Second Front

Chapter 16

All through the spring of 1942, the Allies were possessed with the decision of what they could do that year, if anything, to open a Second Front. Roosevelt was particularly keen to see US troops involved in the war that year, and against the Germans as a top priority. Marshall and many other Joint Chiefs wanted action on the European continent as soon as possible, and they were betting on one of two plans associated with the operation already underway to build up forces in the UK—BOLERO—yet the plans kept getting tangled in negotiations, and never seemed to get any traction.

The problem, from the point of view of men like General George Marshall and Admiral King, was not the enemy, but the Allies involved. In spite of Churchill’s eagerness for a second front, the British seemed adamantly opposed to both plans teed up by the Americans. The first was called SLEDGEHAMMER, a plan to seize either Brest or Cherbourg in the summer of 1942, but when it came to Montgomery’s attention, he quickly called it an “unsound operation of war.” He picked the plan apart, declaring the five brigade frontage too narrow, leading to insufficient power in the assault, and slow buildup of forces after. Beyond that, it was simply too soon to contemplate such an attack. There were not enough landing craft to support it.

Marshall was sent by Roosevelt to hammer with that sledgehammer on the British, and see what the problem was. Along the way he opted to forego a meeting with Churchill at his private residence in Chequers, much to the chagrin of Churchill himself. Roosevelt’s close civilian advisor, Harry Hopkins, was sent instead, and he got a tirade from Churchill on protocol.

“Where is this General Marshall?” said the Prime Minister, puffing about his sitting room with a cigar in one hand, and a book of British law in another, which he was reading loudly from as he went. He asserted his position at the very top of the chain of command in Great Britain, the single authority that all his Admirals and Generals answered to, and then he ripped the relevant passage right out of the book and threw it on the floor.

“If this General of yours would care to read it, there it is,” he said with a huff. Hopkins listened until Churchill had fired his broadside, then closed the range to engage himself.

“Mister Prime Minister, you know damn well that this is nothing more than an effort to throw too much salt in the stew concerning Sledgehammer.”

“I wouldn’t waste my breath on such,” said Churchill with just the right level of indignation in his tone. “The truth is, Mister Hopkins, the decision making authority on this side of the pond resides here, in me, and you had better realize it. If your General Marshall thinks he can bypass me as easily as he diverted his train this morning to bypass Chequers, he is sorely mistaken. Now then, aside from the fact that Sledgehammer would be primarily a British Operation, it is entirely premature. It is our belief that it would have little chance of success, easily bottled up by the Germans, and leave all of Spain and Vichy France unscathed. The enemy would still hold Gibraltar, all of North Africa, and it would do nothing to directly challenge their current operations in the Canary Islands, or put any pressure on Rommel. Our Generals will tell you the very same thing, but I can assure you, they heard it from me first and foremost.”

He began reading from another passage in his law book, establishing responsibility for overall strategy and war aims in the office of the Prime Minister, whereupon he ripped that page out as well and threw it in Hopkins’ lap. Then a mood fell over him, and his eyes seemed to be seeing things far ahead, distant things to come, and there was both fear and anticipation in his gaze.

“Mister Hopkins, we want a Mediterranean strategy—I want such a strategy, and the British Empire answers to my thinking on this matter. Gibraltar must be retaken, and the Eastern Med reopened.”

“Sir, I realize you’ve a fondness for your position at Gibraltar. Yes, I heard your speech after it was surrendered—we are the Rock. But give Marshall a little credit. If we hit them hard enough, we would be cutting all German positions to the south off at the trunk.”

“But we won’t be hitting them hard enough,” said Churchill. “Five Brigades? That might make a nice raid, but it will not establish a secure lodgment on the continent.”

“Well Our General Marshall would beg to differ sir, with all due respect.”

“Marshall? He has no grasp of the real realities of war. The man has never had command of troops on the ground—not so much as a single platoon! He’s an administrator, not a strategist.”

“He making this same argument to your General Brooke even as we speak,” said Hopkins.

“Is he?” Churchill shook his head. “Then Brooke will report that to me, whereupon I will reject it outright, and with extreme prejudice. You see? Your General should be here, with me, not speaking to Brooke in London.”

Hopkins was entirely correct in what he said, for miles away, Marshall was indeed meeting with Brooke, and when he got immediate resistance to the Sledgehammer plan again, he shifted the ball, leaned to one side and made his dodge.

“Why not make it a raid?” he suggested.

“What good would that do us?” said Brooke. “Yes, it might deny the Germans the use of a port for some time, but it would be of little strategic value. All it would do is prompt the Germans to improve their defenses, and eliminate the value of surprise for future operations aimed at establishing a real lodgment on the continent.”

“Well isn’t that the general idea, to get the Germans to send troops from Russia to the West? Things are very uncertain in Russia. Consider what would happen if we lost the Soviets.”

“Believe me, we’ve taken a full appreciation of that, yet it cannot result in our putting forward operations that are doomed to fail. No. If we do land, then we must do so with the intention of staying, and carrying the fight deeper into Europe. The Prime Minister is in full agreement with that.”

That was the real British deal killer. They would insist the landings be permanent, and then argue that the existing American plans were inadequate, premature, and doomed to fail. The Second plan, code named ROUNDUP, was to delay the attack until the spring or summer of 1943. To this Brooke conceded that they would take a harder look if that were to be the case, but SLEDGEHAMMER in 1942 could not be supported.

