“You. Not me. Not Walker and Dawley.”
“Jesus, Wayne. Knock it off. You’ve got good men under you, and plenty of veterans right beside them. You think I’d have put you in this spot if I thought you weren’t the right man to handle it?”
Clark looked down, nodded. “Just nervous as hell, Ike. It’s one thing to draw it up on paper…”
“Everybody’s behind you, Wayne: Marshall, everybody in London. Hell, Churchill’s doing a jig that we picked you for this job. This is his baby, this whole damned campaign. When he heard I wanted you, he was like a kid at Christmas. From the time we landed in North Africa, every good man in this command has gotten his chance to do something big. This is yours. This operation will shorten the war and give us options we don’t have now. We take Italy out of the war, then we can finally…finally put our attention on the cross-Channel operation. Even Churchill concedes that. We’ve gone along with most everything they wanted us to do here, every damned operation since we’ve been here has been pushed by the British. They’re actually starting to talk about France again, and this time it’s not an argument. Churchill and Brooke both insist we begin moving people to England, start a buildup there, start training people for operations next spring. Marshall’s beside himself, Wayne. He’s been pushing for us to hit France for two years, but until now, he was shouting at a brick wall. But no more. With Italy right in our hands, the British are opening the door. It’s exciting as hell, Wayne!”
Clark nodded. “Good news, Ike. Great news. We know who’s going to be in charge?”
“Not yet. Time will tell. Maybe a Brit. Doesn’t matter now. What matters is that you give the enemy a bloody nose in Italy and keep punching him until he gives up. You hit the Germans hard, take Naples, and the Italians will line up right alongside you. The Krauts will know they can’t stand up to that much pressure, and in a few months…hell a few weeks, you’ll be the biggest damned hero in this army!”
Eisenhower stopped, felt uneasy now, didn’t enjoy cheerleading, had never been one to spout out predictions. It nagged at him, the strange gloom from Clark. Not even the Ultra intercepts could tell him what Kesselring might have up his sleeve, what the Germans really intended to do, how they would react to the Allied landings. And Rommel, sitting up north in the Italian Alps, waiting…for what? But I don’t need to see this, he thought. I don’t need Clark to be wavering.
Clark seemed to read him, the strong link between them still unbroken. “We’ll do it, Ike. I’ll do it. You’re right. We’ve got good people.”
“Damned right.”
Clark tilted his head, looked at Eisenhower, a change in his mood. “How’s George? I haven’t talked to him in a while, not since…the problem.”
Eisenhower sat back in the chair. “So far, it’s not a problem. He accepts that what he did was stupid and knows damned well that it could have cost him his career. He sent the appropriate letter to Marshall, owning up to it all, and I made damned sure he apologized to the kid he slapped. That had to be tough as hell. Humble isn’t something he excels at. So far, we’ve kept it quiet. The press boys could make a hell of a stink with this, but they haven’t. They know how important George is to this army. I never thought I’d be thanking a bunch of reporters for having good sense.” Eisenhower paused. “If I know George, he’s going nuts waiting for something else to do. Not much I can do about that, not right now. Bob Hope was here, and I made damned sure he took his show to Palermo. He had Frances Langford with him, that gorgeous singer. I’m pretty sure that took George’s mind off anything else.”
Eisenhower stopped, saw no change in Clark’s expression. He realized now, Clark’s interest in Patton was simply good manners. Or maybe just curiosity. He knew that Clark and Patton had little affection for each other, the difference being that Clark did a better job of hiding it. Clark’s command of Avalanche would have been a sharp stick in Patton’s side, an attitude Eisenhower was used to now. He wants every damned command on every battlefield. Not now, George, not with your own self-made mess hanging over your head. It’s time to just sit still for a while.
