The Rising Tide

by Jeff Shaara

  Rommel said, “Morale cannot be won by tossing medals around the camps of officers. Those soldiers who still wear the uniform of Il Duce know who their heroes are. They also know what they are facing.”

  Cavallero smiled, looked at Kesselring, then at Rommel again. “Quite so. They are facing an enemy who has stretched himself to the breaking point. They are facing the opportunity to turn temporary misfortune into victory. What plan of attack do you propose?”

  Rommel scanned their faces in the dull light, Kesselring avoiding his eyes. He took a long, slow breath, the only sound in the dusty hollow of the room, glanced toward the darkness outside, a glimmer of stars through the open stone window.

  “I do not propose we attack anyone in the condition we are now in. Perhaps, Marshal Cavallero, you have not had the opportunity to consult your staff. I have issued reports continuously as to our needs and our losses. The army we have now in place consists of a force that could only be described as one weak division. We have lost most of our heavy artillery. We have no more than two dozen heavy tanks, and forty of the lighter Italian machines that, as you know, have not endured well in combat. The Italian infantry has no armament that can compare to what they will face. The British can flank this position at will, and so we must regard this line as only a temporary defense. General Montgomery will probe us, explore his options, and when he is prepared, he will do as I would do. He will find a way to drive us out of this defense. The only reason we are able to maintain our position along the Mersa el Brega line is that Montgomery has, for the moment, ceased his pursuit.”

  He paused, let the words sink in, saw Cavallero shake his head.

  “Marshal Rommel, I am disturbed by your conclusions. Il Duce’s army is quite prepared to accept any battle the enemy should bring. I cannot allow you to insult the courage of my soldiers.”

  “I do nothing of the sort. The Italian soldier, when properly supplied and properly led, is a match for any opponent. But there is no armor and no artillery to give him. Our best hope for the salvation of this army is to withdraw to the hills in Tunisia. I have made careful study of the maps, and I believe the lines at Mareth or Gabès are strong positions. We could hold the British at bay for some time. We must of course rely on Comando Supremo to deliver supplies and armament. Only then can we hope to attack anyone.” Rommel looked at Kesselring now, the man staring down, still avoiding him.

  Cavallero said, “That is outrageous, a plan for defeat, not honorable victory! Mareth…that is far to the west of Tripoli! You propose that we simply abandon such a great city, such a jewel in Il Duce’s crown? He will not hear of such a thing, and neither will I! Italian honor is at stake here, even if yours has been debased by your mistakes!” Cavallero’s voice cut through the night, and he leaned close, stared at Rommel. “Marshal Rommel, the Italian people will not hear of any plan that calls for the surrender of our territory in Libya, territory that has been gained only by the sweat of our labor. Tripoli is a symbol of all we have accomplished here. You know yourself that all across Libya this army has traveled past the ancient ruins of an empire that we all believe must surely live again. You cannot suggest that this army simply hand it over to our enemy. Even the soldiers will not allow that. They will not obey your orders to abandon the glory of Rome.”

  Rommel thought, they have obeyed those orders pretty well up to now. He felt the exhaustion, realized he was powerless against their stubbornness. That’s what this is, he thought. Two thousand years of lost glory, a stubborn fight to capture a dream. I am serving under men who live in a world of make-believe.

  Kesselring looked up now, said, “Any withdrawal of the Panzerarmee toward Tunisia will have dangerous consequences for our air bases west of this position, and in Tunisia itself. The British will be able to launch fighter attacks against our airfields, which we cannot prevent. Only by holding the enemy this far to the east can we keep our fields secure.”

  Rommel looked at his hands, rubbed his fingers together slowly. Airfields. Of course, Kesselring’s precious Luftwaffe. Never mind the loss of the rest of this army. Rommel looked at Kesselring, said slowly, “What of the Americans, the British troops massing in Algeria? How long do you think it will require those forces to move into Tunisia? What will become of your airfields then?”

  “It has been made clear to you that Tunisia is not your concern.” Kesselring stood. “I assure you, gentlemen, we have taken appropriate steps to insure that no enemy forces shall set foot past the mountains that guard Tunisia’s borders with Algeria. Even now, several regiments of German infantry and a battalion of engineers have arrived in Tunis, supported by more than a hundred of our most modern tanks and artillery. We will continue to add to these numbers as rapidly as the supplies can be transported to Tunis and the port at Bizerte. Should the enemy press forward from the west, they shall confront the power of our newest machines, most specifically the Tiger tanks.”

