26. PATTON

SECOND CORPS HEADQUARTERS, DJEBEL KOUIF, TUNISIA
MARCH 7, 1943

T he sirens blared, a half dozen armored trucks leading the way, the caravan rolling up the ragged, dusty road. They passed the various checkpoints, the carefully placed barriers that Fredenhall had used to secure his safety, pushed past the startled guards, the sounds of the sirens announcing with perfect clarity that the Second Corps had a new commander. Patton’s promotion to lieutenant general was not yet official, and so he had adhered to protocol, his command car bearing only the two stars of his current rank. But there was no mistaking whose car it was. The stars themselves were an adornment far more pronounced than what the staff officers at Djebel Kouif were accustomed to seeing, large and silver, backed by an oversize red plate positioned squarely below the car’s grill. Patton stood tall, his steel helmet clamped down hard, two stars again, stamped into the steel above his scowling brow, his jaw set hard, no smile, no casual greeting to the men who stood by and saluted gamely as he passed.

Fredenhall was still there, tending to details of his own, gathering his personal effects, whatever need he had to conclude his affairs in his own way, to shake the hands of those on his staff who were remaining in Tunisia. As Patton stormed into the command center, the contrast between the two men was graphic and startling, and the men who manned the phones, who handled the paperwork for the Second Corps, were quick to understand that the changes to the corps would be far more profound than a new nameplate on the commander’s desk.

“W here is General Fredenhall? I expected him to meet me.”

The aide seemed to quiver, held his salute. “Sir, the general is still at breakfast.” The man pointed to one side, out past the door, then let his arm drop, still held the salute.

“Breakfast? It is ten o’clock! Tomorrow morning, breakfast will commence at dawn, and no officer will be served after six thirty. Enlisted men may eat afterward, and the kitchen will cease to serve food at seven thirty. Is that understood?”

The man still held the salute. “Certainly, sir. I shall have the mess sergeants informed.”

“Is there a reason why you cannot inform them yourself? It is my job to delegate. It is yours to get the job done. Your hand frozen to your forehead?”

The man snapped his arm down to his side. “No, sir.”

“And what the hell do you call that?”

“I’m sorry, what, sir?”

“That uniform. You on leave, soldier? This some sort of vacation for you?”

The man seemed confused, and Patton pointed to the collar, open, a glimpse of undershirt. “Where the hell is your necktie, Lieutenant!” Patton glanced around the room, the others standing, every man wide-eyed. “Where the hell are all your neckties? Every damned one of you is out of uniform. I will not tolerate that. I don’t see a single helmet. I was told that a war is happening out here. Has no one told you?”

The lieutenant said, “Sir, General Fredenhall—”

“To hell with General Fredenhall, soldier! There is no such man, do you hear me?”

“Sir? He’s having breakfast—”

Patton leaned close to the young man’s face, startled him into silence. “General Fredenhall is no longer your commanding officer! Or did no one inform you of that?”

“Yes, sir. We were informed, sir.”

Patton was fully energized now, looked closely at each man, the room utterly silent, even the radios quiet, the equipment itself waiting for his next command.

“There will be changes here, gentlemen. Immediate changes. In short order, this corps will engage the enemy. I intend that we destroy him, and we will not accomplish that unless every one of you operates in accordance with my way of doing things. General Eisenhower did not put me here because he wanted business as usual. Your business as usual was an embarrassment to this army, and an embarrassment to my country! There will be no further embarrassments!” He looked hard at the young lieutenant, his voice now in full bloom, a hard, high-pitched shout. “Now, where the hell is my office?”

A s word of the fights that swirled around Kasserine rolled into Morocco, Patton’s boredom had grown far worse than tedious. A fight was going on, a real fight against an enemy who was capable of winning, who might destroy everything that Operation Torch had accomplished. Throughout the landings, as his men had punched their way through difficult barriers all across the western landing zones, it had never occurred to him that the Americans might actually lose. But with rumbles coming to him about the ponderous decision making, the inept tactics at Kasserine, he had begun to realize his greatest frustration yet: the entire mission in Africa could become a dangerous failure, and he might have nothing to say about it.

