“We will have to think in a very modern way,” he explains to them. “You commanders will have to keep in step with all of the new technical developments. What can we do, you might ask.”
He stands facing the men. “Well, we’ll have to shape the ground around us in such a way as to inflict a defeat on the enemy during the landing phase. We cannot just rely on our artillery; artillery is only a coarse tool for striking at them.”
He takes a couple steps, his hands behind him. “We must be ready at any time. Unfortunately, cooperation with the early warning service is still not perfect. We have to expect that the enemy will use the most advanced methods of battle against us.
“For example, they might try an airborne landing at night, just as they did in Burma—and yet, in the end, we will still win.” He emphasizes those last words. “Like a cunning hunter, we will have to patiently lie in wait for the wild birds descending from the air.”
He stops pacing and again faces the men. He makes a fist.
“Utilize the labor power of the local population. Pay them at once for work that they have rendered. Generally, use your personal charm and prestige on them. Sell them on the idea that there’ll be less chance of an enemy landing where much work has been done.”
“If you need wood, take trees from the villages. The troops will be moving out of them anyway. Remember, wire is scarce. If you must, use fence wire, and replace it later with supplies as they arrive. What is of greatest importance is that you pay for everything at once; not after weeks or months. The average farmer is glad if he has money to put in his purse.”
He points his finger at the men. “No forced recruitment. I want only laborers who are indirectly recruited. And be considerate of your labor force. Try to keep their spirits up. Have the workers sing on their way to work. Do try to convince them that the work they do will assure them of their own security.”
“Look,” he continues as he begins to pace again. “The enemy will have a confoundedly difficult time getting out of the water. Then the moment will come when he tries to attack us from the rear. Remember: no counterattacks without artillery support!” His hand pounds his fist as he speaks. “Otherwise, our losses will be heavy. We must continue to fire! Fire! Fire!”
He pauses and looks at the men with burning eyes. “You commanders, make your officers versatile enough to be able to fight against airborne troops and panzer formations. An officer out there will have to know that. Experience has shown us that saturation bombing destroys our field positions. Dugouts are useless; so the best field solution is to place your men in widely spaced Hube holes.2 Don’t dig in along a line on the perimeter, but dig widely dispersed positions in the open fields. A good regimental commander will have to be with his troops in the field. They’ll need you to steady them against an airborne attack.”
He pauses and gazes at those officers in front. “Imagine,” he says, “what it will look like to them. Imagine! Try to envision swarms of locusts falling out of a moonlit sky. They’ll be all over you. So help your men—lead them. Show them by example. That’s how we will win.”
As he goes to sit down, they began applauding him. How could they not? His speeches in countless locations before now have boosted the morale of the men he addressed. This group is no different, and they cheer the Desert Fox for several minutes. Embarrassed, he finally excuses himself to go outside to watch an anti-tank exercise with self-propelled guns. The demonstration thankfully goes well. Yes, his men are learning. It has been, on the whole, a gratifying morning for him, and he is in good spirits.
He pauses to point out some new construction that needs camouflaging. Otherwise, he is content with their progress, enough so that he gives out as a reward a couple of concertinas.
At lunch, his good mood stays with him, and he reminisces with the attending men about his adventures as divisional commander in this area during the French campaign of 1940. He entertains them with a story about leading his panzer recon battalion as they smashed through a French division.
“I told them to hit the enemy hard, and to start shooting in all directions.” And they did, firing their guns as they rumbled through the enemy lines. He tells them about how they rolled into the town of Petit Dalles, surprising the commander of an enemy artillery unit. They laugh good-naturedly as Rommel describes how they captured the French officer while he was taking a bath and getting ready to sit down to a plate of just-cooked fried chicken.
His audience eager for more, he continues. The next day, his panzergrenadiers assaulted the town of Fécamp on the coast, but were ultimately driven back by naval gunfire support from a couple enemy destroyers.3 Rommel regrouped his men and took the town the next day, this time attacking it from the south, and away from the enemy vessels.
