The Rising Tide: A Novel of World War II (19 page)

Clark had moved behind a small table, stood a head taller than any other man in the room. Darlan had placed himself in front of the others, a show of authority the French officers and civilians had clearly accepted. Clark knew that Murphy had already presented paperwork to the Frenchman, details of an armistice, a carefully worded arrangement designed to stop the fighting. The document offered assurances that the French were considered to be allies of both the Americans and the British and were welcomed as a capable partner in the fight yet to be waged to push the Germans out of Africa. Clark looked squarely at Darlan, who seemed to lean backward under the American’s glare.

“We have work to do to meet the common enemy. Are you ready to sign the terms of the armistice? It will cover all French Africa. It is essential that we stop this waste of time and blood.”

Darlan looked away, seemed to struggle with words. “I have sent your terms to Vichy. There will be no reply until the Council of Ministers meets this afternoon.”

Vichy.
Clark clenched his fists, looked at Murphy, who shook his head, some kind of helpless apology. Clark thought, dammit, you’re the diplomat! What are we supposed to do now? Wait for some meeting in France that might not even take place? He leaned forward, closer to Darlan, who flinched yet again.

“I do not propose to wait for any word from Vichy.”

“General Clark, I want to see hostilities stopped as soon as possible. But I have been given strict orders by Marshal Pétain to enter into no negotiations until his instructions are received. My associates and I do understand that further hostilities are fruitless. But I can only obey the orders of Pétain.”

Clark stood up straight, folded his arms across his chest. “Then I will end these negotiations and deal with someone who can act. You have thirty minutes to decide.”

It was a toothless demand. He held his pose, thought, who else can I talk to? Darlan knows there is no one who has more authority here. Clark glanced at Murphy again, saw wide eyes, stared hard at the diplomat, a silent order,
say nothing
.

Darlan seemed gripped in hand-wringing anguish and, after a long moment, said, “I urged acceptance of your terms. I am confident that Pétain will agree. We must allow them time to consider the matter.”

“We cannot stand here while government ministers debate. If you will not issue instructions for the cessation of hostilities, I will go to General Giraud. He will sign the terms and the necessary orders.”

Clark knew he had gone too far. Darlan looked at him, the milky eyes closing into slits. He shook his head. “I am certain that the troops will not obey General Giraud. This can only mean the loss of more time, and there will be more fighting.”

Clark looked at Murphy again, the man seeming to stagger from the glare. What now? Dammit, I am no good at this! There was a low murmur from the men behind Darlan, and Clark felt vulnerable, as though his authority was slipping away. He rolled his hand into a fist, leaned forward again, struck down hard at the table. The men jumped, surprised, and Darlan took a step back, the fear returning to his face. Clark let the words come now, as he had with Giraud, no diplomacy, no tact.

“If the admiral is so sure of the decision from Vichy, why can’t you issue the cease-fire order now?”

“I can’t assume such responsibility—”

“Your delay means that more Frenchmen, more Americans, and more Britons will die. I presume you know that Oran is nearly in our hands. All Frenchmen and all Americans have the same interests at heart, and here we are fighting among ourselves, wasting time. I know that the admiral wants to stop the fighting between our troops. We will get your signature on the order for the cessation of hostilities right now, or you will bear the cost of a new responsibility. We have a hundred fifty thousand troops on the ground in North Africa, and right now, they are killing Frenchmen. And yet, we have the means of equipping those same French soldiers, bringing them into our fight, our common struggle, and making North Africa a base from which we can launch operations into France itself. How anybody who holds honor and loyalty to France in such high personal regard…how anyone like that can fail to join us in an operation that can mean the liberation of France…is beyond my understanding.”

Darlan seemed ready to cry, and Clark pounded the table again, tried to ignore the pain in his hand.

Darlan sagged. “I cannot act, General, until I receive authority from Pétain.”

