The Rising Tide: A Novel of World War II (8 page)

“General von Vaerst, you will exercise restraint in my presence.”

Von Vaerst now commanded the Afrika Korps, and Rommel saw the anguish on the man’s face, the same twisting pain that was cutting through Rommel’s gut. They stood in the open, the armored cars gathered in an uneven row beside them, silent, the drivers conserving their gasoline.

Von Vaerst stared down toward his feet, said, “Sir, we are merely dueling the British guns. They are dug in on the high ridges. If we remain in place, at dawn we will simply provide the enemy with targets. And we have no fuel to resume the flank attack!”

“Return to your command, General. The British will not just sit on those ridges. By morning, Montgomery will believe he has opportunity, and he will order his tanks out of their holes and send them forward. They will attack us as they have always done, and then we will have them! Be sure your men have ammunition. We will be the ones seeking targets.”

Von Vaerst nodded slowly.

Westphal moved beside Rommel, said, “General, you may send your reports to me, at this location. I will remain here throughout the night.”

Von Vaerst seemed to understand, knew what every senior commander knew, that Rommel might be anywhere, unreachable, suddenly appearing alongside some bewildered captain to guide a squad of tanks.

Rommel waved the man away, said to Westphal, “I’m not going anywhere, Siegfried. Not now. There is nothing to see out here. We should have a tent prepared.”

“Right away, sir.”

Westphal seemed to hesitate, and Rommel said, “What is it, Colonel?”

“If we gather a strong force of tanks tonight, sir, we could send them into the enemy position on a narrow front.”

Rommel raised the goggles, blinked through the blowing dust.

“He will come, Siegfried. They have always come. We will wait for them.”

R
ommel stared east, saw the first gray glow. He could hear the rumble of artillery, most of it British, the sky streaked with white light. He looked toward the west, expecting to see more of the same, but the German guns were firing only sporadically, a single tracer streaking toward the enemy hills.

The reports had reached him throughout the night, and none of the news was good. The British controlled the skies, and throughout the day their bombers had obliterated enormous numbers of German guns. In front of him, his armor waited for the opportunity he still believed would come, some sign that Montgomery had ordered his tanks to move forward, to meet Rommel’s waiting gunners head-on.

The horizon was lighter now, and he climbed up into the armored car, surprising the crew. There was no sign of Westphal, but he knew the man was dealing with the flood of messages, managing a staff engulfed in the business of war. Fuel had been promised, word that the Italians were sending five thousand tons of precious gasoline, some of it coming by air, another promise from Kesselring. But no word had come, no reports of fuel arriving anywhere along the front. Now it is day, and it will begin again, and we can barely move at all.

The anger was too familiar, and he slapped the armor plate in front of him, the windshield that supported the machine gun.

“Drive!”

The crew obeyed, Rommel continuing to stand, the goggles now over his eyes, the entire line of armored cars moving into the gray dawn.

SOUTH OF ALAM HALFA RIDGE—SEPTEMBER 1, 1942

There had been one attack by his armor, the Fifteenth Panzers driving a short, quick stab into a mass of British armor along the ridge itself, inflicting heavy losses. But with the full daylight, Rommel could see that Montgomery still held tightly to the good ground.

Nothing had changed. It cut him like a dull sword, ripping into his gut, draining him of the energy he needed, the strength to hold back the sickness, to keep his men in the fight. The big gun roared into life, another hard blast that knocked him to one side. He stared at the hill, thought of Montgomery. Where are you? Why do you not come? The fight is here,
we
are here! His ears were a fog of ringing, but he heard shouts, turned, saw men running, felt a hand on his arm, a hard grip. He saw the faces looking up, saw it himself, a formation of silver planes, coming straight at him, no more than fifty feet above the ground. The hand released his arm, and Rommel saw men dropping down into narrow slit trenches. The planes were right above him, a rush of sound, and Rommel dove into an opening, hit hard, the wind leaving him. The ground came alive around him, a thundering blast, shaking him, bouncing him hard, punching the air from his lungs. He fought to breathe, dirt falling on him, holding him down, and then there were hands, pulling him. No, let me lie here! He was up in the sunlight again, the air thick with dust, hands holding him upright, faces, shouting at him, meaningless words. He saw fire now, a truck, more trucks, black smoke, and now the voices came.

“Sir!”

“Sir! Are you all right?”

He felt his chest, put one hand on his face, looked down, no blood.

“I’m all right! See to the men! The wounded!”

