The Rising Tide Read online

  Patton stared at Eisenhower for a moment, said, “We do the work, and the Brits grab the victory, that it? Or, will the damned Krauts grab it first? You think we can coordinate three major amphibious assaults, quiet the damned French, then bring the British in, equipment and all, and send them marching into Tunisia? And all the while, the Krauts are just gonna sit and watch? There’s a fight to be had, Ike. Rommel, or someone else. They’ll pour reinforcements into Tunisia, and if the British don’t get there in God’s own hurry, the Krauts will be waiting for ’em, begging those limey bastards to march right up to those Kraut tanks.”

  Eisenhower felt his gut tighten, saw Clark twist slightly in his chair, thought, dammit, George, I don’t need to hear that kind of talk. Patton seemed oblivious to his insult of the British.

  Eisenhower said, “You’re right on one count. This is a complicated operation. It won’t succeed without cooperation. The British understand that clearly, and it’s up to all of us to make it work.”

  Patton shook his head. “Fifty-fifty, Ike. The landings, no real problems there I can see. Tunisia, different story.”

  Eisenhower looked at Clark again, could see that the man shared his gloom, had not expected pessimism from Patton.

  Eisenhower said, “Those might be the best odds we can get. But if we don’t do this—”

  “We’ll do it, Ike. That’s what I’ll tell Marshall. We’ll do it, or we’ll die trying.”

  7. EISENHOWER

  THE DORCHESTER HOTEL, LONDON

  AUGUST 16, 1942

  “I t’s the election, Ike. A bunch of congressmen are afraid that if we fall on our face here, they’ll have to give out bad news to their voters. I hate politics.”

  Eisenhower nodded at Clark’s words, looked at him through a thick fog in his eyes. “That’s Marshall’s problem. My orders haven’t changed.”

  Clark pointed to the copy of the letter that covered one corner of Eisenhower’s desk. “I don’t know, Ike. Doesn’t seem like the chief of staff is bearing up well. The pressure on him must be overwhelming.”

  Eisenhower stared at the paper, Marshall’s words a blur. But the shock was still in him, the sting of Marshall’s sudden doubts about the entire operation.

  There is unanimity of opinion that the proposed operation appears hazardous to the extent of less than a fifty percent chance of success.

  Unanimity. Everyone. Eisenhower had read the letter too many times already, said, “You think he’ll call it off?”

  Clark shook his head. “How can he, Ike? After all this? Everything…the planning, the personnel.”

  “He can if he chooses to, Wayne. Or Churchill, or the president. Hell, if it was up to the navy, there never would have been a plan at all. The Brits think they’ll lose half their fleet just getting everybody into position. Admiral King…good God, Wayne. The American chief of naval operations sits in Washington and launches his dispatches toward two major theaters of war, telling everyone that everything we’re doing is wrong. When he was here, he kept insisting we focus on the Pacific. By the time he went home, he seemed convinced that Torch was the right plan. But now that he can bellyache out of earshot of the British, he’s telling Marshall it’s all a mistake. How’d you like to be Admiral Ingersoll, commanding the whole Atlantic fleet, working your tail off to prepare for this assault, only to hear that your chief in Washington thinks the whole idea is suicidal? We’d be well served if some of these people were simply shot.”

  Clark stared at him, and Eisenhower regretted the words, thought, thank God I can trust him. But this is no good. I need to take a walk, maybe go somewhere, into the country. He called out, “Harry!”

  Butcher appeared at the door.

  “Round up the damned car.”

  “Where we off to, Chief?”

  Eisenhower sat back in his chair, had no explanation to offer. “Just get the car.”

  Clark said, “Ike, the navy’s coming around. No matter what Admiral King is saying in Washington, and no matter how much moaning the British are doing here, they’re all coming together. The air people are all in line, all pushing for the plan. Jimmy Doolittle’s like a kid with a new toy, since he was told he’ll be flying cover for Patton’s landing. The British air people, Tedder, the whole lot…and that’ll spread, Ike. As the pieces come together, everyone will fall in line. Even the navy. Both navies. Until anybody says differently, it’s still your show. And it’s a good plan.”

