38. PATTON

PALERMO, SICILY
JULY 31, 1943

T he jeep carried them past heaps of white rubble, the remains of an old church, a sight Patton was accustomed to now. He could tell that Eisenhower was absorbing the scene, seemed visibly upset by the destruction of such an ancient place.

“I suppose it was necessary.”

Patton stared ahead, past the helmet of the driver, tasted the dust from the scout car that rode out in front of them, said nothing, thought, I had nothing to do with this. Blame the air force.

They rode out onto a hill, a point of high ground overlooking the harbor. Patton knew the spot, had driven up here more than once, enjoyed watching the engineers at work on the waterfront, the men who had cleared so much wreckage, opening the deep passageways for the supply ships, the port already up and functioning. The driver slowed the jeep, and Patton tapped his shoulder.

“Here. This is good.”

The jeep stopped, the scout car in front turning abruptly, sliding to a halt. Behind them more jeeps gathered, one truck with a large machine gun. They were men of the Fifteenth Regiment, the unit that Eisenhower himself had once commanded. As word of Eisenhower’s visit had filtered through the senior commanders, the men of the Fifteenth had requested they be allowed to provide an escort, a salute to their former commander, what Eisenhower described as an honor guard. Patton thought the escort was ridiculous, a holiday for soldiers who had better things to do. There is nothing in this city that requires so much security, he thought. But he could not object, knew better than to protest any show Eisenhower wanted to make.

Patton was up and out of the jeep, stepped to the edge of the rocky escarpment, his hands at his sides, resting on the butts of his pistols. He waited for Eisenhower, coming up beside him now, and Patton said nothing, knew the view would inspire a reaction.

“Marvelous, George. Truly marvelous. I heard the place was a royal mess.”

“The engineers. Credit where it’s due.”

He could hear Eisenhower’s breathing, strange silence, thought, he wants to tell me something. It has to be bad news. I’ve seen this before, Ike fighting for the right way to say something.

After a long pause Eisenhower said, “I’ve heard you intend to relieve Terry Allen. You certain about that?”

“Yep. The First has done everything we’ve asked of it, but every road has an end. Allen has pretty clearly overdone himself. He’s been in the middle of this war since Oran, and he’s earned a break. We need some fresh energy at the top.”

“Teddy too?”

“Teddy too.”

Teddy Roosevelt, Jr., was President Theodore Roosevelt’s son, had served the Big Red One as Allen’s second-in-command. During the weeks leading up to the invasion of Sicily, the First Division had become something of a disciplinary problem, the generals not living up to Patton’s expectations of how a combat division should be managed. Just prior to their embarkation for Sicily there had been a complete breakdown of authority, the division engaging in a binge of looting and destruction in Algiers that neither Allen nor Roosevelt had seemed able or willing to prevent. Once in Sicily, the men of the Big Red One had performed reasonably well against the enemy, but had never seemed to recapture the powerful spirit of their best days in North Africa.

Patton expected an argument, knew that Teddy Roosevelt had powerful friends in Washington.

“It’s your decision, George. Do what’s best. I’ll clear it with Marshall.”

Patton said nothing, thought, well, that’s a surprise. Ike’s letting me run my own show.

After a moment, Eisenhower said, “Monty’s already planning for the next operation. I know he has his hands full right now, but he has to look ahead. We all do. We’re going into Italy as soon as the landing craft can be assembled, and that includes those craft assigned to you.”

“I only have a couple dozen. The navy’s been pretty damned stingy with those things.”

“Make do with what you can get, George. Everybody’s stretched pretty thin as it is. You still intend on launching those amphibious operations?”

“Damned right. If we come in on the beaches behind the Kraut lines, it should make the infantry’s job a hell of a lot easier. Any confusion we can cause the enemy, the better off we are. Or don’t you agree?”

“It’s your operation, George.”

“It would be a hell of a lot better if I had fifty or sixty landing craft.”

Eisenhower said nothing, and Patton knew he had made his point. No need to upset the navy, he thought. Cunningham can’t be bothered with any details that would only help the Americans.

Eisenhower said, “The landings around Naples will be Wayne’s operation, you know. The Fifth Army has been training for that for a while now. Monty expects to hit the enemy directly across from Messina, push straight up the toe of the boot. With Wayne pinching in from the north, any German forces in southern Italy will be cut off. We might just roll up Italy like a rug.”

Patton took a long breath, said nothing. He had expected Clark to get some sort of plum command, thought, of course, once we chew our way through the Krauts here, Wayne will get to roll up Italy. Clark’s gotta be doing a dance in Casablanca. He’s been sitting on his ass for too long, chomping at the bit. But Monty? He can’t drive those soldiers into another campaign so soon. Not without a break.

