Twelve Desperate Miles (25 page)

In the middle of a fierce mid-October storm, sailing empty from Avonmouth and bobbing like a cork in the vast ocean, the
Contessa
was in trouble—not floundering, but battered for sure—and Captain William John had a decision to make. Despite her birthplace in the northern seas of Glasgow, Scotland, the
Contessa
was not built for the sort of pounding she had been taking in the North Atlantic over the last two months. The same shallow draft that made her trips upriver to banana plantations in Cuba and Honduras routine was now causing her violent predicament in the ocean. She was riding too high in the rocking ocean.

John knew that he needed to take on some ballast to stabilize her, but the only way to do that in the middle of the sea was to take a big gulp of water—to fill a tank aft of the number four hold with ocean water. The problem was that the bulkhead in that area had been damaged during the installation of her degaussing equipment way back in July—these were the electromagnetic coils installed in ships to ward off the magnetic mines laid by German vessels in the midst of Allied shipping lanes. If John decided to take on water to add ballast to the
Contessa
, there was a distinct possibility the water in the tank could leak between the decks and into the number four hold itself. The pumps in the number four hold, however, couldn’t suck the water out because the strainer in the bilges was stopped with cork, placed there as another patchwork mend.
There would be no way of disposing of the water once it was taken on board.

Storms at sea are a good prompt to action. Deciding that the gale was a greater hazard to his ship than filling the hold, Captain John gave the go-ahead to let the water in. Soon the added weight helped to stabilize the
Contessa
, and soon after that, the winds finally began to abate after almost a full week of howling.

Sure enough, however, the water that the ship had taken on began seeping into the number four hold, and the crew could do nothing to pump it out. Thank God, they were just two days out of New York and dry dock. Thank God, too, that John and the rest of the crew from New Orleans would soon be seeing friends and family for the first time in six months. In John’s case, Bessie had booked a room for them in Manhattan and would be there when he arrived.

B
y five o’clock on October 17, René Malevergne was in the air on his way to what he assumed would be the last stop before returning to Germaine and the boys in Mehdia.

As the ocean swept by beneath him, Malevergne fell asleep on the plane and stayed asleep till just after midnight, awakening to a thick fog that eventually turned into clouds as black as ink. Newfoundland soon appeared below, and the plane landed to refuel.

By the afternoon, Malevergne was flying over the United States for the first time, and he saw below “
a veritable garden with little rivers, woods, lakes and green land.” Then New York City appeared, spreading for miles around the bays and rivers out his window below. Despite all that had happened to him, despite the uncertainty of what lay ahead, it was difficult not to feel a deep sense of excitement. He had come a long way from Mehdia.

Finally, Washington emerged out of the fog from his plane window, its streets radiating like compass lines from the monumental buildings at its heart. As he began his descent, René Malevergne took a deep breath and braced himself for his arrival into this new land.

Word came to the
Contessa
on October 19 that she was wanted in Norfolk for what was called “a special war mission.” The order arrived via radio from the British admiralty under whose command she had journeyed from New York and from whose port she had last sailed. Captain William John ordered the helmsman to set a course to the south and west, and down the East Coast the
Contessa
steamed.

Nowhere is it recorded what sort of response this news received among the crew, but judging from the fact that many had been at sea
without meaningful leave for months, it can be imagined. What they were getting into was a mystery. No one aboard had a clue about the operations being conducted at the Port of Hampton Roads; no one knew what their next journey might offer. On October 21, Lieutenant Cato of the armed guard ordered test shots from the four-inch fifty-caliber guns on board. It was the only indication from anyone on board that the
Contessa
’s trip to Norfolk and beyond might ultimately put them in harm’s way.

Of course, “a special war mission” could be almost anything. And in the case of this banana boat, much as John might have loved her, he was hard pressed to guess what exactly she could do for the war effort that could be considered special. Especially given her current condition. Whatever lay ahead, John knew that his ship was in rough shape, and she would need a good, solid week in dry dock before she was capable of sailing again.

Still, it’s likely that at some point on the way to Norfolk, John went back to his cabin and inspected the chrome-plated .45-caliber pistol that he’d kept there since the days of the “banana wars” in Nicaragua, just to make sure it was in good firing condition.

Back in April 1931, a group of Sandinistas had attacked a pair of Standard Fruit farms in Nicaragua, killing several employees and at least one of the American marines sent to the farms to rescue the workers. While another pair of marines, along with a contingent of native Guardia Nacional, fought a rearguard action, Standard Fruit sent the
Cefalu
, captained by William John, to their rescue. In the panic and chaos surrounding that river dock in Nicaragua, John loaded thirty refugees on board as the rebels approached, guns blazing. Along with the marines and
guardia
, he took aim with his pistol and fired back as the
Cefalu
pulled away from the dock, escaped the jungle, and steamed back to New Orleans with its terrified passengers. The plant overseer died right there on the deck of the
Cefalu
of wounds suffered in the chase.

Keeping handy an old and highly regarded pistol was one of the few things that Captain William John had in common with the man who had
prompted this journey to Norfolk, George Patton. Maybe a devotion to their wives too. John reminded himself as they neared Virginia that he must contact his wife as soon as the
Contessa
arrived. Maybe she could come to Norfolk and greet him there for their long-awaited, and now delayed, reunion.