  Eisenhower saw a hopeful smile on Clark’s face, felt the man’s friendship, his effort to pull away the dark curtain.

  “I just need a breath or two, Wayne.”

  Butcher was back now, stood at the door. “Car’s ready to go, Chief. Uh, before you go, there’s a message just arrived from the French. From de Gaulle.”

  The name sent a dull blade into Eisenhower’s chest. He closed his eyes for a brief moment. “And?”

  “His people are still pretty itchy to know what the plans are. I think they’re a little upset.”

  Eisenhower closed his eyes again, could see the face of Charles de Gaulle, the man’s perfect sneer etched in his mind. Their first meeting had been an unpleasant and snippy affair, de Gaulle insisting in flatly arrogant terms that Marshall see him before the American chief of staff returned to the States. De Gaulle had been a midlevel governmental minister and a brigadier general, commanding French armor, when the Germans swept through France. Rather than surrender along with most of the French army, de Gaulle had escaped to England and had immediately proclaimed himself head of a Free French State. The one-man pronouncement had in fact inspired some of his countrymen, and a resistance underground of sorts had begun to spread through the German-occupied territory. Most of France regarded de Gaulle as an opportunist, a lonely voice in a wilderness of propaganda, and he was blithely dismissed by the Vichy government as an outcast rebel. But de Gaulle would not be ignored and found a voice in various British newspapers. Soon he had insisted on more than patriotism from his French followers, and more than simple respect from his British hosts. He had made it known that he expected to be regarded as a head of state, and that as such, he was entitled to know exactly what the Allies planned to do to recover his country. To Marshall he had demanded to know the details of whatever second-front operation was in the works. Whether de Gaulle had actually heard of Operation Torch was something no one could be certain of. Regardless of what de Gaulle might have heard, whether through rumors or leaks in security, Eisenhower had no intention of telling him anything.

  Butcher said, “Chief, de Gaulle’s people are requesting you schedule a meeting with one of his representatives. I doubt he’ll see you himself.”

  Eisenhower tried to ignore the words, forced himself to leave the desk. He moved past Clark, fought through the fog, put a hand on Butcher’s shoulder, said, “You drive.”

  “S o, Harry, you think I should be out there inspecting the troops? More parades?”

  Butcher laughed. “You’re the chief. Inspect anybody you want to.”

  “The Brits expect that, you know. Damnedest ritual, a general strutting through his men, showing off his medals, making sure everybody knows how high his promotions have gone, how important he is. If he thinks about it, he pretends to make sure his men are in tip-top shape. How the hell you going to know if a soldier’s any good by how he buttons his shirt?”

  “Patton would disagree with you.”

  Eisenhower smiled, nodded. “Yep. Never saw a man more obsessed with a crisp salute. For him, it works. Discipline, can’t argue with that. Despite what Georgie may try to tell his men, he’s not perfect.”

  Butcher glanced at him, steered the car past a slow-moving tractor, an unusual sight on the paved road. Gasoline restrictions had made driving anywhere a luxury for British civilians. Eisenhower was lost for a moment, looked into the face of the farmer, an old man, ignoring the staff car as it swerved past him. The whole world is moving past that old man, and likely he doesn’t care one bit. He’s seen this before, probab
ly done his part already.

  “So, you going to tell me?”

  Butcher brought him back into focus, and Eisenhower said, “About Patton? A while back, war games, down in Louisiana. Lots of Washington brass, everybody watching, pretty impressive. Georgie commanded the Second Armor. He won the day. Pulled a pretty neat trick, got into the enemy camp, took the prize. The official observers said that what he did was impossible, turned the whole event up on its ear. Nobody could figure out how he did it.”

  Butcher was waiting for more, and Eisenhower stared ahead, braced himself against a shallow pothole in the road.

  “Well? How did he do it?”

  Eisenhower stared ahead, smiled. “He cheated. Took his armor across country outside the designated boundaries. He’d made a deal with private gasoline stations along the country roads, paid for the gas with his own money, so I was told. Planned it all out in advance.”

  “He cheated?”

  The smile faded, the rhythm of the car pulling him toward a nap. He turned toward Butcher. “He won.”

