The Rising Tide

  NEAR THALA, TUNISIA—FEBRUARY 22, 1943

  He had driven away from the fighting, had seen enough of it for himself, what the commanders had been relaying to him since first light. Despite the enormous success at Kasserine, the pathways to Tébessa and Le Kef were now strongly fortified, massive numbers of artillery pieces targeting any German armor that attempted to push through the Allied defense. On both fronts, the German push had been stopped, the Allied resistance growing stronger, helped by the increasing support from the north, British artillery and fighting men who added to the American barrier.

  The truck rolled into the open ground in front of the block building, the headquarters for the Twenty-first Panzer, more trucks already there. Kesselring was waiting for him.

  “I would like to suggest to the Führer that you be officially named army group commander for all of Africa. Your performance here has certainly silenced anyone’s criticism of you.”

  Rommel let out a breath, drank from a bent tin cup, warm water cutting through the dust in his throat. Kesselring was smiling at him, and Rommel had seen that too many times, felt no warmth from the man. He glanced now at Westphal, the young man accompanying Kesselring to the meeting. He had wanted to embrace his former aide, still felt enormous affection for the young colonel, had followed the young man’s progress as a field commander. Westphal was not smiling at all, had greeted him with a scowl of concern, something Rommel also recalled.

  “So, now I am to be rewarded for my efforts? I am no longer thought of as a defeatist?”

  “I never thought of you that way. There has been misfortune, frustration. Regardless, you deserve this command, and I know the Führer will see it that way. Even the Italians will agree.”

  Rommel stared into the dingy water, thought, so no one knows of this promotion yet, not the Führer, not the Italians.

  “My apologies, Albert, but there is little left to command here.”

  “Of course there is! We have earned a brilliant victory here! And even if the enemy does not withdraw completely, our bridgehead position in Tunisia is more than merely sound. It is impregnable! We need a man in command who is impregnable himself.”

  Rommel set the cup aside, looked again at Westphal, thought, he doesn’t believe I am impregnable. For good reason.

  “I regret that I must decline the honor of your offer. I am certain that General von Arnim has the Führer’s full confidence. The strength of our Tunisian position is a credit to his leadership.”

  Kesselring moved toward a chair, sat, rubbed a hand on his chin. There was silence for a long minute, then Kesselring said, “I would hope you would reconsider. But no matter. Have you given the order to withdraw?”

  “Yes. There is no purpose to be served by holding our current position either here or west of Kasserine. The enemy will continue to build his strength, and we have used up all we can put into this fight.”

  Kesselring pounded a fist on his knee, looked at him, the strange ever-present smile.

  “There will be more opportunities, Erwin. The Americans are not a worthy foe.”

  Rommel did not have the energy for a debate with Kesselring’s fantasies. He looked again at Westphal, the young man staring down. He will say nothing, Rommel thought. But he knows, more than anyone. He wanted to say the words to Westphal, but not now, not in front of Kesselring. Whether or not we can still win this fight, I am not well enough to be in command.

  FEBRUARY 23, 1943

  They had disengaged the enemy defenses all along the positions west and north of Kasserine, retreating southward, away from Le Kef. He stayed close to the columns, the big armor rumbling past, men staring blankly past him, only a few cheers now from an army that understood it was moving the wrong way. He was surprised to see sunshine, the first blue sky in many days, no heavy clouds in any direction. He stared up, felt warmth on his face, a wisp of dust rolling over him, what would only grow worse as the mud dried. He waited, stared into the blue, watched the small puffs of clouds drifting past, tried to hear beyond the sound of the tanks, knew it would come, that with the good weather, the planes could fly again. He stared for a long while, and then he saw them, a V formation, very high, like so many tiny geese. He caught flickers of sunlight, the sun’s reflection off a dozen windshields, knew the bombs were coming, the deadly blasts finding his men and his tanks on the roadways, disrupting the retreat. He tapped the driver, the silent order, speed up, the truck moving east, taking him back toward Mareth, toward the enemy he still had to confront. Along the Mareth line, the German and Italian troops who had not gone to Kasserine were building and strengthening their own works, while farther to the south, the British Eighth Army was strengthening as well, Montgomery’s men pressing forward impatiently, while their commander pondered whether it was the right time to finally launch his attack.