“By the time that authority arrives here, if it ever arrives here, we might not need the armistice. Talk to your generals. Ask them how much longer they wish to watch their men die. Ask them how much longer Oran can hold out. How many French ships have been sunk? How many cannon destroyed?”

Darlan wiped his brow again, said in a low voice, “Perhaps you will allow me to discuss this with my staff. I ask five minutes.”

C
lark moved back into the crowded room, all talk growing silent. He resumed his position behind the table, Darlan standing across from him.

Darlan put a piece of paper in front of Clark. “If you will sign this document, General, this will confirm that the Americans have not accepted our refusal to declare an immediate armistice.”

Clark fought through the jumbled meaning of Darlan’s words, looked at Murphy, who said, “May I examine this, sir?”

“Damned right.”

Murphy picked up the paper, read, looked at Clark. “Admiral Darlan is stating that further battle is futile, and that since Marshal Pétain would certainly agree that the loss of French North Africa would be a catastrophe to French honor and national interests, Admiral Darlan proposes that hostilities cease, and that French forces here assume a posture of complete neutrality.”

Clark saw a slight smile on Murphy’s face, felt a hard weight pressing down on him, the dreariness of trying to comprehend the twists and turns of diplomatic posturing. Murphy handed him the paper, said nothing, would reveal no sign of acceptance to Darlan. Clark saw no satisfaction on Darlan’s soft face, just the same tearful passivity. He saw through it now, realized that Darlan was far more clever than Giraud. There was no pomposity in the man, just the ingratiating humility, the perfect walk down the tightrope. Of course, he thought, how else do you survive dealing with Nazis? Clark pondered the word on the paper,
neutrality.
He wanted to ask Murphy about that, but the questions could wait for later. At worst, it means that French soldiers can choose for themselves which way they want to go. It’s a convenient way for Darlan to pass any responsibility to his subordinates, and so, Darlan cannot be labeled a traitor. It doesn’t matter, not now. The mission here is to get the shooting to stop.

Clark leaned forward again, said to Darlan, “I want a clear and specific order to all French naval, air, and ground forces to cease hostilities immediately. All units will be returned to their bases, where they will stand down. I want it in your handwriting, signed by you.”

Darlan nodded. “And what will you do with General Giraud?”

Clark was surprised by the question, saw Murphy lower his head. Of course, Clark thought: a diplomat’s nightmare. We’re dealing with two kingpins. It is the final question, the issue that has far more weight with these people than whether their troops are dying in the field. Whose cream rises to the top?

“It is of the utmost importance that you and General Giraud reach a working agreement. The Allied governments have granted General Giraud the position as commander in chief of the French forces here, as well as civilian authority.”

“The army is with me. They will not obey him.”

“Then, Admiral, you must see that they do.”

I
n response to Darlan’s request that Marshal Pétain authorize the signing of the armistice documents, Pétain instead issued an order relieving Admiral Darlan of his command. The chaos of French politics quickly spread through the headquarters of the various French commands across North Africa, some officers obeying Darlan’s cease-fire order, others responding more to Pétain, keeping their troops in the field, opposing the steady advance of the Americans. Clark could do little, yet the question nagged at him, as he knew it would frustrate Eisenhower: How could any Frenchman, especially an old war hero like Henri Pétain, collaborate so completely with German interests? Clark had no doubts that in Pétain’s office, his order to remove Darlan had been dictated by men in black uniforms, Hitler’s watchdogs, who manipulated the old man’s fragile strings.

Clark understood that this was a political snake pit that might only be solved when the last firefight had grown silent.

