The Rising Tide Page 5

  Rommel had heard all the discreet complaining from his staff, well-tempered urgings that he should stay put, keep away from the worst of the bloody fighting. They knew not to push him too hard, and he tolerated the pressure from his senior staff, the men he respected, like Westphal, a good loyal officer who did his job. Now, in the midst of a full-scale tank battle, the staff’s job was to coordinate things from the rear, keep the supplies moving forward, fueling and feeding this marvelous army.

  The two heavy-armor divisions of the Afrika Korps were only a part of the total force he commanded, which included other German infantry and motorized units whose mobility and firepower had usually overmatched the British. In the field, he also commanded the Italians, both armor and infantry, men who had seen too much of defeat. But he tried to show respect for the Italians, knew that a fighting man should not be judged by his uniform, but by how he met the enemy. His respect for the front-line Italian soldiers had inspired them, this hard-bitten German who expected them to fight. The Italians responded, offering more tribute to Rommel than they ever had to their own officers. But the officers continued to listen to their paper commanders, the men appointed by Rome, who had been told that they outranked Rommel, or a delusion greater still, that Rommel would actually obey them. He knew his place in the chain of command, understood obedience as well as any good soldier. But he had seen too much of the Italians’ petty grandstanding, pompous authority exercised by worthless officers who knew nothing of strategy and tactics. The Italians were embarrassed, humiliated, chose not to understand why Mussolini had allowed the Germans to come into North Africa. For all Rommel knew, even Mussolini was humiliated, though no one would ever detect a hint of that from the man’s absurd declarations.

  At first, he’d actually liked Mussolini, the man the Italians called Il Duce. Rommel had been attracted by the man’s aggressive charm, and more, by Mussolini’s ability to make good his own boasts. It was the luxury of being a dictator. No matter how bombastic his pronouncements, he would suggest only those strategies he had the absolute power to carry out. That way, he could maintain an aura of flawlessness. But Rommel had soon learned that Germany’s ally was anything but flawless. Il Duce would do anything to save face, whether it made sense on the battlefield or not.

  Even before Rommel had come to Africa, Hitler’s overwhelming success in northern Europe had put Mussolini in the background. It was a form of humiliation that the Italian dictator would simply not accept. And so, he would make a glorious show of his own. In late 1940, Mussolini made the astonishing decision to invade Greece, without consulting Hitler at all. It was clear to all that Il Duce was attempting his own blitzkrieg, a lightning strike to conquer an inferior foe, more to impress Hitler than to accomplish anything of strategic value. But Mussolini’s grand scheme backfired dramatically. Greece was no outclassed weakling. The Italian invaders were severely bloodied and sent reeling back. The message to the Germans was clear. Despite all of Mussolini’s rousing oratory, his army might not be as inspired as their leader had promised. It was a lesson not lost on Rommel. Mussolini’s ambitions for North Africa had little to do with the reality of what was required there, especially in confronting a British army that was constantly reinforcing and improving its equipment. Despite the exhortations from Rome, the Italian supply service did little to actually help their cause. The navy seemed far more interested in preserving their ships for posterity than risking them by hauling essential cargo across the Mediterranean. Rommel had struggled not only to secure an adequate number of troops and armor, but the food and fuel essential to maintaining his army in the field. Promises poured over him from Rome, and every day, fewer ships arrived to fulfill them. All the while, Mussolini spoke loudly of his valiant campaign to secure Africa for the new Roman Empire.

  R ommel passed the burning wreckage of a British scout car, ignored the black shapes that still sat upright behind the shattered windshield. His tanks had mostly moved away, pushing northward, in rapid pursuit of a disordered British retreat. He coughed from the smoke, adjusted his goggles, shouted into the Mammoth, “Forward! Follow the dust. We must not lose contact.”

  The Mammoth continued to move, picking up speed, bouncing over rocks, swerving slightly to avoid black debris. He gripped the hatchway with one gloved hand, raised the binoculars with the other, but there was nothing to see, the smoke and dust blocking any sign of the fight. He could still hear the thumps of the artillery, knew from the sound it was the good work of the eighty-eights. But there were not as many now, the artillery fire beginning to slow.