  24. EISENHOWER

  CONSTANTINE, ALGERIA

  MARCH 4, 1943

  “I ’m not certain we should be rolling forward with an offensive, Ike. Not yet.”

  Eisenhower leaned back in the chair, stared out the window, caught a glimpse of planes, thought, big ones, B-17s most likely. Thank God for good weather. Keep up the pressure.

  Fredenhall sat across from him, and Eisenhower could hear him shifting in the chair, the man edgy, uncomfortable. Eisenhower had not called him here to talk about strategy. Eisenhower tried to say something, struggled with his words, hated this part of his job more than any other.

  Fredenhall said, “We can strengthen the passes even more. No chance the Huns will have their day again. Learned the lesson, for sure, Ike. Damned valuable lesson.”

  “Damned costly one.”

  Fredenhall didn’t respond, and Eisenhower faced him now, saw the face of a man who knows when bad news is coming his way.

  “You’re a fine administrator, Lloyd, a fine commander. Lord knows we need good people kicking some butts stateside, getting our boys prepared to come over here. Hasn’t been that good so far, too many of us getting off the ships without a hint what the hell we’re supposed to do. We’ve had to spend too much time training them right here, and that can’t continue. It’s too dangerous, keeps too many people tied up when we need them at the front. But you damned well can’t make an attack with green troops. No substitute for combat experience of course, but dammit, our people have a lot of catching up to do. The British are grousing pretty heavy about how we fell apart. That won’t do. Won’t do at all.”

  Eisenhower looked down, avoided Fredenhall’s sadness, thought, he knows. Of course he knows. Get to the damned point. You’re chattering at him like a parrot.

  “I want you to accept a new position, Lloyd. I want you to spearhead the training effort back home. No one better for the job. What do you say?”

  Fredenhall seemed frozen for a long moment, his expression unchanging. “When, Ike? How soon?”

  “Soon. We have to push forward the offensive immediately. Rommel’s whipped, and Monty’s about to bust him good. We’ve got an opportunity here, and we’ve got to take advantage of it. Can’t give the Germans time to refit, rebuild their strength. That was my biggest mistake, Lloyd. I took too damned long to get our people into Tunisia. Took it for granted that the Germans would move as slowly as we did. Dumb, stupid mistake. No more of that. There were other mistakes too. For one, we paid too much attention to bad intelligence. Most of that was a British problem, but we followed lockstep right behind them. The Brits are doing everything they can to straighten that out. But we can’t lay all the blame on them. Our biggest problem was green troops, green officers. That’s why you’re so valuable back home. You’ve got the experience now, you know what we need to be teaching our boys.”

  The words hung in the air, and Fredenhall sagged in the chair. After a long moment, he said, “You didn’t say when, Ike.”

  “You’ll be getting written orders in a day or so. Can’t waste time.”

  Eisenhower had nothing left to say, didn’t want any more of this, was relieved to see F
redenhall stand up.

  Eisenhower said, “Go on back to your command post, clean up whatever staff matters you have to. You can take some of your people with you, if you want. Likely, they won’t fit in too well once you’re gone. You know how that goes, Lloyd. I’ll consider some recommendations, but I suspect they should all be reassigned.”

  Fredenhall nodded again, silent now, moved away slowly, stood at the door for a moment, his back to Eisenhower. There was another awkward silence, Eisenhower wanting him to move on, to leave, get this awful moment behind them.

  Fredenhall said, “Who is replacing me?”

  Eisenhower saw the redness in his eyes, all the man’s brash loudness, his mouthy cursing wiped away by the utter sadness of this moment. Eisenhower didn’t want to respond, knew it could not help soften the blow, that Fredenhall should simply be gone. He shook his head, a silent no. “Rather not go into that right now. Touchy matter. You understand.”

