The Rising Tide

by Jeff Shaara

  They returned to the village, and the staff officers were already seeing to the details of the evening meal. But for the moment, dinner could wait. With the blistering sun still high, Churchill had his own ideas.

  They left the hard gravel street, strolled toward the glistening blue of the water, the image of perfect coolness, soft whispers that rolled up onto the stony sand. Montgomery and Alexander followed close behind Churchill, flanking him as he moved with short, precise steps toward the water. The two officers were wrapped only in towels, but Churchill stood out quite differently, the short, rotund man chomping heartily on a cigar, wearing only his pith helmet and his shirt. Montgomery kept his eyes focused on the water.

  Churchill stopped, stared down the beach. No more than a hundred yards away, the shallow water was alive with a mass of men, the glassy calm broken by their obvious enthusiasm. The closest men were in full uniform, guards, keeping the soldiers at a respectful distance from their commanders. But beyond, as far down the beach as Montgomery could see, the men were clearly enjoying the same experience that the prime minister was about to share.

  Churchill pointed with the cigar, said, “I say, Alex, you said we had no requisition for bathing trunks. Yet those men have clearly been issued white trunks of their own. Did you mean…only the officers should do without?”

  Alexander laughed, looked at Montgomery, who smiled himself, the first good smile he had enjoyed all day.

  Montgomery said, “Mr. Prime Minister, those men are not in fact wearing bathing trunks. The white is…um…their skin, sir. What would normally be covered by their shorts.”

  Churchill plugged the cigar into his mouth, made a short laugh.

  “Ah, yes. I see. Quite a suntan these lads have, eh? Understandable. Believe I shall join them.”

  Churchill removed the shirt, was wearing only the pith helmet now. He moved into the water, and the two officers followed, all three settling into a waist-deep coolness. Churchill submerged to his chin, only his head and round hat above the water like some fat mushroom.

  “Splendid. Truly splendid. Washes it all away. Tell me, Monty. I’ve seen so much today, good men, good preparations. But can you truly say you are prepared? For months now, Rommel has had everything to his advantage. His tactics have been unmatched. From what I see, he has stumbled only when he has exhausted his supplies, when his tanks simply can’t go. But they have gone quite well lately. He is a great general, no doubt of that. The Fox, they call him. The Desert Fox. Once the fight begins, there is no doubt he will unmask some new tactic, something you must be prepared for. He has one goal now, to capture Cairo. There are those who consider that a foregone conclusion.”

  Montgomery glanced at Alexander, no smiles now. “I do not consider that to be a foregone conclusion at all. Not at all.”

  “Ah, but when he has been the most successful, it is because Rommel has found the means to slip past us, swallow us up on the flank. No one has yet found the solution to that dilemma.”

  Churchill was not looking at him, seemed to focus his stare out to sea. Montgomery was feeling annoyed now, thought, did you not hear any of what was said today? Did you not see my plans for yourself? Did you not pay attention to any of it? He saw a hard look on Alexander’s face, the silent order: Speak wisely. Churchill still looked toward the far horizon, showed no sign that he was waiting for a response.

  Montgomery tried to calm himself, said, “Sir, Rommel has succeeded thus far because he has confronted an army that persists in making desperate mistakes. Those mistakes were made by my predecessor and will not be repeated.”

  Alexander interrupted him, a stab at diplomacy. “Sir, as you saw today, General Montgomery has designed a formidable defense, whose very design encourages Rommel to do exactly what he has done before. It is our hope that Rommel moves around our flank. Instead of vulnerability, he will find a strong force dug in, and waiting for him. Am I right, Monty?”

  “More than right. Mr. Prime Minister, if I may illustrate. I was authorized to remove those officers who could not seem to break with our poor traditions here. General Renton, of the Seventh Armor, a good man, certainly. But this week, when I first met with him, his sole question was whether I would let him loose at Rommel. What he no doubt believed was enthusiasm for the good fight was precisely the tactic that Rommel would hope to see: British tanks, leading the fray, charging headlong into Rommel’s guns. That is precisely why Renton is no longer in command.”

