by Jeff Shaara
“General Bastico is not a combat officer. Bombastico. That’s what the staff calls him.”
“Your staff would not use such a term if you did not allow it.”
“I allow it. I agree with it. Loud voices do not make soldiers. I have invited him to visit here, to inspect…whatever he feels he must inspect. Most of the time, he simply refuses to come, some excuse about his schedule. I know better. He does not enjoy treading anywhere near the front.”
“You cannot simply dismiss him. He is the commander in chief of the Italian forces here. Rome speaks through him.”
Rommel ignored the scolding, said, “I would prefer to talk about the future. You know what our next move should be. The enemy is badly damaged. He will seek safe haven, build a powerful defensive line. We must strike him before that happens. I intend to drive him hard. Cairo is within ten days’ grasp.”
Kesselring looked toward him. “I have received a cable from Rome. Comando Supremo desires that you not advance east of the Capuzzo-Sollum line. They feel there is enormous risk.”
“Of course there is enormous risk. This is war. Do you agree with them? I should simply sit here?”
“Comando Supremo understands the difficulties involved in supplying this army. There is no prediction when Tobruk can be made useful. The Italians are very concerned your supplies will not be adequate if you continue to extend your supply line.”
Kesselring stopped, and even in the dim light Rommel could see pain on the man’s face, the frustration of having to convey such an absurd message. Rommel felt his anger rising, would not just let it go.
“If they are so concerned about the adequacy of my supplies, then why don’t they send more supplies? They would instead prefer that we sit in one place, so that we don’t use up any more gasoline and food than we have to. We could all have stayed in Germany, and supply would not be a problem at all!”
His voice had risen, and Kesselring was looking at him, silent, tired eyes. Yes, Rommel thought, he knows. This is not his fight, not an argument I can make with him. Kesselring moved out to the edge of the palms, glanced up at the stars.
“Erwin, if we are to deal with the Italians, we must understand what they want. This war belongs to Mussolini. The rest of them, no matter how much obedience they lather on him, no matter their professed loyalty…the senior officers have no passion for this fight. Every one of them is looking past this war, every one far more concerned whether or not he will have a seat of power in whatever follows. The more gasoline they ship down here, the less they will have for their own automobiles in Rome.”
Kesselring was silent now, turned again toward the night sky.
Rommel said slowly, “The British are defeated. All they require is a push, and they will hand us Cairo, and with it, the Suez. Should we inform the Führer that it is best if we ignore this opportunity because our ally is afraid I will use up too much gasoline? What would you have me do?”
Kesselring thought a moment, looked at him now, said, “You know how I feel. I have always believed our priority must be capturing Malta. How do you expect to march into Egypt when the British have a great fat tiger sitting in your rear, swatting away your supply ships?”
Malta. It was the unchanging refrain from Kesselring. The island sat exactly astride the shipping lanes that came from Italy, housed British planes and a naval presence that hammered any supply convoys that ventured toward Rommel’s desperately needy army. The Luftwaffe had bombed the island into ruin, months of siege that had accomplished no more than most such sieges accomplished, no more than what Hitler had accomplished by bombing London.
Rommel stared up through the tops of the palms, the stars blanketing the sky, the chill harder now. He looked toward the tents, scanned the empty, open ground, satisfied that no one was close enough to hear. He leaned closer to Kesselring, said, “There will be no invasion. The Führer’s staff will not annoy him with such a minor nuisance as Malta, not while he has both his eyes and both his hands on Russia. He will not be distracted.”
“What do you know of Russia?”
Rommel was surprised by the question. “I know what Berndt tells me, what he chooses to bring from Berlin. All is well, we are winning a great victory over Stalin’s worthless army. When I was last there, I heard the same thing about Libya. Months ago they announced that I would soon push the British into the Suez Canal. So, they also speak of Russia. Perhaps we should leave the soldiers home and fight this war with publicists. We would certainly win.”
There was no humor in his words, and Kesselring glanced past him, searching for eavesdroppers, then said in a low voice, “Enough. I will not hear any more.” Kesselring paused. “We are stepchildren, you and me. We have had the opportunity here to strike an enormous blow, to cripple the British, to drive past Egypt, to sweep into the oil fields. We could have linked an army with our forces in the Caucasus, driven into Stalingrad from two sides.”
