The Rising Tide: A Novel of World War II (40 page)

B
eyond the camp, the city of Bizerte spread like a pink-white jewel, the beauty marred now by the shattered buildings, daily bomb runs by formations of planes too high to identify. The camp was positioned with a distant view of the harbor, a distraction for men whose minds had nothing else to focus on. Logan had watched the ships, constantly in motion, had listened for the planes, bombing runs growing more frequent. Several times each day now the air above them seemed filled with planes, faint specks of bombs dropping into the harbor, plumes of water peppering the ships. Then would come the great black blast, fire and smoke, a direct hit, the prisoners responding with as much of a cheer as they could make, but not enough to draw the anger of the guards. The planes had come twice that morning, at first light, and again just after the guards had brought the food buckets. The guards had watched with them, one plane swooping low, streaking fire, a black, smoky trail, the plane tumbling into the harbor. Then it was the guards who had cheered, the prisoners cursing, waiting for revenge. It came quickly, a sudden flash out beyond the harbor itself, a ship on the horizon, a burst of white light, then great columns of black smoke. The guard closest to Logan had said the word
petrol,
and Logan understood. Yes, a fuel tanker, on its way into the harbor. Not anymore. Now it’s on the bottom.

T
he rumble of artillery was growing louder, and the men continued to gather close to the wire, crowding behind him, one man close to him stumbling, a hand on Logan’s shoulder. The guards were gathering as well, facing them, but the Germans could not avoid glancing behind them, toward the smoky horizon. There was no confrontation now, no one threatening with the bayonet, just two groups of men, held apart by a high wall of wire, both captured by the sounds of what seemed to be rolling toward them.

The air above them came alive, a hard shriek, a shell falling beyond the guardhouses, into a cluster of block buildings. More shells came down farther away, tossing debris skyward, the ground jumping under Logan’s feet. The German officers began to call out, orders, the guards responding, moving away quickly. They ran toward the destruction, more men gathering from the streets beyond the camp, all of them running toward the shattered buildings, flames rising out of the wreckage. The prisoners watched silently, no one reacting, and Logan’s brain strained once more to pull itself out from behind so many weeks of fog. He felt his heart beating faster, looked again to the west, black, billowing clouds, the sudden impact of more shells, one enormous flash of light, fire and smoke, a deafening explosion, just inside the edge of the city. The Germans were mostly gone now, but he could hear the shouts of men, a new wave of artillery fire close by, a battery of German guns that had deployed a short distance beyond the guardhouses. Most of the incoming shells were falling on the city itself, shattering the stone walls, some falling closer, punching shallow craters in the open avenues. There was traffic on the nearest road, a fat truck, machine guns on both sides, German soldiers peering out, the truck bouncing heavily as it roared past. More trucks came, smoke from an engine, the truck limping from a flat tire, sparks trailing behind, the driver not slowing. The trucks and smaller vehicles continued to roll out of the city, some full of soldiers. Their drivers stared ahead, pushed on past the compound, the caravan disappearing down the one wide roadway that led toward the harbor.

Beside him, one man spoke, gravel in his weak voice. “By damned, they’re running away.”

A wave of smoke rolled over them, the sounds of the fight closer still, chatter and pops of rifles, a burst of machine-gun fire, jolting his brain, made him push forward, hands on the wire, straining to see. He knew the sound of the German machine guns, too much experience of the guards firing above them, or splattering the mud, just for effect. There were horrible times as well, when one of the prisoners had made his mad climb up the wire, the machine guns chopping him down, spraying blood on the men who had tried to hold him back. The German guns had a hard, hollow sound, but the gun he heard now was different, familiar, and he heard it again, mingling with the pops from the rifles. The machine gun was a Thompson. It was an American.