  Butcher laughed, and suddenly Eisenhower didn’t share the humor. “It was funny at the time, I guess. I got my first star just after that. He already was a major general. Now, I have to look at him in a different way. He’ll do whatever we need him to do, I know that. But he doesn’t like orders. Might not be the best man for following a plan. Improvisation is good, essential in combat. But he’s only one part of something far more complicated than any of us have tried to do before.”

  “Forgive me, Chief, but that’s what people like Patton are for. No matter what anyone says in Washington, no matter how much bitching and doubt falls on Marshall or Churchill or FDR, it’s the men in the landing craft and the assault craft who matter, the men who fire the big guns. If they do their job, then you’ll have done yours. Sir.”

  Eisenhower looked at Butcher, nodded slowly. “Thank you, Harry.”

  They rode for another mile, past small farms set deep into thick, green fields. The fog was gone now, the energy returning, and Eisenhower pointed to an intersection ahead. “Turn us around. Too much to do.”

  Butcher slowed the car, swung wide, made a U-turn, hammered the accelerator, speeding them back to the office. Eisenhower felt the energy of the car, realized how slowly Butcher had been driving. He knew it was calculated, that once Eisenhower had cleared the fog in his brain, he would want to be back to the work now. The farms blew past and already they were moving into the outskirts of the city.

  He stared ahead. “Make sure Wayne comes to breakfast tomorrow. Be sure Churchill’s people put us on his calendar when he gets back from Africa. I want to send a reply to Marshall, plenty of details, logistics, supply, troop, air, and naval numbers, to reassure him. Patton’s leaving for the States next week; I want him prepared to give Marshall a full report on progress, not griping. Arrange a meeting with the British Home Office, Mr. Mack, I believe. He has his finger on the French problem.”

  “Sir, Mack, yes, sir. He dealing with de Gaulle now, Chief?”

  “De Gaulle? I have no idea. I’m talking about the real French problem, those fellows in Africa who may or may not decide to blow us to hell.”

  AUGUST 21, 1942

  By the morning of August 21, Eisenhower was given the official report from Lord Louis Mountbatten, the dashing young British commodore who now ranked among the most influential of the British chiefs of staff. The report confirmed the raid at Dieppe had been a complete disaster.

  The raid on the French port city had been planned primarily by the British, mostly Mountbatten himself, aimed at capturing a moderate French target, holding the beach and the port long enough to convince both the British and their beleaguered allies on the European continent that an amphibious assault could succeed in putting a sizable force into place, long enough to allow the possibility of major reinforcements over water. Dieppe was not intended to be any permanent prize, only a demonstration that Hitler’s Atlantic Wall could be punctured. Of the six thousand men who participated in the raid, most were Canadian, supplemented by British and a small, symbolic contingent of American commandos. What the careful planning could not account for was the German defense, a stout barrier tailor-made for defending against this kind of amphibious attack. The reports were dismal. Half the men who took part in the raid were either killed or captured. As tragic as the raid had been, Eisenhower grasped a subtlety in the British dispatches, a tinge of meaning that the horrified public would never receive. The raid on Dieppe was proof that Hitler would not simply stand by and allow any French port to be so easily assaulted. It was annoyingly clear to Eisenhower that the inclusion of the small force of Americans, who fared as badly as their British and Canadian comrades, would generate the kinds of headlines in the States that no one in the War Department wanted. Men had died, American men, attacking a French port against a formidable defense that would not simply crumble away. After Dieppe, the voices who had continued to speak out against the North African campaign were virtually silenced. If Operation Torch wasn’t popular, Dieppe had provided a convincing message that Torch might have a better chance of success than another assault against the French coast, an assault that would slam straight into Hitler’s stoutest defenses.

  #10 DOWNING STREET, LONDON—AUGUST 26, 1942

  The invitation came from Churchill, dinner at his official residence. Eisenhower had endured these kinds of dinners before, drawn-out, tedious affairs. With the prime minister just returning from Africa and Russia, he would be certain to dominate his audience with all the various details of his travels, some of it military, much simply Churchill himself, basking in the attention. At least Eisenhower would have one valuable reinforcement: Wayne Clark accompanied him.

  They were ushered into the dining room, and Eisenhower saw no one else in the room. Clark was beside him, and Eisenhower said, “Appears we’re early.”