His lack of discretion had caused him problems from the earliest days of his career, every commander he served under wrestling with Patton’s mouth. Patton’s outspokenness and independent behavior had caused problems as far back as the First World War, and his friendship with Black Jack Pershing had likely allowed Patton’s career to survive many bouts with superior officers who seemed to him to be too obtuse or too inflexible to comprehend Patton’s clear perception of his own role in the army, especially an army at war. He could never grasp why generals insisted he stay at the rear of his troops. Now, that same warning had come from Eisenhower, and Patton quietly chafed at that, knew too much of history, of men like Stonewall Jackson, had never believed any soldier could be inspired from behind. He had learned much from Rommel, had marveled at the German’s instinct for putting himself at the most crucial point of attack. Patton hated the notion that in modern warfare, a general’s place was in some remote command post, reading reports, issuing orders by radio to men who might be far too involved in their own survival to pay attention to any radio.

Patton believed without doubt that Eisenhower’s command had come about only because the English liked him and accepted him to be the proper figurehead that would fill the difficult role of bridging the two armies, a voice for both American and British concerns. Patton bristled at that, still believed that the British had every intention of running the show, and that any victory would become their own, at the expense of the Americans. One by one, Patton had watched as the senior American generals seemed to be shoved aside, to make way for an Allied force dominated by British commanders. Every branch of the service was run by the British now, what Patton saw as an outrageously blatant conspiracy.

He had little affection for Wayne Clark and had privately seethed when Clark had been given command of the Fifth Army, no matter that Clark outranked him. But it was no surprise to Patton that Clark had been sent to Morocco as well, stuck in the backwater of the war, while men like Alexander and Anderson controlled operations in Tunisia. If Eisenhower wanted Clark to stay put and keep an eye on some meaningless threat from German-friendly Spanish Morocco, that was fine with Patton.

His meeting with Fredenhall had been brief and cordial, and Patton had not addressed any of the changes that would follow the man’s departure. Fredenhall was clearly a defeated man, wore a shroud of gloom, something Patton had expected. But Patton had admired the man’s deportment, no outbursts, no grousing, accepting Patton’s occupation of his headquarters with dignity, offering to help the transition in any way Patton found useful. Patton had been polite and gracious, would not add salt to the man’s wounds, and by the next morning Fredenhall was gone.

NEAR TÉBESSA, TUNISIA—MARCH 10, 1943

He had ridden forward with Omar Bradley, realized with some annoyance that Bradley seemed to be watching him, studying his performance. After a long silence, Bradley said, “It’s my job, you know.”

Patton turned toward the side, stared out the car’s window. “I don’t need Ike coddling me, and I don’t need a damned spy in my headquarters. He wants a job done, he should let me do it. You going to tell him every damned thing I say, give him a report on every butt I chew out?”

“I’m not a schoolmaster, George. You’re being a little too unreasonable. Ike has sent me out here to observe as much as I can. If there’s a problem, he needs to know, so it can be fixed. You know full well there are problems out here. We can’t afford another Kasserine.”

Patton sniffed, stared out toward a muddy field, tanks parked in uneven rows. He couldn’t really feel anger toward Bradley, knew the man’s exceptional reputation, why Ike had chosen him for the job. Bradley gave every hint of that key instinct that made an officer a good fighting man, a man who could handle himself in the worst crisis. Patton felt that even as they rode quietly through the American positions, visited the camps and command posts. Bradley had something intangible that Patton rarely saw in anyone of high rank. Marshall was an exception, others, such as Ernie Harmon and Jimmy Doolittle, Charles Ryder, and Terry Allen. Patton had felt it for his son-in-law as well, John Waters, the young man still missing in action. They each carried some special thing that commanded respect, and Patton had been surprised to find it in Bradley, the fact that Bradley seemed destined for some role on Eisenhower’s staff.

“You don’t belong on Ike’s staff. You should be in the field.”

“I belong where Ike wants me to be. The rest…if there’s something else for me to do, I’ll accept that when the time comes.”

Patton continued to stare out. “Look at this miserable place. Perfect for a war. Blast everything to hell, and no one will care. You ever see so much damned rain? This whole place is like hell. Everywhere you look, there’s ruins, like damned skeletons sticking in the sand. Roman, mostly, but God knows who else. All those stone pillars, busted columns. Looks like shipwrecks. We just better make damned sure the same thing doesn’t happen to us.” He saw trucks lined in a row, a cluster of men, felt a stab of fury. “Oh, hell. Driver! Stop the car! Hit the siren! Wake those bastards up!”

The car was slowing, and he pushed open the heavy steel door, stepped out with the car still moving, the blast of the siren propelling him forward.

“Who’s in charge here?” He saw the officer, a captain, the men all standing back, some staring past him toward the source of the high-pitched siren. “You know me?”

The captain glanced toward the car, then to the stars on Patton’s helmet. “No, General. But, welcome to the maintenance battalion.”

