The Rising Tide

by Jeff Shaara

  “You okay, Skipper?”

  Eisenhower felt himself wanting to laugh, fought it, reached a hand out toward Juin, the man responding with a soft grasp.

  Eisenhower said, “I am terribly sorry to report to you, General, that according to General Clark, Admiral Darlan has been shot. Reports suggest strongly that he is dead.”

  Juin released his hand, moved to a chair, sat, the other Frenchmen staring in silence, strangely emotionless. Eisenhower wanted to say something consoling, but there were no tears, the men pondering the news with uncharacteristic silence.

  Butcher said, “What does this mean, sir? What do we do now?”

  Eisenhower shrugged his shoulders. “It means that right now, we go back to Algiers.”

  T he death of Darlan had come by the hand of an assassin, a young Frenchman named Bonnier de La Chapelle, who claimed to be a staunch supporter of Charles de Gaulle. Power now fell to Henri Giraud, the next man in the chain of French authority. Within twenty-four hours of Darlan’s death, Giraud authorized the young man’s execution. Eisenhower was surprised that despite all his demands and displays of bravado, Giraud accepted the authority with some reluctance. The morass of civilian affairs was apparently no more appealing to him than it was to Eisenhower. But Giraud accepted the role that events had thrust upon him. Much of the authority that he had so angrily demanded at Gibraltar was now his.

  Eisenhower could not help but feel the anxiety that Darlan’s death might cause, pro-Vichy officials rising up in noisy protest, disrupting the already tenuous civil order in the far-flung territories across North Africa. But the business of the army went on, the French accepting Giraud’s expanded authority with barely a ripple, the civilian officials seemingly too occupied with protecting their own positions to be concerned with who was at the top. Ultimately, Eisenhower realized that no matter the twisted confusion that seemed a normal part of French political life, considering the grief and turmoil that had fallen on his head, and across the entire Allied command for their cordial dealings with Darlan, in the long run, Bonnier de La Chapelle might have done the Allies an enormous favor.

  T he Allied forces continued their snail-like organization, Anderson sparring with German dive-bombers and artillery attacks, the Americans pushing forward to the south, organizing alongside the French, under Lloyd Fredenhall’s command. Despite the sluggish Allied progress, Anderson’s forces attempted to drive the Germans back toward the key objectives of Bizerte and Tunis. In seesaw battles that accomplished little, villages changed hands, crossroads were contested, but in the end, the only clear victor was the mud.

  Though progress continued to be made, Eisenhower could not avoid one cost of the pressures he endured every hour of every day. Once back in Algiers, after dutifully speaking at Darlan’s funeral, Eisenhower was defeated by a foe he was too worn-out to avoid. He came down with the flu.

  The vast mountains of details, problems, and controversies had driven Eisenhower to a sickbed. But his illness allowed for no relief. The details flowed through and past him still, the mundane and the routine suddenly eclipsed by a piece of news no one in headquarters had expected. In the midst of the chaotic planning, the insufferable weather, the energetic buildup of the enemy in front of them, word came that a summit meeting of the Allied leaders was to take place in mid-January, less than three weeks away. The meetings were customary, but this time the setting was not. Rather than gather their aides and officials in London or Washington, Winston Churchill and Franklin Delano Roosevelt had decided to come to North Africa.

  17. LOGAN

  NEAR SOUK EL KHEMIS, TUNISIA

  CHRISTMAS 1942

  “I think I got trench foot.”

  Logan was in no mood for Parnell’s complaining. “You ever actually been in a trench?”

  Parnell examined the crust of mud on his boots. “Well, no. Not here anyway.”

  “And, trench foot is all about feet, not boots. I’m betting your feet are all pearly pink. But don’t show me.”

  Parnell scraped at the mud, seemed to ignore Logan’s logic. “Boots are ruined. Shoulda left ’em in the tank and gone barefoot. Hell, back home, it rains like this, which ain’t often, nobody wears shoes.”

  “Don’t give me that. Where you come from, nobody wears shoes at all.”

  Parnell puffed up now, pointed to Logan. “Shows how much you know. You go steppin’ on a prickly pear, or a damned scorpion, you’ll wear shoes every day, including Sunday.”

