The Steel Wave

by Jeff Shaara

  “Sarge. There’s somebody in the brush. Right here.”

  The whisper was Unger’s. Adams focused, frozen, listening, heard a single low click.

  “Down!”

  The men dropped down, grunts and thuds on the road, and now there was a shout from the brush, a single word.

  “Flash!”

  Scofield responded. “Thunder!”

  The brush came alive now, cracking limbs and heavy footsteps, shadows emerging through the hedge. The men around Adams began to rise. From the brush one man said, “If you’re Krauts, you’re all dead. We’ve got a thirty up ahead covering this road.”

  “If we’re Krauts,” Scofield said, “we took your damned password, and we picked up some pretty good English along the way.”

  One man stepped close in front of him, and Adams stood up, nervous finger on the Thompson.

  “I’m Lieutenant Colonel Charles Timmes, Second Battalion, Five-oh-seven,” the man said. “We were wondering if anybody was ever going to find us. Who might you be?”

  “Captain Ed Scofield, Five-oh-five. We found you. How about we get the hell out of here, Colonel?”

  “Sounds fine to me.”

  Timmes turned away, a quiet order, word spreading, more men emerging on the road ahead. Adams felt his hands shaking, unexpected. They’ve been out here for four days, he thought.

  “Sir,” Adams said. Timmes turned toward him. “How many have you got, sir? If you don’t mind me asking.”

  “Fifty, more or less. There were a hell of a lot more, but they’re still out there somewhere.”

  The men were gathering, no one speaking, and Timmes moved toward Scofield. “Captain, I assume you know the way out of here?”

  “This way, sir.”

  Timmes’s troops were in the road, some around Adams now, his own men moving close, a strange silent moment. Greetings and questions would come later, passing cigarettes and full canteens. Right now they shared a breathless flicker of relief, but no one among them knew what they would still have to do, how much more of this they would have to endure. Adams tried to see faces, but they were only shadows, dark shapes. So far, like the men who had found them, they had merely survived.

  * * *

  29. ROMMEL

  * * *

  SOUTH OF CAEN

  JUNE 10, 1944

  The truck in front led the way, the car following closely, bouncing heavily on a narrow rocky trail. Rommel grabbed the back of the driver’s seat and braced himself as the truck stopped abruptly and Sergeant Daniel jerked the wheel to avoid a collision. The rattle of antiaircraft fire came now, the twin guns on the truck pointed skyward, the gunner spinning furiously in his small turret. Rommel heard the planes, but there was nothing to see, the tall hedgerows sheltered them.

  “Sir! Abandon the car! We must seek cover!”

  He ignored the urgency of his aide and peered out, trying to see some sign of the planes, then caught a glimpse, more of them now, the roar of their engines flowing past. The antiaircraft guns continued to fire, aimed low toward the horizon, but then silence. Rommel saw an officer jumping from the truck, coming back toward the car, furious, shouting,

  “Damn them! Damn them all!” The man seemed to gather himself and said to Rommel, “Sir! Corporal Weiss may have hit one of them. They were British, I believe. Single-engine, fighters perhaps.”

  “Or dive-bombers. We were not their target, clearly.” He glanced at Captain Lang in the front seat of the car. “There is no need for panic. Return to the truck, Lieutenant, we should not delay. Captain, where are we exactly?”

  Lang scanned a small map. “The Morain Bridge is three kilometers to the west. That is where we are to meet with General Bayerlein, sir.”

  There were more planes now, the roar of engines farther away, and Rommel saw the anger still on the lieutenant’s face, the man who commanded his lone escort.

  “Lieutenant, you may tell your gunner to be more precise with his shooting. If the enemy is going to come so close to us, that is an opportunity, not a reason to panic or waste ammunition. Am I clear, Lieutenant?”

  The man stiffened. “Very clear, Field Marshal!”