13. LOGAN

LA SÉNIA AIRFIELD, ALGERIA—
NOVEMBER 10, 1942

T
he enemy planes had taken off long before dawn, and the radios had buzzed with warnings about bomb runs, the men staying close to their guns, staring into darkness toward an enemy no one could have seen. But the French planes did not attack, and if the men in the tanks did not understand, the commanders did. With Tafaraoui securely in American hands, La Sénia would be next, and many of the French pilots had made a wise decision. Once the sun came up, the American armor and artillery would most certainly capture or destroy any French aircraft still on the ground. To prevent their destruction, the pilots simply took their planes and left. But not all. As the First Armored Division pushed steadily toward the airfield, French resistance crumbled. The Americans captured sixty remaining planes, and more than a hundred fifty prisoners.

“N
ot much of an airport.”

Logan ignored Parnell, was surprised that Hutchinson did as well. The tank column rolled out into flat, open ground, passed bomb craters, drifting clouds of smoke. There were low block buildings, white walls lining a gray tarmac, several trucks, one of them a shattered black wreck. Troops were there as well, clusters of MPs, larger groups of French soldiers, hatless, grimy men, most simply sitting on the hard ground.

The wireless had continued to pour out messages, instructions, Hutchinson spending as much time talking to officers as he did his own crew. The orders came again, and Hutchinson responded, then said, “Driver, forty degrees left. Move to that row of low hills.”

The tank swiveled, Parnell’s voice in Logan’s ear: “Fine with me, Hutch. We don’t need to be sitting out here like ducks on a pond. I guess all them Frenchies are mighty glad to see us.”

Logan said nothing, thought, is that why they were shooting at us?

The tanks spread out in formation, most pointing north, and Logan could see the other machines out on both sides, turrets making slow circles, gunners testing their fields of view. The hills were no different here then they had been near the beach, rocky, sliced by small cuts and ravines, speckled with dull gray brush. Parnell rolled the tank into a narrow cut, good cover. Hutchinson said, “Keep it right here, Skip. Shut her down. We’ll wait for orders, see what the colonel wants us to do next.”

The tank clattered into silence, the echo still in Logan’s ears, welcome heat rolling forward from the engine behind him. The air through the hatch was chilly and damp, a soft breeze, stirring the thin crust of dried mud that coated every surface. During the night there had been a storm of sleet and icy rain, blowing a hard chill through narrow passages in the heavy steel of the tank, a storm that might have kept the rest of the French fighter planes from escaping capture. But the storm had subsided, and whether or not it had cost the Americans a larger prize at La Sénia, the tank crews were grateful. Inside the shelter of the tank, no one expected to be wiping cold mist out of their eyes.

Parnell broke the silence, typical.

“We gotta just sit here, or they gonna let us take a little walk?”

Hutchinson seemed to ignore him, stood high, peered out, then sat again, spoke into the wireless. Logan watched him, knew Hutchinson’s look, careful, no misunderstanding what the voice was ordering him to do.

Hutchinson spoke into the intercom now. “Okay, we get a break. Everybody out. Yeah, take your damned walk, Skip. Don’t need you pissing in my tank. Colonel Todd says we’re to wait here, let the rest of the units gather up.”

Hutchinson climbed up and out of the tank, and Logan followed quickly. The air was cool and damp, a thick gray overhead, the horizons clouded by a dark haze. Logan jumped down from the hull of the tank, his boots splashing mud, the other two out now as well, Parnell down beside him, scampering off quickly toward a low bush.

Hutchinson stood at the front of the tank, watched Parnell’s haste. “Man’s got a bladder like a girl. Should rig him some kind of tube, let him pee right out the front of the tank.”

Logan smiled, but there was no humor in Hutchinson’s dirty face, the man pulling off his goggles, clean white rings around his eyes. The fourth man, Baxter, was down beside them now, said nothing.

Logan tapped the quiet man on the shoulder. “How you doing, Pete?”

Baxter shrugged. “Thought we’d smack into it this morning. The French just ran off, I guess.”

“Don’t count on it, soldier.”

The voice came from beyond the tank, the familiar growl of the captain. Logan saw the dusty uniform, the same raccoon eyes as Hutchinson. He stiffened, the old reflex.

