The Rising Tide

by Jeff Shaara

  “Surely, sir, he would not—”

  “I don’t want to hear you defending him. You know very well what is being said about me. You know very well that there are officers in Berlin who are watching what happens here, waiting for my mistake. My grand finale.”

  “I do not understand that, sir. Why do they want you to fail? Are we not fighting for one cause? Does not the Führer wish us to win?”

  “I don’t know what the Führer wishes. My job has always been to go where he sends me and fight the enemy in front of me. I have not concerned myself with what mattered to him, with his dreams and his grand plans. We took our tanks to the French coast, trapped the English, could have destroyed an entire army at Dunkirk. When the order came for us to halt, to sit still, I kept my doubts to myself. I watched them on the beach there, watched them climb into their ridiculous boats, watched our bombs fall on them, Göring’s arrogance, that his airplanes could decide the war. We could have crushed them where they stood, but the Führer said no, and so the British escaped, and now we fight them here.” Rommel paused, glanced around for listening ears, old habit. “I did not question the Führer’s decision to invade Russia. Had I been ordered to go there, I would have fought as well as I fought in Libya. But it was another mistake, a disaster that may cost us this war. It makes no one proud to beg, Fritz, but I begged, I begged the Führer and his staff and Kesselring, I begged them all to see how valuable this campaign was, how important it was that we drive the British out of Egypt. I did not expect them to give me everything I asked for.” He paused again. “But I did not expect to be abandoned. If we had been given a tiny fraction of what was squandered in Russia, this matter would have been decided long ago. There would have been no American landing in Algeria because we would have been far away from here. We would be feasting on the spoils of Cairo or Baghdad. We would not be eating sardines in the rain in Tunisia.” He tossed the can aside, pulled his coat tighter, the chilly air driving into him. “Tell me, Fritz, what do we accomplish if we win here? What prize can we claim by driving the enemy out of Tunisia?”

  “It is important to the Italians, I suppose. They are still our allies.”

  Rommel smiled. “Yes, our allies. We are fighting to give our allies their summer homes on the seashore, their daily supply of almonds. We are fighting to preserve Mussolini’s fairy tale.”

  Rommel saw an aide emerge from the tent, the man moving quickly toward him.

  “Sir! A message has already come from Marshal Kesselring! He has approved your plan! However, Comando Supremo had not yet sanctioned his approval. You are ordered to wait for final approval from Comando Supremo.”

  Bayerlein said, “That is excellent news, sir! We can begin mobilizing the forces toward Tébessa right now! They can begin the assault by morning! Shall I issue the orders, sir?”

  Rommel looked at the young aide, the man as excited as Bayerlein, and digested the message. “Kesselring is protecting himself. He approves my plan, but cannot order it to proceed. So, if I am right, he can claim that he supported me. If I am wrong, he has no share of the blame. We cannot move until Comando Supremo has given us the final authority. Prepare the orders, but do not issue them to the commanders until the final sanction has been received.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  Bayerlein was looking at him, and Rommel waited for him to move away, saw now that Bayerlein was frowning.

  “What is it, Fritz?”

  “Sir, forgive me, but I have never known you to defer to Comando Supremo before you begin an operation. The staff…with all respect, sir, we have always felt pride in how you ignore all of this foolishness. If you order it, we will move right now, regardless of what Comando Supremo says.”

  Rommel looked down, stared at the mud on his boots. “The world has changed, Fritz. This is not my theater any longer. It’s not my stage. We require von Arnim to advance his forces with us, and he will not move without orders from above.” He looked at Bayerlein now. “Make sure someone mans the communications at all times. We will wait until we hear from Rome.”

  He stepped out into the mud, and Bayerlein knew not to follow. Rommel walked through the grove of trees, knew that the plan was sound, that if von Arnim cooperated, the Allies would be driven completely out of Tunisia. Instead, he thought, we must wait. We must delay.

  The daylight was fading, and he stopped, heard the high drone of a plane motor, a distant thump of artillery. He had grown too used to the sounds, the battle always there, some fight off in the distance, attracting no one’s attention, a meaningless flicker of death under a dark and dismal sky.

  FEBRUARY 19, 1943

  You are to modify your plan from the proposed operation against Tébessa and deploy your attack units northward, via Kasserine and Thala, with the objective of capturing Le Kef.

