The Steel Wave (7 page)

Smith seemed to measure Eisenhower’s mood. He chose his words carefully. “They’re right about one thing, Ike. We’re blasting their factories. That’s already making a difference. We keep targeting them—”

“The Brits bomb at night, Beetle. Almost no chance of precision. Sure, they might wipe out a few factories, but the worst job is ours. The damned B-17s make their runs in the daylight, and we’re getting our asses chewed up by the Kraut fighters. For every target we eliminate, we lose too many of our own pilots. We can’t ask the air boys to do all the damned work while the rest of us sit back and watch. And, it won’t work anyway, no matter what that blowhard Harris says. End the war by April, for God’s sake.
April.
”

Eisenhower saw the blue uniform at the door, the one smiling face in the entire headquarters. It was his naval aide, Harry Butcher.

“What the hell do you want?”

Butcher looked at Smith but knew not to ask questions. He had seen too many of Eisenhower’s bad moods. “Sorry to interrupt, chief, but General Patton has been waiting for a while.”

Smith laughed. “Killed anybody yet? Old George isn’t the most patient man in this army.”

“Shut up, Beetle. Let me talk to George alone. This day is only going to get worse.”

Smith started toward the door. “Sure thing, Ike. I have to meet with some of Monty’s people in a half hour. Some bitching about gasoline.”

“Don’t tell me about it until the problem is solved.”

Eisenhower was alone now, a brief gasp of calm. He leaned his head back and stared up through the dull white of the ceiling. You know, he thought, if this ever ends, I think I’ll go grow corn in Kansas.

“
I
saw Bomber Harris outside. Not such a pleasant sort. Okay for a Brit.”

Eisenhower knew Patton would have plenty to say, no matter what the topic. He looked at the man’s belt and saw the two pistols. “George, why in hell are you armed? I haven’t seen a single damned German in these offices yet.”

Patton shrugged, unfazed. “Good for the men, Ike. Those guards out there, they understand. All these damned staffers, clerks, secretaries. Inspires them, lets them know what we’re about. Makes every one of them want to join the fight, find out what it really takes to win this thing.”

“Where the hell did you get the pearl handles?”

Patton seemed to inflate, his eyes wide. “Dammit, Ike, not you too! Who in hell would carry a pearl-handled revolver? Pimps in whorehouses and tinhorn gamblers! They’re ivory! The real stuff, finest around. I’d have killed the elephant myself if I had to.”

Eisenhower had no energy for this. “Wouldn’t have had to, George. He’d have rolled over at your feet for the honor of giving you the damned tusks.”

Patton calmed, stuck out his chin, and nodded. “Damn right. Some Kraut bastard sticks his head out, and I’ll show him why.”

Eisenhower looked down toward his desk drawer. Whatever you say, George, he thought. Just keep those damned things holstered for now. He reached into a drawer and pulled out a folder of papers.

“You’ve been briefed on your new assignment? Beetle fill you in?”

Patton seemed to grunt at the mention of the name, and Eisenhower knew it was one more cross he had to bear. Patton might have harsh opinions for every officer in the war, but he especially seemed to hate Bedell Smith. Patton squared himself in the chair. “I know my job. The Third Army will make you proud, Ike. I told you. I always knew if you just had faith, I’d come through.”

“You don’t make it easy.”

Patton seemed suddenly subdued, a transparent show of humility that Eisenhower saw through. He knew what was coming.

“I owe you, Ike. Always will. You stuck behind me, you and Marshall both. When I heard you had been put in command of this whole operation, I told…well, everyone. No better man. None. You’re going down as one of the best in history, better than Napoleon. The enemy hasn’t got a prayer in hell with you at the wheel. I won’t let you down, I promise you that, Ike.”

Eisenhower held up his hand. He felt buried in molasses. “Stop! Look George, just keep your mouth shut, all right? No talking to the press, no speeches, no big damned tours. And stay the hell out of hospitals.”

“Absolutely, Ike. You can count on me.”

“We’re all counting on you.” The words were useless, Eisenhower falling into Patton’s trap. Yes, we all count on everyone. We’re all one big damned football team. Rah, rah.

“Bradley’s a fine choice, Ike. First class. Always thought highly of him. He’ll come through. It’s a pleasure to be in his command.”

It was a gesture from Patton. Eisenhower looked hard at him and thought, Is it really?