Germans were coming out of the rubble now, a steady stream along the blasted street, blackened hands and dirty uniforms, some without helmets, two men carrying a comrade by the arms, blood on the man’s chest. They continued to come, some running, stumbling, one man, more blood, the man collapsing a few yards from the wire. The prisoners began to push forward again, some now climbing up on the wire, and Logan felt the energy, the awareness in all of them that the Germans no longer cared about guarding prisoners. Around him, more men began to climb the fence, and Logan felt himself pushed from behind, the energy building, one man pointing to the dead German’s rifle. The fight was closer still, more of the Thompsons, too many sounds, the short blast of grenades, German machine guns responding.

Beyond the guardhouses, a truck rolled toward them, rolled into open ground close to the wire. Logan saw the machine gun, one fifty-caliber up top, a man at the gun, swinging the barrel toward the prisoners. Men poured out from the back of the truck, familiar, the guards, two more heavy machine guns brought forward, set on the ground, supported by tripods. The guards stood motionless, tense, seemed to wait for something, the Americans up on the wire still as well, a hard silence. Logan saw the major now, the man coming out from behind the truck, saw the face, the arrogance, a glimpse of hell in the man’s eyes, the man Logan so desperately wanted to kill. The officer stopped a few yards from the wire, stood with his hands on his hips, looked up at the prisoners holding tight to the wire, smiled, shouted something in German, an order. The guards seemed to move in one motion, men close to the machine guns, pointed straight into the compound. Logan stepped back, instinct, men around him making low sounds, the men up on the wire still frozen. The major stepped closer now, stood out in front of his own machine guns, a few feet from the wire, still smiled at them, a small laugh, scanned the faces of the Americans, stared straight into Logan’s eyes, said:

“You will die now.”

He shouted another order, stepped to the side, and Logan saw the faces of the guards, the Germans all staring at them, wide-eyed fear, nervous hands. The men around Logan began to back away, but not all, some moving up close to the wire, the men up on the wire still motionless, hanging, waiting, all of them staring into the guns, staring into the faces of the enemy. Logan felt his heart racing, an icy chill, looked at the major, saw the man’s smile fading, a cold, gray stare, the man pulling a pistol from his belt.

“You will die
now.
”

Behind the guards, the sounds of artillery erupted again, a burst of machine-gun fire. The sounds were close, just beyond the guardhouse, and the guards reacted, some moving back to the truck, peering around. The major ignored the commotion, stared at Logan, the two men drawn together, Logan’s fingers gripping the wire, the man raising the pistol. There were new shouts, the guards starting to run, one man suddenly punched down, tumbling heavily to the ground. They all ran now, disappeared into rolling smoke, and above Logan, the men on the wire began to call out, some climbing up higher, the machine guns that pointed toward them unmanned. Logan could not look away, focused only on the major, past the small black hole of the pistol, stared into the man’s eyes, saw cold fire, felt his heart racing, ice in his hands, clenched hard around the wire, the growing fury, the wire bending, his arms pulling it slowly toward him. The smoke was all around them, a rolling cloud, and there were more shots, single pops, the truck abandoned now, the fight rolling toward them through the rubble. Logan kept his stare on the officer, the man doing the same, and the pistol wavered, a slight quiver in the German’s hand, and suddenly the man’s knees buckled, the major tumbling forward. The smoke engulfed them both, and Logan could see movement, shapes of men at the truck, men moving forward all through the smoke, swarming out in both directions, some moving into the guardhouses, the sharp blast of a grenade, shouts, a scream, more machine-gun fire. Logan stared at the major’s body, saw blood on the man’s back, the pistol still in his hand. He looked up, no one on the wire, the prisoners gone, and he looked back around him, saw a truck on the far side of the compound, the gate, the truck pushing slowly into the wire, ripping the tall steel posts from the ground. He saw now, the truck had a white star. They were Americans.