  “Then let’s proceed. Lead us back to the main road. I would prefer not to keep General Bayerlein waiting.” He leaned closer to his driver. “Sergeant Daniel, that was a fine piece of maneuvering. When this war ends, perhaps we should find you a racing car to drive. I have no doubt you would leave your competition behind.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Rommel sat back in the seat and waited for the armored truck to move away in front of them. Daniel is a good man, he thought. Remember that. It is not always best to scream at your aides. I should save that for the generals.

  They began to move, the narrow lane curving, wrapping around a small field, the hedgerows leading them back to hard road. In the front seat, Lang turned to him.

  “Forgive me, sir, but I must remind you of my concerns. General Speidel is most insistent that we not do this in the daylight. The enemy seems to be seeking out any target they can find, and I am concerned that they might find…you, sir.”

  “Thank you, Captain. But there is nothing to be gained by the constant delay, waiting for darkness so that I may conduct this command. I require General Bayerlein to advance the Panzer Lehr Division as rapidly as possible toward Villers-Bocage. Every report I am receiving indicates that the British are massing north of there. It is one avenue to circumvent our strength at Caen, and they will use that to try to come at the city from two sides. I would do the same.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  The truck led them onto the road, and he looked forward. The gunner was scanning the skies, three more men on the truck doing the same. Yes, you are awake now. If we are fortunate, you will not have any more targets this day.

  The hedgerows were gone now, the road rolling slightly, low brush and thickets, a wide field, cows grazing. Rommel shook his head. Amazing people, the French. Why do they not leave here? How many of them will die because they insist on plowing their land and milking their cows where we fight this war? Well, at least there will be beef for the men.

  He saw the bridge, half a kilometer away, rusty steel girders, could see trucks on both sides, an outpost, machine guns and antiaircraft guns, one large field cannon, hooked to a larger truck. He glanced skyward, a sheet of blue, broken by thick white clouds. Why did Bayerlein think this was a good idea? We should do this in the open?

  He heard them now, more airplane engines, the truck halting in front of them, Daniel stepping hard on the brakes of the car. Rommel braced himself against the front seat, looked to the side, and saw the planes, a formation of four, very low, topping distant trees. The gunners at the bridge were already firing, the planes coming fast, four more now behind them. He slid low in the seat, nowhere else to go, wanted to shout at Daniel, Back away! But the planes were quickly past, climbing away, and now, in front of him, the bridge erupted in flame, a shock of explosion. He stared, frozen, the girders tossed skyward, falling away, tall splashes in the water, the antiaircraft guns still firing. Daniel jerked the car into reverse, backed away on the road, and spun the car in a tight loop.

  Rommel grabbed his shoulder. “No! It is over! Move to the bridge! There will be wounded!”

  Daniel obeyed, the car back on the road, moving past his own truck, which followed him, guns silent. They reached the bridge, black smoke, but the fires had extinguished themselves quickly, pieces of the bridge down in the narrow river, men still at their guns, staring up, no targets. Rommel pushed open the door of the car and stepped out, his aides doing the same. Men were gathering, some simply staring at the wreckage.

  Lang shouted out, “Who is injured? Anyone hurt?”

  Rommel saw an officer, a major—the man kneeling, terrified, holding to the side of a staff car—and moved toward him.

  “See to your men!”

  The major turned, seemed unable to speak, and Rommel recognized him, one of Bayerlein’s aides
. Men were emerging from the smoke, the breeze clearing the air, the hard smell of explosives drifting away.

  “No one is hurt! No casualties!” one man called out.

  Rommel had no patience for paralysis. He moved close to the major, grabbed the man’s shoulder, pulled him up. “Where is General Bayerlein?”

  “They bombed the bridge, sir!”

  “Yes, Major, I know they bombed the bridge. Where is General Bayerlein?”

  “He is with the division, sir. He has established a command post near Aunay! This is terrible, sir! A catastrophe!”

  “It’s a bridge, Major. The enemy has been bombing every damned bridge in France.”

  “No, sir, I mean—the division!”

  Rommel realized now. This is not right; Bayerlein should be here. If he is not…?

  “Get control of yourself, Major! What has happened?”