The smoke was choking him, swirling blackness, heat on his face, and he moved away, looked for clean air, a place where he could see. The air began to clear and he saw the cannon in pieces, bodies of men scattered around it. Two of the armored trucks were in flames, more bodies, men tending to anyone who was still alive. He looked up, clear blue sky, heard the sound again, the roar of engines, another formation of planes. They were farther away, and he could see it all, a flock of silver birds, bull’s-eye circles on the bodies, slight tilt of the wings, catching the sun, the sweep of the bombers as they dipped toward their targets. The bombs tumbled out, a brief glimpse, black sticks, and suddenly the ground beneath them burst into fire, blasts of earth and steel and men. He turned away, had seen enough of this, his men splayed out in the open ground like so many cattle for the slaughter. If they had fuel at all, they might have enough to withdraw, to pull back behind their minefields. He stared at the wide ridge, less than a mile away, thought again of Montgomery. You bastard. You would deny me the fight I had to have, the fight that would end this, that would give me Cairo and the Suez and all of Africa.

B
y September 4, the Germans had pulled back to their defensive positions. As Rommel strengthened his minefields and added to his observation posts, in the ocean to the north the precious tankers began to flow from Italy, driven by the relentless pressure from Kesselring, and from Rommel himself. Rommel could only wait, knowing that for the first time, he could not force the attack, could not attack the enemy’s vulnerabilities. Worse, his own vulnerabilities were growing, and the pressure from the doctors and from Kesselring finally overwhelmed his ability to deny the sickness. On September 23, Rommel flew to Rome, a quick stop before he would travel to Berlin. Once in Germany, his first priority would be to see Hitler, and then, his duty satisfied, he would settle into a hospital, to treat the sickness in his body and renew his energy for the fight he still hoped to wage. Whether Montgomery would give him time to recover and return to Africa was beyond Rommel’s control.

Far to the west, far beyond the two armies at El Alamein, rumors began to stir, wisps of information and intelligence reports that focused more and more on the Americans.

6. EISENHOWER

LONDON
JULY 1942

T
he meetings had been incessant, both social and contentious. After so much talk, he had learned to despise conferences, all those high-brass affairs with such stiff formalities, ideas flowing out like cigar smoke, drifting in the stale air until swept away by someone’s new thought, new theory, new plan. The disagreements over strategy had erupted long before, the desperation of a battle-worn Britain confronted by the brash enthusiasm of the overeager Americans. On both sides of the Atlantic, the goal was the same, defeat the enemy, but who that enemy was, how to defeat him, and where the first great stroke should fall were questions no one could agree on.

When Eisenhower had arrived in June, the British had offered him a home in the Claridge Hotel, the finest in London. His suite had been a sprawl of rooms adorned with gilded wallpaper, palatially high ceilings, all the trappings the British seemed to feel would suit the new American commander. Eisenhower was as uncomfortable as he was appreciative, and immediately he sought less ostentatious quarters. Now, his home was a three-room suite in the Dorchester Hotel, a modest choice that amused the British. After all, he was American, a product of the rustic, backwoods quaintness that some knew as Kansas. To many in the British high command, it was likely that Eisenhower simply didn’t know any better.

His appointment had come from the American chief of staff, George Marshall, and like all such appointments, Eisenhower’s name had dredged up voices of dissent in Washington, the same kinds of voices that had echoed around “Black Jack” Pershing in 1917. The nation faced the same sort of crisis then, an ever-expanding war, with America’s military caught woefully unprepared. Like Eisenhower, Pershing had been elevated to command when the city was full of senior officers, each man insisting he was right for the job. Eisenhower’s critics were a bit more muted than the men who’d attacked Pershing. Many of them seemed to be aware that the world had grown more complicated since 1917, that this war would require the kind of mind that could wrap itself around the enormous challenges in building a military in Europe that could challenge the terrifying might of Adolf Hitler. If the tall hats in Washington didn’t know Eisenhower, they had no choice but to trust the judgment of George Marshall, a judgment seconded by Franklin Roosevelt. Outside of the planning and administrative offices of the War Department, few had even heard of Eisenhower.

LARGS, SCOTLAND—JULY 24, 1942

“‘We must be in action by the end of this year.’”

Marshall put the paper down, said, “That is the essence of the president’s cable. I am in agreement with him, though my reasoning is somewhat different. He has political realities to contend with. The president has a sharp eye on the elections this November. I will not go into detail on what this could mean for him. His term, as you know, extends for two more years. But it has much to do with the makeup of the Congress, and so forth. The president’s concern is that if we do not show the rest of the world that we can strike back at the enemy in a meaningful way, the voters might interpret that as weakness. President Roosevelt will not accept anything from us that hints of weakness.”