“The Germans will have the advantage,” he said. “They could reinforce against such a landing three times faster than we could get troops ashore, and bottle us up without transferring a single division from the East Front. This plan isn’t a sledgehammer, General Marshall, it’s barely a tack hammer.”

Frustrated with all of this, Marshall tried to then advocate a Japan First strategy. If the British would not cooperate, he’d take his football and go elsewhere. He boldly proposed that the BOLERO troop buildup be diverted to the Pacific, all but two divisions, and of 53 air squadrons of various stripes, he would allocate 40 against the Japanese as well. His foil there was not Brooke or the British, but President Roosevelt himself. The President flatly stated that he wanted a Germany First strategy, and that some accommodation had to be reached with the British to get US forces in action in 1942. Period.

Brooke was aware of all of this, and so when Marshall continued to argue, he hit him right on the chin with it. “My good General Marshall, are you taking upon yourself the mantle of command? It is our understanding that your President Roosevelt lays down strategy, and his Generals carry out his wishes. That is how things are here, and Our Prime Minister has a firm understanding with your Mister Roosevelt as to the necessity of Germany First strategy in this war—please don’t forget that.”

“Well hells bells, General. What are we going to do then? The Japanese hit us last December, and we wasted half the year with nothing to show for it. We’re fighting in the Pacific, that’s for sure, but over here all you’ve done is take back a few hundred kilometers of useless desert. We’ve got to do something this year. You can’t win this war on the defensive.”

“We agree entirely, and we have a plan—this year, and to do some very great things.”

Those great things would be dreamt up in an operation that frustrated planners turned to for lack of anything else to do—then called Operation GYMNAST. It would involve an American landing at Casablanca, with the intention of denying that port to the Franco-German navy and cutting off their forward support base for their operation in the Canaries. In Fedorov’s history, the British wanted to expand this with further landings at Oran and other Algerian ports, but that would be impossible now. That was “SUPER-GYMNAST” in the original history. This time it would take a new face, and get back an old name.

“We’ve got to get back Gibraltar,” said Brooke. “The Germans are sitting there with warships, Stukas and fighters on the airfield, shore batteries, minefields, and a warren of U-boats. They’ve completely sealed off the straits, and closed all access to the Mediterranean from the Atlantic. The problem is that Gibraltar is simply not assailable from the sea, at least not directly. It will have to be taken from the landward side, possibly with the cooperation of airborne forces, just as the Germans did when they stole the place from us.”

“That means a landing on the Spanish coast,” said Marshall, “and that opens a very smelly can of political worms.”

“That it does, but considering that Franco has already given aid and comfort to the enemy, we mustn’t be squeamish. He’s already quite perturbed with our position in the Canary Islands. The Prime Minister has authorized us to look at the Spanish coast as a hostile shore, and treat it accordingly.”

“Then where would we land?”

“There are excellent beaches north and south of Cadiz, but they would be too close to German airfields at Gibraltar and Tangier. So we’re looking farther north.”

Marshall squinted at the map. “How far north? You can’t mean the northern coast of Spain.”

“No, that would be out of the question. But this area here seems promising.” He handed Marshall a map.

“What? Lisbon? Portugal is a neutral state.”

“At the moment….”

Marshall could easily read British intentions there. “You mean to say they might join us?”

“That, or be forced to fight alongside Spain and France, and pay the consequences. Now, we’ve looked at the matter over and over, and Lisbon is the only landing site suitable for our armor. So here’s the plan. There’s limited shipping, so we’ll go first and move into Portugal. The transports will race back to England, and then your boys mount an operation at Casablanca. We’ll land 6th Armored at Lisbon, hopefully unopposed. The infantry can come in there or at Lagos further south. We’ll rally the Portuguese to our banners as we swing down through Seville, Cadiz, and come at Gibraltar from the north. You storm ashore at Casablanca, cut off the German supply center at Marrakesh, swing up and take Fez, and then drive right up to take Tangier. This will clear both sides of the straits at the same time, and kick the door to the Med right open. Once that is accomplished, your boys will be in a very good position to drive east to Oran, and we can assist by mounting a seaborne assault on that place from Gibraltar—again, a two pronged attack.”

“East to Oran? General, look at your map! Those are the Atlas Mountains. The terrain in northern Morocco is some of the worst ground in North Africa. There’s one road on the coast and the rest is probably all goat trails in that highland.”

“You can go right around those mountains, right through Fez, up to Taza, and then the ground opens up considerably?”

“But it looks to be nearly 500 miles from Fez to Oran by that route.”

“More like 450.”

“That’s a hell of a long supply line for our troops. It could take months for us to get to Oran if we meet stiff opposition.”

“We believe the French will fold very quickly, and don’t forget, we’ll be in the game up north.”

“What about Franco?” Marshall objected. “What about the Spanish Army? What about the Germans?”

“They’ve only a few divisions in Spain at the moment, far fewer than we would have to face in France.”

“But they can reinforce from Southern France.”

Brooke smiled, repeating what Marshall said earlier. “Well, isn’t that the general idea? Let me put it to you this way. The Prime Minister is quite fixated on Gibraltar. We simply must take it back as a prelude to any further operations in the Med.”

“Why operate there at all?” Marshall protested. “Land in France and the whole affair is completely cut off.”

