The Rising Tide

by Jeff Shaara

  “Dammit, Ike, we sent out word to everyone, told every commander in every zone that the planes were coming! What the hell else was I supposed to do?”

  “I don’t want to hear that, George. This is your command, and it was your responsibility to make sure that your people knew when those C-47s were coming over. What do you think is going to happen back home when the newspapers hear of this? What do you think Marshall will say, or the president? What do they tell the parents of those boys? ‘Sorry, but we made a mistake. Nobody’s to blame.’ I won’t accept that, George! And neither will the American people!”

  Patton turned away, walked to one corner of the cabin, turned back, faced him. I have enough problems, he thought. I don’t need a full-blown war with Ike.

  Eisenhower said, “Start an investigation, George. Talk to the navy people. The British had a hand in this too.”

  “Of course the British had a hand in it. I’m glad you see that. I know you have to jump on my ass. Fine, I can take that. But there’s a few other asses who need jumping on too.” He saw a deep frown on Eisenhower’s face, dammit, shut up! Don’t stir this pot again. “Sorry. That’s not the point, of course. Look, Ike, I’ve already sent inquiries to the navy, to every ground commander. So far, no one is saying anything. No twenty-year-old is going to step up and tell his commanding officer that he fired the first shot. You want me to start relieving people? All right I will. I’ll send every damned lieutenant home. Will that satisfy the president?”

  “Knock it off, George. I’m not looking to hang some kid because he made a mistake. But this happened because that kid wasn’t prepared for it. That’s his commander’s mistake, and if his commander wasn’t prepared, it’s your mistake. If you want to run the big show, George, you have to accept responsibility for it. There’s no such thing as nobody’s responsible. I’m quite sure that we may never know how this started. But we have to finish it, and not just by burying paratroopers. For one thing, we will make damned sure this never happens again!”

  Patton stiffened. “You can be certain of that.”

  Eisenhower paced slowly, and Patton could hear artillery in the distance. Eisenhower stopped, listened, the thunder growing, different, not cannon, hard thumps: bombs.

  “I thought we cleared the skies. The enemy still hitting us from the air?”

  Patton shrugged. “Scattered attacks. There are thirty airfields on this island, Ike. We’ll get to ’em soon enough. Gotta admire those Nazi pilots. They know they probably won’t make it back to their bases before the Spitfires knock them out.”

  “The only enemy I admire is one who surrenders, George.”

  Patton frowned, turned away again. He couldn’t let Eisenhower know how he felt, but he had no interest in hearing bluster from a man who had never stood up to enemy fire. It was too common, the men at the top, big noise about forcing the enemy to do this and that. Try it sometime, Ike. Then tell me how to make them surrender.

  Eisenhower seemed to ignore his scowl, moved to a small wooden chair, sat, glanced out the porthole.

  “I had serious problems with the whole plan for this airborne assault, George. Clark, Ridgway…I let them convince me. Not sure I would do it again.”

  Patton moved closer in front of him. “I can’t agree, Ike. Those boys opened the door. Damned Krauts had a hell of a lot more armor here than our boys expected. We might not have made it if those Tiger tanks had been waiting for us right at the beach.”

  “Maybe. But I understand the paratroopers were scattered all over hell. We’re lucky we didn’t lose the whole lot of them.”

  Patton tightened the grip on his words, took a slow breath. “I disagree again, Ike. It worked to our advantage. They raised hell behind the enemy lines in far more places than we had intended them to. Allen’s people tell me they were responsible for holding up the panzers for hours, if not all damned day. There’re some medals to be handed out, Ike. Lots of them. From the reports I’ve seen so far, they came down over a sixty-mile area. Sure, you can describe that as scattered to hell. I describe it as putting good men in more places than the enemy can handle.”

  Eisenhower shook his head. “But if that sixty miles had been farther inland, or to the west, they’d have been stumbling around in the middle of nowhere, with no enemy in sight. It would have been a wasted effort. We’ll take a hard look at this, when this is over.”

  Patton clenched his jaw, said slowly, “Whatever you say, Ike.”

