The Rising Tide: A Novel of World War II (58 page)

The Allied forces continued their pressure against the Germans, and the 505th advanced out to the east of the city, support for British and American infantry units who continued to seek some way to outmaneuver the German defenses. But Kesselring’s withdrawal had been carefully organized, the Germans giving ground reluctantly, allowing them time to fortify a strong defensive position in their rear. Clark’s forces continued their slow progress along the coast, and Montgomery’s troops were surging northward in the center and along the east coast of the Italian boot. But Kesselring’s plan had now become apparent. The Germans had anchored themselves in the rugged terrain along the Volturno River, and farther east, German infantry and panzer units had made effective use of the gift the rugged Apennine Mountains provided them. Any major confrontation now would come at a place of Kesselring’s choosing.

NAPLES—OCTOBER 5, 1943

The order had come from Captain Scofield, the men sent off the road to rest in a grove of lemon trees. Adams was surrounded by them now, twisted, gnarled branches, protected by enormous thorns. They were similar to the olive trees, ancient and twisted, but the fruit was strange, enormous globes of yellow fruit that looked more like melons. He had already suffered through the stupidity of the experiments, so many of the men obsessed with tasting this absurdly freakish fruit, no resemblance to anyone’s idea of what a normal lemon should look like. As Adams expected, the lemons were bitter and stunningly sour, the men quickly convinced that no Italian could possibly know what good lemonade was supposed to taste like.

He looked for a place to rest his back, avoided the thorns beside him, laid the Thompson across his legs. He saw Scofield up on the road, the captain spotting him, turning toward him. Scofield sat, pulled out a tin of crackers, held it out toward Adams.

“No, thank you, sir. I had a tin of stew.”

“Better than these, that’s for certain.”

Scofield drank from his canteen, and Adams waited, sensed there was something more to the captain’s choice of where to sit.

“We have new orders, sir?”

Scofield lowered the canteen, looked at him, then away, pointed to the white road. “Romans built these roads, you know. Probably cultivated lemons in this same field. Lot of history in this place. Every time we blow some building to hell, I wonder how long it had been there. Same way on Sicily. The Romans built these roads to move their troops, keep control of their empire. We’re marching in their footsteps, Sergeant. Somehow I think they’d appreciate that.”

“Yes, sir. I suppose they would.”

“Even the tanks don’t tear them up. Some of our road builders back home could take some lessons.”

“Yes, sir.”

Scofield poked at the crackers. “I’m going to hate to lose you, Sergeant. Nobody gets these boys into shape like you do.”

Adams sat up straight. “Lose me where?”

Scofield ate another cracker, and Adams saw a brief smile.

“What’s going on, sir?”

Scofield tossed the empty tin aside, unscrewed the top from his canteen. He took another drink, replaced the lid, and Adams could see he was enjoying himself.

“Sir…”

“Sergeant Adams, Colonel Gavin has been relieved of duty with the Five-oh-five.”

“What?”

“Relax, Sergeant. General Ridgway has recommended him for promotion to brigadier general. He’s to become Ridgway’s second-in-command of the entire division.”

“Damn! We’re losing the colonel?” Adams was suddenly angry, held his words, saw the slight smile on Scofield’s face. “I don’t get it, sir. This is terrible news. I mean, it’s good for the colonel, but nobody is going to be happy about this.”

The jeep came past now, slid to a halt, and Adams saw the driver searching the faces.

Scofield stood, waved. “Here!”

The driver climbed out, moved into the grove. “Captain, I’m looking for—”

“Yes, I know, Corporal. This is Sergeant Adams.”

The corporal was older, surprisingly, the face of a veteran. He scanned Adams, appraising, a slight frown. “Sergeant, I’ve been ordered to fetch you, bring you to Colonel Gavin’s command post.” He stood back, held out a hand. “After you, Sergeant.”

Adams was baffled, looked at Scofield, at the faces of the men gathering, as curious as he was. Adams was growing nervous now. “What’s going on, Captain?”

“Orders, Sergeant. Go with the corporal.”

Adams stood, hoisted the Thompson onto his shoulder. He looked toward the men, no smiles, one low voice.

“The sarge in trouble? What’s he done?”

Scofield held out a hand, and Adams hesitated, realized what the captain was doing. He took the man’s hand, felt a hard grip, a firm handshake, and Scofield said, “You take care of yourself, Sergeant.”

Adams felt a wave of cold spreading through him, his mind forming a protest, no, I’m not going anywhere.

“You sending me home, sir? Why?”

“Home? Hell no, Sergeant. You’ve still got some work to do.”