  Rommel stared at the aide, the paper in the young man’s hand, began to feel sick, anger draining his strength. Le Kef. He put out a hand, felt for the chair, eased down slowly, said in a low voice, “This is unbelievable. This is far worse than stupidity. It is criminal.”

  Bayerlein was close beside him now, had heard the orders, motioned for the aide to move away, said in a low voice, “Sir, perhaps we should retire to your tent. You do not look well.”

  “Le Kef. We shall turn our attentions toward Le Kef. So, von Arnim has had his way. We shall attack to the north, where success will mean nothing. We have an open road to Tébessa, but we will fight through the mountain passes instead.” He tried to stand, his legs weak, took a deep breath. “Von Arnim has shown us who truly has the authority. It seems that is the only success he requires.”

  He felt Bayerlein’s hand on his shoulder, stood, moved toward the darkness, the night sky still dreary, cold and wet. He didn’t want to feel the rain again, stopped at the opening of the shelter, said, “What time is it? How long until daylight?”

  “It’s near two o’clock, sir.”

  “Two? Well, then, there is time. I believe, Fritz, I should like to get some sleep.”

  KASSERINE PASS—FEBRUARY 20, 1943

  The air was thick with smoke, a steady thunder in front of him, the roar of armor passing close beside him, a column of tanks moving toward the pass. He stood high on the seat of the truck, stared through the binoculars, strained to see, the fog and mist obliterating the mountainsides.

  “Damn! We must get closer! Driver, advance, follow that panzer column!”

  He dropped down, the truck surging forward, the air suddenly ripped by machine-gun fire, men shouting to him, Bayerlein pulling on his arm.

  “Sir! We must not remain in the road! We are too easily a target!”

  Rommel pulled away, turned, stared hard at his aide, shouted into the man’s face, “We are all targets, General! This is a fight! You will either ride with me, or you will walk!”

  “Yes, sir! Of course, sir!”

  He stared ahead now, tried to see past the hulking shadow of a large tank, the heavy Panzer IV, ignored the sharp blast to one side, smoke and rock showering the truck. He felt the old fury, wanted to push the driver faster, get the truck past the armor, but the road was narrow, a sheer drop to one side, a tight hillside rising sharply on the other. He smelled the tank’s exhaust, black smoke engulfing him, shouted again, “Go! Move! I’m right behind you!”

  The hill crested, the ground falling away, a valley opening up in front of them, a vast sea of fire and smoke a half mile wide. The hills rose sharply on both sides, machine-gun fire above him, small rock slides peppering the road, the tanks still moving forward. He grabbed the driver’s shoulder, shouted, “Stop here! I must see!”

  He stood, wiped the lenses of the binoculars, scanned the ground in front of him, a hundred vehicles, most of them moving, others, black lumps, smoking, some on fire. He could see his own tanks, formations circling to one side, a flanking move, more smoke, the tanks hidden. There were sharp thumps of artillery fire, the air above him ripped open, the searing screech of the shells, some passing far overhead
, others impacting the road in front of him, the closest tank suddenly tossed aside, upended, a flash of fire. He looked up the hillside, infantry darting among the rocks, more machine guns, pops of rifle fire, the flow still forward, soldiers on both sides scrambling along the cuts and gashes in the rock.

  The binoculars were useless now, too much smoke, much of the fight spread out right in front of him. He scanned the shattered tanks, could easily spot the American tanks, smaller, round-topped, more compact, lighter. Vulnerable. His own panzers were still pushing forward, the battle drifting away, driven by the power, the great machines, the enemy swallowed by mist and smoke and fire, and the man who would not be stopped.

  K asserine Pass was the left flank of the German assault, the other wing pushing through along the road that led to Sbiba, the more northerly route that would lead to Le Kef. The attack had been slow in starting, the Germans attempting to drive straight through Kasserine Pass in a frontal assault that had simply collapsed. The Americans had put men with mortars and antitank guns in the hills high above the half-mile-wide pass, had a clear line of fire on anything that stayed on the low ground beneath them. The roadway through the pass had been mined as well, American and British engineers putting everything they had into a barrier that would slow the Germans down, to allow the Allied artillery to pound their targets. As Rommel made his way forward, he had altered the plan of attack, ordering a halt to the absurd frontal assaults, ordering German infantry to climb the hills, sweeping around the Americans. The plan had worked, American units caught by surprise on the hills, surrounded and cut off from retreat. Those who could make their escape westward found that the defensive positions west of the pass had already begun to collapse, the German armor overpowering, a wave of steel and fire that could not be stopped.