“Do you think Monty will be ready for another large-scale operation so soon, Ike? His people are getting pretty beat-up.”

“So are yours. We have to punch hard while the enemy is vulnerable. Everyone’s behind this, especially Churchill. But obviously we can’t make any moves until things are secure here. I have high expectations for you, George. Everyone does. We need to have this situation wrapped up quickly.”

Patton swallowed the word everyone. Does that include the British?

“We’ll get it done, Ike. Everything’s in place. We have a hell of a one-two punch out there. The Forty-fifth is pushing on the coast, the First is inland. Bradley is ready to put the Third in behind the Forty-fifth. I’m sure Middleton’s boys will need a break, and the Third can take over for them. The Ninth is preparing to ship over through the port here, to add manpower to the First. If we need to, we can pull the First out of line altogether, led Eddy’s boys have a crack. The Krauts can’t stand up to that much strength. We’re giving them hell, Ike. And we’re not going to stop until we’re standing in the middle of Messina.”

“Excellent, George. This will make a name for us, this campaign. The president is hanging on every report, Marshall too. But it’s more than official. There were too many people on both sides of the Atlantic who thought we were a paper tiger. The damned BBC acts like we don’t even exist, keeps feeding the British people all sorts of nonsense about Monty. I’m really sick of that.”

Patton was surprised, looked at Eisenhower, saw anger on the man’s face.

Eisenhower said, “Nothing I can do about it, that’s the problem. Churchill is a huge thorn, you know. He keeps making announcements to parliament, to his newspapers, gives out all sorts of details about the victories we’re winning here. He’s feeding the press the names of towns we’ve supposedly captured, places that are still held by the enemy. Sure, we’ll capture them sooner or later. But he can’t wait for facts. He loves the limelight, being the bearer of good news. The Brits need that, I suppose. Those people have suffered as much in this war as they did in the last one. But, dammit, I wish they’d rein it in a bit.”

“I know one thing we can do about it, Ike. We take those towns, we grab the Kraut prisoners, we stick a few American flags in front of those BBC idiots, and they might have a tough time claiming that the British are winning every damned fight.”

“Careful, George. The BBC is my problem. But you’re right on one count. Get the job done quickly. Show everyone, not just the BBC, that our boys are doing their part. This is an Allied front, one army. I still won’t tolerate any kind of bickering nationalism out here, and I’ll do everything to keep it out of the papers back home. But in the end, it’s up to you to drive this train. I’d like to see your name in the paper as much as Monty’s.”

Patton smiled, had not felt much affection for Eisenhower in a long time, realized now, Ike’s walking a tightrope, serving too many masters. The best way to put my name in the paper is to put our boys in downtown Messina before anyone else. Even the BBC can’t ignore that.

F rom Bradley’s left flank on the north coast to Montgomery’s position to the east, the attacks pushed forward against German positions that fought back with more tenacity than even Patton expected. Despite the difficulty of the rough ground, the men of the First and Forty-fifth divisions shoved hard against their enemy, driving across deep valleys and rugged hills, confronting shattered roadways and blown bridges. In the east, Montgomery struggled as well, still faced German forces clinging tightly to the rugged defenses around Mount Etna. Casualties mounted on both sides, but Bradley’s forces continued their push, and one by one, the coastal villages, Cefalù and San Stefano, Brolo and Falcone, fell into American hands. Inland, across some of the most difficult terrain the Americans had yet seen, the stubborn resistance of the German defenders finally gave way, and the mountain towns of Nicosia and Troina fell into Bradley’s hands. To the east, after a long week of difficult fights, the German defenses near Catania began to withdraw, Montgomery finally pushing up on both flanks of the great mountain barrier. As the Germans withdrew, their front lines began to contract, the soldiers protecting a front that grew more narrow with every backward step. Despite the horrific bloodying inflicted by every Allied assault, General Hube was accomplishing exactly what Kesselring had hoped. With less ground to defend, the Germans began maneuvering troops out of their front-line position, shifting them to the evacuation points around Messina.

Many of the Italian regiments continued to fall apart, mass surrenders that poured refugees into the American lines. But not all the Italians were happy to lay down their rifles. As the Germans executed their carefully controlled withdrawal, many Italians went with them, still willing to fight to hold back the Allied advance. Veteran Italian commanders were well aware that if they delayed, if they kept their people out on the front lines, that what had happened in North Africa might happen in Sicily as well. More than once Rommel had made only token efforts to rescue the slow-moving Italian infantry. This time, the Italians who still had the spirit for a fight had no plans to be left behind, to be sacrificed only so the Germans could make good a rapid escape. As the German lines contracted, the Italian commanders were pulling their people in a rapid retreat into Messina. On August 3, the first Italians to reach the straits made good their crossing onto the mainland. The great evacuation had begun.