“How about Monty?”

Patton sniffed, shrugged. “Monty’s okay. You’ll have to prod him though, keep on his ass. Too damned methodical for my taste. Waits until every damned duck is in a row before he moves. I could have nailed down Sicily by myself, you know, if you’d let me.”

“Knock it off, George. I didn’t bring you here to lecture me or hear your opinions. Your HQ all set up?”

Patton seemed to calm himself, an effort to become the good subordinate. “Met them last night. Not too happy about that, Ike. My troops aren’t scheduled to arrive for weeks yet. No one’s giving me a straight answer. Beetle wouldn’t tell me how long it would take for the first divisions to ship in.”

“Not weeks, months. Beetle didn’t tell you any more than that because those were my orders. I need to talk to you about the plan myself.”

Patton seemed to sag. “What’s going on, Ike? You changing your mind? Some stinking goddam senator put a bug up Marshall’s ass? Am I still in command of the Third Army?”

Eisenhower let out a long breath. He could see Patton’s face turning red. “Relax, George. Yes, you are in command of the Third Army. But you won’t hit France until the beachheads are well in hand. That’s for Monty to do, and Bradley. You will go in after them, try like hell to punch a hole, drive the enemy back to Germany. Nobody I’d rather have in charge of that kind of job than you. You got that?”

Patton looked at the floor for a moment. “Not really. You don’t want me to lead the assault? I did a damned fine job of that in Sicily. Is this Monty’s crap? He still pissed about Messina? Hell, if he’d gotten off his ass and shoved his people where they needed to be—”

“Stop!”

Patton was leaning forward, clearly angry; Eisenhower pointed a finger at him.

“
That’s
why, George. Some jobs require thought and planning before the shooting starts. Monty’s a thinker, Brad is a thinker. You…you lead with your fists. Fine, that’s a good thing. I’m counting on you for that…when the time comes. But I have a much more important job for you right here.”

Patton’s mood changed abruptly. Eisenhower saw he was curious. “What kind of job?”

“The enemy knows very well what you mean to us, how you inspire the troops, what the newspapers say about you, all of that. Despite everything we’ve done to keep word of your whereabouts secret, the enemy’s intelligence knows you’re here.”

Patton seemed to puff up again, and Eisenhower thought, Of course, he’s proud they keep track of him.

“I’ll keep my head down, Ike. We find any Kraut spies, I’ll string ’em up myself.”

“Actually, George, we’ve already found a few spies. The Brits have done one hell of a job nailing Hitler’s intelligence people here. Better than that, we’ve been able to turn them around.”

“You’re asking Kraut spies to work for us?”

“
Asking
isn’t the word I’d use. They either work for us or they’re executed. It’s called a strong bargaining position. Point is, so far, it’s worked out well. We’ve been feeding the enemy false information; then we sit back to see if they respond. Stupid little tests, like information about some raid we’re going to launch on a weather station or some fortified gun battery. It’s worked. The Germans have responded just like we wanted them to. They still believe their agents are doing their job. What they don’t know is that their communications are being monitored by our people.”

“How long do you think this is going to work? Sooner or later, one of these turncoats is going to remember his beloved Führer and stick someone in the back.”

“Could happen. The Brits are all over this. Double and triple cover. A lot of stuff I don’t even want to know about, details I don’t need to know.”

“Don’t like this, Ike. A Kraut is a Kraut.”

“I don’t care if you like it or not, George. I need you to follow orders. And this is a beauty. We plan to let it leak that you’ve arrived in London, for one very specific command.”

“They’ll learn about that sooner or later, Ike. You can’t hide a whole damned army.”

“We don’t plan to hide one. We plan to create one. The plans are being put into place. The First United States Army Group, commanded by General George Patton.”

He had never seen Patton so confused. “A fake army? What the hell for?”

“To convince the enemy that we’re going to make our landing at Calais. That
you
are going to make our landing at Calais. We’re still figuring out some of the details, but the plan we’re putting together calls for you to become visible in every place where it makes sense for an army group commander to be. The Brits are jumping on this like flies on a dead mule, George. They’ve already got construction people lining up to build fake wharves, shipping depots, tank and truck parks. Churchill loves it, wishes he had thought of it himself. He’s pushed like hell to get British factories to turn out all kinds of tricks. The G-2 people are talking about rubber tanks, plywood trucks, artillery pieces made out of plumbing.”