Gregg said, “We’ll be here for a little while. According to Colonel Todd, Colonel Robinett is out that way, pushing toward us. There’s another column coming up from the south, Colonel Waters’s group. Once we’re in place, we’ve got one place left to go.” He pointed to the north. “Oran’s about five miles that way. The First Infantry’s perched out to the west, ready to move in and take the place. Be kinda nice if the armor could save them some trouble. Those boys have a pretty high notion of how good they are. Wouldn’t hurt us if we moved in there first. Show the infantry that we can kick some ass too.”

The First Infantry. The
Big Red One
. Logan felt comfort in that, the army’s best foot soldiers heading toward the same target. So, we’re going to have a race? Didn’t know this was a contest.

Parnell was back now, said, “Hey, Captain, you figure there’s some good-looking women in Oran? I ain’t seen a looker yet out here in this scrub country. Arab women won’t even let you have a peek.”

Parnell was the only man in the company who could make the captain laugh, something that had impressed Logan.

Gregg was smiling. “Easy, cowboy. We’ve got a job to do first.”

“Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but don’t seem like these Frenchies care enough to stop us from doin’ it.”

Gregg wasn’t smiling now. “I said, don’t count on that. They shot the hell out of our boys in the harbor. According to Colonel Todd, they’ve given us a pretty good fight down south. Waters ran into a column of armor from the French Foreign Legion. Hell of a fight. We had to call in some Spitfires, a few British bombers to soften those fellows up.”

Logan said, “Foreign Legion? I thought they’d be on our side.”

“Hell, Private, I thought this whole place would be on our side. Every damned rumor we hear turns out to be wrong. Instead of a welcome mat, we get shot at. Then, we get ready for a heavy fight, and they back off. Foreign Legion. Hell, the only thing I know about those fellows is what I saw at the movies. Gary damned Cooper. Why they’d fight alongside the Nazis is a mystery—”

The air was ripped by a sharp scream, the blast coming behind them, out in the open ground. There were more shells now, falling farther to the side, out away from the tanks.

Gregg darted away, shouted, “Mount up!”

Logan ducked low, waiting for the next blast, leaned close to the heavy steel of the tank treads. He waited for Parnell and Baxter, who scampered up onto the hull, then up and over through the hatch. More shells came, farther out, the ground shaking beneath him, and Hutchinson slapped him on the back, said, “Go!”

Logan climbed up, paused, saw a row of explosions farther out, hard blasts punching the muddy ground, harmless, no damage to anything but the scrub. Hutchinson was up beside him, and Logan said, “They can’t be shooting at us. Even the French can aim better than that.”

Hutchinson stared out with him, the blasts moving away still, the air still ripped above them, but no impacts anywhere close. Hutchinson said, “Looks like they’re not shooting at anything. Just…shooting. Big ones too, maybe one fifties.”

Logan swung his legs into the open hatch, looked toward the other tanks, saw men peering out of their hatches, the captain, faces turned toward the rising clouds of dust.

Hutchinson said, “Hell of a waste of ammunition.”

“I bet it’s just a show, Hutch. They’re ticked off, and they know they gotta pull back to Oran, so they’ll make like it’s a big artillery attack. Lighten their load. Make it easier for them if they don’t have to haul their shells.”

Hutchinson pushed him down through the hatch. “Mount up, gunner. Nobody’s made you a general yet.”

T
he enemy artillery batteries had been silenced, good work from the increasing swarm of American forces, the armored cars and gun carriers that pressed forward, either capturing or destroying the French guns. With the final wall of French resistance crumbling, two columns of American armor were ordered to push northward directly into the city of Oran. They advanced on a parallel course, Colonel Todd’s tankers moving parallel to another column led by Lieutenant Colonel John Waters.