In addition to finalizing plans for Operation Torch with his staff and continuing his squabbles with the U.S. Navy over Torch preparations, George Patton was beginning to say his good-byes before shipping out with the convoy. It is not surprising, given all that was at stake here and the kind of man he was, that Patton’s mood projected a deep sense of destiny. He wrote a long letter to his brother-in-law, Frederick Ayer, with whom he was very close. “
All my life I have wanted to lead a lot of men in a desperate battle,” he wrote. “I am going to do it; and at fifty-six, one can go with equanimity—there is nothing much one has not done. Thanks to you and B. [wife Beatrice], I have had an exceptionally happy life. ‘Death is as light as a feather; reputation for valor is as heavy as a mountain.’ ”

He visited Marshall in Washington on October 21, before heading off to Norfolk. The head of the Joint Chiefs was likewise in a reflective mood as Torch neared. When Patton mentioned an admiral who was a part of Hewitt’s staff, the chief of staff asked, “How old is he?” and Patton told him fifty-three or fifty-four.
Near the same age as us
, Marshall remarked, adding, “My, how old we all are.”

Marshall was not the sort of man to wallow too deeply in such sentiments. He also offered Patton some practical advice on dealing with the Navy over the next few weeks. He told his commander “to influence Hewitt but not to scare him.”

After the Marshall visit, Patton paid his respects to his great mentor, General John “Blackjack” Pershing, ancient and now nearly blind, staying at Walter Reed Hospital in Washington, D.C. Pershing did not recognize Georgie until Patton spoke, telling the old general that he was
on his way to war. He reminded Pershing that he had given the younger man his start way back in Mexico in 1916, to which Pershing replied, “
I can always pick a fighting man and God knows there are few of them. I am happy they are sending you to the front at once. I like generals so bold that they are dangerous. I hope they give you a free hand.”

Finally, Patton and Hewitt together visited the president, who greeted them in the White House, saying, “
Come in, Skipper and Old Cavalryman, and give me the good news.” Still uncertain of the navy’s commitment to attack, Patton had hoped that in this last meeting with the commander in chief before the invasion Roosevelt would impress upon Hewitt the need to go through with the landing regardless of conditions. To prompt such an order, Patton said to the president, “
The Admiral and I feel that we must get ashore regardless of cost, as the fate of the war hinges on our success.” But Roosevelt was not a man who spoke in those sorts of dramatic terms in White House conversation. “Certainly you must,” he said simply. That seemed to Patton, immersed as he was in the high drama of the undertaking before him and his army, a kind of casual, throwaway response. Patton noted in his diary later that day that “A great politician is not of necessity a great military leader.”

On the morning of Friday, October 23, Patton was with Hewitt again. Together they faced some 150 commanders of the Western Task Force assembled in an army warehouse in Norfolk. Though it had been guessed already by many of those assembled, Hewitt stepped forward and revealed for the first time that their destination was North Africa. For the next four hours they went over the plans for the operation in preparation for joining their troops, who were already waiting on dozens of ships gathered in the harbors of Chesapeake Bay. The last details given were reminders of the proper means of burying the dead and registering their markers. They would sail in the morning for Morocco.

Before the assembly was dismissed, Patton stepped to the front to deliver a few last words. His uniform was crisp and his riding boots were shined to a high gloss. Ivory-handled pistols hung on each hip. None of the naval officers and only a handful of the army men had direct
experience under his command. To those who were strangers, he must have looked like—and, with that squeaky voice, sounded like—a dandy. But it was hard to miss his fierceness and intensity. Doubtless a good many were thankful to be led by such a bold figure, and doubtless a good many thought they were viewing a pistol-packing nut. His speech would reinforce both views.

“
If you have any doubts about what you are to do,” Patton said, “I can put it very simply. The idea is to move ahead, and you usually know where the front is by the sound of gunfire. To make it perfectly clear: suppose you lose a hand or an ear is shot off, or perhaps a piece of your nose, and you think you should go back to first aid. If I see you, it will be the last goddamned walk you ever make. As an officer, you’re expected to move ahead.”

Patton was no less comforting to the naval officers gathered: “I’m under no illusion that the goddamned Navy will get us within a hundred miles of the beach or within a week of the date set for landing. It doesn’t matter. Put us on Africa. We’ll walk.”

“We shall attack for sixty days,” he went on, “and then, if we have to, we will attack for sixty more.” Patton paused dramatically before his close. “If we go forward with desperation,” he said, “if we go forward with utmost speed and fight, these people cannot stand against us.”

That afternoon, Patton went aboard Hewitt’s flagship, the
Augusta
, where he was given the privilege of the captain’s cabin. In the evening he told his diary, “
This is my last night in America. ‘It may be for years and may be forever.’ God grant that I do my full duty to my men and myself.”

Patton also wrote a last letter to his wife, Bea. She had seen him off from Washington the evening before, as he boarded his flight for Norfolk. Now it might be many months, maybe even years, before he saw her again.