“Rubber tanks?”

“It sounds bizarre, George, I know. But if this works, if the enemy swallows it and believes we are landing at Calais, he will reinforce his position there. It could tie down entire divisions, panzers, artillery. It could mean the difference between success and failure at Normandy. It’s that damned simple. Your headquarters has already been established. It will be fully staffed and there will be considerable communication flowing in and out, just what the enemy would expect to hear.”

“But…the troops. Where are the troops coming from?”

“There are no troops. That’s the point, George. We’re training like hell to put our people across the beaches at Normandy, along the Cotentin Peninsula. Every effort has to go to carrying out that operation. But the enemy needs to believe that we are coming in at Calais. Hell, he
should
believe it. It’s the most logical place, the closest point to Dover, good beaches, a straight shot into Germany. The Germans read maps as well as we do, George. They’ll
want
to believe this.”

Patton stared at him and shook his head slowly. “This is the stupidest damned plan I’ve ever heard.”

“Correction. This is
the
plan. It’s
your
plan,
your
mission,
your
orders. And you will damned sure make it work.”

Patton was scowling, a look Eisenhower had seen before. “But the Third Army…is that real?”

“Yep. But that comes later. We need this first. Otherwise, when we hit those beaches at Normandy, our people might get chucked right back into the damned sea. If that happens, it could be a year or more before we could even try to do something like this again. The Brits…they’ve just about had enough, George. They can’t absorb another kick in the ass, another Dunkirk. If Overlord doesn’t work, the Germans will gain more than a victory. Every Kraut will know they chewed up the best we could give. Churchill? Hell, I don’t know what he’d do. He’s fought this plan from the beginning. And FDR? He’d have to bend to the pressure from MacArthur and put our best strength in the Pacific. And he’d be right.”

Eisenhower paused. Patton was staring at him, serious. He knew what he should say, what would mean more to Patton than politics and grand strategies.

“George, if this thing falls apart, if we don’t put our people across those beaches and hold on…it won’t matter much to you and me. We’ll spend the rest of this war pushing pencils in some closet in Washington.”

4. EISENHOWER

TEN DOWNING STREET, LONDON
FEBRUARY 15, 1944

“
I
had hoped we would land a wildcat that would tear out the bowels of the Boche, but it appears we have instead landed a vast whale, with its tail flopping about in the water. I am not at all pleased with this operation. Not at all.” Churchill took a long drink from a crystal tumbler, set it down in front of him, and glared at the men around the table. “What are we planning to do here? Is there a plan at all?”

Eisenhower had grown used to Churchill’s bellowing his displeasure at any campaign that floundered, any single officer who did not perform. This time the campaign was Italy, the particular operation the invasion at Anzio. The entire operation had in fact been Churchill’s idea from the beginning. The amphibious landing was inspired by the Allies’ lack of success in driving the Germans northward through the Italian peninsula. In fact, Field Marshal Kesselring’s Germans had anchored themselves solidly into a defensive line that made considerable use of the mountainous terrain across central Italy. The battles there had become slugfests, with little progress and little movement on either side. Churchill was enthusiastic for what Allied planners described as an American end run around Kesselring’s western flank, though it had amused Eisenhower that Churchill required an explanation as to just what an
end run
actually meant. It had not occurred to the Americans that Winston Churchill would have no grasp of a term that applied to American football. But Churchill recognized that the plan was clear cut in its simplicity and could be the least costly way to break what was becoming a miserable stalemate.

The plan called for the American Sixth Corps, under Major General John Lucas, to land on the beach at Anzio, only thirty-five miles south of Rome, well behind the German defensive line. Establishing their beachhead, the Americans would quickly drive inland, severing the link between the German positions and Rome itself. If the plan worked, Kesselring’s forces would be pressed from two sides and possibly surrounded. At the very least, American troops might sweep northward into Rome, which would be an enormous boost of morale for the Allies and the beleaguered Italians, who still feared that the Germans might destroy their ancient city. If the Germans somehow escaped the pincer, Kesselring would have no choice but to pull his forces northward, farther up the Italian peninsula and away from the mountainous defenses that had given the Allies such difficulty. Faced with such a crisis, it was unlikely that any German troops could be stripped away from Kesselring and sent to reinforce the defense of the beaches in France. A successful landing at Anzio could very well shorten the war.