  There was a silent moment, and Patton rocked back on his bootheels, hands clasped behind his back, thought, leave, dammit. I have work to do.

  Eisenhower said, “Did Alex tell you he wants to meet with you? Both you and Monty, once we’re in a more secure position. Monty’s front seems pretty tight, the port of Syracuse is under our control. The enemy there is backing away towards the big hills to his north. You know what you have to do here. Keep the enemy moving backward, keep those panzers off our front lines. We’re stepping up the air attacks, tracking down those tanks wherever we can find them. That should keep them on the run. I understand the Italians are surrendering in boatloads.”

  “Yes, sir, they are. That will continue. If we push hard enough.”

  “No one’s stopping you, George.”

  Patton said nothing, waited for more.

  Eisenhower stood, adjusted his jacket. “I’m off, then. I’d like to go ashore, see some of the positions along the beach before I head back to HQ. I understand the Canadians did some exceptional work east of here. I’d like to offer them a congratulations, help their morale if possible. I think some of their people back home assume we don’t give them enough credit.”

  “Good idea.”

  Eisenhower was at the cabin door now, glanced toward the maps, hanging low on one wall.

  “Nice work, George. Let’s wrap this up, capture the whole lot of them.”

  “Already planning on it, Ike.”

  Eisenhower ducked through the doorway, and Patton let out a long breath, felt a pain in his chest, like some giant fist holding him upright. The cabin was both his office and his stateroom, and he moved into the small bedroom, sat on the narrow bed. He thought of the tragedy, the loss of so many paratroopers, the stupidity of that. It was the darkness, pure and simple. Why the hell couldn’t we just send them in broad daylight and guard the hell out of them with Spitfires? Who is making these decisions? It had gnawed at him for months now, the control the British seemed to have over Eisenhower. He thought of Eisenhower’s shoes, the first thing he’d noticed when the man had arrived. Brown suede shoes, just like something a British field marshal would wear. Dammit, Ike, you’re becoming more British than they are. Keep everyone happy, don’t make any decision until it is talked to death. This won’t last, can’t last. They’ll use you up, spit you out when they’re done with you, and the rest of us will find out what they’ve been planning all along. This war isn’t about Hitler, it’s about England. We’re here because the English want us here, but dammit, Ike, when this is over, you’ll see how little use they have for us.

  One thing I have to admire, he thought. I’m still here. Ike could have yanked me for this paratroop mess, and he didn’t, at least not yet. I probably owe him for that. But they’ll find something, sooner or later.

  He stood, moved out into the main cabin, stared at the maps, heard voices outside, British crewmen moving past. He peered through the porthole, ships spread out along the shore, movement everywhere, the landings still ongoing, supplies and equipment moving ashore in a steady flow. I need to be off this ship, he thought. Pretty soon, we should be able to move the command center to Gela, or someplace close, set up a permanent HQ. I’ll get flack about that, I’ll bet. The British will want me here as long as they can convince Ike this is where I should be. Damned ship is like a prison. Can’t take a pee without some limey writing it down.

  GELA, SICILY—JULY 14, 1943

  He looked at the basket in the staff officer’s hands. “Champagne…and what’s that? Cheese?”r />
  “Yes, sir, that’s all we could find.”

  Patton grunted, looked around the huge room, towering ceiling, ornate paintings spread all along the alabaster walls, marble trim, the floor marble as well.

  “What a waste. All this artwork in such a rathole. The whole place looks like this?”

  “Yes, sir. Some local official lived here. Gone now. The place was empty. We cleaned it up a bit.”

  “Clean it up a bit more. But it’ll do. Bedrooms upstairs?”

  “Yes, sir. Linens were still on the beds. Not the cleanest place.”

  Patton stepped past the man, hands on his hips. “I brought my bedroll. I’ll use that. Not too fond of bedbugs. Give word to the staff, set the place up, get it done quickly. For now anyway, this is home.”

  “One of the rooms overlooks the courtyard, sir. Should I stow your gear there?”