  The man released his grip on the car, closed his eyes for a brief second, then said, “General Bayerlein sent me to find you, sir. The general offers his deepest apologies for not meeting with you at the appointed time. I have been instructed to tell you that the Panzer Lehr Division has taken very heavy casualties and very serious losses in tanks and vehicles. The enemy has located our advance, and their aircraft are striking us at every opportunity. I have not witnessed this myself, sir; I was in the rear of the column. I have not seen anything like this. The bridge just…exploded…right in front of me.”

  Rommel felt a burn rising in his brain. The man is a child, and Bayerlein makes him a staff officer.

  “Shut up, Major. So, now you have seen bombs drop. You will see a great many more, I assure you. Is the Panzer Lehr Division advancing in daylight?”

  “General Bayerlein was most angry about that, sir. General Dollmann ordered the division to advance as quickly as possible, and when General Bayerlein objected, General Dollmann repeated the order and said that the instructions had come directly from Marshal von Rundstedt. The division was to move forward with all speed, no matter day or night. General Bayerlein was quite upset, sir, but he obeyed the order.”

  “Yes, and the enemy has bombed him to hell!”

  Rommel made a fist, pounded hard on the major’s staff car, felt the wave of anger rolling through him. Von Rundstedt. That stupid old man.

  “Do you see this bridge, Major?”

  “Yes, sir. It is a tragedy, sir.”

  “No, Major, it is war. It is the good tactics of our enemy. We cannot protect the bridges, and so they are targets, easy targets. But our tanks are the power of this army, and they are not to be easy targets! Do you understand that?”

  “Yes, sir. General Bayerlein was most upset. We have taken heavy losses, sir.”

  “I will hear about losses later. Right now, you are to return to General Bayerlein and instruct him that if he moves his division during daylight hours, I shall put him in front of my personal firing squad. You tell him that if General Dollmann or Field Marshal von Rundstedt has a problem with my order, they may telephone me or summon me themselves. I shall happily explain to them why the enemy enjoys having the sun shine on a column of our tanks!”

  He did not wait for a response, spun away, the door to his car held open by Sergeant Daniel.

  Behind him, the major called out, “Um…sir? How do I get back across the river?”

  HEADQUARTERS, PANZER GROUP WEST, LE CAINE

  JUNE 10, 1944

  “You are quite right, of course, Erwin. We must confine our movements to the nighttime. The loss of travel time will, however, cause us considerable disadvantage in moving our people into their necessary position. I hope you realize the cost of that.”

  Rommel held the phone away from his ear, stared at it. He put a hard clamp on his anger, formed the words.

  “Sir, there is a far greater cost if our tanks are obliterated before they can reach their necessary positions. Or is that not a concern?”

  Sarcasm never seemed to reach von Rundstedt, and he seemed not to hear it now. The old man’s voice came through the receiver again.

  “You should leave the matter of transportation to the division commanders. I must implore you to keep your focus on the larger picture. Despite the enemy’s continuing bombing campaign in the Calais sector, the Führer has concluded that the enemy invasion is confined to Normandy alone, that region occupied by your Seventh Army. General Jodl was most explicit on this point. Regardless of our beloved Führer’s instincts, however, he does not wish you to withdraw the Fifteenth Army from their present position at Calais. Do you understand, Erwin? According to Herr Jodl, your duty is to destroy the enemy by driving him back to his beaches, and you will do so with the forces now available to you. General Witt is advancing the Twelfth SS Panzer closer to Caen, and despite their losses, Panzer Lehr is at your disposal as well. My reports tell me that the front is holding and the enemy is weakening. There is no need for any of your…how do I say this?” Von Rundstedt paused. “On this I must agree with the High Command. There is concern that you will claim defeat when none is to be found. I have advised General Jodl that we should withdraw our forces away from the coast, in order to establish a powerful defense behind the Orne River. Of course, the Little Corporal did not agree. According to Jodl, his exact words were, Every man shall fight or die where he stands. I believe there is little room for interpretation in those instructions, wouldn’t you say?”