  “Stop! Stop now!”

  The Mammoth crawled to a stop, and he scanned the dusty horizon. Still nothing to see. He lowered the binoculars, clasped his hands tightly around them, could hear scattered fights in all directions, even behind him, something he was used to now. But the sounds were too infrequent, too spread out.

  “Send word to Crüwell. I want him in the air. If his tanks aren’t firing, he’s lost contact. He must find the enemy before they escape!”

  The radio operator went to work, and Rommel still scanned to the north. Yes, General, get in your airplane and find them. That’s why we do not sit in tents.

  Ludwig Crüwell, the commander of the panzer divisions, was a man Rommel had come to rely on. The man had a quick mind and agreed with Rommel that leadership should not be exercised from behind. Most of the senior commanders had their own small planes, Rommel included. It was usually a Storch, a narrow two-seater that could land and take off on nearly any short stretch of flat ground, and the desert here was nothing but flat ground. Crüwell had adapted well to Rommel’s habit of seeing a fight from the air, though unlike Rommel, Crüwell used a pilot. Rommel had learned long ago that a pilot was one more man, one more detail to keep track of. The most efficient way of getting around in a plane was to fly yourself.

  “Sir, General Crüwell acknowledges your order. He will scout the enemy immediately.”

  Rommel stared ahead, thought, I should not have had to tell him. When your guns grow quiet, General, you have either killed all your enemy, or he has left you. I do not believe the British have allowed themselves to be obliterated.

  The dust was drifting past him still, driven by a light, hot breeze. He spat dust, pulled his scarf up over his mouth, searched for some movement, some sign of his armor. Or anyone else’s. He was feeling the familiar frustration, the blindness. Where have they gone? He turned, looked more to the east, thought of the British. You’re out there, still. You didn’t just simply run away like so many gazelles. And I am not yet finished with you.

  The air above him ripped with a high scream, the sound fading, the shell landing far to the west. He laughed, said aloud, “So, you read my mind, eh? You don’t care for my little insult?”

  Another shell streaked overhead, and he could see the thin, white line, the trail of the shell fading quickly. Big one, he thought. Shooting at nothing. A protest of their own fear. Now another shell came from behind, the streak more red, the scream passing over in the opposite direction, quickly fading away. He waited, heard a small burst of thunder to the east. He smiled now, looked up again, waited for the next one. It came seconds later, followed by two more. The shells were arcing straight over him, and he ignored the nervous voices in the Mammoth, had heard all of that before, concern that they should move, get Rommel out of harm’s way. Why? They aren’t shooting at us. We’re in the perfect place, right between them. A duel, and we’re the audience. He felt strangely excited, thought not of the guns, not of the men who worked them. He thought instead of the observers, far out in front somewhere, maybe close by, right here, around us hidden in some low pile of rocks. Here is the chess game, the fun, waiting, watching for your enemy to make some mistake, an enemy gunner carelessly revealing his position. He imagined himself deep in some thorny brush, peering over rocks. Yes, there, the flash, the brief plume of smoke. I see you, fool. He leaned back slightly, put his hands behind him, the gloves protecting him from the searing he
at of the Mammoth’s rooftop, smiled. So, now you know where they are, and so, you make the call to the battery. The power is yours, guided by your hand. First one shell, to judge the range, then, adjust, nearer, farther, to one side or the other. And for the enemy there is no escape. He knows what he has done, knows that he has made a deadly error, and in seconds it will kill him, his gun, his entire crew. And the observer…he will see it happen. It is a perfect moment.

  He waited for more, a minute, then two. But the guns were silent and he looked back toward the west, to where his artillery would be, knew it was done. This one belongs to us. The final shot of the duel. Yes, good work. Whoever you are, I would shake your hand.

  T he Mammoth slowed, dust billowing from below, bathing the small sea of tents in a choking fog. Rommel was down quickly, saw officers gathering, was surprised to see Kesselring.

  “Field Marshal, I did not expect to see you. I came for General Crüwell’s report.”