  “Fine. We need an office, a conference room. There something like that upstairs?”

  “Yes, sir. Four bedrooms. One is quite large, private. I’ll set it up right away, sir.”

  The man set the basket down on the heavy dining table, was quickly gone. Patton moved to the table, felt a rumble in his stomach, picked up a round ball of cheese, wrapped in a loose cloth net, held it close to his nose. The smell was overpowering, an image of dirty socks, and he set it on the table, turned away, thought, what kind of people could live like this? Divine beauty on the ceiling, filth in their cupboards. No wonder they can’t fight worth a damn. Not one of those Eyeties has ever eaten a steak.

  The aides came in now, boxes of papers, the radio set, men moving quickly, his chief of staff directing them. The men moved past the table, and Patton could see glances at the champagne, hunger in their eyes. Oh, hell, he thought. This can’t be much worse than rations. When in Rome…he smiled, thought, yep, that’s a good one. When in Sicily, do as the Sicilians do. Well, maybe not. Pretty nasty bunch. He stepped to the table, picked up the ball of cheese, avoided smelling it, pulled out a small pocketknife. The knife blade cut easily through the cloth netting, and he sliced a wedge from the ball, slid it off the knife blade into his mouth. He tried to hold his breath, the cheese soft, melting quickly, sliding down his throat. The smell vanished with the flavor, and he was surprised, thought, damn, that’s pretty tasty. He sliced another wedge, stared up, studied the painting above him, a Madonna and child, fat cherubic angels. How old, he wondered, how long has that thing been up there? Thousand years, five hundred? You’d think they’d fight to keep us out of here. But, then they should have fought to keep the Germans out first. Now, we have to do it for them.

  T he house rapidly became his headquarters, guards outside, curious townspeople passing by. He watched them from the window of his bedroom, studying the town, the people, wondering about snipers, the nagging caution from his staff. Even from that distance he could feel the same kind of wretchedness he had too often seen in North Africa. He had as little regard for the Sicilians as he did for the Arabs, gave no thought to the liberation of the people who clogged the roads with donkeys and pushcarts, the annoying inconvenience to the movement of his armor. But there were problems here that the Arabs had seemed to avoid, hunger for one, the granaries empty, consumed by the needs of the war. The harvest season was approaching, some of the wide fields actually cultivated, ripening wheat, but Patton had seen few able-bodied men, thought, of course not, they’re all out there, in those hills, wondering if they should shoot at us first or are they better off shooting at the Germans next to them. They’ll find out soon enough.

  Below his window, the courtyard itself was little more than a barnyard, goats and chickens darting about, protected from the people by a stout stone wall, the irony of that not lost on him. I should just turn the livestock loose, let the damned people get some meat in their cook pots. No, probably not a good idea. We don’t need to waste time managing a riot.

  He backed away from the window, could hear the movement of the staff, the business of his army filling the large house. He was still hungry, thought again of the odd cheese, could smell it on his fingers still, realized he could smell it in the walls of the house. Don’t even think about that, he thought. If it tastes good, it doesn’t much matter what the hell they made it with.

  He moved out into the short corridor, toward the stairway, an aide flattening against the wall, allowing him to pass. He glanced at the man’s necktie, the perfect knot, tight on the man’s collar, said, “Good! Keep it up. That will win us this damned war.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  His boots clicked down the marble stairway, and he aimed for the dining table, still spread with unopened champagne bottles, more of the cheese, several different kinds. It would be his lunch, the only thing his staff had come up with, thought, if I could have just one hot dog. Just one.

  H e heard voices, pushed back from the dining table, saw a British officer at the door, familiar, one of Alexander’s aides.

  The man saluted. “Sir! General Alexander has arrived. Should he meet with you here, or do you have a more suitable location?”

  Patton slid a slice of cheese into his mouth, thought, wonderful. He’s interrupting my lunch. Just jolly.

  “Come in, Major. There’s a conference room upstairs, the maps are on the wall, good place to talk and have some privacy. Or privvasee.”