“Welcome, hell. Where’s your helmet? Where are their helmets?” He turned to the men, more gathering behind them. He saw some men in wool caps, every shape of hat. “Every one of you! Snatch that beanie off your head!” He glanced behind him, his aides easing up close, Bradley with them, turned to the soldiers again. “Hand them over!”

The men looked at each other, uncertain, the officer starting to speak, and Patton felt the man’s protest coming, didn’t want to hear it. He raised a hand, silenced the man. “This is your first offense, Captain. Next time, it costs you a fifty-dollar fine. Your men will pay twenty-five. I want to see regulation uniforms on every man in this corps! Every man!”

“Yes, sir. I understand, sir. May I ask…does this apply to the men working on the trucks?”

“Damned right, Captain! They’re soldiers, aren’t they?” Patton stood stiffly, put his hands behind his back, waited. The hats were coming off, the men unsure what to do next, and Patton had no patience now. “Were my orders not understood? Hand those beanies forward and present them to my aide. They are not regulation, and I am confiscating them.”

The collection of hats gathered in one man’s arms, and he stepped forward, held out the bundle. Patton’s aide took them, returned to the car.

Patton said, “Helmets and neckties, gentlemen, every damned day. And I want to see some precise salutes from every one of you. The damned British laugh at us for our casual salutes. No more! Your training was not just how to handle a rifle or turn a wrench. You were taught how to salute, and I expect you to remember that. Now, back to work! We have a job to do, and the whole damned United States of America is counting on men like you to get it done.”

The men snapped to attention, tossed up perfect salutes.

“Yes, that’s right. Get used to it.”

Patton returned their salute, spun around, moved back to the car. The aide was waiting, and Patton motioned to him, the man opening the trunk. Patton watched as the hats were tossed in, adding to the growing pile, and he smiled, looked at Bradley, felt the stir of accomplishment.

“You see, Brad? This is what we have to do. I won’t have the Second Corps remembered for their pile of beanies.”

“But, George, fining them so much money for their uniforms?”

Patton was surprised by Bradley’s question, thought, wonderful, already he’s making a list for Ike to gripe at me about. Schoolmaster indeed.

“Listen to me, Brad. This is my corps and I’ll run it in the best way I know how. I could spend every hour of this inspection tour yelling my lungs out, and it would work for only so long. Hell, I’d run out of breath. But hit them in the pocketbook! Hah! You don’t have to say another word. And they’ll damned well remember it.”

They climbed into the car, the armored trucks moving out in front, machine guns trained forward, lookouts scanning the thick, gray sky for enemy planes. They rode for a long mile, the rains coming hard again, Patton scanning the countryside, heavy mist clouding his view. He went over the command list in his head, three divisions of infantry, the First, the Ninth, the Thirty-fourth, plus the First Armored. Good men, all of them. Four strong divisions. Just let us go, Ike. Let me give them another crack at Rommel. They’ll stuff all that bellyaching from here to Washington.

P atton spent long hours with Bradley, going over the commands of each of his divisions, the best talents of the men in charge. There was little time for lengthy planning, rehearsal exercises, and less time for Patton to test the abilities of various officers for the key jobs in the command structure of the Second Corps. To the south, Montgomery was gearing up for his major push into the Mareth line, and Patton’s role had been defined even before he took command, in plans drawn up by Eisenhower and Alexander not long after Rommel had pulled away from Kasserine.

Throughout their discussions, Bradley’s grasp of the necessary strategies continued to impress Patton, a quiet confidence and firm hold on sound tactics, something Patton had not yet seen in too many of his senior officers. With Bradley staying mostly in Patton’s headquarters, filling his role as Eisenhower’s pipeline, Patton realized that there should be an opportunity for Bradley’s talents to be used for far more practical purposes. Patton’s next call to Eisenhower was simple and direct. If Bradley was to spend most of his time occupying space in Patton’s headquarters, he should have something better to do. Patton wanted Bradley for himself. To Patton’s surprise, Eisenhower consented. However, the assignment had been no real surprise to Bradley since, unknown to Patton, he and Eisenhower had already discussed such a move. Though Bradley would occasionally issue reports directly to Eisenhower, make visits to Algiers for personal meetings, he would do so as the Second Corps’s number two man. At the very least, Bradley would gain experience, learn the valuable lessons firsthand from the inevitable combat situations the Second Corps was soon to face. And Eisenhower was aware that Bradley would bring a quiet ray of calm and reason through the often tumultuous world of George Patton.

DJEBEL KOUIF, TUNISIA—MARCH 13, 1943

“Ike says I should find something useful for you to do every day, if that’s possible. I’m not talking too much out of turn there. He says you’ll probably tell me that yourself.”