505TH PARACHUTE INFANTRY REGIMENT, MOBILE COMMAND POST—OCTOBER 5, 1943

“Sit down, Sergeant.”

Adams obeyed, the chill still rolling through him, his hands shaking. He said nothing, watched as Gavin spoke to an aide, the man disappearing out the door. Gavin turned toward him now, and Adams was squirming, felt uncomfortable, thought, you should be standing up. Nobody sits in front of a damned general.

Gavin pointed to him. “Cigarette?”

“No, sir. Thank you.”

“You’re from the Southwest, right?”

“New Mexico, sir.”

“Beautiful country. Wide-open spaces. Good place to grow up.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What you aiming to do when you get back home? You ranch? Farm?”

“It’s mining country, sir. I may not go back, exactly.”

“Mining? Can’t blame you. I grew up in Pennsylvania, coal country. Couldn’t get out of there fast enough. Looks like I found my spot. Expect I’ll be in the army the rest of my life. You consider that?”

“No, sir. I should, I guess, sir. Not sure what I want to do.”

Adams was swimming in questions, thought, what does he care? What the hell have I done? Gavin moved to a small table, and Adams looked around now, realized there were curtains on the windows, someone’s home. Of course, you idiot. They wouldn’t just build a house for us to use. Some Italian probably bitching like hell.

He focused again. “Sir? Begging your pardon, but I don’t know what I’m doing here.”

“You need to know that, Sergeant? You need all the answers?”

He realized now, there was meaning to the question. “No, sir. Absolutely not, sir.”

“Good. Because you’re not getting the answers just yet. You’re here because I sent for you. I’m being pulled out of here. You hear about that?”

“Yes, sir. Captain Scofield said you were being promoted. Congratulations, sir.”

“Stuff that crap. I screamed like hell when General Ridgway told me that. No, that’s not quite right. You don’t scream anything to Ridgway. But…turns out this promotion’s not such a bad thing. There’s more to it than just a rank. I’m pulling out of Italy. I can’t talk about it in detail, but I’ve been given a new assignment, to be part of the planning for a new operation. And I’m taking you with me.”

“
Me?
Excuse me, sir—”

“It’s not open to discussion, Sergeant. I know all about you. I know how you handle the men, how you handle yourself under pressure. I told Ridgway that I thought it was wrong to take good combat soldiers out of combat, that we should be using men like you—and me—where we do the most good. That kind of argument doesn’t wash in the army. As I said, this is all about the planning of a new operation. I need the best men with me, and you’re one of them.”

“Thank you, sir. I still don’t get it. What kind of operation? Where are we going?”

“I told you, no questions. You got your gear?”

“Yes, sir. Right outside.”

“You can leave your Thompson, your grenades. They’ll find a good home. You won’t be needing any of that for a while.”

NOVEMBER 18, 1943

His uniform was clean, his hair cut, and he still wasn’t sure if this were some sort of bizarre nightmare. He missed the Five-oh-five, Scofield, Unger, the rest of them, but there was no time for bellyaching. Gavin seemed to understand, and in between the long hours of work, Gavin had spoken to him of the missions and the memories. Adams had come to understand that Gavin had every intention of jumping out of airplanes again, that no matter this new duty, the new responsibility, all the administrative work, Gavin was no different from him. There was one difference, of course. Gavin was a brigadier general, and Adams had been impressed to learn that the promotion had made Jim Gavin the youngest general in the American army.

Within a few weeks, the secrets began to be revealed, Gavin passing along the first details of what Adams and Gavin’s other staffers were about to begin. There were no dates, no specifics as to troop movements, targets, who or where the enemy might be. But every day the urgency seemed to grow, unmistakable preparations for Gavin to finally embark to the new headquarters of this new assignment.

With only days to go, Adams finally received word. He was going to England.

T
he flight had been agonizingly long, stops in Algiers and Marrakech. On the last leg, they had flown all night, the men stretched out on the floor of the heavy transport plane, seeking whatever sleep the frigid air would allow.

Adams had been awake for several hours now, far too nervous to sleep, sat on a bundle of mail, stared out the window of the crowded transport, had watched the sun rising over a far-distant coastline. He glanced at his watch, nearly noon. Well, maybe not here. Eleven, maybe. God knows. I should pay more attention to maps.

He looked down, the wing just in front of him, two of the plane’s four big engines easing off slightly, the plane beginning to drop. A solid layer of clouds was below, the plane settling into the foggy whiteness, nothing to see. He stared downward, waited, thought, how bad can the weather be? Bad I guess. Always heard that, rains all the time.