The wire collapsed on the truck itself, and the truck backed away, pulling the fence apart, ripping a great hole in the wire. Prisoners were cheering, pouring out of the compound, limping and battered men rushing forward. Some stopped just beyond the shredded wire, collapsing to their knees, soldiers gathering around them, more trucks now rolling close. Logan moved that way, ignored the pain in his leg, stumbled, the smoke choking him, and he passed a tin shelter, saw men crawling out, the sick, barely able to move, soldiers there now, stretchers, medics. He saw one man, lying flat, under a strip of canvas, and he dropped to one knee, leaned close, put his hand on a man’s shoulder, said, “Come on! The fence is down! We can go! It’s our boys!”

The words choked, tightness in his throat, and he felt tears, but the man didn’t move, didn’t seem to hear him. Logan felt his face, cold stiffness, and he leaned closer, the man’s face gray and still, the name in his mind, Harris…

“Damn.”

He felt a hand on his back. “Hey, Mac, you need some help? I’m a medic. How’s your buddy?”

Logan pulled himself out from the shelter, sat. “He’s gone. Didn’t make it.”

“Too bad. Lemme see that leg. Pretty nasty.”

Logan said nothing, the man wrapping something on his leg, a hard sting, the leg jerking.

“Easy, Mac. I’ll get you some morphine.”

“No, that’s okay. Just help me up. I’ll be okay.”

“We’ll get you a stretcher. Ambulances are coming up. We’ll treat that leg in the field hospital.”

The man lifted him up under the arm, and Logan stood, the man pointing him toward the opening in the wire. A crowd was there, a chorus of shouting, cheers and crying, an ambulance rolling close, more men, officers. Logan moved that way, felt the pain in his leg, tried to fight the fog returning, his brain echoing the sounds of the fight, the machine guns, the thunder of the artillery. The soldiers were mingling with the prisoners, and he felt a chill, wanted to warn the men, thought, it can’t be over…there’s still a fight, be careful. Germans just over there…

He stumbled again, his hands on the ground, pain in his leg, the jolt waking him, clearing his brain. He pulled himself up, moved toward the gaping hole in the fence, looked toward the rubble beyond the camp, the guardhouses, windows punched out, more smoke. The fog drained out of him, and the sounds faded, distant and harmless. He saw a column of Germans emerging from the rubble, their hands clamped tightly on their heads, prisoners, guarded by filthy, jubilant Americans. He limped forward, pressed his way through the men at the wire, felt hands on him, words flowing past him, couldn’t speak, tears blinding him. He moved out past the enclosure, walked back along the wire. On the road, trucks were in motion, foot soldiers still advancing, scattered gunfire in the distance, more smoke, burning buildings, sickening stench. He ignored it all, moved along the wire, saw it now, the gray heap, the bloody stain. He stood over the man, tried to make a fist, to feel the anger again, to open that dark and dangerous place, to bathe himself in the hard, black hatred. But it wasn’t there, his fist weakening, the stirring of anger growing still. He leaned down, pulled the pistol from the German’s hand, looked at it for a long moment, raised it high over his head, pulled the trigger. The gun jumped, a hard crack, and he pulled the trigger again and again, fired the gun until it was empty. Men were shouting at him, moving up close behind him, nervous, an officer, and he turned, saw a lieutenant, a flash of anger.

“What the hell…?”

“It’s okay, sir. He’s entitled.”

“I’ll take care of him, sir. Had to be pretty rough for these guys. I got him.”

One man came close, held out a hand. “Here, grab my arm.”

Logan shook his head slowly, looked down at the German major. “I’m okay. Just had to do…something.”

The lieutenant moved away, and the others lingered for a moment. He felt the concern, the smiles, looked at the dirty faces and rough beards, saw men like him, men who had found their targets, who had fought the enemy and driven him away.

He put the pistol in his belt and began to walk toward the ambulance.

29. EISENHOWER

A
s the Americans sealed their hold on Bizerte, the British drove hard to capture Tunis. The German defenders, surprised by the power of Alexander’s left-hook tactic, and crushed under the weight of Allied air bombardments, could not hold back the overwhelming wave of infantry and armor. By May 13, German resistance along the entire front collapsed. Except for scattered pockets and sporadic fighting, the battle for Tunisia was over.