Patton walked slowly, kept pace with Alexander’s methodical stride. “He’s right. I’m ready to go. We’re all ready to go. And if it’s up to me, we’ll keep going until we give Rommel a wet ass in the Mediterranean.”

Alexander laughed, and Patton eyed him discreetly, thought, he’s as British as they come. And yet…not. Curious. Alexander stopped, and Patton saw him staring out across the dirt road, saw an Arab man hoisting a water jug up onto the shoulder of a small woman. Alexander made a grunting sound, and Patton said, “Arab chivalry.”

“Perhaps you and I should go over there and jolly well kick his ass.”

Patton stared at Alexander for a long moment, saw no smile, thought, my God, he might be serious.

Alexander began to walk again. “Or, perhaps not. Might not play well in the newspapers, eh?”

Patton laughed, was surprised by Alexander, had not expected the man to be anything more than an arrogant snob. He kept pace again. “Ike would enjoy unraveling that one, I’m sure. He’s already convinced I’m going to wake up one morning and start shelling Anderson’s headquarters.”

Alexander seemed surprised himself now. “Good gracious, man, why on earth would you do that?”

Patton’s mind filled with replies, none of them worth the price he might pay for expressing them. “I promise, not in this war. Ike worries too much. Just his job, I suppose. My job is to put my foot in people’s backsides, so they’ll do the same to the Krauts.”

Alexander thought a moment. “Your promotion…I assume you received my congratulations. Bloody well appropriate.”

“Yes, thank you. Your General McCreery sent a very nice note. I’d heard a lot of talk about it, and frankly, I expected it before now. It’s a dream I’ve had, since I was a boy. I used to play army, run all over hell and gone with a wooden rifle, calling myself Lieutenant General Patton. At West Point, I told a few fellows I’d make it one day. Nobody doubted it. Well, not me, anyway.”

Alexander was watching him, and Patton realized he was listening carefully to every word. “That all right with you? If a man feels like he deserves something, it should be all right if he expects it.”

Alexander laughed now. “No argument here, old chap. Ike says your promotion is well earned. And of course, if you’re to command a corps, three stars is the appropriate rank for an American in your position.”

“Four is better.”

Alexander seemed to study him again, serious now. “You’ll get it too. I’d make a wager, if I could. Trouble is, nobody would pay up. I might have a thing or two to say about the promotion. Never know, of course.”

They walked down a short hill, past Arab women gathered at a muddy water hole, piles of white cloth spread out on fat rocks. It was unusual for a senior commander to simply take a stroll, out beyond the confines of the headquarters. Alexander had made it clear that he relied as much on private chats as he did on grand staff meetings, spoke more frankly than any other British officer Patton had met. Patton didn’t trust it at first, couldn’t help wondering if Alexander was doing what so many of the other Brits seemed to do, gather influence, find ways to push the Americans to the back row of the war. He knew Eisenhower didn’t agree with that, thought, all right, Ike, I’ll do it your way. He had accepted Eisenhower’s order, that no one could openly criticize anyone by his nationality. It was one thing to criticize a man for being a son of a bitch. But you had better not call him a British son of a bitch.

But there was nothing disagreeable about Alexander at all, and Patton had been impressed with the man’s record in the First World War, something Patton could share with pride. Both men had been decorated, and both had suffered wounds in combat. To Patton, that put them firmly on equal ground.

They walked in silence for a long moment, and Patton felt the question rising in his mind, the last detail of the plans he had already memorized, the one thing Alexander had not yet told him.

“Are we still a go for the sixteenth?”

“Likely. Sorry to be so vague about it. It’s this damnable weather. The plan is in place, has been since before you got here. You know that, of course. You’ve met with all your commanders?”

“Yep. Good men, I think. Still some proving to do. Terry Allen’s probably the best of the four.”

“Yes, well, Ike agrees. Your plans call for his First Division to lead the way into Gafsa.”

Patton had studied the plans, the maps, understood exactly what he was expected to do. And he wasn’t happy about it. “You honestly expect that if my boys kick the Krauts off the Eastern Dorsale, they’re going to listen to an order to stop?”

“Yes, I do. So does Ike.”