CARTHAGE—AUGUST 29, 1943
Eisenhower watched the plane, a wide circle, the pilot bringing it down smoothly, none of the gut-punching drops that had been so necessary on the short airstrips, or anywhere the enemy might be close enough to position antiaircraft fire. It was the same throughout all of North Africa and Sicily now, the entire region a secure Allied base, troops and equipment continuing to roll in from transport ships and cargo planes. Every port held by the Allies had become a hive of activity, freshly trained recruits adding to the strength of the veterans, new, more modern tanks, better artillery pieces, much of it destined for Italy, for the beachheads that Clark and Montgomery were certain to secure. In the wide Atlantic, the deadly cat-and-mouse games with the U-boats had become increasingly one-sided, British and American destroyers, dive-bombers, and torpedo planes taking an enormous toll on the German submarines. As the quantity and effectiveness of the U-boats dropped dramatically, massive convoys from America were passing through once-dangerous waters virtually unmolested. Though many of those ships continued to funnel through the Strait of Gibraltar, adding to the power at Eisenhower’s command, many more were reaching ports in the British Isles, a buildup geared toward an entirely new operation.
While Eisenhower welcomed the British enthusiasm for the cross-Channel invasion of France, he had begun to feel concern that the British were too confident that the fight in Italy would be brief, the outcome a foregone conclusion. That energy was driven primarily by Churchill, his boisterous pronouncements inspiring the same enthusiasm from Cunningham, Alexander, and Montgomery. From Gibraltar to Cairo, British officers and their civilian ministers were drinking celebratory toasts, certain that the final thrust into Italy would rip the underbelly away from Hitler’s Fortress Europa.
Eisenhower was grateful for the enthusiasm he was receiving from Marshall, enthusiasm of a different sort. The Americans who had so loudly pressed for the invasion of France were finally going to get their way. The British had opened the door wide to the American desire to drive a hard blow into northwestern France. Eisenhower’s attentions were still squarely focused on Clark’s efforts at Salerno, but already, orders were coming to him to begin the transfer of American units to England, to begin serious training for the invasion of the French coast, expected to take place the following spring.
The operation was now called Overlord, and British and American planners were deep into the details, fashioning a plan that would obliterate any memory of the failure of the Dieppe raid. The invasion had to be designed to drive a powerful force across the beaches of France, to secure beachheads and strongholds with enough power that Hitler would have no choice but to respond by weakening his forces in Russia, and anywhere else the Nazi war machine had secured footholds.
Eisenhower’s authority only included the Mediterranean theater, and he knew that with planning for the new campaign already under way, he would be asked to make hard choices, to send some of his best people away, the men who would assume new responsibilities with Overlord.
He faced one of those choices now, watched as the single plane touched down, could only wait patiently as the pilot taxied toward the tarmac. In a few seconds the motors were shut down, the props slowing, and quickly the door at the tail of the plane opened. Eisenhower moved that way, his aides gathering a short distance behind. He saw a face, a young officer, unfamiliar, the man stepping down quickly, a sharp salute. Eisenhower returned it, waited, saw another face, older, the uniform perfect, the three stars on the man’s shoulder catching the sunlight. The promotion to lieutenant general had come only weeks before, no one questioning, no jealousy, none of the intrigue and backbiting that suggested a man had not earned the rank. Eisenhower couldn’t help but smile, returned the man’s salute. It was Omar Bradley.
T hey walked along the shore, and Eisenhower stared out to the open water, one British destroyer at anchor. It was Cun
ningham’s precaution, that with Eisenhower’s advance headquarters at the seaside town, there was always danger from a surprise attack by German dive-bombers or commandos, the Luftwaffe still launching the occasional raid.
“I don’t believe this, Ike. How can this be?”
“Believe it. Marshall has already approved your transfer.”
Bradley walked in silence, and Eisenhower was surprised by the man’s lack of enthusiasm. “Is there something you don’t understand?”
Bradley stopped, turned toward Eisenhower, put his hands on his hips. “I don’t understand why Marshall or anyone else would pick me for the job.”
Eisenhower could see it now, it wasn’t just humility. Bradley seemed genuinely concerned.