Rommel heard emotion in Kesselring’s voice, said, “We can not dream, Albert. We can perform. There is a job in front of us, right here, right now. Egypt is ours, if we make it ours.”
“But we cannot ignore Malta. I must insist to the Führer.”
“And when he ignores you?”
“It is plainly simple strategy. You cannot attack an enemy who holds a strong position in your rear. Why do they not see that?” Kesselring’s voice had grown louder, and he caught himself, whispered, “Jodl and Keitel both should tell him. Halder should tell him. Surely they understand how a war must be fought. They have all read the lessons of Frederick the Great. Even the Führer knows those lessons. But there are no Fredericks in Germany now. No von Moltkes, no von Hindenburgs. The Führer is concerned with nothing but Russia. The Italians are trained for display, for parades. That leaves…you.”
Rommel did not miss Kesselring’s point, thought, of course, he did not say us. No, if there is failure here, it is my failure. No matter what happens in Africa, he will live to fight another day.
Rommel said, “I have already discussed a plan of attack with my staff. You can study it tonight if you wish.”
Kesselring shook his head. “I object to it already. It is not sound unless we subdue the enemy at Malta. For their own reasons, the Italians will object to it as well.”
“Allow me to suggest how you might deal with the Italians. May I request that you inform Comando Supremo that we would be honored if Il Duce himself will ride with us as we liberate Cairo. Suggest that he might be viewed as the new pharaoh.”
Kesselring made a small laugh. “Yes, that might prove effective.”
T he next day, cables passed over the Mediterranean in both directions. The final cable came from Mussolini, encouraging Rommel to press forward his attack. And Mussolini had accepted the invitation as well. Il Duce agreed to fly to Libya to await Rommel’s glorious conquest of Egypt. When he arrived, Rommel’s aides saw that there were two aircraft in Il Duce’s caravan. One was for Mussolini himself, with his attendant staff. The second plane brought his mount, an enormous white stallion that Mussolini would ride triumphantly into the Egyptian capital, the man who had conquered Africa.
T o the east, the British scrambled to organize their ragged battalions, preparing for Rommel’s inevitable assault. It began on June 26, with the same tactic Rommel had used before, sweeping around the flanks of the British, who continued to look for the enemy in their front. When the British attempted counterattacks, they threw their tank units in piecemeal, only to be ground up by the German panzers, and Rommel’s treasured eighty-eights. In three days, the port of Mersa Matruh was in German hands, the British pulling farther east in tumbling confusion. But the British had two advantages. As they pulled back deeper into Egypt, they moved ever closer to their supply depots, while Rommel once more only lengthened his fragile lifelines. The second advantage was the land itself. Between Rommel and Cairo, the hard, flat desert grew far more narrow, a passageway barely forty miles wide, cut through with ridges and rocky hills. The sea bounded
the north, and to the south, the hard, rocky ground fell away to a desolate sea of soft sand, the Qattara Depression, a place no tank could hope to cross. The British squeezed themselves between these two impenetrable barriers, while Rommel pursued as best he could. He understood that even in victory, the sacrifice had been far too great. As his army gathered up to face the ever-strengthening British defenses, Rommel’s mighty Afrika Korps had exactly twelve undamaged tanks.
Though Rommel had driven within sixty-five miles of Alexandria, the first great Egyptian prize, he was forced to order his exhausted army to pause. The British responded by launching a counterattack that accomplished little more than adding to the casualty and prisoner lists on both sides. Neither side was, for now, in any position to do much damage to the other.