Most eyes were on Marshall, but not all, and Eisenhower glanced around the room, saw a dull glaze on many of the faces. Marshall had been in Britain for ten days now, and along with Roosevelt’s aide Harry Hopkins had spent every one of those days in intense meetings with British and American war planners, officials, military and civilian, hammering out the details of a plan agreeable to both sides that could make the best use of American resources and British experience. The disagreements were many, and the frustration high. Eisenhower pondered the words from Roosevelt. It’s the closest thing to an order that man can send us, he thought. Roosevelt may not be here, but he knows how this sort of thing goes. Talk. More talk. Much more talk.

The room was full, chairs packed tightly, nearly seventy military officers in attendance. The uniforms were mixed, most of the men either British or American, a few from the British Commonwealth, Canada and Australia. A man began to speak, a British naval officer, one face in a sea of uniforms. Eisenhower tried to listen, but his mind was drifting as well. Now others spoke up, every man with his point of view.

The arguments centered on two distinctly different goals. The Americans, led by both Roosevelt and Marshall, had advocated the invasion of the French coast, a hard strike directly into Hitler’s Europe. The proposal had amazed the British, who had already waged their own disastrous fight in France, and who seemed far more eager to launch the next major campaign in a theater where Hitler wasn’t simply waiting for them. The British were already committed in North Africa. Winston Churchill and most of his senior commanders were very clear that if Rommel could be defeated, pushed out of North Africa altogether, the way would be clear for Allied domination of the Mediterranean. With the added strength of the Americans, all of southern Europe could be vulnerable to assault, what Churchill called the “soft underbelly” of Hitler’s European Fortress. Eisenhower knew that Marshall still clung tightly to the cross-Channel attack. But America could not mount any kind of effective invasion on its own. The army was too green, too untested, and the commanders had virtually no field experience leading troops into combat. It was essential that the British and the Americans work side by side and unite their efforts.

One other factor was pushing the decision toward the British plan. A beleaguered Russia was facing catastrophic defeat by Hitler’s army, a defeat that would unleash German troops to swarm into the Middle East, as well as all of Europe. In Moscow, Stalin vigorously demanded that the Allies stop talking and take action, opening up a second front that would deflect some of Hitler’s troop strength. Marshall had to concede that a powerful invasion on the French coast could not become reality for more than a year. Stalin could not wait. After days of debate, the British would simply not go along with Marshall’s proposed strategy. Marshall was forced to concede and agree with the British. If there was to be a campaign at all in 1942, it would have to be made in North Africa.

The meeting was exhausting itself, and Eisenhower could feel the voices growing weak, a chorus of mumbles, the entire room seeming to empty of air. Marshall stood, and Eisenhower saw the British chief of staff stand as well. Field Marshal Sir Alan Brooke was the one man who seemed able to influence and even contradict the wishes of Winston Churchill. Here, he was recognized as the most influential British officer in the room. Brooke was near sixty, slightly younger than Marshall, a lean, spare-looking man. Both men commanded the respect of their officers, and the room was suddenly deathly silent.

Brooke said, “Gentlemen, I do not believe further discussion will change our goal. It is essential that North Africa be targeted prior to the beginning of the rainy season there, which means, the assault should be launched within four months’ time. Since General Marshall and I have determined this course, the most urgent matter now before us is how that assault will take place, where that assault will take place, and who will mount it. Those discussions are for a later time. If General Marshall will concur…” All eyes focused expectantly on Marshall, who made a sharp nod. “Very well, this meeting is concluded.”

Eisenhower stood, felt the entire room exhaling its final breath. He felt a hand on his arm, heard a low voice.

“If they painted this place when we got here, it’s dry now.”

Eisenhower was too weary to smile, looked at the tall man beside him, the thin frame topped by a long face, a nose like a sharp beak. The man rarely made jokes, but he was far more impatient than Eisenhower and would just as likely have announced his ill humor to the entire room.

Mark Wayne Clark had been the first man chosen by Eisenhower to accompany him to London, and Marshall had immediately approved the man to be Eisenhower’s second-in-command. Clark had been two years behind Eisenhower at West Point, and even then the men had formed a friendship that was only handicapped by the separate paths their army careers had followed. When both had returned to Washington, the friendship had returned as well. Once Eisenhower began to establish himself as a force in Marshall’s headquarters, he quickly developed an instinct for those officers who could handle the extraordinary tasks of training, organization, and administration, the very tasks that Eisenhower had now been handed. When Eisenhower left for London, Clark left with him.

There were voices around them, the room full of impatient men forced to wait for another long moment as the most senior officers filed from the room. Eisenhower was surprised to see Marshall looking at him, no smile, no emotion at all, just a silent stare.

Eisenhower began to move that way, and Clark was beside him now, standing a head taller than many of the men around them, saying, “Sleep would be good. An hour, maybe. Seems we’ve finished here.”