“True, but that simply doesn’t seem possible this year, and SUPER-GYMNAST is possible—quite possible if we take it in stages as I’ve outlined.”

“General, you’ve certainly hoodwinked us on that one. As an alternative, we could simply send several divisions to the Middle East through the Suez. That would satisfy Roosevelt’s desire to get at Hitler this year, if not mine.”

“But to what end? It’s a long slog from Libya to Tangier. Rommel has all that friendly territory to fall back on—unless we take it from him with an operation like the one I’ve just outlined.”

“Yet it’s all a secondary theater. You want to fight Germany, then go for the jugular, right through northern France.”

“Not in our view. This operation gives us a great deal. Taking Casablanca dooms the German position on the Canary Islands, eliminates those enemy airfields and U-boat bases, relieves pressure on the convoy route to Freetown and the Cape, and gives us those bases to further interdict U-boat operations in the Atlantic. That alone is a bucket full. Add to that the return of Gibraltar, elimination of Spain as a hostile adversary, the possibility of knocking the Vichy French right out of the war, along with their formidable navy. We also gain access to the Eastern Med, and that puts us at Rommel’s backside when all is said and done. We can roll on, take French Algeria, and go for Tunis. From there, we’re looking right at Mussolini, and the possibility of mounting operations to knock him out of the war as well.”

“All well and good,” said Marshall, “but it’s the Germans we have to get at in this fight. They’re the ones we have to beat. While we busy ourselves with these operations, what if the Soviets fall?”

“I fully understand, but this year, we’ve only two real alternatives worth mentioning. One is the plan I’ve just outlined, the other is JUPITER, the invasion of Norway. While that would eliminate German bases there and secure the Murmansk convoy route, it’s a very limited operation. We think the southern option holds more promise. If we can knock Spain, France, and Italy out of the war, that would isolate Germans in the West, and while we’re doing that, BOLERO proceeds with the buildup for the main effort against the continent—perhaps next year as you have it in the ROUNDUP plan.”

“A nice bone you’re throwing me,” said Marshall. “But I’m old enough to know there won’t be much meat on it. These operations have a way of pulling in supplies, troops, and shipping. Once we get started down there, we could find it impossible to get to ROUNDUP next year.”

“Well general, not to mix metaphors, but why not play out the first hand before we look at our cards in the second? It comes down to this: you can tell Mister Roosevelt that this is what we want—what we’ll agree to and wholeheartedly support for 1942. At the very least, we must take the Rock, and to do so we will need to control both sides of the Gibraltar Strait. That means we’ll need to also take Casablanca, and make the landings as I described. After that we can revisit this discussion in light of planning for ROUNDUP.”

Chapter 17

“Alright,” said Marshall, “suppose I do tell the President all this. The first question that comes to mind is whether or not the French will fight when we hit the beaches. What is your opinion?”

“Oh, they’ll fight. After Mers el Kebir, Dakar, the big action off Fuerteventura, and that nasty business in Syria and Lebanon, they’ve taken a very hard line against us.”

“Then our landing at Casablanca will be opposed.” Marshall wasn’t happy about that.

“I’m afraid so, and the worst of it will be the French Navy. The Germans have made Casablanca their forward supply base for the Canary Islands. They’re shuttling convoys back and forth, largely protected by the French Navy, and that new German aircraft carrier. So if you do come, your navy will have to command the seas off Casablanca to even contemplate a landing there. In that, our own Royal Navy will be fully committed to support your operation. We hope our own landing at Lisbon will be unopposed, and therefore require a much smaller naval escort.”

“Well I’m an Army man, but it seems to me that we should win the battle at sea before the troops take to their transports. Those ships make good targets, and we can’t afford to lose any of the shipping and landing craft we commit to this operation.”

“We certainly agree with that.”

“Is there any way we can get to someone influential over there and see if we can persuade them to a more enlightened course? What about Darlan?”

“He’s firmly in the enemy camp by now.”

“How can you be so sure? If we could convince him to stand down, it would make those landings at Casablanca a little more palatable.”

“General, you are certainly welcome to try, but I very much doubt that Darlan will change his spots this deep into the game.”

“Well who’s next in line over there?”

“Next in line? You mean in the Navy? I suppose Admiral Laborde, or perhaps Admiral Estéva, or even Admiral Gensoul. You’d have better luck with Darlan than Laborde. He has no love for the British, and despises De Gaulle. As for Gensoul, well, he was the French commander at Mers el Kebir, and wouldn’t think to highly of us after that. ”

“Doesn’t sound very hopeful,” said Marshall. “Well then, can we command the seas off Casablanca, and if so, how soon?”

“That is a question I should best put to our Admiral Tovey. I would expect him to meet with your Admiral King to iron the matter out. We’ve achieved a kind of stalemate in the Canaries, so our good Admiral went north to plan the defense of a big convoy to Murmansk. It’s been tooth and nail up there, particularly because the Germans have establish a big new base near Trondheim—Nordstern.”

“Wouldn’t that be within range of your bombers.”

“Quite so, but it’s the German fighters we need to worry about. It’s 750 air miles from Scotland to Trondheim, and we haven’t a fighter that can make that range. So any support for Bomber Command has to come off the few carriers we have. Your Wildcats have helped out a great deal—we call them Martlets now, but at least they can give us a chance against those Bf-109s. A pity we can’t get our Spitfires up there, but we’re working on better sea based fighters, and should have more soon enough.”