His next big engagement was at St.-Valéry-en-Caux, where the fighting was bitter. The enemy, entrenched on some steep cliffs, put up a formidable fight, protecting men being evacuated in the town. He finally overcame the enemy troops by concentrating his firepower on the strongest positions.4 He goes on as the men listen to him intently, reveling with him in these old days of German glory.
He pauses and looks around him. He is out from the aura of past glory and returned to the harsh reality of now. Back then they had been bold and daring. Now they are desperate. Four years ago, his greatest warriors were at the front of his columns. Now, most of them are dead, captured, or starving on the Eastern Front. It seems that interspersed with some recuperated, disgruntled veterans are replacements, mostly old men, children, weaklings, some Soviet prisoners, and God knows what other foreigners fighting with them. And with these men he would either win or lose; upon their heads rested the outcome of the invasion...
That afternoon, they leave Bolbeck. Moving south, they arrange at Port Jérôme to take a ferry across the Seine, so that they can head for Quilleboeuf-sur-Seine. It is 12.30 p.m. as they board the ferry with their vehicles. Rommel notes that the river has swelled from the spring rain runoffs. He mentions the high waters to Ruge standing next to him. The admiral, in response, begins to tell him about the Mascaret—the traditional flood wave in this part of the world.
“In the spring and in the fall,” he explains, “during the flood tide, the flood depth will reach a height of one to two meters.”
“And it goes inland?” Rommel asks.
“Jawohl,” Ruge replied. “It moves upriver, a seething wall of water, rushing forward at a speed of about 15 kilometers an hour.”
Rommel looks out at the water, envisioning a large, advancing wave of seawater moving inland. He broaches an idea that they have discussed before, about using the tidal currents for transport in Brittany, and up north in the frozen Norwegian fjords. Ruge responds with his thoughts, and they talk about improving river traffic along the coast.
After some silence, Rommel suddenly turns to the admiral. “What do you think I would like to do more than anything after the war?” he asks.
Ruge has no idea.
“I would like to be manager of Europe’s power systems,” Rommel says with a smile.
“Electrical power systems, Herr Feldmarschall?”
“Yes! Imagine it, Ruge! I would reorganize them for the whole of Europe, according to modern centralized principles.” He goes on, talking about how he would reorganize the electrical grids for Western Europe. The admiral half-listens, thinking that the field marshal would benefit Germany much more if he managed not just the power systems, but everything else as well; better that he run Germany, instead of having those idiots that were now in Berlin. But of course, he does not verbalize this.
Rommel has already changed subjects on him. “...and we simply must get on a better footing with the French,” states the field marshal. “We need their cooperation badly. He looks at Ruge and anticipates the admiral’s question. “Oh, not just for the moment, but for the long term as well. We need to sensibly rebuild Europe if we are to survive as a nation.”
“Would that include rearming the French?” Ruge ask
s.
“Yes, it would,” Rommel replies. “Right now they should be put in charge of the anti-aircraft defense of their own towns. Later on, they can begin to rebuild sections of their defense forces.”
Rommel pauses and envisions a France united with and at the side of his Germany. An extension of the Vichy France experiment. After all, the French did make formidable opponents in 1940. They simply had been outmaneuvered, misallocated their panzers, and did not know how to use the blitzkrieg. But they were undaunted soldiers and plenty brave. They had proven that in World War I, withstanding Germany’s relentless attacks for four years, eventually beating them to a standstill. And those fighters in the Resistance or the Maquis who were captured were like iron.
Yes, he concludes in his mind. A united Europe. Working and defending in unison, with Germany leading them. Together, they really could take on the rest of the world—something that Germany foolishly had tried to do on her own, or with those Italian dolts.
They talk some more about working with the French, ideas that he had discussed earlier in his speech to the troops. The conversation turns to addressing the French and people in general. The field marshal readily admits disliking the formal habit of addressing people in the third person. To him, it is far better not to, and to have a real conversation with that person. Ruge of course, agrees with him.