  Churchill looked at him now, said, “Wingy Renton? You replaced him?”

  “Sir, I am quite sure Rommel would delight in Wingy Renton charging his tanks straight into the barrels of those damned eighty-eights. I would much prefer that Rommel grind himself into our lines. Let him come to us. We are in a bottleneck here, and there is only one likely course for Rommel to follow. He will not assault us head-on, and he cannot make an effective assault here, against the sea. We are far too strong, and he certainly knows that. If he comes, it will be to the south, the one place where he would feel we are vulnerable. Only…we are not vulnerable at all. We are waiting for him.”

  Montgomery was truly angry now, had not thought his decisions would be held up to such doubt. He saw concern on Alexander’s face, but he could not stop the words.

  “And the artillery. Until now, we have scattered our big guns in every part of the field, using them in small, useless packets. No longer. I have massed them into one body, to focus on one primary point of attack. The armor should be used the same way, with emphasis not just on their mobility, but on their firepower. A tank is a mobile cannon, but it is still a cannon. I have no intention of throwing tanks away piecemeal, like we have done so many times before.”

  Churchill turned slowly, the short stub of the cigar clamped in his mouth, his eyes peering at Montgomery from under the brim of the ridiculous hat.

  “I know.”

  Montgomery was confused. “Sir?”

  Alexander laughed now, and Churchill smiled.

  “I said, I know. I saw it all today, Monty. Just wanted to hear you say it. Napoléon wanted generals who were lucky. I would rather have generals who were prepared, who understood their enemy. Claude Auchinleck was a good man, no matter how you feel about him. He failed because he put the wrong people in the wrong place. Whether he was unlucky or not, I don’t know. But he wasn’t prepared for what Rommel gave him. It broke my heart to remove him, but I had no choice. He had played his last card.”

  Montgomery said nothing, had never considered luck to play any part in what he did.

  Churchill stared out to sea again, said, “Gentlemen, failure is more expensive in London than it is here. I must answer to the parliament and to the people, people who don’t know beans about war. But they know humiliation, and we’ve had quite enough of that.” Churchill tossed the spent cigar into the water. “I was in Washington, in a meeting with Roosevelt, when word came that we had lost Tobruk. Nothing like being humiliated right in front of your most critical ally. It was as bad as Singapore, hearing how the Japanese kicked us straight in the privates. Defeat I can take. But not disgrace. England won’t stand for it. I won’t stand for it. We need a victory, Monty. You have far more armor than the Eighth Army has had before. That should inspire you to take a chance here and there.”

  Montgomery said, “There is no gamble here, sir. This is not some bloody game of politics, where the loudest voice, the hottest rhetoric, wins the day. I have the tanks and the artillery and I bloody well have the ground. If Rommel does not attack us, then in six weeks’ time, I am prepared to attack him.”

  Churchill looked toward Alexander, said, “Six weeks? It will require six weeks? I had hoped…sooner.”

  Alexander said nothing, and Montgomery said, “We must be prepared, sir. Only then.”

  Churchill turned slowly in the water, searching the shoreline.

  Alexander said, “Is everything all right, Prime Minister?”

  “Quite. No bystanders lurking hereabouts. Tell me, Monty, how muc
h has Alex told you about Torch?”

  Alexander said, “I’ve not discussed the details with anyone in my command, sir. Premature, I’d say. A good many things to be worked out yet.”

  Churchill grunted. “That’s the Americans for you. Strong-minded lot. You bloody well have to lead them on a damned leash. But, without them, we’d be in a serious pickle. Roosevelt is a friend to England, and the one man who can provide the means for us to win this war. I suppose that gives him the right to have his people decide where that war is going to be fought. It’s been a devil of an effort, but I finally got them to stop looking across the English Channel. Every damned one of them, Marshall on down, wants to invade the French coast. I can imagine every general in their army wants to go back to that bloody cemetery in Paris just so he can say something about Lafayette again: ‘Lafayette we are here.’ That’s all some of them remember from the first big war. They do so like their slogans.”