The clouds were suddenly gone, the plane emerging beneath the soft gray layer. Land was beneath them, thick carpets of green, dotted by small towns. He pressed his face close to the frigid glass, studied the countryside, so different from the bleak landscapes of North Africa and Sicily. The plane continued to drop, and he felt his stomach tighten, the air in the plane still sharp and cold, not as cold as the ice in his chest. He was more nervous now than he had ever been on the C-47s, and even after weeks in Gavin’s office, he still had the nagging fear, the uncertainty about what he was expected to do. It was still too strange, too different, the men around him too calm, and he thought, I’m not like them. What the hell am I doing here? I’m just a sergeant. I yell at idiot recruits and I jump out of airplanes. He thought of Gavin, several rows in front of him, thought, why do they need someone like you? Are we some important part of this new operation? Well, yeah, dammit, or we wouldn’t be here. I have to write Mama. Nope, not yet. Can’t tell her a damned thing. She wouldn’t get it anyway. How the hell am I supposed to be a hero in England?

He looked out toward the green again, saw the airfield, knew it was Prestwick, Scotland. He looked toward Gavin again, thought, you promised me we’d jump again. If you’re gonna take me away from my platoon, if I have to be on your staff for a while, all right. But when this Overlord happens, you better damned well send me out there toting a parachute.

AFTERWORD

T
hroughout November and December, Allied forces continue to push northward up the boot of Italy. Besides eliminating Italy from the war, and possibly gaining the use of Italian troops and equipment against the Germans, the invasion of Italy is also designed to tie down and possibly destroy a significant number of German troops, troops who might otherwise be available to resist the eventual invasion of France. The strategy works, but not in the way the Allies hope. German troops are indeed tied down, but there is no quick victory for the Allies. Instead of rapid success, Clark’s Fifth Army confronts a stubborn enemy, and German forces put up a far more vigorous fight than expected. Predictions of the rapid capture of Rome are proven woefully optimistic. The city does not fall into Allied hands until June 4, 1944, two days before the launch of Operation Overlord. General Mark “Wayne” Clark is faulted for what seems to many to be his plodding advances and ineffective tactics, but credit must be given to the German commander, Albert Kesselring, and the tenacity of the men in his command, whose efficient use of Italy’s natural defenses insures that the Allies suffer a far more costly and time-consuming struggle in Italy than anyone expects.

As planners in London and Washington focus greater attention toward the invasion of France, resources that could aid Clark’s army in Italy are gradually stripped away. The command structure begins to change as well, particularly with the British. Though Harold Alexander remains in overall command of the ground forces in Italy, his primary subordinate, Bernard Montgomery, is ordered to London, joining Omar Bradley as one of the two principal ground commanders for Operation Overlord. But throughout the fall of 1943, there is still a vacuum at the top of the Overlord command. Word reaches Eisenhower that a consensus is building that the American chief of staff, George C. Marshall, is being touted as the best choice for the command. To Eisenhower’s enormous disappointment, he learns that he and Marshall will, in effect, reverse roles. Once Marshall goes to England, Eisenhower will return to Washington and occupy Marshall’s chair, becoming the chief of staff and the liaison between the War Department and Congress. Eisenhower has no enthusiasm for the job.

In late November 1943, President Franklin D. Roosevelt meets with Winston Churchill in Cairo. Though the meetings are geared toward discussions of strategies regarding Russia, the Middle East, and the Mediterranean theaters, Eisenhower learns that the decision to name Marshall to overall command of Overlord is not yet set in stone. Roosevelt tells him, “It is dangerous to monkey with a winning team.” Less than one week later, Eisenhower receives a cable from Marshall, which eliminates all rumors. On December 10, 1943, Dwight D. Eisenhower is named supreme commander of the Allied Expeditionary Force, and effective January 1, 1944, he assumes command of Operation Overlord. Despite his uneasiness over Clark’s progress in Italy, Eisenhower welcomes his new responsibility, and on New Year’s Day 1944 he leaves North Africa.

Despite the ongoing struggles in Italy, vicious fights yet to be waged at Anzio and Monte Cassino, the Allies now put their greatest energy toward the invasion of France, which the planners have tentatively scheduled for May 1944. Allied commanders and their civilian leaders agree that if the war in Europe is to end, if Hitler is to be defeated, Operation Overlord cannot fail. On January 13, after a brief visit to the United States, Eisenhower reestablishes his headquarters in London and thus will begin the greatest buildup of troops and military equipment in history.