  “Come, let us walk.”

  Albert Kesselring’s primary responsibility was the Luftwaffe, the German air forces that patrolled throughout the Mediterranean. He answered to Hermann Göring, who controlled all of Hitler’s air forces. But Kesselring outranked Rommel and was in nominal command of the entire southern theater of the war, and so, Rommel’s decisions were subject to Kesselring’s approval. Rommel did not particularly like the man, and he suspected that the feeling was mutual, but from necessity they had formed a good working relationship. Kesselring was far more of a diplomat and so could deal far more gently and effectively with the Italians both in Rome and in North Africa, who continued to believe they were running the show. Rommel’s constant screaming for supplies had made him an unwelcome voice in Rome, and increasingly, in Berlin. Kesselring was highly regarded by Hitler and could soften the indiscreet blows made by Rommel against “chairborne” generals and inept staff officers.

  The two men walked away from the dusty tents, and Rommel, feeling impatient, said, “I don’t need to hear bad news just now. Do you not hear the fight?”

  Kesselring stopped, and Rommel knew he couldn’t prevent the man from telling him of yet another calamity in Rome, some new reason why gasoline could not be sent.

  Kesselring said, “I will inconvenience you anyway. General Crüwell has been shot down. Word was received here that his Storch took fire, and that he landed among the British. We do not know if he is dead, and certainly, there is hope he may only be captured.”

  “How long ago?”

  “Within the hour. I received word back at my headquarters and flew up here as quickly as possible. We tried…” Kesselring stopped, and Rommel knew what was coming. “We did not know where you were. Colonel Westphal said you were somewhere at the front.”

  “I am here now. Do we know the enemy’s position?”

  A low roll of thunder erupted in the east, beyond the flat ground. Both men turned, and Kesselring said, “From what I can tell, the enemy is holding on to several key positions. We have taken a heavy toll on his armor, but he is not defeated. What do you intend to do?”

  Rommel looked at the man, the genial face, the man’s bald head hidden by the distinctive white-crowned hat of the Luftwaffe. The shape of the man’s mouth made him appear to be smiling, though Kesselring was usually quite serious, was certainly serious now. Rommel pointed toward the sounds of the firing.

  “I intend to find out why we do not hear more of that.”

  He saw words forming, Kesselring preparing the same tired protest. But Kesselring let it go, stepped back, made a short bow.

  “Go. Do not let me stand in your way. This is your fight. I should notify Berlin about General Crüwell.”

  “Might it wait a moment? I need you to do something more important. Come.”

  Rommel led Kesselring toward the largest tent, Crüwell’s staff gathering. He focused on the small table, maps spread out, papers overlapping. Rommel studied one, looked out, listened, the low rumbles coming again. He looked at Kesselring, said, “With Crüwell absent, the ranking officer in this sector is Italian. I would prefer…the panzers require a German to lead them. I need you to take over this position, take command of this wing of the attack. Coordinate the tank battalions. Find where the enemy is holding strong and push the fight around those positions.”

  There was a low hum in the tent, staff officers suddenly uncomfortable with Rommel’s request. Rommel ignored them, saw surprise on Kesselring’s face.

  “Albert, this battle is yet to be decided. I cannot manage this entire affair, you have told me that yourself many times. General Crüwell’s absence puts us at a disadvantage. I require a senior officer to take command in this sector. As we speak, the enemy is either running or regrouping his armor. It is just as likely that he is severely wounded and must be extinguished.”

  Kesselring scanned the faces around them, said, “Very well, General, I am in your charge. I understand my, um…orders. May I ask where I might find you?”

  Rommel moved quickly to the Mammoth, the engine belching smoke, the crew loading up before him.

  “I shall know where I am to be when I arrive there. I must see to the supply line for this front. Without fuel trucks, we will make no fight at all, and right now, it is likely that the enemy still has forces between our supply depots and where we now stand. In any event, the priority along this line is to find the enemy and engage him wherever he may be.”

  Rommel climbed up, resumed his perch on top of the Mammoth, the truck slowly turning away, a cloud of dust rising, engulfing Kesselring and the men who watched him go.