  “I believe they’re holding out on us, sir.”

  Montgomery’s words settled on the water like a dull slap. Alexander looked at him, frowned, shook his head, a silent no.

  Montgomery was surprised by the reaction, and Churchill said, “What the hell are you talking about, Monty?”

  “The Grant tanks, sir. I was told they’d be delivering four hundred new tanks. I counted a hundred sixty. No mystery there. They’re hoarding them, keeping their best armor for themselves. Leaving me to fight Rommel with outdated equipment.”

  Churchill stared at him for a long moment, his eyes closing into tight slits.

  Alexander said, “General Montgomery is aware, sir, that the Americans have been extremely helpful.”

  “Damned right they have. You say they’ve delivered a hundred sixty Grants?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Sounds to me like a bloody load of armor. You used any of them yet?”

  “They’re being placed into position, assigned to the appropriate commands even now, sir.”

  “Then before you bellyache, General Montgomery, perhaps you should find out if a hundred sixty new American tanks might win you a battle. So you think they’re holding back a few, eh?”

  Montgomery ignored the scowl on Alexander’s face, said, “I believe they should provide what they said they would provide.”

  “Torch, General. Look past your own command. You’ve got Rommel sitting right in front of you. I can think of no more intelligent a plan than to send another army right up his backside. That army will be American, mostly. And, despite your objections, it might be fitting if they provide some armor for their own people.”

  Montgomery had heard the first details of what they now called Operation Torch, the first large-scale assault by American forces in the European theater. He held tightly to his words now, watched as Churchill turned away, the man working his jaw, attacking a cigar that wasn’t there. Alexander seemed to relax, but Montgomery refused to feel chastised, spoke to Churchill in his mind: We don’t need another army on this continent. Send the damned Yanks to France, let them find out what Jerry can do to them. I’ve got Rommel right where I want him, and damned if I’m going to let some Yank who’s never led a rubbish detail grab this victory.

  Churchill removed his pith helmet, splashed water on his head, then stood up, stared out to the open sea. “Any U-boats around here?”

  Alexander said, “Highly unlikely, sir. The air force keeps a close eye on the coast. Destroyers are patrolling regularly.”

  Churchill looked down at his own vast expanse of chalky skin, put a fat hand on his stomach.

  “Hmph. Too bad. I’d like to see a periscope pop up right out there, let him get a look at this. Might scare him worse than any damned destroyer.”

  5. ROMMEL

  NEAR TEL EL AQQAQIR, EGYPT

  AUGUST 1942

  Dearest Lu,

  The situation is changing daily to my advantage….

  He hated lying to her.

  He set the paper aside, had no energy to complete the letter. What do I tell her? She knows that what she hears from the propaganda ministry is just that: propaganda. Should I simply add to that?

  Westphal was outside the tent, restocking the Mammoth. Rommel stood, stretched, probed the dull ache in his side, felt the slight dizziness, the same sensation now every time he stood up. He tried to ignore it, was suddenly hungry, unusual, called out, “Colonel. Have you a tin of sardines there?”

  Westphal appeared at the tent. “Certainly, sir. Just one? We have a whole crate of them.”

  “Just one.”

  Westphal disappeared, and Rommel went to the low, hard cot, sat, his knees groaning. He probed the pain again, too familiar now, draining his energy, the pain that usually took his appetite away. This is not good, he thought. Not good at all. What is it about this place that requires so much of a man’s body? The war alone is not sufficient to break down an army. This desert must take its toll as well.

  He looked at the short legs of the cot, each one immersed in a small can of oily water. The cans were a barrier, a trap for the astounding variety of wingless pests that would attack a man while he slept. He stared at the variety of drowned insects, thought, my own personal minefield. And just as ineffective. Now…this. He stretched his side, could not escape the ache. What other beast has invaded me?