Patton swallowed his protest, and Alexander said, “Monty’s got his people in line, ready to go. But he can’t make his jump-off until your people accomplish their mission. Your part of this operation is essential. You have to drive the Germans out of the hills and push the attack toward their flank. They’ll have to respond to you by pulling strength out of their main line. They can’t allow you to hover about in their left and rear and not send some pretty strong forces your way to answer the threat. That’s all Monty needs to make the breakthrough and drive the enemy back up the coast.” Alexander paused, looked him hard in the eye. “If you try to push your men east of the Eastern Dorsale, if you try to make for the coast to cut off the enemy’s retreat, you know what can happen. You’ll be spread out on a dangerous line across flat, open ground, vulnerable as hell on your flank. We don’t know what the Germans have left in their bag at Mareth, not completely anyway. This is not Monty’s operation, but it is laid out so that Monty makes the hardest thrust. Surely you understand why.”

Patton knew the word, experience, hated it, hated that Montgomery had been successful against Rommel, while the Americans had made such a poor showing at Kasserine. There was no argument Patton could make, he had to accept the grinding truth that Montgomery’s forces were better prepared to launch the strongest part of the offensive. But he hated it anyway.

O n March 16, Patton’s men pushed south and east, drove the Italian outposts away from Gafsa with barely a fight. The other prongs of the Second Corps moved along parallel routes, the First Armored eventually driving up toward the passes along the Eastern Dorsale. The attack spread across the entire front where, a month before, Rommel’s attack had so devastated the Americans. In a few short days, Patton occupied most of the ground that Rommel’s troops had now abandoned, the crossroads and villages falling into American hands. From Sbiba and Fondouk in the north, down through Kasserine and Sidi Bou Zid, to Sbeïtla and Gafsa, the Second Corps pressed hard against growing enemy pressure, more and more of the German and Italian forces sent up from Mareth to hold them back. The fighting grew more brutal, the passes that led up through the Eastern Dorsale manned by German armor, thick minefields, heavy artillery stripped from their positions at Mareth. Despite the difficulty the Americans had in pushing their way completely up and over the Eastern Dorsale, the effect on the enemy’s position at Mareth was precisely what Eisenhower had hoped for.

On March 20, Montgomery opened his own attack, the weakened German and Italian defenses at Mareth collapsing under the full power of the Eighth Army. Montgomery had thrown more than a simple frontal assault at the enemy position. Despite all reports that the sand marsh to the west was impassable, Montgomery had relied on reports from scouts of his New Zealand Corps that the spongy mush of the dry lakebed was not so impassable after all. As the attack began, the New Zealanders pushed through the marsh and stunned the enemy’s western flank. With Patton closing in from above, Giovanni Messe’s combined German and Italian army fought as well as they could, turning attention from Montgomery to Patton, and back again. But Messe’s forces simply didn’t have the strength, and in a few short days, they pulled back rapidly to the north. By the end of March, Messe and von Arnim agreed that the most suitable place to retrench and confront the Allies’ next assault would be a line that led inland from Enfidaville, wrapping around northward to the coast west of Bizerte. It was the same line Rommel had suggested weeks before.

SOUTH OF TÉBESSA—MARCH 16, 1943

It was after eleven, and Patton stood outside his command post in the wet darkness, listened for the rumble of the big guns, the artillery of his Second Corps launching the first strike toward Gafsa. He had fought the agony of staying behind, but he would not disobey Eisenhower, would not jeopardize his career over a simple lust to be out there. There will be more of this, he thought, more fights, better fights, and when the time comes, they’ll have to put me where I want to be. He heard it now, low thunder, the flashes of fire hidden by the dismal weather. He stood quietly for a long moment, absorbed the sounds, thought, nothing else for me to do, not now. It’s all happening the way it was planned, and tomorrow, I will find out what kind of men we have.

He moved back into the blockhouse, low lamplight, his cot in a closet-sized room in the rear. The aides stood when he came in, and he waved them off. “Nothing else to do now. Get some rest. But make sure the telephone operators are on the job all damned night.”

He sat on the bed, pushed the door closed, his knees nearly touching the wall in front of him. His foot kicked the soft pack beside the bed, and he reached down, felt for the small, thick book, his diary, pulled it out, drew his pen from his shirt pocket. He lay back on the bed, thought a moment, knew that somewhere some radio stations across the Atlantic were already reporting the start of the assault. It was customary now, the Allied censors releasing just enough details to inform both the American and the British people that a new operation was under way, a healthy shot to civilian morale. Somewhere, he thought, some damned idiot is in some studio telling his audience that I’m right out there, at the head of the line, leading the way, sitting up high on the first tank. Damn him. Damn all of them. It’s where I should be.

He stared at the blank page, fingered the pen for a moment, then wrote:

Well, the battle is on. I’m taking off my shoes to go to bed.