NEAR CERAMI, SICILY—AUGUST 10, 1943
The men stood aside, allowed the jeep to pass. Patton watched them, saw the salutes, men calling out, exhausted smiles. He wanted to stop, to speak to them, wanted to encourage them, snap them by the collars, put the fire into their steps. Just give me a little more, he thought. Dammit, we are getting there, and if it were up to me, we’d have ended this fight by now. He had grown impatient with Bradley, with all the commanders, had churned himself into a tornado against the navy, the men who seemed to delay and argue over every operation. The amphibious assaults had not been as effective as he had hoped, the Germans often pulling back before the men could make their landings. Others had been victimized by German bombers, the precious landing craft destroyed or damaged before the men could even begin the operation. Old ladies, he thought. And not just the navy. All of them. Infantry commanders who would rather sit on their asses than fight.
The BBC had continued their absurdly biased reporting, Patton learning that London was being told the Americans were spending most of their time eating grapes and enjoying the beaches, while the valiant British soldiers bloodied themselves in a vicious fight around Mount Etna. He needed little inspiration as it was to find fault with his own officers, to believe that Bradley and his division commanders could be driving the Germans back toward Messina at a far faster pace. Now, the British people were being told that the Americans were having a jolly time of this war, at the expense of their own gallant lads. One BBC reporter, just one, he thought. Bring that son of a bitch to me and let him walk through these hospitals, let him haul his arrogance over these hillsides. I’ll show him a holiday on the beach.
Patton had made it part of his routine to stop at the field hospitals, had gone to special lengths to arrange the presentation of Purple Hearts to the wounded, a special treat for him, and certainly, from the astonished surprise he had seen on the faces of so many wounded men, receiving their medal from him meant a great deal to the men as well. The hospitals were distinctly unpleasant places, and more than once he had paused beside the bed of a gravely wounded man, could tell by the reaction of the doctors that the man had no chance of survival. It bothered Patton more than he would admit, bothered him now. The images would not leave him, one man missing the top of his head, brains shielded by layers of white gauze, the doctors shaking their heads. There were many others, cavernous gaps in chests, men clinging to life by a thread of desperation. I cannot look at them, he thought, not like that. Not one at a time. No commander can afford to do that, to see his men as…men, with wives and mothers.
There had been an unpleasantness of a different kind, that image hard to erase as well. The man’s name had stuck with him, Kuhl, no injury except he wasn’t feeling well, the man claiming that he simply couldn’t take it. Take what? Looking out for your buddies? Fighting the enemy? Patton had reacted to the man with blind rage, had screamed at him, ordered him out of the hospital. When the man did not respond, Patton had picked him up by the scruff of the neck and tossed him out of the place himself. It had caused a scene at the hospital, infuriating the doctors, but Patton had ignored them, rode away confident that at least one coward had been set straight. I’d do it again too, he thought. No room for that in my army, none at all. It’s a disease, pure and simple. One bad man infects a whole platoon, one platoon a whole company. Battles have been lost for less. But not in my army. Not while men in those same hospitals lie in their beds fighting to survive.
The jeep passed by a deep, rocky chasm, men working below, shovels and pickaxes, shoring up the road. He glanced up at a bare hillside, men hauling equipment, artillery pieces rolling forward. He washed the memory of the one shirker out of his mind, focused on the wounded. They do so enjoy my visits, and, dammit, it’s my job. This army suffers too much from hesitation, from officers who would rather delay than push forward. Every damned officer I have should spend some time in his own field hospitals, see what happens to his men because he delays the fight by a day or a week. It was an obscene word to him, and he spit it out, said in a low voice, “Hesitation.”
I will not have anyone here compare us to Montgomery, he thought. No one will ever call me cautious. If I have to kick some well-dressed asses at headquarters, I will make my point. I intend to be in Messina before the British, and if it costs the lives of soldiers to accomplish that, well, that’s the price of war. But it will cost far more lives if we sit on our dead asses and chew about it.