  T he supply trucks found their way through, helped by Rommel himself, who led the convoy to the desperately exhausted tank crews. The British had pulled farther into their defenses, and Rommel could sense the indecision, the pause, while the British command tried to organize. It had become the particular trait of this enemy that no matter how severe the crisis, they would weigh and evaluate, discuss and debate. It was a grotesquely inefficient way to run an army, especially in the middle of a fight. Regardless of fuel and supply and the number of tanks, Rommel was convinced that the mind of the British commander was his enemy’s greatest weakness.

  The Mammoth dropped down into a wide, shallow riverbed, what the Arabs called a wadi. He ordered a halt, could see smoke now, rising streaks of fire. Kesselring was doing his job, on the ground, and with the Luftwaffe as well. Dive bombers were dropping out of the sky, targeting British positions with pinpoint precision. He loved the sound of the Junkers, the pure terrifying scream as the gull-wing planes dove straight at their targets. The planes had sirens mounted on the wings, someone’s delicious idea to terrorize their victims, letting them know that when they heard that awful sound, death was at hand, right now, right in your face.

  He stood on the roof of the Mammoth, heard the radio chatter rising up to him, faces glancing up. He could see what they saw, out on the far side of the wadi: German tanks withdrawing, pulling back toward him. Armored trucks and half-tracks were darting among them, all moving toward the wide riverbed. Trails had been marked, the best places to cross, and the tanks began to move together, pushing down through the thick, sandy banks, across quickly, then up the near side. Rommel raised his binoculars, watched the horizon, the telltale dust rising, the pursuit from an enemy who believed the Germans were in full retreat. He smiled. Yes, he thought, come to my party.

  From behind him, other vehicles moved forward, and quickly the wadi itself was filling with a river of trucks, gun carriers easing down into the dry sand, turning, positioning their cannon. Rommel loved the eighty-eights, the best weapon he had, the long barrels now placed just above the lip of the riverbank, pointing out toward the enemy, the enemy who had been baited, lured into believing that the Germans had withdrawn.

  The dust cloud in front of him began to take shape, tanks appearing, more of the rapid armored cars, machine-gun carriers, spoiling for a fight, convinced the Germans were on the run. He stared, picked out the larger machines, a different s
hape, the short, fat cannon set to one side. They were the new Grants, the American-made tanks, said to be the equal of anything the Germans had. Well, we shall see about that. His heart was racing, and he gauged the distance, a mile perhaps, no need to wait much longer. The orders rolled through the gun crews, and the wadi erupted into bursts of fire and thunderous roars. All along the riverbank, the eighty-eights spit their deadly fire toward the enemy. Rommel stared through the binoculars, could see the first impacts, bursts of black smoke, sheets of fire. The dust of the enemy had turned to smoke, the British column coming apart, the formation dissolving, men and their machines scrambling to escape the ambush. Some began to return fire, and the ground on both sides of the wadi erupted into dirt and loose rock. But the shells had no targets, were poorly directed by British gunners who now knew what their enemy had done. From their low perches, the concealed eighty-eights continued to launch deadly fire at the disintegrating British battalion. Rommel looked down into the faces watching him, waiting for his order.

  “Send them in! Straight forward, and flank to the right! All speed!”

  From behind him came a new sound, the German tanks returning, plunging into the wadi, then up, moving quickly toward the dense fog of black smoke. The panzers were moving into attack formations, some sweeping toward the right flank of the British line, others driving straight into the dust and smoke. With their own machines blocking their line of fire, the gun crews in the wadi began to gather up, the trucks moving to attach their guns. The fight roared all across the open ground in front of them, German and British tanks engulfed in deadly chaos. But the shock was complete, the enemy routed. Rommel knew it without seeing what was happening in front of him. He sat down, shouted the order to advance, and the big machine kicked into motion, drove up and over the soft riverbank. Behind him, the eighty-eights were moving as well, the gunners preparing to follow their tanks. No, we do not rush straight into your guns. We invite you instead to rush straight into ours.