They turn to matters at hand as the ferry pulls up to the pier. The vehicles get unloaded, and the inspection goes on. Now on the southern bank of the Seine estuary, they take a shortcut along the river valley that gives them spectacular views of the fertile lands and chalky cliffs. After traveling about 40km, they reach the coast at Honfleur. There they meet Generalleutnant Reichert, commanding the 711th Grenadier Division. Together, they inspect the division’s shore defenses, traveling southwest along the coast. Reichert tells him that his coastal batteries have taken a pounding from the air. Gravelines was hit on the 20th. However, a couple dummy battery positions have been hit as well. So the ruse seems to be working here and there.
Past Deauville near Bénerville-sur-Mer, they drive to the Mont Canisy naval battery, positioned on a 110-meter hill, overlooking both the Channel on the left, and the Seine estuary on the right. They note damage to the supports and mountings in the concrete pits. Rommel observes with some satisfaction that the actual French 155mm guns are themselves undamaged, though the ground around them has been so torn up by the bombs that moving ammunition to the guns is at present impossible. Rommel instructs Reichert to expedite repairs.5
The inspection party, studying the battery’s design, concludes that naval casement styles are superior to their army counterparts. The gun emplacements are larger and thus need more concrete; but the shells are more easily available and the shield keeps the gun emplacement from tilting over as the result of a side hit. Rommel tells his officers to draft a memorandum to various commands instructing them to use the navy’s design whenever possible—assuming of course, they can get their hands on the concrete.
They inspect a fake battery position recently pulverized by enemy bombs. Rommel listens with amusement to a corporal describing the air raid. The soldier had been bicycling past the dummy position when the intensive bombing started. Shocked by the sudden intensity of nearby explosions, he leaped off the bike, dived headlong into a nearby ditch, and burrowed into the ground. The Gefreiter recalled with fervor how, his hands over his ears and his eyes screwed shut, he had just lain there, terrorized, marveling at the force of what only could be described as some sort of saturated bombing of the position.
When the air raid finally ended and the enemy planes departed, the corporal slowly stood up, terrified and dazed, but unharmed. The dummy position was now nearly unrecognizable, testament to the power of the enemy bombers. Still stunned, he had shakily picked up his bicycle and had continued on.
Rommel’s staff do some quick measuring. The nearest bomb had fallen only eight or nine meters from where the corporal had lain. He had indeed been lucky.
The group moves on southeast past Hougate to the Dives estuary, noting areas that have been flooded, and other measures taken. Rommel, delighted at the progress, hands out three concertinas to the men.
They move on to Cabourg where they conclude the inspection at the headquarters of the 711th Grenadier Division. After a brief stop, they turn homeward, heading back to Vernon to cross the Seine.
On the way back, Ruge gets to ride with the field marshal, and they discuss a number of subjects. As he drives, Rommel discusses his leadership methods. He admits that, though he tries to be civil most of the time, sometimes a gruff demeanor is the quickest and least painful way to get the desired effect.
He relates that, before the war, because of superior peacetime training, orders were carried out exactly as they were given. Today though, orders are often disregarded or even disobeyed, depending upon the circumstances. The Waffen-SS, for instance, never had a peacetime training schedule. So owing to their rigid determination to accomplish a mission, he believes that somethimes they do not carry out their orders, which often reults in harsh methods that reflect their own interests.
With surprising bitterness, Rommel frankly criticizes officer jealousy, no doubt reflecting on those who have turned against him because of his quick rise in rank and fame. He complains about their interfering with his mission and sometimes sidetracking critical issues. But he praises the troops for their efforts in camouflaging their positions, their surprising mobility despite their lack of transport, and their general ingenuity.
Reflecting on resourcefulness and leadership makes him think about the late General Hube. Rommel expresses his sadness and regret over the man’s untimely death in that recent, fatal air crash. Hube, he states, was an inspiring leader, and had ways of getting out of a sticky situation. He had proved that repeatedly. And he had died senselessly, just on a routine trip after leaving the Führer. Men of his ilk should not have to endanger themselves by making needless trips like that, he concluded. A lesser officer should be sent in their stead.
