by Jeff Shaara
Alexander said nothing for a long moment, shook his head. “There was nothing else you could have done. Fortunes of war. Your people were put into line where they had to be, and the enemy took advantage. Credit to Rommel. If anyone here talks out of turn about the American fighting man, they’ll answer to me. I’ll not tolerate that sort of thing, Ike. Not a bit.”
It was an echo of Eisenhower’s own orders, no tolerance for anyone in an American uniform spouting anti-British comments. He was grateful for Alexander’s support, had grown more comfortable with the man every time they met.
Alexander was roughly Eisenhower’s age, a thin, wiry man, a light mustache, who appeared at first glance to be a Rudyard Kipling example of the ideal British officer. But there was no aristocratic stiffness to the man, no annoying air of superiority. Eisenhower had met him at Gibraltar the year before, the two men hitting it off immediately, Eisenhower surprised to find that, unlike most of the senior brass on either side, Alexander had a considerable sense of humor. Alexander’s appointment as Eisenhower’s deputy had come at the Casablanca conference, and immediately eyebrows had been raised, senior officers in both armies assuming that this was a relationship that could only produce friction. General Alexander outranked Eisenhower, had already made his mark as the overall British commander in North Africa. Part of Alexander’s command included Montgomery’s Eighth Army, and it was entirely reasonable for Alexander to accept a great deal of credit for the crushing victory over Rommel at El Alamein. But Alexander was no strutting martinet, and after the Casablanca conference, he had accepted his role as Eisenhower’s second without argument. In Washington, George Marshall had been sensitive to the issue of rank, and on February 11, Eisenhower had received his promotion to full general, which added a fourth star to his collar. Eisenhower appreciated the recognition, but understood that in part it was an American show designed to bolster Eisenhower’s standing with the British he now commanded.
Eisenhower recognized that Alexander had done much to save the Allies against Rommel’s blow at Kasserine. Alexander had assumed command of the combined armies on February 19, in the midst of the worst chaos of the fight. His first act had been to organize the defenses that did much to grind Rommel’s forces to a halt. Alexander’s efficiency made it clear that, though Eisenhower was still in charge, Alexander’s role was essential.
With Alexander under Eisenhower’s command, one more piece of the Allied puzzle was in Eisenhower’s hands. Bernard Montgomery still answered to Alexander, but now he was ultimately responsible to Eisenhower as well.
Eisenhower studied a map on the desk in front of him. “How long do you think it will take Monty to go into action?”
Alexander smiled. “Thank you for being discreet. You will come to learn that Monty can only be pushed when he is willing to be pushed. It’s not something I’m completely happy about, but we have to make allowances. He’s made himself quite the hero back home. Hard to find too much fault with that. Not everyone gets along with him though. He can be a prickly sort once in a while.”
Eisenhower returned the smile, one man’s name planting itself in his brain: Patton.
Alexander continued, “We’re finally making good use of the port facilities at Tripoli. Monty’s getting his supplies now, and there should be little delay.”
“I’m not complaining, Alex. The delays might have worked out for the best. Once Patton moves the Second Corps toward Rommel’s flank, it should lighten Monty’s load. I don’t think the Germans can hold the Mareth line if we hit them from two sides.”
“Monty won’t see it that way. He’d love to push Rommel all the way to Tunis, finish the job he started at El Alamein. I’ve already talked to him about cooperation, and he’ll understand that, once we get rolling. You can count on him to do the job. It will be up to me to make sure he gets plenty of credit for it.”
Eisenhower laughed now, sat back in the chair. Alexander seemed to wait for the punch line, and Eisenhower said, “I’m sorry. This isn’t funny. We’ve got a hell of a fight, still. And you know that I have no patience for rivalries. None of this is a damned contest. But I’m just wondering what it will be like the first time Patton and Monty find themselves on the same road. As much as I hate it, I know that the very thing that makes them so damned good will also create trouble. You might have to break up a fist-fight.”