  The man ignored his mockery of the accent, stood to one side, and Alexander was there now, tall, lean, the man examining the grandeur of the room.

  “Quite nice, I do say. This your headquarters, General?”

  “For now. Care to go upstairs? We can talk in private. Or do you have some other reason for being here?”

  Alexander moved past him. “Yes, upstairs.” He turned, motioned to his aides, three men passing by, climbing the stairs, officers Patton had dealt with before, one man holding a rolled map beneath his arm. Alexander called after them, “Do see if you can locate a comfortable chair hereabouts. These roads have given me a bit of a backache.”

  “We’ll find something, sir.”

  Patton motioned toward the stairway. “After you, sir.”

  Alexander began to climb, and Patton stopped, slipped back toward the table, grabbed the ball of cheese, stuck it under his arm, followed Alexander up the stairs.

  “I t’s Monty’s idea. He’s run into a bit more resistance than he had estimated. The enemy is backed up in the hills north of Syracuse, putting up a pretty stiff front. He suggests making a swing to his left, here, using this road, 124, through Caltagirone, then pushing up through Enna, clearing away any resistance there, then pressing the enemy from the west. Done this sort of thing before, you know, the old left hook. Quite effective.”

  Patton felt a jump in his stomach, was already holding tight to his words. He studied the map, put his finger on the small town, said, “Monty’s plan puts him directly in our line of advance. Bradley’s people are moving up that way right now. It is our objective to use that road as a main artery for our advance through the mountains.”

  “Yes, I realize that, of course. But Monty is most insistent, says he can wrap this whole thing up in short order, once he circles around the Huns who are dug in below Mount Etna. The enemy has made it something of a rough go at Catania, and Monty is afraid he’ll bog down. Messina is the ultimate goal of course, and with some speed, we can hit the enemy before they can withdraw and strengthen their position there. The best way for Monty to accomplish that is to flank Mount Etna from the west and bypass the strongest enemy positions.”

  “That was my intention all along.”

  “Ah, yes, well, Monty suggests that your people move out more to the west, thus securing his flank. There is still quite a threat out that way, of course.”

  Patton felt his throat tightening, the words squeezing through. “His flank? The Seventh Army will serve to protect Monty’s flank?”

  “Well, yes. Since the Eighth Army is positioned closest to Messina, it is perfectly obvious that they would push toward the goal of taking the port and
shutting down the enemy’s ability to escape.”

  “Except there’s a big damned mountain in the way.”

  “Mount Etna, certainly. The Huns are making good use of the natural defenses thereabouts. As I said, Monty’s having a rough go pushing north. This was his plan, and I must say, it made sense to me. Once he sidesteps Mount Etna to the west, the Huns could be in a serious bind, trapped with their backs to the wall, so to speak.”

  “Especially if we’re protecting his flank.”

  “Your people will of course deal with enemy forces to the west. Those mountains in the island’s center should prove somewhat difficult, but Monty should manage with his people. Veterans, you know. Seen much worse, certainly. Your people can handle the open ground to the west, should find much easier going.”

  Patton could see discomfort on Alexander’s face, weakness in the man’s resolve. Monty’s plan. Of course this is Monty’s plan. This was Monty’s plan when he joined the army. He doesn’t just want Messina, he wants Alex’s job. And Ike’s. And Winston Churchill’s.

  “Does Monty have a plan on how I am to reposition Bradley’s two divisions? The Forty-fifth is definitely planning on using that same road. Enna was their next major objective.” His brain was churning, heat on his face, his hands clenched tight, and he fought to hold the words inside him, thought, maybe the Seventh Army should just go back to the beach and take a damned holiday.

  “I would leave that up to you, of course. But haste is required. Monty’s already put his plan into motion. Could cause a logistical problem if his people start mingling with yours.”

  “He’s already in motion?”

  Patton stared at the map, ignored the details, red fire in his brain. It’s a good thing Monty bothered to tell Alexander what he was doing. Probably an afterthought.

  Patton backed away from the map, tried to silence the fury in his brain. The room was quiet for a long moment, the other men standing frozen, silent.