The German and Italian soldiers who had been swept out of the cities were pressed north and east, to the final sanctuary, the Bon Peninsula, a thirty-mile-wide spit of land that jutted into the Mediterranean. It offered the only possible avenue of escape; if the troops could be evacuated onto boats and transport planes, the Axis might salvage a substantial part of their army, as the British had done at Dunkirk. But along the rocky beaches, there was no armada, no great mass of rescue vessels. Offshore, the waters were under the heavy guns of the British navy, and in the air, British and American fighters had virtually eliminated the Luftwaffe’s ability to accomplish any kind of rescue. Instead of making a mass exodus out of Tunisia, the German and Italian armies trapped on the Bon Peninsula had no choice but to surrender. The Allies captured a quarter of a million prisoners.

One final prize remained, and Eisenhower received the news the evening of May 13, confirmation that General Hans Juergen von Arnim had been captured along with his men. Eisenhower’s staff had been jubilant, as though one man’s capture meant as much as the defeat of the armies von Arnim commanded. Everyone hoped that the two men would come face-to-face, a moment for the cameras. The staff insisted that a meeting with von Arnim would fit so neatly into the chronicle of this war, two leaders, shaking hands perhaps, honorable gentlemen to the last. The idea appalled him.

TUNIS—MAY 20, 1943

It was after four in the morning, the skies over the harbor opening up, soft light rising behind the mountains on the far side of the wide bay. He stood at the window of the old hotel, stared into cool, dry air, felt the soft breeze, tugged at his jacket. He leaned out, looked down toward the streets below him, still hidden by the darkness, no sound, no movement he could see. He wanted to be there, outside, stroll along the wide street, walk down to the wharves, hear the water, watch the sunrise. Not a good idea, he thought. The MPs are patrolling, keeping a sharp eye for anyone moving around. It would be a little hard to explain why the commanding general was wandering the streets at four in the morning. Assuming they even asked at all. They might just shoot me.

He had given up trying to sleep, had suffered the same ailment for several days now. It wasn’t just the anxiety of the fight that kept him awake, the silent hours waiting for reports from front-line commanders. It was more from the incessant cables and messages, the pressure coming from the Joint Chiefs in both Washington and London. For weeks now, Eisenhower had been urged to look beyond Tunisia, to focus his energies on the planning for the next great campaign, the invasion of Sicily. It was good strategy certainly, not allowing the enemy to regroup, to hit a vital air and supply center before the Germans could compensate for their inevitable defeat in North Africa. Eisenhower accepted that the combined Allied forces should press ever forward, without delay. Already the maps of Tunisia had come down, maps of Sicily in their place, reports of troop strengths and equipment deliveries flowing across Eisenhower’s desk. Patton and Montgomery both knew what their new roles would be, and there had already been plenty of friction between the two men, the inevitable clash of powerful personalities, whose personal visions of the future didn’t include anyone else sharing their spotlight.

Throughout late April and early May, Marshall prodded him to focus on Sicily, but Eisenhower couldn’t just pull himself away from Africa, couldn’t pretend that men weren’t still dying in a fight that had already lasted far longer than he knew it should have. The mistakes had been many and glaring, and Eisenhower knew they could not be repeated. The entire Allied command structure had been tweaked and rearranged, lessons learned from the errors of strategies and the mistakes of the men who carried them out, all those things that simply hadn’t worked. He knew he was hard on the men who didn’t measure up, but no harder than he had been on himself. In the long dark hours he pondered that,
his
mistakes.