Alexander laughed as well. “Or a duel.”
After a moment the smiles faded, and Alexander said, “I’m not a blind optimist, Ike. We need this offensive to work, or we could be in very serious trouble here. And, I’m not sure I agree with you about Patton and Monty. A little competition can be a good thing. You fire up the generals, it can fire up the men. And we’ll need all the fire we can muster if we’re going to push Rommel out of his lines.”
Eisenhower thought of Patton, the crude boast, a pistol in his belly.
“We need to strike quickly. Can we make any good estimate when Monty will be ready to strike?”
“He says by the twentieth, maybe sooner.”
Eisenhower stared at the map, thought, damn. Two weeks.
Alexander leaned forward on the desk. “I’ll push him as much as I can, Ike. And I’ll push Patton as well. The only way this campaign will work effectively is if the two armies link up. Not even Rommel can stand up to that.”
Eisenhower thought a moment. “You’ve met my new field aide, right?”
“General Bradley? Quite so. First impression, he’s a good chap. I had no problem with Truscott of course. A bit more crust to him.”
“He did the job. But I’m sending Truscott back stateside. We need his type of crusty commander to take over the Third Division. They’re in training now, but it’s slow going. We need them over here as quickly as Truscott can pound them into shape.”
“Ah, yes, your Third Division. The Rock of the Marne. As I recall, some of those chaps saved the day in the Great War. Put quite a feather in old Black Jack’s cap.”
Eisenhower was impressed, thought, well, of course, a British commander would know more history than just his own.
“Bradley works a little differently than Truscott. He doesn’t say much, but when he talks, people need to shut up and listen. Might be the smartest damned general I’ve come across. I’m hoping he’ll carry those brains to the front lines. Right now, he’s to serve as my primary staff officer in the field. I don’t want any guff about that, and I’ve given Brad written orders to put in every commander’s face. You know how some of those crusty boys react, treat a field aide like he’s some kind of spy. I can’t be everyplace at once, and I need accurate information. For the time being, Omar Bradley is the man who’ll gather the details.”
There was a knock, and Eisenhower saw a British officer at the door. Alexander said, “Yes, Ruddy, what is it?”
The man stepped into the office, handed Alexander a paper. “Cable, sir. From General Montgomery.”
“Thank you. You’re dismissed. Call you if I need you.”
The man spun around, stepped quickly from the office. Eisenhower watched Alexander’s expression, saw a frown, thought, it’s bad news.
“Another delay?”
Alexander held out the paper. “Anything but, actually. It seems that we’ve been wasting our time prodding Monty to make his move. Rommel’s beat him to it. The Eighth Army is under attack.”
25. ROMMEL
SOUTH OF TOUJANE, TUNISIA, THE MARETH LINE
MARCH 6, 1943
T hey had rolled forward at dawn, all the power Rommel could put into the attack. The three panzer divisions pushed forward 140 tanks, hoping to do what Rommel had done so well before. The first attack had come along the coast, directed at the British right flank. It was a noisy diversion by the Italians, artillery and light armor, another familiar tactic, to persuade Montgomery to focus his attentions there. With British strength diverted northward, the primary assault had come on the opposite end of the line, inland, the power of the panzers rolling across scrub hills and
flat, hard ground, seeking to turn the British left, roll back Montgomery’s forces before they could prepare. Rommel’s greatest successes had come with this very move, and once more he saw opportunity, knew that the British flank was hanging in the air, protected only by miles of sandy marsh that was thought impassable, the same barrier that protected his own flank at Mareth. Rommel’s best hope was that Montgomery was not yet organized, his defenses not yet complete. He had seen firsthand what the fourteen-hundred-mile march from El Alamein had done to his army, and Rommel forced himself to believe that Montgomery’s sluggishness meant that the great march had been far more grueling for the pursuers than for the men pursued. The Germans had recovered well, mostly because their supply line had become so much shorter. With Hitler suddenly focused on preserving this part of Africa as a great German stronghold, the supplies and reinforcements continued to roll through the ports and airfields of Tunisia, now only a short distance in Rommel’s rear. Rommel knew that if there was opportunity at all, it had to come soon, before Montgomery felt he was strong enough to go on the offensive. Even as the British pulled into position below the Mareth line, Rommel had convinced himself that whether or not the British army rested and refit, Montgomery would continue to dawdle, to position and reposition his troops until conditions were perfect in the British commander’s mind. Here, at Mareth, Rommel had an opening, a chance to shatter the British resolve. When the tanks rolled forward, Rommel expected they would surge right through a confused and disorganized British camp. Rommel embraced and embellished the plan in his own mind, had convinced the Italians and his own officers that their day had come again. Even Comando Supremo approved the attack, convinced by the enthusiasm of their own man at Mareth, Giovanni Messe, who fully accepted Rommel’s reasoning.