  Logan leaned back against a fat rock, pulled at his jacket, tried to hold away the wet chill. They sat beneath a canvas shelter, tin plates between them, what was left of a dinner of C rations. To one side, Baxter was poking the black skeleton of a barely flickering fire, smoke drifting past him, out through an opening above his head. He dropped his tool, a thin stick, said, “Too wet. Nothing gonna burn.”

  Logan looked at him, saw frowning frustration, thought, that’s the first thing he’s said all day. Maybe all week. They sat in rare silence, Parnell occupied again with chipping mud off his boots. Logan looked up, stared at the darkening canvas, thought of his blanket, rolled up in the storage bin of the tank. The tanks were parked in staggered rows a hundred yards away, camouflaged by an uneven carpet of netting and canvas. Around them, men had built shelters, dug holes into whatever dry place they could find, anyplace uphill from the flowing mud. He hadn’t been to the tank since that morning, a routine firing of the engine, the oil and fuel trucks coming through to service as many of the machines as they could. The service had been done mostly at night, but over the past few days the rains had grown heavy again, thick gray skies darkening to black, the skies free of bombers, so that work could be completed during the day. Obviously, the weather had finally become too much for the Germans. The daily bombing runs had stopped, a blessed relief to the antiaircraft gunners, who could actually spend their shifts under some kind of shelter.

  Parnell pounded his foot on a rock, dislodging a chunk of hard mud from his heel. “I’d sure like a cup of coffee.”

  Logan reached down, tossed him the small can from the remains of the C rations. “Here. You can have mine.”

  Parnell looked at the can, made a sour face. “Can’t drink this stuff. Whoever heard of coffee you don’t have to cook? I’m not so sure this is coffee anyway. I heard talk it’s more like ground-up animals and stuff.”

  “I’ve heard you’re an idiot. So give it back. You’ll wish you had this stuff when we’re out in the field somewhere. Mix it up right in your canteen.”

  Parnell tossed the can back to Logan. “Nasty stuff. I’d rather drink mud. Right now, I want coffee, the real thing. How ’bout you, Pete? I’ll buy, you go get it, Jack.”

  Baxter ignored him, stared at the failure of a campfire, seemed lost in thought. Logan tossed the can of instant coffee into the pile of tin plates, alongside the empty cans, some kind of meat and bean stew. He felt a rumbling in his stomach, thought, he’s right, dammit. Powdered coffee. Leave it to the army. I’ll never tell him that though. We ever run out of ammo, I’ll just shoot that stuff at the enemy. Logan shivered, was truly missing his blanket now, said, “I’m not filling my boots full of water for a damned cup of coffee. My feet are cold enough now. You want it, get it yourself.”

  Parnell grunted. “They need waitresses out here. They’d make some pretty good tips about now.”

  Baxter seemed to wake up, pulled himself to his feet, his hands pushing up against the low canvas ceiling.

  “I’ll go. Gotta hit the latrine anyway.”

  Parnell slapped Baxter’s leg as he moved past him. “Good boy. Bring a whole damned pot if they’ll let you.”

  There were heavy footsteps, the edge of the canvas tossed back, a spray of mud and rainwater. It was Hutchinson, the man ducking in quickly, stepping right onto Baxter’s futile campfire.

  “Damn! This is some fun!”

  Logan shielded himself from the chilly waterfall that seemed to roll off the man. “What you find out?”


  Hutchinson shook himself, rubbed his hands together. “No campfire? What the hell?”

  Baxter moved past him. “Nothing will burn. I’m getting coffee.”

  Hutchinson sat, pulled off his jacket. “Not for me. Had ten cups. Headquarters had the biggest pot I ever saw. That’s why I’m shaking. That, or this wonderful A-rab winter.”

  Baxter ducked out, was gone now, and Logan said again, “What you find out?”

  Hutchinson shook the water from his jacket. “No go. There are some Shermans coming up, but we’re not getting them, not yet anyway. They’re parceling them out between our boys and the Brits. Just not enough of them to go around.”

  Parnell rubbed his back against a rock. “Well, hell, you might figure the limeys will get first crack. I knew I shoulda said something to Ike: ‘Hey, we’re Americans, you know. You’re shipping brand-new tanks over here just to give ’em to somebody else.’ Ain’t right.”