Eisenhower began to move along with the flow, said to Clark, and to no one at all, “Nothing is finished. It’s only just begun.”

CLARIDGE HOTEL, LONDON—JULY 26, 1942

Marshall stared out past him, seemed lost for a moment, said, “Stubborn chaps. Dig their heels in with more gusto than my wife, Katherine.”

Eisenhower said nothing, saw Marshall drift away, thoughts that reached far beyond the lavish room. He knew the place Marshall had gone, could see it in the man’s face, the mention of his wife giving him a brief glimpse of home. Already, it was a moment Eisenhower knew well.

Marshall focused on him again, said, “The president understood them. I think he has a pretty stout relationship with Churchill. In the end, it came down to whether or not we could carry out our own campaign, alone. FDR was testing me, though God knows why he feels he must do that. ‘Sure, George, stick to your guns, if you think you can go it alone.’ Well, no, we’re not going anywhere alone, not yet. Admiral King’s not convinced we should do anything here at all, still thinks it’s a mistake not to push Japan. Try telling Doug MacArthur how he
should
have pushed Japan.” Marshall stopped, sat back in the thick cushion of his chair. “You know what’s in front of us, Ike? What we have to do here? The full coordination of air, sea, and land. Never been done before. A good many of these officers around here don’t believe it can be done now. Pessimists on both sides. If it wasn’t for Churchill, I’m not sure how the Brits would even be in this thing, not after Dunkirk, Singapore, Tobruk. But they’re not licked, not yet, and they have the one thing we don’t have: battlefield experience. I cannot order our people to march into a fight I don’t believe we can win, and without the Brits…we can’t win. So. We’ll do it their way.”

There was something instinctive about Marshall, silent authority, none of the big talk or the showmanship of men like MacArthur. Eisenhower had served with both, had learned a great deal by simply observing. MacArthur believed in the force of his own personality, as though he could
will
his men to victory, inspire them just by ordering them to win. As revered as MacArthur was, a special darling of the newspapers, the American forces in the Pacific were a long way from winning anything. The disaster in the Philippines had snuffed out whatever optimism had followed MacArthur, the absurd notion that once our boys got into a fair fight, the Japanese would simply fold. After a vicious fight on the Bataan peninsula, and then, the last-gasp defense at the fortress at Corregidor, the Japanese had captured seventy thousand American and Filipino soldiers. Before the final collapse, MacArthur had escaped to Australia, inspiring some claims that it was a victory after all, that the man himself was worth as much to the American army as five corps of fighting men. Caesar would return. But as much respect as MacArthur inspired, Marshall and many others in the War Department believed that they would need more than the image of a Caesar to defeat either the Japanese or the Germans.

Marshall was looking at Eisenhower now. “You know how the Brits feel about you, Ike. You’ve impressed them every step of the way. I wonder how many of them expected us to ride in here like a flock of idiotic cowboys, shooting up the place? There’s a good bit of that kind of thinking, you know. We’re still colonials to some of them. The great unwashed, Daddy Warbucks with lots of money and no class. Some of them forget what Pershing did here, what it took to whip the kaiser. It’s up to us to show them again. Well, no, not us.
You
.”

Eisenhower was hanging on Marshall’s every word now, was surprised, said, “Me? Why—”

“You command the American forces in Europe. Until now. The British have agreed…well, Mr. Churchill has agreed with me, and with the president. We’re agreed that we will unite both armies into one Allied strike force, including both navies and air forces. This is more than simply a partnership effort. It is a
combined
effort, one army, one mission. And, one commander. Actually, it was about the only topic we didn’t have to argue about. You’re in command, Ike. Torch. All of it.”

Eisenhower stood, felt a cold turn in his chest. “Thank you, sir. I had thought Lord Mountbatten…”

“Yes, well, Louie Mountbatten is certainly qualified. But he spoke out for
you
. He’s one of your strongest supporters. And there were a good many more. Accept it, Ike. This fight needs a man at the top who knows how to
manage
an army. You’re the best man for this job, Ike.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“I’m heading back to Washington pretty quick, and I’ll push the formal paperwork through channels. But you’ve got the job, Ike. This whole operation has to be drawn up from scratch. And, you’ve got less than four months to bring it off.”

EISENHOWER’S HEADQUARTERS, THE DORCHESTER HOTEL—
AUGUST 9, 1942

He had barely slept, routine now, most of his staff putting in as many hours as their commander. In front of him, papers spread across the desk, with more papers on the conference table, on the floor, all of it merely the sharpened tip of a monstrous iceberg. There was no avoiding the plague of conferences, continuing arguments over various theories, a swirling storm of words and documents, all flowing in his direction. But there was no argument over the mission, only how to bring it about.