From the tall hill just behind the Mareth line, Rommel had watched the sun rise, had stood tall with his binoculars, watching the wave of armor pour southward, to swarm and outflank the British lines around the village of Médenine. He kept the radio truck close by, expected the reports to come in quickly, held a hard grip on his belief that the attack would drive the surprised British flank away in complete disorder, and that the British artillery and tank gunners would not have prepared for such an audacious move.
T he morning mist had been swept away by the rising sun, the air now thick with drifting clouds of dust.
“We will move forward. I must see. Have we heard anything?”
“No, sir. The radio has been silent.”
Rommel waited impatiently for the driver, the man struggling to start the truck, the engine coming to life with a raspy cough. Rommel wanted to shove the man aside, drive himself, his brain stirring in a hot fever, his eyes blurred, hot frustration pouring through him. Move forward, damn you!
His sickness had come again, worse than he could recall, hard pains in his throat, the ache in his side. He had seen the way the staff looked at him, their distress barely disguised, and he had gone to a mirror, had seen for himself that the sores on his face and neck had grown much worse. It had always been a problem in the desert, what Rommel had believed was behind them now, the torment of so many weeks in the flat, deathly heat of Libya. The early spring in Tunisia was a pleasant time, the rains finally ceasing, a coolness in the morning that inspired the green to return. The land seemed alive in Tunisia, the flatlands nearer the coast draped by wheat fields and orchards. The men had welcomed the change in climate, the entire army growing more healthy. For a while Rommel had felt it as well, energized by the successes around Kasserine. But on the retreat back to Mareth, the sickness had swallowed him, the familiar misery of sleeplessness, the churning in his gut, the tormenting pains, the itching irritation of the open sores. He had done all he could to push it aside, fought to work through his own misery, clearing his mind for the planning that must happen for the strike against Montgomery to succeed. He relied heavily on support from Bayerlein, and even the Italian, Messe, his alleged successor, had not argued, had not drained Rommel of the energy he needed to launch this attack.
The truck carried him down into a narrow valley, thick brush flecked with concrete bunkers, the good work of the engineers. They drove up again, a short hill, reached the crest, and Rommel could hear the fight, sharp thumps, a thick cloud of dirt and dust, shouted, “Go! Do not stop here! We can get closer!”
The truck moved again, the aides now watching him, and he ignored them, gripped the binoculars tightly, stared forward. There were flashes of light, and his heart surged in his chest, yes, good! We are close! The sounds rolled over them, the truck winding through a dusty cut between two short hills, then in the open again, another rise. He saw a tank now, a dense plume of black smoke, the smells engulfing him, sickening, and he closed his eyes, shouted again, “Keep going! Move forward!”