He blew through a cloud of dust, a truck pulling to the side in front of him, the driver waving him past. His own driver pushed the jeep precariously to the edge of the narrow roadway, men in front of him jumping down, clearing the way, still waving, calling his name. He did not respond, was too close to them, to the faces, the sharp eyes, thought, they are the tools of war, and my job is to use them like tools of war. That’s what victory is about.
The jeep rolled out of the gorge, crested a hill, more men in a column on the road, trucks in a large park, white tents, topped by a large red cross. He saw the sign now, 93rd Evac Hospital.
“Stop here!”
His driver obeyed, the jeep turning in, men in white smocks gathering.
“Sir!”
“Welcome, sir.”
He motioned to them, a brief wave, moved toward the largest tent, caught the smell, blood and disinfectant, took a deep breath, held it for a moment, moved into the tent.
More than a dozen men were in a row, blood on bandages, heads and chests wrapped in white, bare legs, one man’s foot gone, his shortened leg ending in a clump of white gauze. Some of them were asleep, or unconscious, and he would not think of that, looked away from the wounds, searched for the smiles. They came now, low voices, and he felt the familiar tightness in his throat, spoke to each man, useless words, felt helpless, weak. He moved slowly past each bed, touched one man’s leg, heard, “Bless you, sir.”
“No, bless you, soldier.” He stopped, looked back along the row of men, wanted to say it aloud, the words choked away. Bless all of you.
He turned, moved toward the end of the row, saw one man sitting upright, no bandage, the uniform intact, the man holding his knees tight to his chest, his helmet pulled low. Patton was curious, moved close to the man, said in a low voice, “What’s wrong with you, soldier? You wounded?”
The young man looked up at him, tears on his face, white, pale skin. “It’s my nerves.”
The man began to cry aloud, heavy sobs, and Patton felt something turn inside him, thought, good God, another one! He stepped back, bent low, stared into the man’s face.
“What did you say?”
“It’s my nerves. I can’t stand the shelling.”
Patton felt a punch in his chest, a searing bolt of heat. “Your nerves! Hell, you’re just a goddamned coward, you yellow son of a bitch!”
The man was still crying, the awful sobs cutting through Patton, piercing him, the anger rolling to his fists. He stepped close to the man, his brain screaming, stop that! Stop crying! He pulled his hand back, the heat driving his anger, the burning in his chest, raw fury, the man’s tear-soaked face, the awful sobbing. He brought his hand down in a quick motion, slapped the young man, knocking him sideways, shouted again.
“Shut up that goddamned crying! I won’t have these brave men here who have been shot at seeing a yellow bastard sitting here crying!”
He stepped back, saw the man pulling himself upright, more sobs, unstoppable, the man’s red eyes staring at him. But the man did not stop crying, and Patton leapt at him, swung his hand down hard again, the man’s helmet knocked away, the soldier bareheaded now, sobbing louder. Patton backed away again, realized men had gathered, the doctors, the wounded men all staring at him. He fought to calm himself, turned, saw a white-coated officer, said, “Don’t you coddle this yellow bastard! There’s nothing the matter with him. I won’t have the hospitals cluttered up with these sons of bitches who haven’t got the guts to fight!”
He looked at the soldier again, sitti
ng upright again, red-faced, the sobs growing quiet.
“You’re going back to the front lines, and you may get shot and killed, but you’re going to fight! If you don’t, I’ll stand you up against a wall and have a firing squad kill you on purpose!”
The man began to cry again, voices behind Patton growing, the room hot, swirling, stinking air. Patton felt his stomach turn, could not escape the sound of the man’s sobs, the fury coming back, fire in his brain. He reached down, his hands wrapping around the butt of his pistol, the gun pulling loose from the holster.
“I ought to shoot you myself, you goddamned whimpering coward!”
