enemy planes at night. Doesn’t sound like much of a marvel to me.”

  Tedder’s expression did not change. “It has come to my attention, sir, that someone down the chain of command has decided that this new technology is so valuable that risking its use in combat might cause a serious problem for us. If, for example, one of our planes, so equipped, was to be shot down, the instrument could fall into enemy hands.”

  “Are you telling me that this instrument is so valuable, we dare not use it? Should we simply place it in a museum?”

  “I assure you, sir, the person who made this regrettable decision has been advised to correct his stance on the matter. I am quite aware that it does us little good to invent all manner of superior machines if we are too afraid to use them in combat. Much like keeping your horse in the barn and walking to town, so the horse doesn’t get used up. Is that an appropriate analogy, sir?”

  Eisenhower realized that Tedder was presuming him to be a cowboy.

  “Close enough. I’m glad you took care of the matter.” He felt himself calming, could not stay angry for long, had to accept that if Tedder said the problem was solved, it was solved. “I must conclude this meeting. Admiral Cunningham is due here, and after that, it’s time to appoint General Clark to his new command.” Eisenhower looked at both men, saw the confidence, crisp salutes.

  “Hang on. Before you leave…” He thought a moment. “Keep up the good work, gentlemen. I need every good officer I can find. I can’t speak for your people back home, Marshal, but General Doolittle is very aware that in America, people are wondering what’s taking us so damned long. The newspapers fuel this damned impatience, this idiotic notion that all we have to do to take hold of a place like this is shoot up a few people, then gather all the French, the Arabs, and the Jews, sit them down in their own congress, set up an election, and that’s it. War over. Have a damned parade down Main Street.”

  Tedder seemed to loosen, his shoulders sagging. He leaned forward, put his hand on the back of a chair, smiled. “The advantage of rank, sir, is that you can cure the blind stupidity in your own command. You find it, you simply order it away, send someone home, replace an imbecile with someone who can do the job. I often regret that we cannot so easily replace the civilians.”

  Doolittle chuckled, and Eisenhower smiled, said, “But they can sure as hell replace us. Part of this job is tap-dancing around political minefields. Sometimes I think I should reassign myself. Put myself in charge of an infantry battalion and go find a bullet battle. Be much damned simpler. Now, get out of here. Too many meetings already today, and more to come.”

  Doolittle hesitated, allowing Tedder to leave before him, the room empty now.

  There were soft sounds from the fireplace, and Eisenhower looked toward the window, the day ending, dark gray clouds hovering low over the city. One more day, he thought, one more problem, one more tantrum. It wasn’t really a tantrum, of course. He didn’t scream at them, kept the anger and the frustration inside mostly, and by now, every aide, every officer who stood face-to-face with Eisenhower, knew that a dressing down was likely to be tense and subdued, none of the brash profanity of a man like Patton, or the hot sarcasm from Clark. Eisenhower had practiced holding his words, staying calm. He had read much about Robert E. Lee, a haggard man facing crisis after crisis with aplomb and dignity. Eisenhower rarely felt dignified, that trait of the aristocrat, but the job he was now doing required control, both of men and his own emotions. Getting everybody mad at you is no way to run an army, he thought. But there is always something, some little stream of stupidity flowing through everything we do. Even the best officers cannot dictate perfection to the men beneath them, and we must delegate, give responsibility to the men trained to handle it. And sometimes they screw up. But if they do it right, well, then, dammit, they deserve a pat on the back.

  It was a sore point with Eisenhower now, a scolding Marshall had sent him. The newspapers seemed willing to jump on any glimpse of Eisenhower’s failures, and Marshall had responded to some editorial that claimed that Eisenhower wasn’t truly in charge, showed weakness as a leader because his subordinates were allowed to take credit for their accomplishments. Marshall’s admonition instructed Eisenhower to take more credit for himself, to speak out to the reporters, so they would know how strong a commander he truly was. Marshall should know better, Eisenhower thought, allowing himself to be pressured by some damned columnist. I don’t really believe that Tedder or Alexander or Cunningham or Clark would appreciate it if I marched up to the front of every briefing and announced how damned brilliant I am. Let’s get the job done, then worry later who gets the damned prizes.

  He opened a drawer, looked at the letter, the promotion that had become official for Clark. Three stars. Lieutenant general. Yep, that’s a prize. There’ll be a bunch more stars flung around this office before this is over with. If we win.

  ALGIERS—DECEMBER 10, 1942

  It was Patton, in full glory.

  “They talk too damned much. Always have. Roundtable discussions about what the hell they should do next. Some of those tall-brass boys should be handed a rifle and sent out into the damned mud.”

  There was silence, the others glancing down, uncomfortable with Patton’s words. Eisenhower slid his fork slowly onto the white china surface, spread the film of gravy, then dropped the fork with a clatter, pushed his plate away
.

  “As you know, gentlemen, General Patton has sought, and I have granted, permission for him to tour General Anderson’s position. I asked General Patton to give me a report on conditions there, to see if we could push a little harder in our objectives.”

  “We’ve lost the race, Ike. There’s no other way to put it.”

  “Thank you, George. Yes, I agree that the enemy has made serious work of blocking our advance. General Anderson has engaged the enemy at several points near the seacoast, without success.”

  “Dammit, Ike, the Brits…they seem to favor holding low ground, leaving the high ground to the enemy. They set up defensive positions in front of rivers instead of behind them. They don’t support their tanks with armored infantry. The communication lines are a mess, no one talking to anyone…except over a damned cup of tea.”

  Patton scanned the room now, focused on the British officers. “No offense intended.”

  Eisenhower let out a long breath. “Did you offer these observations to General Anderson?”

  “Damned right. He agreed with me. Said they’d discuss it. Discuss it. He mentioned that Wayne suggested the British stop using American units as gap-pluggers. He agreed with that too. More discussions to follow, no doubt.”

  Eisenhower grabbed the opportunity to turn the talk toward Clark. “What of it, Wayne?”

  Clark leaned forward, had been enduring Patton’s outrage with silent stoicism. “General Anderson says that as we send more American units to the front, he expects them to become a separate command, under an American commander. He was most cooperative about that.”

  Patton slapped a heavy hand on the table. “Well, good, then, dammit. Time we showed our allies what we can do. And not against the damned French.”

  Clark continued, “As we all know, General Anderson had scheduled a major advance against German positions to begin this week. But weather has delayed that. He believes our push can begin on December twenty-fourth.”