In any army, failure leads to change, and the British commander in chief, Sir Claude Auchinleck, now removed the British Eighth Army’s field commander, General Neil Ritchie. But, as the man in overall command of the theater, Auchinleck himself was just as responsible for the fate of his army. On August 4, with activity along the front lines relatively quiet, Prime Minister Winston Churchill flew to Cairo and removed Auchinleck, replacing him with General Sir Harold Alexander. But the British still required a man to take charge in the field, to reinvigorate the Eighth Army. Under pressure from Churchill, the British high command gave the job to General William “Strafer” Gott. Two days later, Gott was killed when his plane was shot to pieces by a German Messerschmitt. It was one more blow the British could not afford. From London, one other name had emerged, that of a somewhat disagreeable officer who had proven himself a thorn in the side of the high command and who took a no-nonsense approach to tactics and combat. Soon after Gott’s death, even the reluctant Churchill agreed that he might be the man to handle this crucial assignment.
4. MONTGOMERY
CAIRO, EGYPT
AUGUST 12, 1942
B ernard Montgomery had never liked Auchinleck, had no reason to like him now. The man seemed to take his time, droning on, what seemed to be an unending speech. Montgomery was already impatient, had endured impatience every day of his life. But now, in the stuffy confines of Auchinleck’s headquarters, he suddenly felt like bursting into blind action, tossing furniture through the walls, and possibly Auchinleck with it.
It wouldn’t do, of course. The man was still his superior officer. But that particular indignity would plague Montgomery for only two more days. Auchinleck’s successor, Harold Alexander, was a man Montgomery greatly admired, who would never try to educate an educated man. But Montgomery first had to endure Auchinleck’s parting instructions, the carefully laid out strategies and positioning of the Eighth Army that Montgomery would inherit. Montgomery had no interest at all in any of Auchinleck’s plans. He wondered if Auchinleck was enjoying this final moment. Yes, quite a moment in the sun for him. Too bad there has been no sunshine in this place, not ever.
Auchinleck was pointing to a map, going over details of the troop positions. Montgomery ignored the maps, let Auchinleck’s words drift past him. He studied the man’s face, worn and blistered from the many months of life in the desert. Auchinleck was only three years his senior, but seemed older, and Montgomery found that entirely appropriate. Certainly, he thought, his time is past.
Auchinleck paused, and Montgomery couldn’t avoid the sadness in Auchinleck’s face. He felt himself pulled in, watched as the man backed his chair away from the desk.
“It is imperative that you do what you must to preserve this army, General. No matter what Rommel tries to accomplish here, you must not allow the Eighth Army to be destroyed. Failure is always a possibility. Egypt may be lost, or the Suez. But those are merely points on a map, and those failures can be reversed, in time. But if this army is not preserved, we cannot fight another day.”
Montgomery did not respond, and Auchinleck stood, the signal that the meeting was over. Montgomery stood as well, his escape only seconds away. I was at Dunkirk, you bloody jackass. I know all there is to know about preserving an army. He made a short crisp bow, said, “Sir.”
Montgomery was already moving toward the door, and he jerked it open and walked out. The sun blinded him for a few seconds, and he put the wide hat on his head, the distinctive Australian slouch hat, the left side of the brim pinned above his ear. Montgomery admired the Australians, had no objection at all if he looked like one of them. I should like to meet those chaps, he thought. The New Zealanders as well. Make it a priority. Quite likely they are not so infected with Auchinleck’s sense of doom. Go home, old man. This is my army now.
He walked past a row of shops, moved with long strides, a one-man march. He had expected more people to be milling about, usually the case around an army in the field. But the atmosphere of Cairo was different, quiet, tense, and distinctly unpleasant. It was no secret that the locals now saw the British as merely temporary occupants. With every sunrise there was a great deal of uneasy talk that Rommel’s tanks would likely come roaring and clattering into their streets. A good many British citizens, most of the Jews, and even some of the long-settled Italians, had simply vanished, escaping by boat or air. Well, why not? he thought. Our commander in chief has confused his personal defeat with the defeat of this army. We shall see what we can do about that.
He saw an open door, a woman appearing, wrapped in a white robe. His eyes met hers for a brief moment, and he felt a jolt of embarrassment, saw the robe part just slightly, one bronze leg suddenly appearing. He scowled, turned away, changed direction, moved across the street. He quickened his pace, thought, fleshpot. This entire country is one bloody fleshpot. Good for the men, I suppose. They do seem to need their horizontal refreshment. Should talk to the doctors though, make sure everyone is checked out. Can’t have this army brought down by something as idiotic as venereal disease.