“Brad, the job is yours, unless you can give me a damned good reason why we should pick someone else.” He paused, waited, Bradley silent. “Good. You’re the man for the job. As soon as you can get your ducks in a row here, you will report to General Devers in London and assume command of the First Army. You will establish headquarters at Bristol, most likely. Even though by title Jake Devers commands American forces in the European theater, make no mistake about this, Brad. I don’t expect Devers to lead troops in the field. It’s just not his strength. Your command will eventually spearhead our role in Overlord.”
Bradley began to walk again, rubbed his hands together. “I understand. Who’s replacing me at Second Corps?”
“John Lucas.”
Bradley nodded, and Eisenhower could see the man’s mind at work, already digesting, absorbing everything that might lie in front of him. He looked at Eisenhower now, a slight squint in his eyes.
“You’re telling me I’m being promoted to army commander. That’s a hell of a pat on the back. I’m not sure how to react to that. I’ll give it everything I can, but, Ike…something doesn’t feel right. How is this going to sit…”
“With Patton?”
“Yeah. With Patton. This ought to be his command, Ike. He outranks me. You’re shoving me up the ladder right past him.”
Eisenhower said nothing, kicked at the hard sand with his boot, dislodged a round, white rock, kicked it toward the water. Bradley started to speak, and Eisenhower held up a hand.
“You know George as well as anyone. Do I have to explain it to you?”
“You mean…it’s all about the slapping incident?”
“That’s part of it. I shouldn’t have to spell it out for you, Brad. This operation is going to involve some pretty intensive training, some pretty tough coordination with the Brits. Chances are Monty will be involved in a big way, and I haven’t been told yet who will command the overall operation. I don’t think the decision’s been made. But be honest with me. Do you think George is the right man to command something this complicated?”
“I can’t answer that, Ike. George is the best ass-kicker in the army.”
“Well, I can. The job is yours. We don’t always need ass-kickers, Brad. You know damned well that some of Patton’s subordinates don’t agree with his style of doing things.” Eisenhower paused, wondered if Bradley would open up to him. He knew that Bradley had been concerned that Patton’s infatuation with Messina might get more of Bradley’s people killed than the prize was worth. “I want that honesty, Brad.”
“He has his ways, Ike. Usually it works. You can’t argue with success.”
“To hell with that.”
Bradley stopped again, stared out toward the British ship.
“All that razzle-dazzle looks good on magazine covers. But I heard it from the men, Ike, after those parades that George would lead through the troops, all those clean uniforms, the flags and sirens. It didn’t always go over well. My boys were fighting the toughest enemy we’ve ever faced, on ground more difficult than anything in Africa. Then George would come through with his sirens blaring and expect them to cheer. They did, some of them. But not everybody. When he belted that kid…there were people on my own staff who wanted to see him strung up.” Bradley paused, and Eisenhower could see the man searching for words. “I heard all this stuff about Rommel, how he won battles because he was out there with his men. I don’t know how much of that is true, how much is German baloney. If Rommel seemed to be one of his men, if he seemed to feel what they were feeling, if he was willing to pick up a rifle or climb into a tank, sure, I can understand how that would pick his men up. But that’s not what George does. If we still had plumes in our hats, he’d have the biggest one. If we rode horses, he’d have the white one. Dammit, Ike, don’t misunderstand me. There may be no better tactical officer in this army than George Patton. Nobody knows how to maneuver troops under fire like he does. Audacity, Ike. That’s what it is. Every army needs a Stonewall Jackson once in a while. But Jackson’s uniform wasn’t spotless, he didn’t have a polished helmet, and if he’d carried pearl-handled pistols, he’d have fired them at the enemy once in a while.” He stopped, looked down. “My apologies, Ike. I spoke too freely.”
“I told you to be honest. I can’t disagree with one thing you’ve said. But right now, George isn’t your concern. I don’t know how he’ll respond to your transfer, but I can’t worry about that now. I have my hands full right here. Marshall wants you in England, and the sooner the better. I’m already getting orders to prepare combat units to follow you there, and they need to begin training as soon as the bases are set up. You’re in command up there, Brad. There’s nobody in this army I’d rather see at the wheel.”