“I’m afraid we’ll have a similar problem if we go for Casablanca,” said Marshall. “You may have heard we lost two of our fleet carriers in the Coral Sea.”

“Nasty business there,” said Brooke.

“Yes, well that means we’re down to just three fleet class carriers in the Pacific, and already tangling with the Japanese in the Fiji Island group. General, we have nothing beyond our old carrier Ranger to send for this Casablanca operation, and even keeping that in the Atlantic might be difficult.”

“We’ll do our best to help out, and I believe we can establish air superiority over the landing sites.”

“General,” said Marshall, “I must tell you that we’ve looked this over, as your own people have as well, and many of our analysts give these landings a 40% chance of succeeding—at best.”

“Yes, between the French Navy, the German army, and the high surf conditions, our own people agree. But where else can we go, general Marshall?”

“How about the Pas de Calais.” Marshall tried one more time, but he ended with a wry grin. “Very well, I’ll discuss this with President Roosevelt, and I expect he’ll make the final decision. But I must tell you, I can’t give it much of an endorsement. That said, I’ll support the plan if the President directs me to do so, and in that you can count on us doing anything possible to make it work.”

“General, that is all we could possibly hope for. It’s all risky business. That’s the nature of war, but we have to start the road back somewhere, and these are objectives worth fighting for. We simply can’t sit idle throughout the remainder of this year. We’ve promised Sergei Kirov we would do everything possible to open a Second Front, and so we need to look at this whole affair with that in mind.”

“Very well,” Marshall conceded, but he did have one further bone to chew. “The president is concerned about command control in a joint operation like this. Even though our forces will be widely separated at the outset, eventually they’ll need to be well coordinated. Now I know you people have carried the ball for three years while we sat on the sidelines, but he’s asking for an American General in overall command.”

“Will that be a sticking point?”

“Very likely.”

“Alright then. This issue has been under consideration for some time, and we’ve agreed to that—even suggested it. I’ve heard several names bandied about. Perhaps you ought to take charge.”

Marshall smiled. “Another bone, General Brooke? No thank you. I’m well aware of what the Prime thinks of me, and what you may think of me as well. I’ve been told you suggested General MacArthur should be in command of our Joint Chiefs, so spare me the flattery. We have another man in mind, General Eisenhower.”

Whether Marshall could see it or not, the Americans were going to land somewhere in 1942, and it would not be France. The man charged with deciding the how and when of it all was one Dwight D. Eisenhower, and the cadre of officers that he would soon command would all cut their teeth in the campaign that would follow, rising to become the captains of battle whose names would ring through the history from that day forward, Eisenhower, George Patton, Omar Bradley, Mark Clark. They would rise, like cream, to the top of the churning vat that America’s war effort would soon become, and on their shoulders would fall the weight of a war that would grow heavier and heavier the longer they carried it.

In spite of all optimism at the outset, the future they could see ahead of them was but dimply perceived now. Anton Fedorov might have laid out the broad strokes, the slow probing engagements that lay ahead in North Africa as the American Army sputtered and learned and improvised its way into a force worthy of battle. Ahead lay Casablanca, and the drive north to Tangier, only the first in a long series of battles that might eventually lead them to Tunisia. Where Kasserene Pass had become a proving ground for American will and fighting skill, and a test of morale, those tests would likely be given at some other place now.

That was the consequence of Fedorov’s own intervention. The history was now so twisted that it was beginning to take on a new life of its own, and to write into the record of war a whole new series of battles and engagements where there was no longer any clear connection of reference point to the old events he once knew. In North Africa, instead of chasing the British 8th Army all the way to its stubborn last stand at el Alamein, Rommel was the one to retreat from Gazala, and it was he who would settle into a deeply entrenched defensive position at Mersa Brega. Whether he could ever do what Montgomery did, build up and then launch yet another bold offensive into Cyrenaica, remained to be seen.

The truth of the matter was that Rommel’s chances for any such renewed offensive were now a quickly diminishing prospect. The Americans were coming, a breed of ordinary citizen soldiers, green as they came stumbling off the transports for the most part, glassy eyed with sleep, missing sweethearts back home, looking like disheveled tourists in uniform, always eager to trade a candy bar or cigarette for something they had taken a fancy too in the local settings where they would soon find themselves. They would appear as a motley, unshaven, naive band of marauders to some, a legion of saviors to others. Yet soon, in the harsh dry and deeply weathered land of North Africa, they would begin to learn the craft of killing, the art of war, the heartless cold soul of it all that was nowhere apparent as they first boarded the transports in New York and other Atlantic ports.

Their worries then were whether they had enough socks and underwear in their swollen duffel bags. Memories of the waving crowds seeing them off at the wharves and quays were still dancing in their minds as they slept those first nights at sea, along with the faces and limbs of their sweethearts back home. Soon they would stand on decks of their ships, looking for sun in the sallow grey sky, and their thoughts would turn to darker things as they stared out as the slow procession of the convoys. Were there German U-boats waiting for them out there? The news of what had happened to that convoy to Murmansk cast a dark shadow.