  He had suffered from jaundice the year before, something the doctors blamed on the food, a diet so inappropriate for the heat and dryness of the desert. He thought of the doctor, Horster, the man’s gloomy diagnosis, the harsh recommendation that Rommel should return to Germany, recover from the jaundice. He knew that Horster had sent that same recommendation to Germany, the strong hint that Rommel might not be fit to command. Kesselring had come again, was in camp frequently now. Yes, he’s watching me, they are all watching me. Stay here awhile, all of you. Find out for yourself what the desert does to a man. There are plagues out here no man can stand up to, caused by…what? Just look at the creatures that are spawned here. He struggled to take a deep breath, looked again at the odd mix of bugs in the water cans. If not you, then what? He had no idea what kind of creature caused the diseases that were attacking his army, whether it was a creature at all. No man seemed immune, the torture of sun and dust and dryness ripping sores in the skin, and then, when a man’s outsides were weakened, the insides would be attacked, all manner of ailments spreading to the gut, or worse, like the jaundice that had swelled Rommel’s liver. I’ve been nineteen months in the desert, he thought. Horster claims no officer over forty has equaled that record, like I should be given some Olympic medal. It is no accomplishment, Doctor, it is duty.

  His batman, Gunther, was there now, holding the tin of sardines and a small fork.

  “Sir. Colonel Westphal instructed me to bring this.”

  Rommel took the sardines, the smell of the oil turning his stomach. He shook his head, handed the tin back to Gunther, said, “Not now, Herbert. I’ve changed my mind. Eat them yourself. Don’t waste them.”

  “You certain, sir? I can fix you something else.”

  “No. I should take the Storch aloft. Search out the British defenses. With a new man at the top, there will be uncertainty, new planning, this man Montgomery anxious to put his own stamp on his army. I should see what they’re up to. You care to join me?”

  It was a standing joke between them, as much as Rommel would joke with anyone.

  “Is that an order, sir?”

  Gunther’s expression never changed, a testament to his loyalty, but Rommel knew the young man was terrified of the tiny airplane.

  Rommel smiled. “Tell Colonel Westphal to have my plane prepared. I shall go aloft.”

  Gunther was quickly gone, and Rommel forced himself to stand, blinked at the dry crust in his eyes, wiped his face with a dirty handkerchief. He took another deep breath, a futile effort to clear the staleness from his lungs. He heard Westphal’s voice, the man suddenly appearing at the tent.

  “Sir, Corporal Gunther tells me you wish to take the Storch. I
must insist not, sir.”

  “You what?”

  “Sir, the enemy fighters have been out in considerable force. Our pilots are not able to control the airspace.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “Marshal Kesselring has been very precise, sir. The Luftwaffe cannot guarantee your safety.”

  Rommel wanted to protest, but he could not deny that Westphal was right. For weeks now the Spitfires and Hurricanes had dominated the skies, more evidence of Kesselring’s failure to convince the Italians to send more fuel. But he knew it was more than a lack of gasoline. The Messerschmitts had become outnumbered by a wide margin, the flow of British aircraft increasing at a rate the Germans could not hope to match. He could see Kesselring in his mind, the man that some called Smiling Al. But there is nothing to smile about now. Even his spirits have come to earth. Kesselring must beg Göring for aircraft, and still Göring ignores him. Why send Messerschmitts to Africa when there is so much glory to be had conquering Russia? No, Berlin doesn’t listen to Kesselring any more than Rome does, and none of them listens to me.

  “Sir, I must insist you remain on the ground. We cannot allow anything to happen to you—”

  Rommel held up a hand. “What did Kesselring tell you?”

  “He was very plain, sir. He said…”

  Westphal paused, and Rommel smiled again, said, “He said, ‘Rommel won’t obey me anyway,’ or something close to that.”