  Hutchinson wiped mud from his hands. “Yeah, Buffalo Bill, that’s what you should have done. The Old Man comes up here to see how we’re doing, and you’d just turn the tank right into his path, stop him cold. I’d like to watch you chew out General Eisenhower. I’m sure that would have changed everything.” Hutchinson shifted his weight, tried to find a comfortable place to lean, the rocks jutting out in mostly sharp angles. “The captain made a good case for us. Told the brass that our damned thirty-sevens are no more than popguns. The Shermans have seventy-fives, which according to the brass is about the only thing we got that can stand up to the Krauts. But for now, we gotta make do.” Hutchinson looked at Logan. “Make every shot count. Hit ’em in the treads, or, better yet, we try to flank them, put a shell into their ass end.”

  Logan stared at the ground. “Ridiculous. They send us into a fight with a gun that can’t kill anybody.”

  “I don’t want to hear that crap. You’re a good shot, so…make good shots. There’s nothing a Stuart can’t do. We can outmaneuver and outrun anything the Krauts have.”

  Logan let the words fill his brain, wouldn’t say them out loud. Outrun. That may be a good thing.

  Hutchinson was still looking at him. “There’s something else. Colonel Todd was killed. Artillery shell hit him when he was outside his tank.”

  Logan sat up straight. “Where?”

  “With the French, up near Pont du Fahs.”

  Parnell said, “Where the hell is that?”

  Hutchinson spit a spray of water toward Parnell’s feet. “Does it matter?”

  “No, I guess not. Damned shame.”

  “General Ward’s supposed to be up here tonight. The whole damned division is heading out this way. Lots of talk about what’s coming.”

  The canvas rolled back again, Baxter breathing heavily, shouting, “Out here! They need some help!”

  He was gone again, and Hutchinson scrambled to his feet, Logan as well, the two men moving out into thick, wet air. Men were gathering near the road, a jeep turned up on its side, half-buried in a narrow ditch. Others were down in the muck, pulling at the driver, the man screaming, someone else shouting, “Medic! Get a medic!”

  Hutchinson jumped down into the ditch, Logan following, mud and water up over his knees, the men pushing against the jeep.

  “It’s stuck! Push again!”

  They worked in unison now, the jeep rocking, more screams from the driver, the men at Logan’s feet yelling, “Got him! He’s free!”

  They pulled the man up and out of the ditch, medics there now, the man’s screams calming to a soft whimper. The jeep suddenly gave way, the mud loosening, the jeep rolling upright. A heavy wave of mud and water washed over Logan, and he tried to pull himself out of the ditch, felt a hand under his arm, a hard pull. He wiped the sludge from his eyes, saw Hutchinson staring down at the injured driver, soft words on Hutchinson’s lips.

  “Oh, dear God.”

  Logan wiped at his face, fought to see, the medics close beside him, the driver still making soft, shivering noises, medics talking in low, hushed voices. Logan saw now, the man’s leg was gone, cut off at the knee, blood flowing into the mud, a black stream oozing into the ditch. The man began to shake, a low sound from his throat, a single note, then a choking cough, a soft rattle. Then he was silent. The medics still worked, a white cloth turned filthy wrapping the stump of a leg. Logan ignored the rain, the dirty water in his boots, soaking his pants and shirt. He stared at the man’s bloody pants leg, felt sick, weak in the knees, but Hutchinson still held him, no one speaking.

  A man moved close beside Logan, older, an officer, said, “He’s done for. Let him be.”

  A medic looked up, and Logan saw tears, red eyes, the man still working the bandage.

  The officer said, “Let him be, soldier. Get a stretcher. You boys jump down there. We need to find his leg. It has to be in that mudhole, right there. A man oughta be buried with all his parts.”

  Logan stared down at the silent face of the driver, the dead man’s mouth open, soft rain wetting his face.

  T he rains had grown lighter, glimpses of sunlight through broken clouds. The mud was there still, filling the roadways, the ditches, trapping more jeeps and more trucks, spraying filth on any man who tried to walk near the roadways. The First Armored was growing stronger every day, new tanks and half-tracks making their way on the one fragile rail line, machines assembled and fueled and oiled at the gathering points, where the crews would mount up, driving them to the east.