Yes, the Americans were finally coming, going “over there” again, just as the Doughboys had in the first war. But this fight would be different. It had already burned through Europe once like a fast moving fire, and now the flames of that war would be rekindled and driven on by a heartless wind to Germany. This was all that lay ahead, city after city sleeping quietly, for the bombers had not yet come. Their buildings and streets still stood in a reasonable semblance of order. The tanks had not ground up the cobblestone byways. The artillery had not shattered the classic old storefronts and dormered hotels. The fire had not yet rained down from the sky, consuming, consuming, and extinguishing ten thousand human souls in a hour’s time. And it would get worse that that—far worse.

As Fedorov flipped through the pages of his old history books, he could glimpse an outline of what was to come. Casablanca, Oran, Algiers, Tunis, Bizerte, all cities that would eventually have to be taken by the Allies in time. Where the fires or war would go next remained uncertain. Would the Allies then leap to Sicily and into Italy to dethrone Mussolini, or might they aim their swords at the proverbial “soft underbelly of Europe?”

If they ever did muster the force and will to return to France, would it be from the south, or follow George Marshall’s hope for a hard landing on the coasts of Brittany, Normandy, or the Pas de Calais. And if they did come, would they prevail as they once did with a massive operation like Overlord, a grinding breakout like Cobra, a daring leap towards the Rhine like Market-Garden? Would the Germans mount again that last desperate counteroffensive that was once to be called the Battle of the Bulge? All that remained to be seen, battles waiting like sheathed swords in fate’s armory.

Now, in July of 1942, the man who might lead this new Allied effort forward was only just beginning to take on that mantle of command. Dwight D. Eisenhower took up residence in Norfolk House in London at the outset to continue on with what he called the ‘thrashing about in the dark’ where all these war plans were concerned. The Operation that had once been called “Super-Gymnast” was now getting a new code name. It would simply be called TORCH.

Eisenhower’s high forehead, soft blue eyes, thinning hair, and amenable disposition did not at first seem to project the presence that could unite the Allies and forge an alloy strong enough to shatter the steel of the mighty Wehrmacht. He was not the surly, growling and aggressive soul that a man like George Patton was, nor again the starchy, proper, but methodically implacable soul that was Montgomery. A big man, with a strong, athletic build, Eisenhower wore the uniform well, every inch a soldier, and his signature grin would vie with a notoriously quick temper as his moods shifted with circumstances.

Yet behind the ticking of that pendulum, behind that high forehead, Eisenhower possessed a sharp cool intelligence, a talent for planning and organization, and one other attribute that he was to need in abundance in the days ahead—patience. That and a penchant for giving fair treatment and hearing to every side of an argument, led all those associated with him to believe he was worthy of their trust, a most valuable commodity. His easy smile could be disarming, and others warmed to him quickly, conceding him their good regard in a way that was almost effortless.

He was a modest man, generous with subordinates, dedicated to his duty, and honest and fair in all his dealings with others. Then again he was a driven man as well, bent on success, and willing to pit himself against heavy odds to prevail. His affable and gregarious nature won him friends easily, and people saw in him a quiet sense of dignity and honor that inspired confidence. His ability to hide his rough edges and self-doubts was a part of all that. He bore no grudges, had no thirst for revenge, hated no other man, but would stand up to anyone who he thought was on the wrong side of an argument.

These were just a few of the qualities that would make him the leader he was to become, very far from the haughty and almost imperial personage of a Douglas MacArthur, a man Eisenhower once served as a clerk. He was farther yet from a man like Vladimir Karpov, with none of the darkness that undermined the latter’s soul, and no real animosity for anyone in his heart.

In spite of these qualities, Eisenhower would face many hardships along the way. No man is ever immune to doubt, or even despair. Eisenhower would face many doubts in the months and years ahead and also face down both depression and despair, which he cleverly hid behind that easy smile. Any man of Eisenhower’s age and maturity who still carried what he thought to be a lucky token in his pocket, was one who still faced doubt and uncertainty, in spite of the experience delivered with age. Eisenhower had not one, but three lucky coins in his pocket, a favorite silver dollar that he always carried but never spent, a five guinea gold piece, and a single French Franc.

That last coin was much on his mind, shifting between his long fingers as he considered what would come of this first confrontation with French forces in North Africa. He would hash out the possibilities ahead with his opposite number, one Walter Bedell Smith, a man Eisenhower personally requested as his Chief of Staff. While often called Ike’s “Hatchet Man” for the toughness he could display in dealings with others, Smith also had a knack for handling the British. He wasn’t Eisenhower’s friend, and the two men seldom spent social time together, but they cooperated well as planners and organizers, which was what was needed now.

The time had come to put the divisive argument aside and start planning that war, and Eisenhower had Smith in hand to think it through, along with General Mark Clark. They were about to put the finishing touches on the plan for the first great Allied offensive of the war, but the situation facing the Allies was considerably different in this telling of events.

The Med was closed. There could be no landing in Algiers or Oran, and no rapid movement into Tunisia. The United States had also declared war on Vichy France, so all embassies were shut down and Wild Bill Donavan’s OSS would never use them to flood French North Africa with agents and saboteurs. With Gibraltar in German hands, the closest allied airfield would be at Madeira in the Atlantic. They would have to bring everything else with them on carriers until new airfields were seized. Portugal was a reluctant co-conspirator, wary of exposing itself to the ravages of war. All of Franco’s Spain stood between the planned British landing at Lisbon and their objective at Gibraltar.