  KASSERINE, TUNISIA—FEBRUARY 20, 1943

  It was early, just after seven, the fights resuming all across the western side of the mountains. But the Germans had most of the higher ground, the pass itself, were gathering strength, reorganizing, assessing their losses, preparing to continue Rommel’s surge along the roads beyond. In the town, Arabs offered him baskets of food, a hasty breakfast prepared by local civilians, men with toothy smiles and dirty hands. He had been polite, but had no interest in breakfast, and no patience for diplomacy. He had come to Afrika Korps headquarters to speak to Heinz Ziegler, yet another commander of an army that had too many new faces.

  “What is happening at Sbiba, General?”

  Ziegler ignored the maps, and Rommel thought, refreshing, a man who holds the facts in his head.

  “The Twenty-first has been slowed by a stout defense, sir. The British have been meticulous with their mines and are making a strong fight. We made mistakes, sir. I have done all I can to correct them.”

  “I know, General. I wanted to hear that from you. I wanted to know you understood your error. We are no longer in the desert. These hills…we might as well be fighting in the Alps. You don’t just march into the pass, you must send your men up the mountains as well.”

  Ziegler seemed to energize. “Yes, sir. And we have been successful, sir.”

  Rommel thought a moment, could not avoid the maps, moved that way, a young lieutenant stepping aside, the man who moved the pins.

  “Are these the latest positions?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Rommel stepped closer, tried to focus on the lines, his eyes betraying him. He had suffered from poor vision for some time now, yet one more ailment, one more plague he had to endure. He stepped back, tried to hide the frustration, thought of the plan, the troop positions locked in his memory. He had held the Tenth Panzer Division in reserve, the men who had answered directly to von Arnim. But the opportunity was clear now, the way open to driving the enemy completely away. With Kasserine Pass in German hands, the route was open to Tébessa. Damn them, he thought. They do not see it. Von Arnim has no interest in success. But I will not ignore the opportunity. He can have his prize of Le Kef. I am taking Tébessa.

  “General Ziegler, I believe Kasserine is our best opportunity. The Twenty-first surely has matters in hand at Sbiba, so we shall make our greatest effort right here. I will summon the Tenth to Kasserine.”

  “Yes, sir, I quite agree.”

  Rommel looked back at Ziegler, a young man who had already made his share of mistakes.

  “I don’t need you to agree with me, General. Just accomplish your task.”

  H e had driven all along the frontline positions, then back toward the reserves, had watched as the Tenth Panzer Division responded to his orders. Despite the power that rolled past him, Rommel knew that something was wrong, the numbers too low. There was another noticeable absence as well, not just in numbers but in strength. The Tenth held the army’s vastly critical supply of Tiger tanks, and Rommel searched for them, growing more angry along every kilometer. Von Arnim’s promise to send thirty Tigers southward had never been fulfilled. But now, with the Tenth coming forward, all the Tigers should have been there, adding even more to the power of Rommel’s attack. Rommel was furious, ordered his driver toward Afrika Korps headquarters again, knowing the Tenth’s commander, Fritz von Broich, would already be there.

  H e burst through the door, saw Ziegler again, the man jumping to his feet, surprised.

  “Where is von Broich?”

  “Here, sir.”

  Rommel stared at him, von Broich emotionless, sure of himself.

  “Where is the rest of your division, General?”

  Von Broich did not respond, and Rommel closed the gap between them, put a finger close to the man’s chest.

  “Where is the rest of your division, General?”

  Von Broich tried to stand tall, a display of bravado, the man quietly aware that he answered only to von Arnim.

  “I was specifically ordered to advance with half my force, sir. General von Arnim is concerned that he will require the remainder along his front.”

  “Where are the Tigers?”

  Von Broich cleared his throat, looked down, and Rommel thought, all right, here comes the lie.

  “Sir, General von Arnim has requested that I communicate to you that the Panzer VI tanks are currently undergoing repair.”