  The silence came again, Fredenhall not seeming to understand at all, and Eisenhower thought, go back to the States, dammit, accept your medals and your promotion.

  “Your orders will reach you in a day or so. You better get going.”

  Fredenhall stiffened, threw up an unnecessary salute, Eisenhower returning it. He pulled the door open, slipped through, and was gone. Eisenhower let out a breath, sat back again, closed his eyes. Damn! I hate it, purely hate it. The worst part of my job. But I had damned well get better at it. He leaned forward again, his arms on the desk. He tried to erase Fredenhall’s sadness, thought, he’ll get over it. They’ll give him his medal, greet him with big newspaper stories, treat him like the returning hero. His hometown will probably have some parade for him. I just don’t want to hear about it.

  He reached down, pulled out a drawer of the desk, retrieved the cable from Marshall, the approval of the new appointment. He glanced at the words, then called out, “Harry!”

  Butcher was there quickly, and Eisenhower said, “Patton’s at Rabat, right?”

  “Yes, sir. According to him.”

  “We get any more news about Colonel Waters?”

  Butcher shook his head. “Just guesses. The Germans haven’t said anything about who their prisoners are. We’ve monitored their radio, but unless they’re holding a general, they’re not likely to make a fuss.” He paused. “There’s no report of a body.”

  “Thank God for that. I would assume George has handled the news with his family. I haven’t met his daughter. I’d bet this has them all pretty roughed up. Keep me posted, any news at all.”

  “You bet, Skipper.”

  Eisenhower looked at the letter again. “Send George a wire. I want him at Algiers tomorrow morning. We’ll fly to Maison Blanche to meet him. Have him bring his chief of staff, or whatever top aide he wants.”

  “Right away, sir.”

  Butcher was gone, and Eisenhower scanned Marshall’s order again, read the words, thought, yep, this will make everybody happy. Georgie will finally stop bellyaching about sitting on his ass in Morocco. And God knows I’ll hear about how we should have done it this way from the start.

  MAISON BLANCHE AIRFIELD, OUTSIDE ALGIERS—MARCH 5, 1943

  They stood beside the fuselage of the B-17 that had brought Patton and his aide Brigadier General Hugh Gaffey. Eisenhower stood beside his own chief of staff, Beetle Smith, had ordered Butcher to keep a discrete distance behind them, just close enough to hear the conversation. Eisenhower faced Patton, could see immediately that Patton was like a child at Christmas.

  “You know why I wanted you here, George. This change is to happen immediately. I want you to report to Alexander as soon as possible.”

  Patton clapped his hands one time, rubbed them together, shook his head. “So, it’s true then!”

  “What’s true?”

  “Well, Ike, we all heard that Harold Alexander was taking command here. Didn’t want to believe it, but the Brits I spoke to all said he’s the one in charge or that he oughta be, anyway. I had to rip some butts for that one. Nobody’s insulting my boss.”

  Eisenhower was annoyed, had seen too much of this attitude in Patton before. “Easy, George. Alexander’s my second-in-command now. He assumed command of all ground forces in Tunisia on February nineteenth. He’s in charge of planning for the rest of this campaign and will also command the invasion of Sicily. Is there some problem with that?”

  Patton seemed surprised at the question. “Oh, no, not at all. I heard rumors that he…I thought maybe he was taking over the whole works. Thought maybe you were being…um…”

  “Relieved? No, not yet. It’s still my command.” Eisenhower had expected this, rumors coming mainly from London, talk that Eisenhower had to take the blame for the army’s poor showing. He was still annoyed, thought, Morocco isn’t the other side of the moon. “You should take those cables and dispatches seriously, George. We don’t send them across the wire for entertainment. The idea is to clear up rumors, not start them. In case you’re not clear on what’s going on, Wayne is taking over for you in Morocco. Since the Fifth Army is training there, he can handle the police work of keeping an eye on Spanish Morocco. There’s still the chance the damned Germans might try to pull something on us through Spain. You’re to assume command of the Second Corps, and you’re now under Alexander’s Eighteenth Army Group, along with the French, Anderson’s First Army, and Monty’s Eighth. You, Anderson, Monty, and Giraud answer directly to Alexander, who answers to me. Any confusion on that point?”