These were only some of the difficulties they would face, and then there was the fact that France would be unquestioningly hostile, on land and at sea, and backed by German troops from the very beginning of the operation.

Eisenhower was very much against the plan at the outset. “This is a black day,” he said. “The Limeys have had their way with this whole thing, and now our only chance is for Roosevelt to veto this TORCH plan.”

“He won’t,” said Clark. “He’s thick as thieves with the Prime, and this is what Churchill wants.” The Americans had taken to calling Churchill that, ‘The Prime,’ as if he was a cut of some particularly good steak or rib roast. Clark was correct, for in spite of renewed attempts by Marshall to get the operation cancelled, Roosevelt insisted that TORCH should go forward.

And that was that.

Chapter 18

A month later, after a lot of haggling and planning, Eisenhower still had grave doubts. “We ought to invade Spain and French North Africa at the same time,” he said, “but we just don’t have the shipping. By God, we’ll have to divide our forces in this thing, transports, troops, naval air support allocations. The British were whining we weren’t hitting the French coast hard enough in SLEDGEHAMMER, now look at this mess.”

“They want Gibraltar back,” said Clark. “They seem obsessed with it. I suppose I can understand that in one sense. It’s was the first real British outpost the Germans took from them. If they landed on Cuba and took Guantanamo Bay, we’d sure as hell be dead set on kicking them out. But there’s something more to it than that. I’ve heard things.”

“What is that suppose to mean?” said Eisenhower.

“I’m not really sure, but there have been some odd whispers about Gibraltar. I’m told their Navy insists it be taken as soon as possible.”

“Understandable,” said Smith. “As it sits now, they’ve a very long sea route around the Cape to supply Egypt.”

“That’s another thing,” said Clark. “Egypt. Now they’ve done quite well there, wouldn’t you say? It looked like Rommel was going to run them into the Suez Canal a while back, and then he got stopped cold. Well, there’s something going on over there, something fishy, and we’ve been left out of the loop.”

“What have you heard?” said Ike.

“First off, what’s all this about a Russian ship popping off with advanced rocketry?”

“Yes, I did read that when it circulated,” said Eisenhower.

“Then there was that odd meeting in Siwa with Churchill after they first stopped Rommel. Now they’ve kept their cards fairly close to their chests over there. I was in Alexandria to see about a possible mission to slip into French North Africa and see if we could talk some sense into Darlan, and believe me, the British treated me like a pariah. I had the distinct feeling that they were hiding something. I was all set to tour the front, and lord knows they found fifteen reasons to kill that idea. They had a staffer with me every goddamned day, and at time they would drive me about in a limousine with curtains on the windows—for my security, or so they said. Then, when I asked about the scuttlebutt concerning some new tanks they might have, they looked at me like I was asking them for their daughter’s virginity!”

“We got the same runaround,” said Eisenhower, “and I’ve heard that same thing—some new British tank over there kicking the hell out of Rommel’s Panzers—probably their new infantry tank to replace the Matilda. Well, if it’s true, why are they still pan handling for more of our Grants?”

“Good point,” said Smith. “And they also want to restrict our air operations in this new TORCH plan. They’ll accept planes, mind you, but in the 8th Army Theater, they want total control of all air operations, and they want to use all British pilots.”

“Well correct me if I’m wrong,” said Eisenhower, “but I thought beggars shouldn’t be choosers. It’s almost as if they had something over there that they flat out don’t want us to see. Who knows, maybe it’s this tank that been in the rumor mill. Frankly, all this is for Marshall to worry about. What I’ve got to worry about is this goddamned plan. Beetle, what are we really going to be looking at when we do land at Casablanca? What have the French got there in the way of an active garrison?” Those that knew Smith had taken to using, and spelling, his middle name that way—Beetle instead of Bedell.

Smith leaned back, looking over the latest intelligence report. “Casablanca Division—three regiments of infantry there, two others in the general vicinity, but with little in the way of any armor, and poor artillery. But there’s three other divisions in Morocco, one at Fez, another at Marrakech, and a third at Meknes just west of Fez. That last unit does duty on the coast from time to time, at Rabat north of Casablanca.”

“Four divisions… And the Germans?”

“Most of the troops around Casablanca are Luftwaffe, but they just moved the 327th Infantry Division into Marrakesh.”

“No Panzer Divisions?”

“Not in Morocco. The 16th is in Southern France, and intel picked up what looks like advanced units of that division in Barcelona. They could be getting ready to move the whole lot into Spain. Other than that, they’ll have a good veteran infantry division handy, the 15th Infantry, but it’s also in southern France.”

“Nothing in Spain?”

“The 337th at Madrid, garrison troops at Gibraltar and Tangier, shore batteries, Ack Ack units, service troops and some naval personnel.”

“Well hell, Beetle, it doesn’t seem like they’re on to us with this operation. We just might catch them with their pants down.”

“Except for the 16th Panzer Division,” said Smith. “It they move that into Spain, it will be a problem for the British. But we must also consider what they do with the troops they have in the Canary Islands. They’ve got two air mobile divisions there, the 7th Flieger and 22nd Air landing—both tough outfits. There’s a mountain regiment there that they took from Rommel last spring, and General Kubler is the nominal commander of that entire force.”

“Once we hit the beaches at Casablanca, all those troops are out on a limb,” said Eisenhower.