There had been a strange and welcome inevitability to what had happened over the past few weeks. Even as Bradley and Anderson and Montgomery drove their armies into stout enemy defenses, their confidence fed his own, and for the first time he allowed himself to feel a comfortable certainty that in Tunisia, the machine was functioning, that the right men were in the right place, and there would be no more failures. For the first time in two years of the African campaign, it was clear that the Germans were beaten. The myth of Hitler’s invincibility had been shattered, first at Stalingrad, and then here, in the rocky hills of Tunisia. The British still spoke boisterously of Montgomery’s great trumpet-blowing triumph at El Alamein, and Eisenhower would not take anything away from the accomplishment. But El Alamein did not end the war in Africa, it just moved it out of Egypt and brought it closer to the Americans. No matter Monty’s bluster, every Allied general knew that once the Germans reached Tunisia, Rommel could still have turned the tide, punched a deep hole in Monty’s celebration.

His mind drifted back to Kasserine. It could all have collapsed, every plan, every hope. He caught himself glancing at the maps, studying the red lines of Rommel’s advance, pushing westward, the last deadly opportunity for Rommel to drive a spear that could have plunged the Germans right into Algiers. But then, it was done, the Germans halting their attacks, and just like that, the threat was gone. Something had certainly happened to Rommel, something no one in the Allied headquarters could explain. Eisenhower didn’t care about speculation, had no interest in theories. What mattered was that Rommel had simply gone, and with him any notion that the Germans were unbeatable.

So, now they want me to shake hands with von Arnim and smile for the cameras and pretend we share respect, that we admire each other’s grit and courage. Two good soldiers coming together as though we respect our accomplishments, we
appreciate
the struggle. He was baffled that his staff, the other commanders, thought such a thing was a good idea. He saw nothing
gentlemanly
in von Arnim, nor in Rommel, nor in any of them. The Germans had made this war, he thought. They started it and they made it what it has become, and millions of people have died. It is not about a boundary dispute, about land or treasure or politics. It is one man’s quest to conquer the whole damned world. How utterly absurd that is, something from a bad novel. The whole notion of a gentlemen’s war, that damned British thing, saluting noble warriors. There is nothing noble about von Arnim. He is simply a tool. If he had defeated us here, he would be Hitler’s darling, a great hero, one more piece of Hitler’s dream. Shake hands with him? The son of a bitch should be hanged.

He felt his heart beating, leaned out the window again, took a long breath of cool air. Damn this. You don’t need to fight this damned campaign all over again. We’ve won.
Victory.
Hell, there’s a parade today. What a stupid idea.

The energy behind the celebration had come from the French, and Eisenhower had far better things to do than spend hours in a reviewing stand, while exhausted soldiers marched past him. But it was unavoidable, and he had surrendered to protocol, had even invited Patton to come, the man always a crowd pleaser. But he had no illusions; this entire spectacle was about French power, a show for the locals, the Arabs and displaced Italians, a clear signal that this land was again in French hands. After all, he thought, the Americans and the British won’t be here that much longer. Giraud knows that it is important that their
citizens
see an impressive show of power. It’s important for him as well. De Gaulle is already making noises that he expects to come here and be welcomed as the conquering hero. Jackass. Giraud outranks him by three stars and proved himself under fire. De Gaulle sits in London and makes pronouncements that France is winning the war, and so his cause is triumphant. He had heard reports that de Gaulle was demanding that French soldiers sign a loyalty oath to him alone, and Eisenhower knew it could cause trouble, not only in France but in the Allies’ own backyard. A civil war in Algeria, he thought. That’s what could come of this. Politicians and their pride. One more reason to get the hell out of here and go to Sicily.

He moved away from the window, stood motionless in the dark, thought of rousing Butcher out of bed. No, let him sleep. And, I’ll bet he is sleeping too. All of them. Basking in the glow. There was a fair amount of alcohol flowing around here last night. No harm done, I suppose. Let them have their party. They sure as hell earned it. The whole world is telling them so. Telling
me
so. I should read all of those notes again. For crying out loud, you ought to be thankful someone’s paying attention. What the hell is wrong with me? I can’t sleep, I can’t enjoy one hearty congratulation, I can’t read a single damned letter without this hard knot in my chest.