  Kesselring leaned closer to Cavallero, his enthusiasm pouring over the Italians. Kesselring crossed his arms against his chest, ignored Rommel, said, “Tiger tanks, gentlemen. No such power has yet been put onto steel tracks. The Tiger carries an eighty-eight-millimeter cannon and can absorb any punishment the Allies can offer. In a short time, Tunisia shall become a fortress, impenetrable, a deadly trap for the arrogance of the Americans and their British servants.”

  Rommel stood, saw the familiar grin on Kesselring’s face, said, “How will you supply this fortress?”

  “Those arrangements have already been undertaken. The Führer and Reichsmarschall Göring are strongly behind this strategy. The Luftwaffe is employing an all-out effort to transport every kind of equipment to strengthen our forces there. The mountains will provide much natural protection, and—”

  Rommel glared at Kesselring. “All-out effort? Where are these supplies coming from? Where do we have soldiers to send to Tunisia?”

  Kesselring motioned to Rommel’s chair. “Please sit down. The Führer has directed that resources be diverted from our efforts against the Russians. He recognizes, as do we all, the value of Tunisia. It is the closest point to Sicily and can control the narrow straits between here and the Italian mainland.”

  Rommel felt sickness coming, the anger stirring, Kesselring’s voice drifting over him.

  “By building such a powerful bastion in North Africa, we can keep the Allied forces divided and then destroy them piecemeal. The Führer has considerable confidence that we can maintain our presence in North Africa no matter what the Allies try to accomplish. But the creation of such a fortress will require some time, which is why it is imperative that Marshal Rommel hold this line at Mersa el Brega. Montgomery’s troops must be kept isolated until we are fully prepared to drive them away.”

  Rommel began to shiver, felt sweat on his forehead, clamped his arms tightly to his body, fought the sickness, ignored the talk, the boisterous good cheer that suddenly filled the dark room. Kesselring was speaking to Cavallero now, numbers, more words of encouragement, empty promises flowing from both men like the watery sickness Rommel held tightly inside. After long seconds, the shivering passed, and he loosened the hard grip in his fingers, relaxed his arms. Cavallero was standing, moving around the room, his hands waving in gestures of enthusiasm, Kesselring responding, laughter now.

  Rommel watched them through the fog in his mind, said, “Why could you not have made this all-out effort months ago?”

  His words were faint, the sound barely audible, drowned out by the enthusiasm of the men around him, the men who were planning the next campaign, who spoke eagerly of their great victory to come.

  15. ROMMEL

  ARCO DEI FILENI, LIBYA

  NOVEMBER 26, 1942

  I t was one more Roman ruin, a grand archway that stood now on the boundary between the two halves of Libya, the dividing line between Cyrenaica and Tripolitania. They were simply names on a map, and Rommel had grown weary of maps.

  He had plotted the best course for his men to follow, the best gr
ound where the stand could still be made. The line ran from the seacoast to the north, across good rolling ground, to the great salt and sand marshes inland, a narrow passageway where even a battered army could make a strong defensive show. The line had originally been plotted by the French, a network of dugouts and blockhouses, making good use of tumbling, rocky terrain. The German engineers had told Rommel that improvements were needed, the French works too feeble to hold back modern artillery, and so Rommel had made the plan, knew that once his army could be pulled into position there, Montgomery would grow cautious once more, would scout and probe, would learn that armor could not flank the position, that the soft sands and marshes were an effective wall, just as the Qattara Depression had been at El Alamein. If Montgomery was to accomplish anything at the Mareth line, it would require weeks of planning, weeks of delay that could be the salvation of the Panzerarmee.

  For now, Rommel still held fast at Mersa el Brega, followed the orders handed him by Kesselring, a sad echo of the wishes of armchair generals in Rome. A majority of his infantry was Italian now, so many of his foot soldiers following the commands of men like Bastico. The Germans had left too much of themselves at El Alamein, had lost more on the march westward. For two days, Rommel had waited for some hint that his plans had pierced the absurd optimism that Kesselring had poured over the Italians. The dream had exhausted Rommel, a useless fantasy that good strategy would somehow find an ear among men who found far more pleasure toasting imaginary victories in their grand villas in Rome.