The man was staring at the pistol, and Patton held it out, tried to point it toward the man’s face, felt the men around him, moving closer, his own hands shaking now. He glanced to the side, saw faces, men and women, doctors, soldiers, nurses, a crowd, staring, wide-eyed shock. The pistol was heavy in his hands, and he looked down, the fury pushed aside by dark horror. The gun slid back into the holster, and Patton backed away, turned toward the opening of the wide tent, looked at the officer again, cold hate in the man’s face. Patton tried to bring the anger out again, how dare you show disrespect…but the man did not move, kept his eye focused on him, unflinching. Patton turned away now, moved to the opening, the blessed air, forced the words, shouted again.
“Send that yellow son of a bitch to the front lines!”
He was outside now, more people gathering, his driver standing by the jeep, waiting, obedient, and Patton climbed into the jeep, said, “I just saved a boy’s soul, if he has one. Let’s go. Bradley will wonder where the hell I am.”
The driver complied, the jeep moving quickly, the crowd of people behind him emerging from the hospital tent, watching him drive away.
SOUTH OF MESSINA—AUGUST 17, 1943
The sun was rising, the barren hills empty of life, the chill in the night air already warming. The men made their way slowly, stepping across large rocks, piles of dirt and concrete, hands out, the men helping each other across the treacherous ground. Above them, the bridge had been blasted into rubble, the roadway simply gone. They were used to it now, the British commando units who had worked feverishly alongside their engineers, pressing forward as the Germans withdrew, threading their way across deep valleys, repairing or clearing the roads so the rest of Montgomery’s army could continue the northward push. It was too common, so many of the roads simply narrow cuts carved into hillsides, the Germans detonating the rock above, burying them under tons of debris. The deep gullies and crevices were a greater challenge still, the destruction of the bridges delaying the vehicles. The engineers had used every tool in their arsenal, every trick, pulleys and winches, levers and cables, bridging the chasms, creating roadbeds where none existed.
The commandos left the ravine, crawled up onto flat ground, stared north, waiting now as a single jeep was pulled through the ravine behind them. With one great gasping effort, more men rolled the jeep up onto the road, the grateful commandos making way for their senior officer, the man slipping into the driver’s seat, others piling on, the engine firing, the jeep making the final dash, the two-mile push into the city.
His name was Jack Churchill, a lieutenant colonel commanding the Second British Commandos. As he drove toward the city, he held the reconnaissance reports in his mind, the observers telling him what he had seen himself. There had been a sudden lack of enemy fire, artillery batteries growing silent, infantry in the rocks no longer picking targets among his men. The reports told him what any officer could see, that the Germans had pulled away into the city. But the commandos knew more than that, knew by the silence that the Germans were not manning their defenses, that the city itself was not rumbling with the activity they had expected. Night after night, the air force planes had made their runs, blindly pouring their bombloads on targets they may or may not have hit. For nearly two weeks navy patrol boats had crept close to the port, quick snatches of information, confirming massive movement in and out of the port. But the bombardment he had expected had never seemed to come. Now, the roadways into the city were scattered with broken machines, the debris of war, hillsides speckled with dark spatters, what was left of artillery pieces and the crews who’d manned them.
It had been a mystery to him, the reports coming forward to one lieutenant colonel not detailed enough to tell him exactly what was happening. It was his job to find out, after all, to press forward with his men, to confront any stronghold where the enemy might still be waiting. As he drove the jeep, he thought of the city, the dreaded inevitability of house-to-house fighting, snipers and hidden artillery. But if the Germans had pulled back even farther, the mystery deepened. He knew the maps, knew that beyond the city there was little room to maneuver, little ground to offer the Germans any serious protection. There was only one possibility, that the sketchy reports of the ongoing evacuation of Sicily by German and Italians forces had to be accurate. If the enemy was gone, had somehow managed to escape the clutches of Montgomery’s army, the officer knew there would be hell to pay, that loud voices at headquarters would want explanations. But none of that was his problem, not now, not on this gray morning, not with the plump, ripe cherry of a city straight in front of him. It was a moment he had not expected, an honor falling upon him by chance. His commandos had done excellent work, the enemy responding to so many sharp fights by backing away. He smiled, pressed the accelerator closer to the floorboard, the jeep responding, thought, yes, if the enemy is gone, truly gone, then we will have the prize. We will capture this city. I will capture this city.