T
he palm trees stood tall over low-slung buildings, white walls topped with ornate iron railings. Captain Gregg took the lead now, kept the squad of tanks at a slow pace, the hatches closed,
buttoned up,
no one’s head exposed. They turned down a narrow street, the doorways and windows close enough to hide snipers, or worse, an enemy who might toss a grenade right into an open turret.

Logan ignored the gunsight, nothing to see here, no targets except thick stone walls, glimpses of brown brush behind arching entryways. He peered through the periscope, felt the familiar churning in his gut, cold and uncomfortable, growing worse, the tension coming more from the tight spaces they rolled through than from the enemy who might be anywhere at all. The wireless was silent, every tank commander inside his own fortress, no one seeking instructions beyond what Gregg had already told them:
Stay close, stay behind me.
They were third in line, and Parnell kept them fifty yards behind the man in front, who was fifty yards behind Gregg. Logan leaned down, looked at Parnell’s back, soaked with sweat, the Texan silent, staring through a slit in his hatch cover, keeping the tank precisely where it needed to be. The air in the tank was growing warmer, thick with the smell of the men, and something new now, houseguests, the first occupants of the city to offer their own particular greeting. The tank was now full of flies.

Logan watched them enter through every crease and slit in the hard steel, thought, what’s drawing them? Our smell? The metal? One by one, dozen by dozen, the flies made their way inside, then darted about, seeking some landing place, gathering in a growing swarm on men and equipment. He forced himself not to watch them, swatted them away from his eyes. Damn you. What have we got in here you can’t get out there? I’m guessing this city’s got plenty of things for you to paw through.

He looked again through the periscope, saw sunlight, the street opening wide, the close walls falling away behind them. He felt the pressure lift off him, heard Hutchinson in the intercom.

“Glad to be out of that tight squeeze. At least we can see something.”

No one responded and Logan smiled, thought, you can’t be a tanker and have claustrophobia. But I’d rather be out in that open scrub brush. At least if somebody’s gonna shoot at us, we can shoot back.

The wireless crackled now, and Hutchinson spoke into the microphone, then said, “Straight ahead, driver. Follow the wider streets. I guess the captain’s not too keen on those narrow alleys either.”

Logan knew not to ask, but the questions rose inside his head, and he looked toward Hutchinson. “Hey, Hutch. They tell you where we’re going? Is this Oran yet?”

Hutchinson looked at him, nodded, waved a hand. “Looks like a city to me. Ritzy downtown Oran. Or maybe uptown. No signposts I saw. All I know is we’re moving east. Captain tells me anything else, I’ll let you know.”

There was a sharp ping above him, and Logan flinched.

Hutchinson said, “I’ll be damned. Somebody shot at us. Sniper. These damned Frenchmen may be the dumbest soldiers in the world.”

Logan glanced over to him, said, “Just keep your head inside. For all we know, the Arabs are shooting at us too. Might even be a few Krauts around here.” He paused. “I do like a tank.”

The wireless spoke again, Hutchinson responding, and he said through the intercom, “Driver, halt.”

The tank jerked to a stop, Logan leaning hard against the shoulder braces of the thirty-seven.

“Jesus, Skip, no need to slam on the damned brakes.”

“He said halt. I halted.”

Hutchinson pushed the hatch open, the sunlight flooding in, stirring the flies. He stood, and Logan looked through the periscope again, saw uniforms, men coming forward. There were voices outside, Hutchinson’s, and more. Hutchinson leaned in, shouted, “Shut ’er down, Skip!”

The tank was silent now, and Hutchinson climbed up and out, then leaned his head back inside the tank. “Looks like we’re home, boys. Somebody sent a welcoming committee.”

Logan was curious, heard laughter, stood, his head outside the hatch. He pulled off his helmet, saw Gregg, other officers, men gathering behind them,
infantry
. They wore the shoulder patch, unmistakable, the simple red numeral 1. The men moved closer, gathered around the tanks, rifles on shoulders, lean and young, dirty faces, smiles breaking out as they felt the steel of the big machines.