40. ADAMS
T hey had been pulled out of Sicily on August 20, the entire Eighty-second Airborne Division reestablished around the airfields at Kairouan, Tunisia. Almost immediately, the recruits had come, the new men to fill the depleted ranks. With the new men came new training, and the jumps continued. As they had done so many times before, Adams and the other jumpmasters manned the doorways of the C-47s, coaching and prodding the unfamiliar faces, insuring that when they jumped into a combat zone, they would know that the bone-jarring landings would be no different from what they had practiced so often at Fort Benning. Of course, no amount of additional training could predict how a man might actually respond when he jumped into the middle of an enemy machine-gun nest.
Unlike their first encampment in North Africa, this time the misery and boredom did not continue for more than a few days. By early September, they were sent back to Sicily, the airbase at Licata, on the southern coast, and the men in charge began ironing out the problems that had plagued the 505th’s first jump. Homing beacons and portable radio sets were old technology, but no one in the Airborne command had seemed to consider that this sort of communications was an absolute necessity in the field. After Sicily, they changed their minds, energized by the pilots, who pushed their officers to find better ways to guide them to their drop zones. The Airborne’s drop into Sicily had been extraordinarily valuable, blocking the German advance, which might have saved the entire operation. But most of the Allied commanders, including Eisenhower, considered that to be a fortunate accident. No matter how effective the men of the Eighty-second had been in Sicily, their jump had been a chaotic mess. Criticism of the paratroopers had come from all directions, rumors filtering down that the Eighty-second might be disbanded, or redesignated as infantry. Like most such rumors, Adams knew that such a radical change was unlikely to happen, but with Eisenhower himself voicing serious doubts about the effectiveness of the paratroop force, the officers were taking the rumors seriously. General Ridgway responded vigorously to Eisenhower’s criticisms and had ordered that steps be taken to insure that future jump missions be equipped with the tools necessary so that regiments actually landed on their designated drop zones.
At Licata, some of the men had been organized into smaller units, trained for a specific job. They were called pathfinders, paratroopers whose job would be to land twenty to thirty minutes before the main body, to set up small radio transmitters that would guide the pilots to the proper jump zones. Besides the radios, some of the pathfinders would carry a krypton li
ght, a small beacon that emitted a single blinding flash of light visible miles away. If all that failed, the pathfinders were taught that once they heard the C-47s, they could simply light a fire in the shape of a T, which would clearly designate the landing zone. How exactly the pathfinders would find the correct zones themselves was not revealed to men like Adams. His faith in the pathfinders was as limited as his faith that some officer would come up with any gimmick designed to make a soldier’s life simpler. His men agreed, most of them convinced that it was still up to the pilots. If the men in the cockpit got lost, there wasn’t much anyone on the ground could do about it.
LICATA FIELD, SICILY—SEPTEMBER 8, 1943
He sat beneath the wing of a C-47, double-checking his pack, killing time, the men around him waiting as he was, nothing else to do until the orders came to board the planes. There was little talking, even the new men subdued, their nervous chatter held down, each man locked into his own thoughts.
He counted his ration tins, far fewer than he had carried on Sicily. Their personal gear had been pared down, blankets, toilet articles, and extra clothing reduced to a minimum, or eliminated altogether. It was one valuable lesson from the jumps in Sicily: armament had far more value in the field than personal convenience. The Sicilian countryside had offered them all the comforts a man required to survive. What they could not replace were the weapons, the grenades and explosives, parts for the heavy machine guns. At Fort Benning, the men had practiced by dropping their heavy equipment separately, in bundles attached beneath the wings of the C-47s. But Sicily was not Fort Benning, and the men had learned that stumbling around in the dark searching for lost bundles was a surefire way to attract the enemy’s attention. More often the bundles were simply lost, many of them still scattered in the rough hills and thickets that spread across southern Sicily. If the men wanted use of a heavy machine gun or a bazooka, they would find a way to carry one with them.