ERWIN ROMMEL

With Allied progress in Italy stymied by Kesselring’s stout defenses, Rommel sits idly at Lake Garda in northern Italy with virtually nothing to do. Though Rommel expects Hitler to name him overall commander of the entire Italian theater, such a move would place Rommel over the head of his former superior Kesselring. Hitler and his staff, satisfied that Kesselring is handling his forces with admirable skill, ignore Rommel’s wishes. Frustrated as always with inactivity, Rommel welcomes a new assignment, but feels he is once more being placed in a backwater of the war. On November 21, 1943, his Army Group B is ordered to relocate to France, and he moves his headquarters to a small town south of Paris. He is now under the command of sixty-eight-year-old Karl von Rundstedt, one of Germany’s most capable and respected commanders. Rommel effectively becomes the unofficial inspector general of Germany’s defenses along the west coast of France, known as Hitler’s Atlantic Wall. Predictably, Rommel’s aggressive personality clashes with that of the aging von Rundstedt, who, along with Hitler, dismisses predictions of an Allied invasion of the French coast.

GEORGE PATTON

To the dismay of the entire Allied command, Patton’s “slapping incident” becomes public knowledge in the United States, when the event is revealed in detail by newspaper columnist Drew Pearson. The outcry is immediate and damning, especially from Roosevelt’s enemies in Congress, and enormous effort is made in the War Department and in Eisenhower’s command to deflect the well-publicized outrage, which could certainly end Patton’s career. Patton accepts fully the responsibility for the tidal wave of negative sentiment, and in a series of well-documented appearances, he apologizes publicly to his troops. His contrition does much to blunt the calls for his dismissal, as does the unwavering support from both Marshall and Eisenhower, who understand Patton’s value as a commander of troops in the field.

As Mark Clark’s Fifth Army churns its way through Italy, Patton remains frustrated by what he sees as incompetence from yet another Allied commander. He believes with perfect certainty that the Italian campaign should have been his to lead.

As men and equipment are stripped away from the Mediterranean theater, Patton’s Seventh Army is nearly denuded of troops. By the end of November, the Eighty-second Airborne and the Forty-fifth Infantry divisions are transferred to England, as part of the Overlord buildup. Faced with command over a nonexistent army, on November 17, 1943, he tells his diary,

I have seldom passed a more miserable day. From commanding 240,000 men, I now have less than five thousand.

On November 25, his mood reaches its darkest hour.

Thanksgiving Day. I had nothing to be thankful for, so I did not give thanks.

Despite Patton’s gloom, both Eisenhower and Marshall know that Patton will not simply remain in Sicily. Though Eisenhower tells Marshall that Patton “thinks only in terms of attack” and that Patton’s need for “showmanship” can prove costly, both men agree that Patton must have a significant role in Operation Overlord.

On January 25, 1944, after receiving his new orders, Patton gratefully departs for London. He is not yet fully aware that his new position will place him under the command of his former subordinate Omar Bradley.

JACK LOGAN

After his rescue from the prison camp in Bizerte, Tunisia, Logan spends more than a month on an American hospital ship in the Mediterranean, suffering from the wound on his leg, which stubbornly refuses to heal. Once he is released, he is transferred back to the tank center at Fort Knox, Kentucky. Promoted to sergeant, he serves as a trainer to new recruits and witnesses the army’s intense campaign to modernize and improve tank design.

Logan makes considerable effort to determine what became of his crewmates after the tank battle at Sbeïtla, but neither their physical remains nor any record of their capture is ever found, and all the men, including Captain Roy Gregg, are permanently listed as missing in action. Though he intends to return to Tunisia, always believing that some documentation can be found, he never makes the journey. It is a cross he bears for the rest of his life.

With the war’s conclusion, he is discharged from the army and returns to his family home in St. Petersburg, Florida. He serves that city briefly as a police officer, but cannot ignore his love of the waters that surround his home. In 1955 he buys a fishing boat and becomes a commercial fisherman, a career that sustains him until his death in 2004 at age eighty-six. Though friends know he served in the war, he almost never speaks of his experiences, refers to himself simply as “a veteran.” He claims never to have married, but his funeral is attended by several elderly women, who offer no explanation for their presence.

HAROLD ALEXANDER

He remains in overall command of the Allied forces in Italy until the capture of Rome, in June 1944. Promoted to field marshal, he is named supreme Allied commander in the Mediterranean in December 1944 and occupies that post until the end of the war. He is the senior Allied commander to receive Germany’s final surrender in Italy, in April 1945.

After the war, Alexander becomes the last British governor-general of Canada, and in 1952 he is granted the title of First Earl of Tunis. He retires from government service in 1954, after a dismal turn as Churchill’s minister of defense.