  He stared up at the arch, knew little of the history, only the name, the Arco dei Fileni. It was yet another symbol of a glorious empire that had collapsed into the dust of this desolate place. What armies have you seen? he thought. How many generals have passed beneath you, expecting their accomplishments to stand like this, a monument to history? How many of them considered destroying you, replacing you with their own archway, their own trophy? And where are they now? He scanned the village, saw movement along every small alleyway, soldiers and staff officers performing some duty. The village provided him his first solid roof in months of desert fighting, a headquarters in an actual house, a bed that gave him the extraordinary luxury of a night’s sleep. It was the kind of comfort that he had hoped to find in Cairo. Now, he would settle for what he could find along the retreat, a brief rest in a place none of his officers believed they could hold for long.

  He felt a pang of hunger, unusual, caught the smell of meat from somewhere in the village, a wisp of gray smoke rising behind a white block house. He moved that way, glanced toward his driver, who stood ready beside the truck. Rommel held up his hand, stay here, moved toward the smoke. He rounded the building, saw a cluster of six men, German soldiers, squatting close to a fire. They stood abruptly, at stiff attention, and he moved closer to their makeshift stove.

  “What is this?”

  “Gazelle, sir.”

  “Which one of you shot it?”

  One man raised his hand. “Sergeant Haller, sir.”

  “Range?”

  The man seemed surprised at the question. “Three hundred meters, sir. I stepped it off.”

  Rommel nodded, still stared at the meat, small bubbles of grease oozing, crackling into the fire, flies darting through the heat.

  “Fine shooting, Sergeant. I have hunted the gazelle here. Some time ago now. More than a year. It is a challenge…unless of course one has a machine gun. They do wander into the minefields occasionally.”

  One of the others spoke, still at hard attention. “We offer this to the field marshal as our gift, sir. Would you honor us by taking our dinner for yourself?”

  “No, I will not. You killed it, it belongs to you. Perhaps a small piece, though…”

  The man was down quickly, a quick slice with a bayonet, the slab of steaming meat dropped onto a tin plate. The man stood stiffly again, handed the plate to Rommel.

  “Thank you for sharing this, Field Marshal.”

  Rommel couldn’t smile, looked at the faces, the eyes glancing at him, then away. They were hard men, thin and haggard, their uniforms ripped and worn through. Rommel made a short bow, said, “Enjoy your feast. But eat it quickly. Every insect in Libya will come to your smoke.”

  He turned, moved away, held the plate in front of his face, breathed in the steam. Behind him, the sergeant said, “Heil Hitler!”

  Rommel stopped, heard the others repeat the words, the familiar salute. He looked down at the slab of meat, felt the chill returning, the hole in his gut closing up. He spun slowly around, moved toward them, ignored their surprise, handed the plate to one of the men.

  “Thank you. But this is yours. The Führer rewards courage…and loyalty.”

  He wanted to say more, but his caution held him back. It was no time for loose talk, for any show of anger. He moved away from them again, their silence behind him, thought, no matter what this fight has done to me, these men are not defeated. It is still up to me to put them into a good fight.

  He turned past the stone building, moved toward the truck, heard another truck in the distance, a cloud of dust, saw Westphal standing tall, waving toward him. Another man was riding low, the familiar hat of the Italian officers. Bastico. Rommel stepped forward slowly, said nothing, saw Bastico watching him with grim discomfort.

  Bastico said, “Marshal Rommel, it is good to see you again. May we retire to your headquarters? I have orders for you.”

  B astico seemed nervous, paced the room, his hands clamped behind him. Rommel pointed toward the door, the order to Westphal to leave, the young man exiting, the door pulled tightly shut.

  Rommel was impatient now. “There is no need for diplomacy. What am I expected to do? Have they at least considered my plans?”