After an awkward silence, he tries to lighten the subject. He tells Ruge about how his experiences as a hunter. Years ago, he had been put in command of the Jägerbataillon in Goslar, located in the beautiful Harz Mountains.6 Soon after taking command, he was surprised to learn that, the unit’s designator notwithstanding, none of his officers knew how to hunt game.
With typical Swabian resolve, he had set about remedying that deficiency. Countless times he had happily led his officers through the woods, usually on horseback, stalking deer. Unfortunately though, the first deer that he bagged was not the one he had been aiming at. So as a way of penalizing himself, he made sure that the next two deer he shot were imperfect in some way—the first had deformed antlers, and the second had antlers that were corkscrewed. Only then, he says, did he allow himself to take on a better-looking animal, this time a six-point buck.
He recalls that once, accompanied by the gamekeeper, he had the chance to get a good bead on a beautiful eight-pointer. But the rifle did not fire when he squeezed the trigger. Checking it, he found that the safety was still half-engaged. Carefully, he released the safety, holding the weapon tightly, in case it went off. It did not though. Rommel stood there wondering what to do, reluctant to cock the weapon again because the noise would startle his prey. Wordlessly, the gamekeeper handed him his own rifle, and again taking aim, Rommel took down the animal.
Rommel goes on a bit more with his hunting stories as their Horch now turns along the Seine River valley and travels southeast. He tells an amusing story about the time he tried to teach his son Manfred how to ride a horse. This was back when he was an instructor at the Potsdam Military Academy in the summer of 1935. Rommel had taken the boy, at the time six and a half years old, out one day to the stables. It was done in secret of course, because Lucie felt that Manfred was far too young yet to ride a horse. Since he was so short, his little legs did not reach the stirrups, so his father tucked them under the stirrup straps. As Manfre
d sat uncertainly on the animal, his father led it around in a circle with a rope tied to the bridle.
Unfortunately, the horse had suddenly bolted, and as Manfred fell off the animal, one foot slipped down and got caught in the stirrup. The horse dragged the boy along for a hundred yards or so, his horrified father running after them. At last, Rommel caught up to the animal, and managed to stop it and untangle the boy. Fortunately, Manfred came away from the frightening ordeal with only a gash on his head. Relieved and yet worried about the consequences he would face at home from his wife, Rommel took out a nice shiny five-mark coin, pressed it into the boy’s hand, and told him, “If you tell your mother when you get home that you fell downstairs, you can keep this!”
The boy agreed. They returned home, but when Rommel quietly started dressing the wound with iodine, Manfred wailed from the pain. Fearful that they would attract Lucie’s attention, his father angrily demanded the coin back. But his shrewd son had already hidden it. Fortunately, Lucie bought the falling-down-the-stairs story. But, Rommel concludes with a hearty laugh, he never took his son riding ever again.
As they travel along the Seine, the conversation turns serious. Rommel talks about how war will age a leader, especially military commanders. The early years (when they were winning) were much easier. Now though, they are in their fifth year of the war. Such prolonged heavy responsibility undoubtedly has exacted a heavy toll on their leaders (not to mention those that have died). Rommel of course does not include himself.
They finally roll into their headquarters just after 7 p.m., exhausted, but satisfied. The weary men sit down to dinner and start to relax. They are tiredly chatting about the trip when suddenly a loud explosion shocks them out of their seats. General Meise, smiling broadly, comes into the room. He has just introduced them to a newly designed glass fuse for their land mines.
After dinner, Rommel checks on the status of his panzers. Wanting to play the peacemaker, von Rundstedt has tactfully suggested that, in light of the difference between Rommel’s and Geyr’s suggestions, the panzers be positioned somewhere in-between.
Countdown to D-Day Page 50