He pens his memoirs, a book widely dismissed as inaccurate and self-serving, and yet remains a popular public figure in England until his death in 1969, at age seventy-eight. Always regarded as an extremely capable administrator, his career is nonetheless marked by criticism of his inability to confront and control those subordinates whose personalities dominate his own. Most notable among these is Bernard Montgomery.

CLAUDE AUCHINLECK

One of Britain’s most capable commanders, Auchinleck never receives credit for the groundwork laid in North Africa, which provided much of the foundation for Montgomery’s enormous victory over Rommel at El Alamein. Betrayed often by the hesitation or outright incompetence of his subordinates, Auchinleck is blamed by Churchill for the loss of Tobruk, and he accepts the responsibility for the failures of his command with predictable dignity. Often ignored is that both his replacement, Harold Alexander, and his primary subordinate, Bernard Montgomery, adopt the identical strategy that Auchinleck had already proposed to confront Rommel.

In a gesture designed to save face for Auchinleck, Churchill offers him command of British forces in Persia, but Auchinleck refuses, and after nearly twelve months of inactivity, he is named commander in chief of Allied forces in India, a post he had previously held. He serves there under Lord Louis Mountbatten, who commands the entire South East Asia Theater. The two men clash repeatedly, and after the war, their conflicts continue, primarily over differences in the handling of the boiling political turmoil in India. Ultimately, Mountbatten prevails, and in 1947, at Mountbatten’s insistence, Auchinleck resigns his command.

Never one to champion his own accomplishments, he returns to London to life as a private citizen, becomes active in various civil causes, including the London Federation of Boys’ Clubs. He displays surprising talent as an artist, and despite intense commercial interest in his paintings, he never pursues his art as anything more than a hobby. He dismisses his own talents and claims that interest in his paintings comes about only because “you don’t expect field marshals to paint.”

In 1967, Auchinleck surprises his friends by moving to Marrakech, Morocco, which he believes will offer him, at eighty-two, a climate more suitable to his ailments, though he remains in excellent health. He dies there in 1981, at age ninety-six.

ANDREW CUNNINGHAM

Once the Italian government negotiates its surrender with Eisenhower, the Italian navy accepts the terms as well, and in September 1943 the fleet escapes potential capture by the Germans by fleeing to the British base at Malta. Credited with that success, the aging Admiral Cunningham has the final word in engineering Allied control of the Mediterranean Sea.

In October 1943, after nearly forty years’ service in that theater, Cunningham is named first sea lord, the highest-ranking naval office in the British military. He serves as Churchill’s chief naval adviser throughout the remainder of the war, though he often clashes with the fiery prime minister, who as a former sea lord himself often intrudes into Cunningham’s areas of responsibility.

He resigns the position in 1946, believing his service to the Crown is over. He is not quite correct; in 1950 he is appointed lord high commissioner to the General Assembly of the Church of Scotland.

In the mid-1950s, he writes his memoirs, an extremely popular account of his life at sea. Widely regarded as one of Britain’s most accomplished and able seamen, he dies in London in 1963, at age eighty. He is of course buried at sea.

ALBERT KESSERLING

The man known derisively as Smiling Al continues to prove that his optimism over the capabilities of his troops is completely warranted. Though Kesselring’s strategy in Italy contradicts what both Hitler and Rommel consider the wisest use of troops, Kesselring proves that Hitler’s decision to stand by him is of enormous benefit to the German cause. Throughout the Normandy invasion, Kesselring remains in Italy, and in mid-1944, after the fall of Rome, he continues to withdraw German forces northward with bloody stubbornness.

In March 1945, Kesselring replaces Karl von Rundstedt as Hitler’s highest-ranking field commander in Western Europe. As Germany collapses under the weight of Allied and Russian armies, Kesselring, alongside Admiral Karl Dönitz, maintains command of the last-gasp efforts of German forces. He is captured in May 1945 and charged by a British court with war crimes against Italian civilians, but is spared execution, instead receives a sentence of life in prison. His health begins to fail, and since he is never linked to the atrocities committed by the Nazis, the British release him from prison in 1952. Shortly after, he completes his memoirs, which are published a year later. He dies in 1960, in Bad Nauheim, Germany, at age seventy-five.

MARK “WAYNE” CLARK

Often blamed for prolonging the war in Italy by his plodding and ineffective operations, Clark is nonetheless praised by Eisenhower and Marshall as one of the Americans’ most capable commanders. Though the capture of Rome seems to be a logical and successful conclusion to the Italian campaign, Clark insists on pursuing the German forces northward and thus insures that the costly fight will continue into 1945.