They rolled past small, white buildings, taller buildings beyond, the black water of the straits spreading out to the east. He pulled the jeep around a tight curve, slowed, the road opening into a wide street, flat-topped houses, and now…people.
They stood beside the road, some waving, some just silent, watching this strange, new army roll into their city. But it was hardly an army at all, just a few men on one jeep, and Churchill ignored that, thought only of the prize, the city of Messina. He saw a wide square, slowed, more people, flowers, loud voices, and he moved slowly, crept into the square, saw a crowd of people on the far side. He stopped the jeep, his men rolling off, rifles held ready, the crowd parting slowly. Churchill pushed through the faces, all civilians, held a carbine, poked it through more of the crowd, women, the crowd opening, uniforms, a cluster of men sitting on the steps of a small church.
“Well, good morning!”
Churchill lowered the carbine, knew the uniforms, the men calling out to him again, “Good morning! You’d be British, right? Welcome to our town!”
Churchill glanced at his own men, felt their energy draining away, low curses, the carbines going up on their shoulders. He stepped forward, saw an officer, a young lieutenant, hold out his hand. If it wasn’t to be his moment, his conquest, it was a victory after all. The men were Americans. Patton had won the race.
39. EISENHOWER
ALGIERS
AUGUST 17, 1943
“ ‘I am attaching a report which is shocking in its allegations against your personal conduct. I hope you can assure me that none of them is true; but the detailed circumstances communicated to me lead to the belief that some ground for the charges must exist. I am well aware of the necessity for hardness and toughness on the battlefield. I clearly understand that firm and drastic measures are at times necessary in order to secure the desired objectives. But this does not excuse brutality, abuse of the sick, nor exhibition of uncontrollable temper in front of subordinates…’”
Eisenhower stopped, looked at the secretary, the pencil poised for the next words. He saw wide-eyed surprise in the man’s eyes, said, “Don’t say a word, Sergeant. Give me a minute.”
He stood, paced slowly, felt sweat in his shirt, put a hand up on the wall, stretched the aching muscles in his shoulder. Damn you, George. Damn you to hell.
He moved back to the desk, ignored the sergeant, weighed the words, fought for the right phrase. So
what do I do now? Rip the man’s stars off his shoulder? How often has he done this sort of thing already? If not for the indignation of one army doctor, I might not know about this at all. Bradley probably knows, and God knows who else. Kept their damned mouths shut, and I can’t punish anybody for that. But I should. Hell, the reporters know about it already. Damned doctors aren’t soldiers, they don’t care who hears their gripes. Thank God the press boys listen to me, or Patton’s name would be all over every newspaper in the States: the general who slaps his sick soldiers.
He looked toward the map on the wall, Sicily and Italy, red marks showing the new operation, what they called Avalanche. For long weeks, the army and navy planners had struggled to find the most effective way to capture the port at Naples, had debated the least dangerous strategy for striking and possibly capturing the massive airfields at Rome and Foggia. He saw Patton in his mind, thought, I don’t need your stupidity right now, George. Is this the price I have to pay? You win a campaign, and you give me a reason to sack you, all in the same week. I wanted your name in the newspapers, but not for this, not for being a jackass. He looked at the sergeant, the man still waiting, pencil point on the paper.
“All right, Sergeant. Let’s go on. ‘In the two cases cited in the attached report, it is not my present intention to institute a formal investigation. Moreover, it is acutely distressing to me to have such charges as these made against you at the very moment when an American army under your leadership has attained a success of which I am extremely proud.’”