NEAR CERAMI, SICILY—AUGUST 10, 1943

The men stood aside, allowed the jeep to pass. Patton watched them, saw the salutes, men calling out, exhausted smiles. He wanted to stop, to speak to them, wanted to encourage them, snap them by the collars, put the fire into their steps. Just give me a little more, he thought. Dammit, we are getting there, and if it were up to me, we’d have ended this fight by now. He had grown impatient with Bradley, with all the commanders, had churned himself into a tornado against the navy, the men who seemed to delay and argue over every operation. The amphibious assaults had not been as effective as he had hoped, the Germans often pulling back before the men could make their landings. Others had been victimized by German bombers, the precious landing craft destroyed or damaged before the men could even begin the operation. Old ladies, he thought. And not just the navy. All of them. Infantry commanders who would rather sit on their asses than fight.

The BBC had continued their absurdly biased reporting, Patton learning that London was being told the Americans were spending most of their time eating grapes and enjoying the beaches, while the valiant British soldiers bloodied themselves in a vicious fight around Mount Etna. He needed little inspiration as it was to find fault with his own officers, to believe that Bradley and his division commanders could be driving the Germans back toward Messina at a far faster pace. Now, the British people were being told that the Americans were having a jolly time of this war, at the expense of their own gallant lads. One BBC reporter, just one, he thought. Bring that son of a bitch to me and let him walk through these hospitals, let him haul his arrogance over these hillsides. I’ll show him a holiday on the beach.

Patton had made it part of his routine to stop at the field hospitals, had gone to special lengths to arrange the presentation of Purple Hearts to the wounded, a special treat for him, and certainly, from the astonished surprise he had seen on the faces of so many wounded men, receiving their medal from him meant a great deal to the men as well. The hospitals were distinctly unpleasant places, and more than once he had paused beside the bed of a gravely wounded man, could tell by the reaction of the doctors that the man had no chance of survival. It bothered Patton more than he would admit, bothered him now. The images would not leave him, one man missing the top of his head, brains shielded by layers of white gauze, the doctors shaking their heads. There were many others, cavernous gaps in chests, men clinging to life by a thread of desperation. I cannot look at them, he thought, not like that. Not one at a time. No commander can afford to do that, to see his men as…men, with wives and mothers.

There had been an unpleasantness of a different kind, that image hard to erase as well. The man’s name had stuck with him, Kuhl, no injury except he wasn’t feeling well, the man claiming that he simply couldn’t take it. Take what? Looking out for your buddies? Fighting the enemy? Patton had reacted to the man with blind rage, had screamed at him, ordered him out of the hospital. When the man did not respond, Patton had picked him up by the scruff of the neck and tossed him out of the place himself. It had caused a scene at the hospital, infuriating the doctors, but Patton had ignored them, rode away confident that at least one coward had been set straight. I’d do it again too, he thought. No room for that in my army, none at all. It’s a disease, pure and simple. One bad man infects a whole platoon, one platoon a whole company. Battles have been lost for less. But not in my army. Not while men in those same hospitals lie in their beds fighting to survive.

The jeep passed by a deep, rocky chasm, men working below, shovels and pickaxes, shoring up the road. He glanced up at a bare hillside, men hauling equipment, artillery pieces rolling forward. He washed the memory of the one shirker out of his mind, focused on the wounded. They do so enjoy my visits, and, dammit, it’s my job. This army suffers too much from hesitation, from officers who would rather delay than push forward. Every damned officer I have should spend some time in his own field hospitals, see what happens to his men because he delays the fight by a day or a week. It was an obscene word to him, and he spit it out, said in a low voice, “Hesitation.”

I will not have anyone here compare us to Montgomery, he thought. No one will ever call me cautious. If I have to kick some well-dressed asses at headquarters, I will make my point. I intend to be in Messina before the British, and if it costs the lives of soldiers to accomplish that, well, that’s the price of war. But it will cost far more lives if we sit on our dead asses and chew about it.

He blew through a cloud of dust, a truck pulling to the side in front of him, the driver waving him past. His own driver pushed the jeep precariously to the edge of the narrow roadway, men in front of him jumping down, clearing the way, still waving, calling his name. He did not respond, was too close to them, to the faces, the sharp eyes, thought, they are the tools of war, and my job is to use them like tools of war. That’s what victory is about.