  Clark checked his watch. “Nope, don’t think so.”

  There was a burst of noise out beyond the dining room, and Churchill was there now, padded heavily in, said, “Welcome! Sit! Appetite?”

  Eisenhower caught the familiar smell of the cigar, the permanent fixture implanted into Churchill’s mouth. The man wore a large smock, shuffled himself to his chair on fat slippers.

  Clark moved toward the back of Churchill’s chair, polite instinct, and Churchill said, “I can manage, General. Sit down, both of you. Good to be home, you know. No matter where I go, no matter how much hospitality my generals or anyone else gives me, there’s nothing to compare with one’s own hearth, eh?”

  Eisenhower could see that Churchill’s mood was far more cheerful than his own.

  Churchill was looking at him, said, “Bad day, General? You miss high tea? Don’t pay much attention to that myself. Tea’s for dowagers and diplomats. Much prefer high whiskey.”

  Eisenhower said nothing, glanced at Clark. Marshall’s gloomy cable had been discussed at a hastily called meeting, an American affair, with no one else in attendance. It wasn’t a conscious choice on Eisenhower’s part to exclude anyone—it had just come about that way. Churchill pulled at the cigar, smoke drifting around his round face, his expression unchanging. Eisenhower thought, he knows, of course. Somehow, he always knows.

  “Sir, there is concern, still, in Washington.”

  Churchill slapped his hands on the hardwood table, seemed prepared with a response.

  “Here’s what I think, General. Torch offers the greatest opportunity in the history of England. It is the one thing that is going to win the war. President Roosevelt feels the same way. We’re both ready to help you in any way we can. The most important thing, of course, is that we have no battle with the French.”

  Eisenhower absorbed Churchill’s enthusiasm, felt his own dark mood rising slightly.

  Clark seemed to pulse beside him, straightened tall in his chair, said, “Mr. Prime Minister, we have been subjected to so many different plans, so many strategies, changes of sentiment, changes of mind…what we need, sir,
is for someone with the necessary power to make some decisions. We’re in the middle of day-to-day changes. We must have had ten sets of plans. We’re dizzy from so many changes, so many differences of opinion as to what will work and what will not…or whether there will even be an Operation Torch or not!”

  Clark’s voice had grown louder, the tall man leaning forward in his chair, arms on the table. Eisenhower put a hand up, but he could see that Clark’s temper was still building, the words continuing to flow.

  “Sir, we’d like only to get one definite set of plans, one strategy, so we can go to work on it!”

  Churchill pushed his chair back, stood, began to pace slowly, and Eisenhower looked at Clark, saw the expression of a tired man who knows he has said too much. The room was silent for a long moment, Churchill still moving, trailed by cigar smoke. He stared down, moved from wall to wall, back again, never looked at them.

  “Joe Stalin has his hands full, you know. Serious difficulties. His army was doing a fair bit holding the Jerries away, but the week after I left, we learned that the Jerries have opened a new attack to the south, against Stalingrad. It could be bad, very bad. But we won’t hear anything about it from Uncle Joe. He keeps secrets, thinks we’re not clever enough to know what he’s up against, or how he’s handling it. Damnedest thing about the Soviets. They insist they’re our allies, and they expect us to do everything in our power to help them. But try to get a straight answer from any of them, Stalin in particular. ‘So, Joe, how many tanks do you have outside Moscow?’ He just offers you more vodka, says something about how the Jerries aren’t as tough as they’re cracked up to be, and so, why don’t we attack in France? Every question I asked him came right back to me. ‘Why don’t the English attack? When are the Americans going to help?’ I had to admit to him that we just weren’t strong enough. I didn’t care for that, not one bit. He didn’t either. And he’s right to give us hell for it. Jerry’s already kicked in his front door, and if they nail the Soviets in a coffin, we’re next. That’s why we must strike soon, and we must strike where it can make a difference, grab Hitler’s attention.” Churchill turned, rubbed his back against a corner of a tall bookcase, scratching. “Something I picked up in Egypt. Nasty little buggers.” Churchill moved back to the table, tapped his cigar on the edge of an ashtray. He looked at Eisenhower now, pointed the cigar at him.