  Logan rolled the canvas cloth into a fat roll, Parnell on the other side, Baxter waiting to help them hoist the heavy cloth into the metal chest on the stern of the tank. Hutchinson was up in the turret, testing the hand crank, moving the gun barrel in a slow, wide arc. No one spoke, each man holding his thoughts, what might happen now, what a change in the weather might bring. Orders had cut through the rumors that in a few days there would be a new advance, and the rumors had grown louder that the armor was going hard for the seacoast, to drive a wedge into the German position. Logan had ignored the talk, tried to take himself somewhere else, someplace where the sun shone brightly, where a man could walk on a silent stretch of beach and not be afraid of anything. The fantasy was foolish, the dreamy thoughts broken by the face of the young jeep driver, the missing leg, by the men who knelt in the thick ooze to put their hands on the missing piece of the dead soldier. But the nightmares came more from the face of the medic, a young man with soft red eyes, crying for a man he could not save. Medics don’t cry, he thought. Medics are cold and precise and do their job without emotion. He carried the image everywhere he went now, a medic reacting with grief, a man trained for a job he was not yet prepared to do.

  Baxter tightened the last cord around the canvas, and Hutchinson climbed up out of the turret, stood high above them, waiting for them to climb aboard. They had no orders to confront the enemy today, would simply move forward, establishing a new tank park, a new camp, making room for the units coming up from behind. One by one they jumped up on the tank hull, Parnell and Baxter dropping down inside the turret, moving forward, opening their hatches. Logan was up as well, stopped, stared down into the turret, to his seat at the breech of the gun.

  “Go on, Jack. Mount up.”

  Logan gripped the hatchway with both hands, took a breath, glanced up, across the rows of tanks, half-tracks, and armored trucks moving into line. He watched as the oil trucks moved away, could see muddy piles of C-ration cans, slit trenches, and deep ruts across the rocky, open ground. He ignored Hutchinson, repeated a thought that had rolled through his mind many times before. One little tank, a tiny piece of power in a vast machine, an entire army rolling into place, generals making their next great plan. Hutchinson put a hand on Logan’s shoulder.

  “You okay?”

  Logan looked into Hutchinson’s eyes, saw the medic again, fought against the thought, the nightmare that had come to him every night since the jeep driver had died. Are we ready for this? Do we know what will happen when we face a real enemy?

  He blinke
d, tried to clear away the image, swung a leg over the side of the hatchway, said, “Yep. I’m fine. Let’s go find some Krauts.”

  18. EISENHOWER

  ANFA, OUTSIDE CASABLANCA, MOROCCO

  JANUARY 15, 1943

  T he site was crawling with security people, civilians and soldiers, the Secret Service and British security mingling uncomfortably with uniformed guards. The meetings were taking place on Patton’s turf, and so Patton was in charge of security, a comforting thought to everyone in attendance. As far as anyone in the Allied camp could determine, the arrival of both Churchill and Roosevelt was still a secret, in North Africa as well as back home. But the assassination of Admiral Darlan had reminded everyone that threats could come from unlikely and unexpected sources.

  Eisenhower had arrived in late morning, a harrowing trip on a B-17 that lost an engine en route, the crew and their passengers donning parachutes in the event the plane failed altogether. Eisenhower had not made a jump before, but he could not remain clamped into his tight seat, and so he had stayed close to the waist gunner, both men eyeing the misery of the terrain below them. As black oil streamed from the failed engine, Eisenhower had caught the distinctive sound of another engine failing, a loud crack, a second prop twirling uselessly. But the plane still flew, and when Casablanca finally appeared, the roar of the two remaining engines could not disguise the audible sighs of relief, especially from Harry Butcher.

  “I ’d just as soon not do that again, if it’s all right with you, Skipper.”

  Eisenhower climbed into the car. “I’m with you there, Harry. And, frankly, I’d rather not do the rest of this either.”

  They sat in silence, more cars pulling up close behind, the ever-present jeeps lining up on both ends of the short caravan, machine guns pointing up and out. It would be a short trip, Eisenhower knowing full well that Patton would greet them at the airport’s entrance, would give them a proper escort that might even include heavy armor. At the least, Patton would have his gunners eyeing the sky.