  “Repair? All of them?”

  Von Broich did not look at him. “I have been ordered to give you this message, sir.”

  Rommel felt a tightness in his chest, his fingers curling into fists. He was breathing heavily, the curses pouring through his brain. I will kill that man.

  He fought against the fire, began to feel dizzy, von Broich seeming to waver in front of him. Rommel saw a chair, moved that way, steadied himself, sat slowly, said, “So, this is how I am to be regarded. We have our orders…he has his orders, and it matters not at all.” He tried to slow his breathing, saw aides gathering, keeping a distance. “Very well. I will do what I must. We have a plan to carry out, and we shall carry it out, whether anyone beyond this headquarters cares to assist us or not.”

  KASSERINE PASS—FEBRUARY 21, 1943

  The fighting had moved more to the west, a hard struggle across rocky hills draped by pockets of brush, dense thickets of fir trees. Rommel had pressed his people forward, fighting the hesitation and mistakes in his own command as much as his troops fought an increasingly tenacious defense from Allied artillery and antitank positions.

  The truck moved downward, and he could see the river now, the Hatab, the remnants of a wrecked bridge, replaced with one by his own engineers. Tanks were moving across, black smoke rolling upriver past the tumbled wreckage of half-tracks, one long-barreled cannon shattered into pieces, embedded in the soft mud. He ordered the driver to slow, the truck rolling past a burnt-out tank, what Rommel knew now to be a Sherman, its turret tossed aside, smoke rolling up from the bowels of the crushed machine. There were trucks, four of them, what had been part of a column caught on the road, the wrecks shoved aside by his engineers. He stared at each one, men still inside, burnt black, one man in a grotesque curl around the steering
wheel. Bodies were scattered all across the mud, draped across blasted trees in the patches of wood, helmets and bits of men and uniforms and weapons in every low place, the mud barely disguising the fight that had rolled over the uneven ground. The troops had met face-to-face here, and Rommel could see it now, men from both sides, black bloody stains, bayonets on broken rifles, more trucks, a jeep, its wheels bent out, like some toy crushed under a massive foot. Along the riverbank were more bodies, a neat row, pulled out of the mud by men who could not simply pass by and do nothing. The truck rolled over the makeshift bridge and Rommel did not look down, did not care about the uniforms the men wore, did not look into the face of death. The thought skipped through his mind—which of us left the greater number of dead at this place?—but he pushed it away, thought, it makes no difference. Someone else will deal with that, will do the arithmetic, the paperwork. His attention was drawn forward, a wide clearing beyond the bridge, a vast sea of destruction, blasted tanks, half-tracks, trucks attached to artillery pieces. He saw now that much of the equipment was undamaged, some of it half-buried in mud-filled ditches, crews abandoning their vehicles to escape on foot. There were more cannon, unhitched, pointing east, ready for the fight, but the artillerymen were long gone, leaving behind stacks of boxes, unused shells. He saw trucks full of gear, boxes, ammunition of every sort, crates of magazines for small arms, and more, all the equipment necessary to build a campsite, tents, cookstoves, crates of tinned food.

  There were hard blasts to one side, thunderous explosions falling in unison along the hillside behind him. His driver turned, looked back at him, and Rommel pointed forward, shook his head. We’re not turning back, not now. His truck rolled farther out through the open ground, and he stared across the field, saw more undamaged trucks, a half-track sitting by itself, the front wheels bent and shredded by a mine. He had to see more, put his hand on the driver’s shoulder, the truck slowing, stopping. He did not raise the binoculars, had nothing to observe, the heavy mist and smoke swallowing the trees in front of him, where the fight still poured over men on both sides. He stood still for a moment, felt Bayerlein beside him, knew there were questions, why they had stopped, why here. Rommel stayed silent, felt the hard weight of what he was seeing. It was unending, an ocean of American steel, every truck fueled and equipped, a silent army, missing only the men who had pulled away, who did not yet have the heart to stand and make a fight against Rommel’s powerful machine. But they will, he thought. They will learn and adapt, and they will come again. They are children with too many toys, but after this fight, they will have grown, and they will have learned, and they will bring their machines and their equipment back into the fight, new trucks and new tanks and new airplanes. He thought of Hitler’s description, mongrel race. What does that matter here?