“Which is why we’ve still got to worry about them. They can move by air, perhaps only one regiment at a time, but that means we could eventually face a buildup to the south.”

“We’ve accounted for that possibility in the plan,” said Ike. “The German division at Marrakesh could move to Safi and raise hell with our optional landing there. But otherwise, it will certainly come north to Casablanca. Those airborne troops will be used to reinforce their lines after we’ve landed and they see what cards we have in our hand. What I can’t figure is why they don’t have anything north of Rabat.”

“They probably think we can’t hit them there under their land based air power.”

“True, but that means no German troops of note between Casablanca and Tangier. So far I like that, because I don’t think they’ll be able to reinforce Morocco once this thing starts. Patton will like it too.”

“You sure about Patton?”

“He’s the best man for the job. He’ll have all of 2nd Armored Division, and the 3rd and 9th Infantry Divisions—eventually. 3rd Division is scheduled for D+3, the 9th Division for D+5—assuming the U-boats don’t get them first.”

The British asked for our 1st Armored at their end of things—in Spain.”

“If they do have a new tank, it sure doesn’t sound like they have much confidence. Why do they want our armor in Spain?”

“You said it yourself,” said Eisenhower. “Given the fact that 16th Panzer may be moving as you suggest, I think we’d better agree to that—in part. We were going to lead with the 9th Infantry, but I’ve asked for the Big Red One instead on D-Day.

“That rips up Fredendall’s Corps,” said Smith. “The British get his armor and Patton takes the rest.”

“I’ll let him down easy,” said Eisenhower. “He still has the Corps, only he’ll be standing in Patton’s shadow, that’s all. And the Brits just get one combat command in floating reserve. I’m going to use Hatch and CCB in the first wave south of Casablanca”

“What about Harmon’s Division?”

“2nd Armored? Hell, it will sit in the UK waiting for those transports to get back there after they deliver the Brits to Lisbon. That means we can’t expect that division to arrive until D+5.”

“What does Patton think of all this?”

“He wasn’t happy the first go round,” said Eisenhower. “Said he thought the troops were too green. Then again, after I handed him the 1st Infantry Division, he changed his tune.”

“What’s in reserve?”

“Only one regiment from 34th Infantry. The 168th RCT will be held in the Azores, a good position from which we could reinforce either landing in a pinch.”

“So what do our Limey friends throw into this?” Smith set down his clipboard.

“They’ll send the 6th Armored Division, 3rd and 43rd Infantry Divisions, and the 78th Infantry Division in reserve.”

“Is that going to be enough armor?”

“I suppose that’s why they asked for our 1st Armored Division, but my inclination is to be stingy there. I allocated CCA as a reserve for Portugal, but it won’t go ashore unless absolutely needed. We need a hammer in the tool box just in case one end of this offensive has difficulties—and it could be our end. I’ve communicated this to our friends, and so they’ve decided to make both their infantry divisions mixed, adding the 33rd Armored Brigade to one, and 34th Armored Brigade to the other.”

“They have those new tanks?”

Eisenhower was fishing about in a brief case. “Ah, here it is—the specs on that new heavy infantry tank. Maybe this is the mystery they were hiding over in Egypt and Libya. They’re calling it the Churchill.”

“Buttering the old man’s bread, are they?”

Eisenhower smiled. “Let’s see how flattering the Germans find it. It’s nearly 40 tons, and they’ve finally ditched that lousy 2 pounder gun for something better. This one has a 75mm quick firing main gun, and a pair of Besa 7.92mm machine guns. It was meant to replace their old Matildas and Valentines. It says here that they’ve sent some to Alexandria, and the brigades assigned for TORCH will fight right alongside their infantry.”

“Forty tons… Now I see why they wanted Lisbon. They need a good port to get those things ashore. Maybe you’re correct and these are the tanks they field tested over in Libya.”

“It wouldn’t surprise me,” said Eisenhower. “Let’s just hope the Portuguese welcome them with open arms.” Ike walked to the window, looking out on the city, seeing the grey overcast sky, and equally grey men and women going about whatever business the war had put before them. London was still a dreary place, even in the summer this year, with the weather more austere than many could remember. Some said it all had to do with that big volcano that blew its top in the Pacific, but it would be the least of his worries.

“Tomorrow we move to the Azores and get the forward HQ up and running. My God, Beetle, the thought that we’re going to try to move six divisions by sea still gives me the willies. There’s a thousand things that could go wrong. Hell, it’s taken us months just to modify the transports so they could be combat loaded. Then there’s the U-boat threat, the German Navy, the French Navy, the Luftwaffe.”

“You’re an Army man,” said Smith, “But don’t forget there’s a US Navy out there too, and the Royal Navy right at our shoulder. That’s the opening round of this whole thing. We win that, and our boys will get to Casablanca alright.”

“Burrough is leading the naval contingent,” said Clark, his mood darkening somewhat. “You know what he told me? He said he’d feel lucky if we got half the transports safely to their landing zones. And I’ve heard the same from a number of good men—they say we have a 50/50 chance in this.”

What do they know?” said Eisenhower dismissively. “Gentlemen, let me tell you what our ground commander has been up to lately. He’s gotten religion. Patton is selling this operation like he was going to make a personal profit from the affair. In fact, the other day he came in and wanted to show me his first draft of a demand he’s planning to read the French commander—a demand for his immediate surrender! I like that man’s style. So God help the French when we do get there, because with Georgie out in front leading our boys in, the Frogs won’t have a chance.”