  Bastico stopped, took a long breath. “I do not wish to argue this with you, Herr Rommel. The orders I carry are explicit. Il Duce himself conveys to you his most serious desire that you hold this line at Mersa el Brega at all costs. You are not to retreat unless ordered to do so. Marshal Kesselring will be contacting you on a separate matter, to discuss sending some of your forces westward to strengthen our fortifications at Tripoli.”

  Rommel sat down, rested his arms on the wooden table, tapped firmly with his fingertips. His mind raced with replies, the urge to laugh in this man’s face, or better, to throw a bayonet into the man’s chest. Yes, you know how idiotic this is too. You just don’t have the courage to say so.

  “I suppose Il Duce also desires that I plan a renewed attack against the British.”

  Bastico looked at him wide-eyed, seemed relieved that Rommel had said the words first. “Yes! That is correct! I have been assured that the Luftwaffe will add considerable air support to any plan you propose.”

  Rommel sat back in the chair. “Have you not heard those promises before?”

  Bastico stiffened again. “I do not question the orders from Comando Supremo.”

  “No, I am quite certain you do not. Am I being promised any more support? A division of fresh troops? Tiger tanks? Or is all that being preserved for our great fortress in Tunisia?”

  “I do not respect your attitude toward our superiors, Herr Rommel. There is one more order that I must convey to you. Marshal Cavallero has decreed that should this position become untenable, should the Mersa el Brega line be overrun by an overwhelming attack by our enemies, no one is authorized to issue any order to retreat…except me. That authority is mine alone, and I assure you, Herr Rommel, I do not intend to exercise that authority.”

  “Then I assume I will find you on the front lines, so that you may decide for yourself when the enemy is overwhelming us. Excuse me, Marshal Bastico.”

  He moved past the man, pulled the door open, ignored the staff officers outside, Westphal, waiting for some instructions. The sunlight blinded him and he stared ahead at the emptiness on the horizon, the vast open lands to the south. He felt like walking, seeing the desert again, but more, taking a straight, unstoppable course through the rocky hills, then down into th
e great sand seas, leaving the men like Bastico behind him.

  But not the army. I cannot leave the army to men like that, to officers who cannot learn anything from the butchering of so many good men. For so long, I have found a way to ignore the ridiculous orders, the deadly mistakes made by officers who are simply worthless bureaucrats, governing the war from comfortable chairs. It is those men who advise Hitler, but Hitler does not always listen, and so, when their advice displeases him, the strategies and decisions come from the Führer alone. But even the Führer cannot force the inept and incompetent to perform their duty. Even if he accepted our condition here, even if he could be made to understand what it will take to win here…no, that is a dream from which I have already awakened. I cannot even speculate how different it might have been here. My superiors issue the orders and I am to obey them. And their stupidity has cost us a magnificent army. Since El Alamein, I have understood that Hitler does not care to hear from anyone who does not simply hand him victories. But even the Führer is not infallible. And if I am to remain a soldier, I cannot disobey the Führer.

  Westphal was there now, said, “Sir, Marshal Bastico has asked for his vehicle. Is there anything else you wish to discuss with him?”

  Rommel looked at the younger man, put a hand on his shoulder, felt the man’s strength, the power of his loyalty.

  “I have nothing further to say to Field Marshal Bastico. I want you to issue orders to the nearest airfield, to whatever officer Kesselring has placed in charge of the transport planes.”

  “Are you traveling somewhere, sir?”

  “Quite so, Colonel. I’m going to see the Führer.”

  RASTENBURG, GERMANY—NOVEMBER 28, 1942

  They met with him in a small office, devoid of maps, of any signs of the war. He knew not to waste his energy on these men, Keitel, Jodl, Schmundt, the very officers who despised him for his accomplishments. They still smiled at him, spoke in genial pleasantries. But he knew that when he left, the knives would come out, as they had always come out, the small men in oversize uniforms doing all they could to counter the image Goebbels had created for Rommel, the image that had found so much favor with the German people. Rommel understood the game now, knew that he was simply a tool, that his name and the image of his weather-beaten face, standing high on a mighty tank, were something to inspire the people. Goebbels’s broadcasts still spoke of triumph in North Africa, a poor mask for the truth that seeped across the borders to the south. And so, the men whose hands were never soiled, who never led troops, who never saw the enemy, kept to their offices and plotted the ways to bring this hero to his knees.