  “None. I’m happy to hear it.”

  “Your immediate task is to rebuild and rehabilitate the Second Corps to fighting strength. We’re planning a rapid push, George, a quick strike. That’s why you were chosen for this job. You will work alongside the British and French in a partnership. Equal partners. Cooperation, George. You’ll answer to Alexander as if his orders were coming directly from me. Your first task will be to support Monty. The British Eighth is just about set to hit Rommel at Mareth, and when they do, I want your boys on Rommel’s right flank. Tie up as much German strength as you can. The Eighth will be pushing northward, right up the coast, and I want you to ease the way. And, George, unless you get specific orders, you will not advance to the coast. You are not to cut in front of Monty’s line of advance.”

  He searched Patton’s face, looked for some telltale sign of an argument, knew that Patton would bristle at being handed a supporting role. But Eisenhower had no patience for a debate.

  “You don’t need to prove your courage, George. Not to me, not to the British. And, listen to me, dammit. I don’t want you out front hauling your own flag. I want you as a corps commander, not a casualty. When I look for you in your command post, I expect to find you there.”

  Patton frowned, nodded, and Eisenhower still expected the inevitable argument. But Patton stayed silent.

  “Good. One more thing. I want you to be cold-blooded about removing inept officers. God knows that can be tough, and I don’t enjoy it one bit. But it’s a hell of a lot worse getting my ass handed to me by the enemy. I hate that more than the devil hates holy water. I don’t want incompetence to cost us any more setbacks. If you find a bad apple, pull him and send him back to me. I’ll deal with what should happen to him. I won’t tolerate softness when it comes to someone’s feelings. We both have friends here, George. But that can’t keep us from yanking a man out of line who shouldn’t be there.”

  Patton nodded briskly, and Eisenhower thought, yes, well, he won’t have any trouble with that one.

  “This campaign will tell us who our best people are, George. We’ll need those people down the road. You have my fullest confidence. And so does Alexander. Get along with him, George. Someone sticks a thorn in your waistband, talk to Alex about it first.”

  Patton seemed to digest that, and one name rolled through Eisenhower’s brain. Montgomery. He studied Patton for a silent moment, thought, dammit, George, just try to get along with them.

  “One question, Ike.”

  “Wh
at?”

  “I know you want me to hang back, run the show from behind. But I have to tell you…if the chance comes up, and it damned well might…I’d like to put a pistol into Rommel’s belly.”

  HEADQUARTERS, EIGHTEENTH ARMY GROUP,

  CONSTANTINE, ALGERIA—MARCH 6, 1943

  “You have no problems here, Ike. No one is complaining.”

  He sat across the desk from Alexander, felt the man’s honesty, nothing hidden.

  “Thank you, Alex. I wish that were true everywhere else.”

  “Armchair generals, Ike. Every war has them, and always will. Auchinleck suffered for it, and I’ve heard the same griping ever since I’ve been in Africa. But it’s just talk. Those with the loudest voices are the least likely to step out into the field. You know that.”

  Eisenhower leaned forward, put his hands on Alexander’s desk. “Maybe. But not all of the talk is coming from England. There’s a lot of it coming from Anderson’s people. The same stuff we’re had to put up with since England. Understand, it’s not the commanders. The senior people have rarely been a problem. They get how we have to work together, and everyone has been first-rate. It’s the junior officers, the young ones. Give a man an officer’s baton, and he starts to strut, starts to tell the world how the show ought to be run. I’ve tried to stamp that out when I can, but…we gave your people some pretty good ammunition at Kasserine.”