The jeep rolled out of the gorge, crested a hill, more men in a column on the road, trucks in a large park, white tents, topped by a large red cross. He saw the sign now, 93rd Evac Hospital.

“Stop here!”

His driver obeyed, the jeep turning in, men in white smocks gathering.

“Sir!”

“Welcome, sir.”

He motioned to them, a brief wave, moved toward the largest tent, caught the smell, blood and disinfectant, took a deep breath, held it for a moment, moved into the tent.

More than a dozen men were in a row, blood on bandages, heads and chests wrapped in white, bare legs, one man’s foot gone, his shortened leg ending in a clump of white gauze. Some of them were asleep, or unconscious, and he would not think of that, looked away from the wounds, searched for the smiles. They came now, low voices, and he felt the familiar tightness in his throat, spoke to each man, useless words, felt helpless, weak. He moved slowly past each bed, touched one man’s leg, heard, “Bless you, sir.”

“No, bless you, soldier.” He stopped, looked back along the row of men, wanted to say it aloud, the words choked away. Bless all of you.

He turned, moved toward the end of the row, saw one man sitting upright, no bandage, the uniform intact, the man holding his knees tight to his chest, his helmet pulled low. Patton was curious, moved close to the man, said in a low voice, “What’s wrong with you, soldier? You wounded?”

The young man looked up at him, tears on his face, white, pale skin. “It’s my nerves.”

The man began to cry aloud, heavy sobs, and Patton felt something turn inside him, thought, good God, another one! He stepped back, bent low, stared into the man’s face.

“What did you say?”

“It’s my nerves. I can’t stand the shelling.”

Patton felt a punch in his chest, a searing bolt of heat. “Your nerves! Hell, you’re just a goddamned coward, you yellow son of a bitch!”

The man was still crying, the awful sobs cutting through Patton, piercing him, the anger rolling to his fists. He stepped close to the man, his brain screaming, stop that! Stop crying! He pulled his hand back, the heat driving his anger, the burning in his chest, raw fury, the man’s tear-soaked face, the awful sobbing. He brought his hand down in a quick motion, slapped the young man, knocking him sideways, shouted again.

“Shut up that goddamned crying! I won’t have these brave men here who have been shot at seeing a yellow bastard sitting here crying!”

He stepped back, saw the man pulling himself upright, more sobs, unstoppable, the man’s red eyes staring at him. But the man did not stop crying, and Patton leapt at him, swung his hand down hard again, the man’s helmet knocked away, the soldier bareheaded now, sobbing louder. Patton backed away again, realized men had gathered, the doctors, the wounded men all staring at him. He fought to calm himself, turned, saw a white-coated officer, said, “Don’t you coddle this yellow bastard! There’s nothing the matter with him. I won’t have the hospitals cluttered up with these sons of bitches who haven’t got the guts to fight!”

He looked at the soldier again, sitting upright again, red-faced, the sobs growing quiet.

“You’re going back to the front lines, and you may get shot and killed, but you’re going to fight! If you don’t, I’ll stand you up against a wall and have a firing squad kill you on purpose!”

The man began to cry again, voices behind Patton growing, the room hot, swirling, stinking air. Patton felt his stomach turn, could not escape the sound of the man’s sobs, the fury coming back, fire in his brain. He reached down, his hands wrapping around the butt of his pistol, the gun pulling loose from the holster.

“I ought to shoot you myself, you goddamned whimpering coward!”

The man was staring at the pistol, and Patton held it out, tried to point it toward the man’s face, felt the men around him, moving closer, his own hands shaking now. He glanced to the side, saw faces, men and women, doctors, soldiers, nurses, a crowd, staring, wide-eyed shock. The pistol was heavy in his hands, and he looked down, the fury pushed aside by dark horror. The gun slid back into the holster, and Patton backed away, turned toward the opening of the wide tent, looked at the officer again, cold hate in the man’s face. Patton tried to bring the anger out again, how dare you show disrespect…but the man did not move, kept his eye focused on him, unflinching. Patton turned away now, moved to the opening, the blessed air, forced the words, shouted again.

“Send that yellow son of a bitch to the front lines!”

He was outside now, more people gathering, his driver standing by the jeep, waiting, obedient, and Patton climbed into the jeep, said, “I just saved a boy’s soul, if he has one. Let’s go. Bradley will wonder where the hell I am.”

The driver complied, the jeep moving quickly, the crowd of people behind him emerging from the hospital tent, watching him drive away.