He fished about in his pocket, producing a pair of cigars. “Gentlemen—to our last night in London!”

Americans had staked out a little patch of London since the time when John Adams had visited England in 1785. Grosvenor Square had been developed in 1721 by Sir Richard Grosvenor, 4th Baronet, a member of Parliament at the time and the ancestor of the Dukes of Westminster. There were elegant mansions, and a palatial estate that was later rebuilt with swank hotels. Eisenhower had followed in the footsteps of Adams when he set up his headquarters at Number 20 Grosvenor Square, to coordinate the planning for Torch. There, his meticulous aide, Lieutenant Commander Harry Butcher, USN, had been keeping a diary of these events, noting all important discussions and decisions, but that morning, as they prepared to get down to the long line of cars waiting to take them to the airport, something was troubling Butcher.

A former news man and broadcaster for CBS, Butcher was the perfect man to take on the role of journalist, documenting the doings of Eisenhower and his staff as they worked up to the brink of this momentous opening campaign. But something was wrong.

“Harry?” said Ike, giving him a look. “You get a bad egg for breakfast?”

“No sir… It’s very odd.”

“What’s wrong?”

“The War Diary. You know I’ve been keeping minutes of all the meetings, notating everything in a daily diary for the historical record. But this is strange. I went to make an entry this morning, and a page is missing—page 117.”

“A page missing…” Eisenhower didn’t like the sound of that. “What was on that page?”

Butcher swallowed. “Well sir… That was the day we finalized the objectives for TORCH. I had all those pages on my desk just last night before I bound them so I could pack them. I’m sorry sir, but I’ve looked everywhere.”

“Good Lord. Missing? It’s got to be somewhere close by. Look for it again, and by God, be careful. I had a loose lipped naval officer in here yesterday and I read him the riot act and sent the son-of-a-bitch home. This thing is about to get traction, and security is paramount.”

They looked everywhere, high and low. Eisenhower went through his desk and personal office from top to bottom. They opened every attaché, every brief, any file box that might harbor the missing page. Then orders went out that a search was to be made of all baggage stored for shipment to the Azores. Nobody was going anywhere that morning, and a phone call was made to the airport to stand Eisenhower’s plane down. The page was never found.

A hundred miles southeast of London, the B-Dienst station at Calais was very busy that morning. Unbeknownst to the Allies, the Abwehr had a witless collaborator inside the headquarters facility, just a cleaning woman, and with no real position in the echelon of agents and provocateurs Canaris employed. She had passed through Butcher’s office while carrying out a basket of trash the previous night, saw the page on the floor, and thinking it had been meant for a waste basket, she simply added it to the one she was carrying.

That night a truck came by the dump bin for the facility, and two men got out, about to make off with an unscheduled rubbish haul. These men were not unwitting collaborators, but willful agents in the web Canaris had spun, and by 04:00 they had discovered the unshredded paper and could not believe their eyes. They immediately drove to a quiet hotel on the edge of the city, handing the find off to yet another man, who sent a coded message to B-Dienst.

At dawn, the message was on the desk of Canaris, and he looked at it with a mixture of anticipation and fear in his eyes. There it was, chapter and verse, the landing sites, the units assigned, the list of objectives and expected times when they might be secured. He shook his head, realizing that something had slipped on the other side, a look approaching shock on his face. Only two other men could have seen the document, the signalmen who first received it.

Canaris leaned back, thinking. Then he reached for a secure telephone and rang up Calais. He wanted those men in a car heading for Brussels immediately, and he made arrangements to go there himself. Then he took the message, folded it quietly, and lit a match beneath it over his waste basket. Later that day, the two signalmen would meet a most unexpected fate in Brussels. Canaris was a very careful man, for one had to be very clever to lead the life he was living out at that moment.

He was head of the Abwehr, all German intelligence gathering, and he had just told Keitel that, as far as he was concerned, the Allies still remained incapable of mounting any real offensive threat for 1942. There had not been a whisper or shred of evidence indicating otherwise, and all of his most reliable sources of information had dried up. That was the way he intended to keep things, nice and quiet, for Canaris was secretly in league with British MI-6, even while he also quietly organized a select group of men that would come to be known as the Schwartz Kapelle—the “Black Orchestra.” Together they had been working on a dark fugue in the chorus of the Nazi regime, intending to plot the eventual assassination of Hitler.

Yet no matter how careful Canaris was, other men had looked on him with suspicion for some time. Goring and Raeder had hidden reservations about the man, but it was the sinister head of the SS, Heinrich Himmler, that would soon be on his trail. That signal had also been received by the special SS listening post on the coast, and it had been routed to Himmler as well. The pallid faced bespeckled man pressed his lips together as he read it. Then he simply opened a briefcase and slipped it into a special folder, the one that held the transcripts of trans-Atlantic cable intercepts that not even Canaris had been privy to. Himmler had been quietly reading the transcripts of conversation between Eisenhower, Roosevelt, Churchill and others. He knew everything that was about to happen on the coasts of Spain and Morocco now, and he also knew that Canaris had received that same message, even while he had been insisting that no threat was imminent.

He smiled, a dark cold smile that would have frozen the blood of a detention camp prisoner. It was going to be a very busy morning.