There were more tanks on both sides of the road, more black smoke, fire. The truck moved past quickly, past a scattered mass of black shapes, faceless, broken men. He would not see them, wanted to shout again, his voice choked by the smoke, hot, grinding ash in his throat. The truck swerved, the driver fighting for control, the smoke clearing, the road straightening, the man saying something to him, fear in the man’s voice. Rommel ignored him, still stared to the front, the truck climbing another short rise. The road wound to one side, then fell away, and Rommel saw more tanks, a wide formation, more smoke and fire, grabbed the driver’s shoulder.
“Stop!”
The truck slid to a halt, and Rommel steadied himself on the seat back, stood, raised the binoculars, thought, yes, now we shall see. He focused on a low ridgeline, beyond the tanks, scanned, saw flashes, the ground all out in front of him alive with punches of fire, thunderous blasts, screams in the air, shells streaking overhead. The blasts shook the truck, aides jumping out, seeking cover in a ditch, and Rommel ignored them, wouldn’t see fear in his own men. He scanned the ridge, expected to see his tanks rolling up and over, deadly fire, a great wave shattering the enemy’s position. But the tanks were not moving, the fire coming at them in a steady rumble, blasts in the dirt and brush all across the ground in front of him, tanks, his tanks, broken and battered, some pulling back, drawing closer to him. The ridgelines spread out on both sides, every nook, every low place, holding a gun barrel or a tank, heavy fire meeting his attack with perfect precision. He did not count, had no need to, could tell from the sound and the destruction that the British had far more power than Rommel expected. He lowered the binoculars, didn’t need them now. What he couldn’t see in the field, he saw in his mind. The British had dug in hard along the ridgelines, heavy formations of artillery and tanks. His mind opened for a brief moment, the sickness held away, the sickness that had driven him to this desperate assault. He understood now, why he had pushed this fight, why he had assumed Montgomery to be weak and disorganized. It was all the energy he had left, holding a fragile grip on the dream that the Desert Fox would make his great triumphant return, that the enemy would be driven away. He closed his eyes, fought to breathe through the smoke, ignored the voices of his men, the aides calling out for him to take cover, to take himself out of danger. The strength was gone now, the grip loosening, and he sat, felt the truck moving, the men leaping in, the driver waiting for his order. He looked at the man, saw the young, dirty face, wide blue eyes, terrified. He put a hand on the man’s arm, said nothing. He looked out past the windshield, the picture complete, the disaster growing, and Rommel wanted to shout, turn his men to the front, push them harder, drive them as he had always done, lead them himself, the truck rolling forward right into the guns, oblivious to the fire, the danger, the death of his army.
He felt the truck jerk, jolted from below, shellfire coming closer. Tanks began to roll past him now, his tanks, beaten men seeking cover in the rocky hills, in clumps of brush, anyplace the power of the British guns could not find them. For many it was too late, the open ground littered with heaps of broken machines, their crews scrambling to safety, or simply falling away, cut down by machine-gun fire. He knew it now,
one calm voice in his head, clarity, knew that the tanks that still fought faced well-sited guns, perfectly arranged tanks, and that the attack was simply coming apart all around him. He turned toward the aide beside him, the man staring into his eyes, deep concern, said, “The radio…give the order to cease the attack. Make every effort to hold the captured territory.”
The aides responded, one man moving quickly toward the radio truck behind them. Rommel heard the sound of a plane, looked up, saw a squadron of dive-bombers, thought, Junkers, yes! He felt a burst of hope, a streak of light through the thick fog in his brain, yes! Hit them, drive them back. He heard the familiar scream, the planes making their dive, saw a red flash, one plane suddenly coming apart, then another, a burst of fire, streaks of antiaircraft fire engulfing them all.
A fter one day’s fighting, the attack had been broken off completely. Along the ridgelines around Médenine, Montgomery had prepared for the possibility of a flank attack by Rommel by carefully positioning several hundred tanks, artillery pieces, and antitank guns and had prepared the ground with extensive minefields. By the end of the day on March 6, the Afrika Korps had lost more than a third of its armor. The British did not lose a single tank.
BENI ZELTEN, TUNISIA—MARCH 7, 1943