SOUTH OF MESSINA—AUGUST 17, 1943

The sun was rising, the barren hills empty of life, the chill in the night air already warming. The men made their way slowly, stepping across large rocks, piles of dirt and concrete, hands out, the men helping each other across the treacherous ground. Above them, the bridge had been blasted into rubble, the roadway simply gone. They were used to it now, the British commando units who had worked feverishly alongside their engineers, pressing forward as the Germans withdrew, threading their way across deep valleys, repairing or clearing the roads so the rest of Montgomery’s army could continue the northward push. It was too common, so many of the roads simply narrow cuts carved into hillsides, the Germans detonating the rock above, burying them under tons of debris. The deep gullies and crevices were a greater challenge still, the destruction of the bridges delaying the vehicles. The engineers had used every tool in their arsenal, every trick, pulleys and winches, levers and cables, bridging the chasms, creating roadbeds where none existed.

The commandos left the ravine, crawled up onto flat ground, stared north, waiting now as a single jeep was pulled through the ravine behind them. With one great gasping effort, more men rolled the jeep up onto the road, the grateful commandos making way for their senior officer, the man slipping into the driver’s seat, others piling on, the engine firing, the jeep making the final dash, the two-mile push into the city.

His name was Jack Churchill, a lieutenant colonel commanding the Second British Commandos. As he drove toward the city, he held the reconnaissance reports in his mind, the observers telling him what he had seen himself. There had been a sudden lack of enemy fire, artillery batteries growing silent, infantry in the rocks no longer picking targets among his men. The reports told him what any officer could see, that the Germans had pulled away into the city. But the commandos knew more than that, knew by the silence that the Germans were not manning their defenses, that the city itself was not rumbling with the activity they had expected. Night after night, the air force planes had made their runs, blindly pouring their bombloads on targets they may or may not have hit. For nearly two weeks navy patrol boats had crept close to the port, quick snatches of information, confirming massive movement in and out of the port. But the bombardment he had expected had never seemed to come. Now, the roadways into the city were scattered with broken machines, the debris of war, hillsides speckled with dark spatters, what was left of artillery pieces and the crews who’d manned them.

It had been a mystery to him, the reports coming forward to one lieutenant colonel not detailed enough to tell him exactly what was happening. It was his job to find out, after all, to press forward with his men, to confront any stronghold where the enemy might still be waiting. As he drove the jeep, he thought of the city, the dreaded inevitability of house-to-house fighting, snipers and hidden artillery. But if the Germans had pulled back even farther, the mystery deepened. He knew the maps, knew that beyond the city there was little room to maneuver, little ground to offer the Germans any serious protection. There was only one possibility, that the sketchy reports of the ongoing evacuation of Sicily by German and Italians forces had to be accurate. If the enemy was gone, had somehow managed to escape the clutches of Montgomery’s army, the officer knew there would be hell to pay, that loud voices at headquarters would want explanations. But none of that was his problem, not now, not on this gray morning, not with the plump, ripe cherry of a city straight in front of him. It was a moment he had not expected, an honor falling upon him by chance. His commandos had done excellent work, the enemy responding to so many sharp fights by backing away. He smiled, pressed the accelerator closer to the floorboard, the jeep responding, thought, yes, if the enemy is gone, truly gone, then we will have the prize. We will capture this city. I will capture this city.

They rolled past small, white buildings, taller buildings beyond, the black water of the straits spreading out to the east. He pulled the jeep around a tight curve, slowed, the road opening into a wide street, flat-topped houses, and now…people.

They stood beside the road, some waving, some just silent, watching this strange, new army roll into their city. But it was hardly an army at all, just a few men on one jeep, and Churchill ignored that, thought only of the prize, the city of Messina. He saw a wide square, slowed, more people, flowers, loud voices, and he moved slowly, crept into the square, saw a crowd of people on the far side. He stopped the jeep, his men rolling off, rifles held ready, the crowd parting slowly. Churchill pushed through the faces, all civilians, held a carbine, poked it through more of the crowd, women, the crowd opening, uniforms, a cluster of men sitting on the steps of a small church.

“Well, good morning!”

Churchill lowered the carbine, knew the uniforms, the men calling out to him again, “Good morning! You’d be British, right? Welcome to our town!”

Churchill glanced at his own men, felt their energy draining away, low curses, the carbines going up on their shoulders. He stepped forward, saw an officer, a young lieutenant, hold out his hand. If it wasn’t to be his moment, his conquest, it was a victory after all. The men were Americans. Patton had won the race.