He saw the truck now, the driver eating some strange piece of fruit. Montgomery had sent the man to the quartermaster depot, to replace the heavy clothing Montgomery had worn on the flight from England. Already, he was sweating, chafing from the annoyance of the heat.
The man stiffened, saluted, said, “Sir. I have a kit for you, sir. Lightweight khaki all around.”
“Very good, Sergeant. Then by all means, it’s time to go to the desert, wouldn’t you say? Right. On with it.”
He climbed into the sand-colored truck, glanced at the machine gun that perched up over the windshield. The truck rolled forward, and he reached for the gun, gripped the hard steel, felt the grit of the dust smeared into the film of oil. He thought of Auchinleck, all the man’s papers and maps. If your plans were so spiffy, we’d be in Tripoli now, not Cairo. No, sir. Burn all of that. Every scrap.
As they moved toward the outskirts of the city, they passed soldiers, lean, hard men with burnt faces. Some had no shirts, wore hats instead of helmets, watched him pass by without smiles, no cheers, no sign of any parade-ground formality. Veterans, he thought. An army of good men. They deserve a good leader, someone with binge, someone who believes they can win. By damned, they’ve got one now.
T he new commander sent rapid shock waves through the Eighth Army. Alexander had given Montgomery the authority to eliminate the “deadwood,” anyone who did not seem to be prepared or fit for the job Montgomery expected him to do. Some of those were already gone, men whose caustic relationship with Montgomery went back years before the war. They had been a part of the Eighth’s command headquarters, who had served either Auchinleck or the Eighth’s former commander Neil Ritchie, the man who seemed to collapse under the strain of confronting Rommel. Few of those men had any illusions they would work well with Montgomery. Line officers had been axed as well, some unexpectedly, men who spoke more of Rommel than of their own plans for defeating him. It was precisely the sort of attitude Montgomery would not tolerate, what he saw as Auchinleck’s overemphasis on lines of retreat. Montgomery believed that he had been given one primary task: defeat the enemy. Anyone who seemed comfortable with Auchinleck’s tentativeness
had no place in his army. While some of the veterans accepted his personnel changes with stoic silence, others grumbled, questioning whether this man knew anything about fighting in the desert or was simply a strutting martinet who, once he was confronted by the tactical brilliance of Rommel, would fall on his face like so many before him. Unfortunately, if Montgomery failed, he would no doubt take a good part of the Eighth Army with him.
BURG-EL-ARAB, EGYPT—AUGUST 19, 1942
The ground was hard and hot, and in every direction men were moving with slow, weary steps. But the village of white concrete and date palms offered the headquarters staff a blessed difference from the fry-pan misery of the desert. Here, no matter the oppressive sun, the men could enjoy the enormous luxury of a place to bathe, to wash away the crusty grime of the desert. Montgomery encouraged it, knew that the body needed replenishment the same as the mind. Each day, the men could enjoy a long moment in the relatively cool waters of the Mediterranean Sea.
He had stayed close to his headquarters, had received word that Alexander was bringing him a visitor. He always looked forward to Alexander’s visits, knew that his chief would allow him to lead the briefings and strategy sessions without the annoying need some commanders had to interject their own views. Alexander had seemed eager to give Montgomery a free hand. But not everyone in London was altogether comfortable with Montgomery assuming command in such a vulnerable theater of the war. He had not heard more than the occasional hint of grumbling, but today, he might hear a great deal more. The visitor was Winston Churchill.
M ontgomery’s explanations of strategy had been formal and precise, and he was surprised that Churchill had not offered much feedback of his own. They met first in Montgomery’s map truck, a stifling hulk, but the one place where he could show both Alexander and Churchill what he was preparing to do. From there, they would go to the field, Churchill insisting on a tour that would take him close to the men who would do the fighting. They had made a point of visiting the New Zealanders and Australians in particular, had passed through the lines of ragged men, who found the energy to offer Churchill a rousing welcome. Montgomery had seen some of that enthusiasm for his own visits, but not like this, and certainly not from the officers. Even Montgomery was impressed.