  Rommel’s hand was tight around the receiver, sweat in his clothes, and he fought through the empty helplessness, searched his brain for a response. Von Rundstedt’s voice rattled again in his ear.

  “Are you there, Field Marshal?”

  Rommel pushed out the words. “Yes. I heard you. General Jodl believes that the Normandy landing is the enemy’s sole plan of attack, and yet I am to leave the entire Fifteenth Army at Calais in the event that he is wrong? The enemy is only coming on one front, but I am to prepare for another front, a front on which we do not believe he will attack?”

  “I am following orders here, Erwin. You shall do the same. I will hang up now. There are duties here that require my attention.” Von Rundstedt paused again, and Rommel heard the sarcasm in his words. “Heil Hitler.”

  The phone line went dead. Rommel dropped the receiver on the table in front of him, a sharp tumble that startled Geyr’s aides. Across from him, Geyr was watching him from behind a desk, cautious, curious. Rommel sat down on a small wood chair, feeling the usual weariness. He had endured too many explosions inside, the utter frustration of fighting a war with half his weapons.

  “I assume that we are to continue with our current strategy, the armor advancing northward and then maintaining our position,” Geyr said.

  “Of course we are. Even von Rundstedt knows that’s a bad idea. But never mind. He’s busy pruning his rose garden.”

  Geyr turned toward the large map, and Rommel thought, Yes, look at your map. Make a good show of it. Pretend to plan something new. There is nothing new, General. We are fighting the inevitable.

  Rommel stood slowly, and Geyr turned to him, “I had hoped our petroleum situation would have improved. It is difficult to resupply and refuel my tanks. We are rationing our ammunition, as well. The railroads—”

  “The railroads are useless, and the roads are impossible except at night—yes, yes, I know all of that. It seems that finally that old man in Paris has learned this as well. So tell me, General, even if I could move a convoy of trucks, how do I send you gasoline when the supply officers in Paris won’t even acknowledge my requests? Von Rundstedt tells me we have plenty of supplies, because he studies great rows of numbers scribbled on sheets of paper. It is those same pieces of paper that tell the High Command how powerful our fighting divisions are. It is so much fiction, General. But I will tell you what is not fiction. Right now, the enemy is continuing to strengthen, reinforcing on his beaches. He possesses an infinite ability to strengthen himself, and we cannot even summon our valiant Luftwaffe to protect a gasoline truck!”

  Rommel paused, the
n said, “Reichsmarschall Göring cannot be bothered to respond to my requests himself, so he sends his minions to assure us that all will be well and our vaunted air force will soon sweep the enemy from the skies. In the meantime, he insists that we conserve our ground forces. Conserve! And you—I have seen the same tendency in this command, Herr Geyr. Too much conserving, and not enough attacking! If the armor had been at my disposal, I would have destroyed the enemy on the beaches. Now, when the tanks are finally brought forward, we are cautious; we do not wish to commit our greatest strength to the fight!”

  He was breathing heavily, the fury tearing through him; he put his hand on the table and steadied himself. Geyr did not argue—surprising—and turned again toward the map. Good, he thought. Geyr is afraid of me. I should just kill him and make this simpler.

  After a moment, Geyr said, “Sir, I have done all I can to prevent the enemy from damaging our armored strength with his naval guns. We never could have hoped to hold on to the beaches. They should never have been regarded as anything more that outposts, observation points! The armor requires fields of maneuver and cannot be used to prick the enemy like a handful of sewing needles. I have tried to explain this to von Rundstedt, and I have tried to explain this to you. We cannot fight a decisive battle on this ground. The conditions here are absurd: We are either in this obscene bocage country or hemmed in by small villages at every turn. We must choose the terrain that is best suited for our tanks! When the enemy comes, we will respond to him the way our armor has responded before, a hard strike in force on a narrow front. Yes, I am conserving our armor, because if we do not, if we continue to strike the enemy in small-scale assaults, we will accomplish nothing at all.”