The letters had flowed in, from London and Washington, from every theater of the war, even a congratulatory letter from the Russian chief of staff. The headquarters had been festive, pats on the back rattling around like so much applause, the other headquarters, Alexander, Bradley, Montgomery, all the rest, certainly the same way. Word had already been received that Marshall was coming from Washington, that Churchill would probably visit as well. It was to be expected of course, and Eisenhower had tried to keep his mind away from all that pomp and official planning.

He saw a light in the harbor, watched for a moment, realized it was a reflection off a ship’s tower. The sun was creeping just above the rim of the far hills, the harbor a ripple of activity, ships moving silently, the wharves coming to life.
Victory.
He tried to hold the word in his mind, to feel what so many of the men around him found so easy to accept. He thought of Marshall, well, all right. Come on, have your look around, pass out the congratulations, give out the medals. And then sit down with me and remind me not to get comfortable. There were footsteps in the hall, someone trying to step quietly. He moved to the door, pulled it open, saw the blue uniform.

Butcher stood straight, surprised, and Eisenhower said, “No need to sneak around, Harry. I’ve been up for hours. Same damned thing. I go to bed, sleep for an hour, then wide-awake.”

“Anything I can do to help, Skipper?”

“Yeah. Find a way to end this damned war.”

ALGIERS—MAY 29, 1943

It was a parade of a different sort, confined to conference rooms and dining halls, Churchill, General Marshall, and a mass of senior commanders and staff officers. It was entirely reasonable that with the battles in Tunisia now past, Churchill would make a visit. Eisenhower was fully aware that since the beginnings of the North African campaign, Churchill had played a crucial role in the Allied success, a chess game of sorts, the prime minister making his moves by shifting or removing British commanders, putting what he saw as the best man in the best place to get the job done. Despite grumbling from some of the field commanders that Churchill had meddled too deeply in the operations of the British army, the success of the campaign took the starch out of the critics. Now, it was perfectly appropriate for Churchill to visit the scene, to walk the bloody fields, strut admiringly among the soldiers. Along the way, if someone wished to lay credit at his feet, so be it.

Eisenhower knew that his days would not be his own, as long as Churchill and Marshall were close by. He couldn’t help thinking of Patton, the man’s disdain for armchair officers. Eisenhower knew that the visits were self-serving, the Brits and Americans still sizing each other up, comparing their influence, each one measuring his own place in the success of the North African campaign.

A
ll eyes were on Churchill.

“I am well aware that there is sentiment in the United States that our emphasis be placed on an invasion of France. My position on this is clear. Our first priority must be to eliminate the Italians. They are teetering as we speak, and should Italy bow out of this war, Hitler’s position on the European continent shall be weakened considerably.”

Eisenhower glanced at Marshall, saw a hint of a frown.

Churchill didn’t wait for comment, continued, “When Sicily falls, our immediate goal should be the defeat of those Axis armies in Italy. Any attack on the Italian mainland will only hasten the desire of the Italian people to remove the shackles put upon them by Mussolini. I have always maintained that Italy is the highway that will lead us straight into the heart of Hitler’s fortress. I believe that still. The Russians believe it as well. They are most insistent that we move against Germany as quickly as possible. There are expectations that Hitler is planning another monumental offensive against our Allies to the east, and Premier Stalin is anxious that we remove some of that pressure from his beleaguered armies.”

There were nods, all of them from the British commanders. Eisenhower scanned the faces, the men who had done such good work in Africa. Across from him was Tedder, the air commander, Admiral Cunningham beside him, Alexander at the far end of the table. Eisenhower expected some response from Marshall, but the American chief of staff said nothing, and Eisenhower felt the awkwardness of the silence.

After a moment, Eisenhower said, “I understand your wish to end this war by the best means possible. But before committing myself to an attack on the Italian mainland, I must first take all possible measures to insure our success in Sicily.”

Churchill rolled his cigar in his fingers, looked at Marshall, studied him, then looked at Eisenhower, said, “Certainly, General. Without Sicily in our bag, a conquest of Italy is just a dream. Do what you must. What is your next step, if I may ask?”