The Steel Wave

by Jeff Shaara

  But the fight had swayed back and forth, momentum shifting as more troops arrived to bolster Rommel’s lines, some units moving up from southern France, others, amazingly, shifted westward from the Russian front. Despite Hitler’s insistence that von Rundstedt oversee hard-nosed offensive strikes against the invaders, Rommel knew his best chances now lay in the bolstering of a stout defensive position, a position strengthened by the arrival of additional panzer divisions. He also understood that the British in particular were suffering from serious exhaustion in the field. As Rommel predicted, Montgomery was taking his time, regrouping and organizing; true to form, Montgomery’s attacks began to bog down as the Allied troops on the eastern end of the front discovered not only a strengthening in German resistance but their own limitations as well. This had been no surprise to Rommel. His experience in North Africa had been a constant reminder that the terrain of Normandy was far more suited to a defensive fight and that exhaustion and the chaos of battle would affect both sides. The army with the heavier concentration of defense would be the army capable of inflicting greater damage. Though Montgomery would be cautious, he was still the aggressor.

  With the British advances seeming to unravel, Rommel’s defenses around Caen were holding steady, despite the additional strength the Allies were still bringing across their beaches. Rommel knew Montgomery would attempt various flank attacks and pincer movements at Caen, a pattern familiar to Rommel from his past confrontations with British forces in North Africa. As had happened in Libya, the British seemed unable to sustain a prolonged massed attack. Since much of their armor was coming forward in smaller packets, the Germans so far had been able to blunt their every thrust. But the British were giving as good as they received, and Rommel knew he could not afford a war of attrition. Montgomery was adding to his strength daily from a seemingly bottomless well of resources. Despite the trickle of reinforcements that slowly made their way into Rommel’s lines, the ongoing pounding from long-range naval artillery and the daily ravaging from Allied fighters and bombers had produced a crisis in the German lines that Rommel could not counter. His divisions were being eaten away.

  To the west, the Americans had continued their push inland from their beaches, and Rommel knew he did not have the strength to bolster those lines as stoutly as the defenses anchored in front of the British. It was a decision he had made on his own, a risky move in the face of Hitler’s intransigence. But then, Hitler had seemed to accept that the American intention to drive across the Cotentin Peninsula was an inevitability, one part of an obvious campaign to cut off and then capture the port of Cherbourg. Even Hitler seemed to accept that Rommel’s army was not strong enough to stand tall in both sectors.

  The priority for now had to be Caen. As long as the Germans held that city, it provided Rommel with an open door to move the enormous power of his Fifteenth Army down from the Calais sector, where they had remained since the invasion, idly guarding the beaches there against a second invasion, which even Rommel believed was still a possibility. Though the High Command seemed reasonably confident in their shaky conclusion that the Normandy invasion was in fact all the Allies intended, there were still doubts. An invasion at Calais had always made the most sense, the closest point where Allied troops could launch a direct strike into Germany’s industrial heartland, the critical Ruhr Valley.

  So, as Rommel’s desperate fights continued in Normandy, two hundred thousand men of the Fifteenth Army posted at Calais watched over silent beaches. Rommel knew that as long as Montgomery was held in check in front of Caen, an opportunity existed. If Hitler could understand that, the order might still come to shift the Fifteenth Army for what could become a massive flank attack on the British left, which might swallow Montgomery up completely. But no one in Hitler’s headquarters seemed willing to consider that as a reasonable strategy. Even von Rundstedt seemed to grasp the possibilities of turning the Fifteenth Army loose at Normandy, but the old man had shown no interest in aggressively challenging Hitler or his armchair generals.

  Now, with Hitler agreeing to meet with both of them, Rommel realized this might be his best chance to convince the Führer that there might still be a way to salvage some kind of success. If Hitler would agree to a withdrawal to a stronger defensive line, a war of attrition might begin to favor the Germans. No matter how much strength the Allies could bring across their beaches, a fully entrenched stalemate might convince them to offer some kind of agreement for peace. Rommel knew it was most likely a fantasy, but with so much destruction rolling over both sides, it was a fantasy he had to embrace.

  The meeting place was a fortified underground bunker an hour northeast of Paris, which had been constructed to serve as Hitler’s forward command center for his invasion of England. But those plans had dissolved four years earlier, the results of jumbled uncertainty and maddening doubts among the High Command. Now the bunker sat unused, a hulking monument to indecisiveness. Rommel had repeatedly invited Hitler to come directly to his headquarters at La Roche-Guyon, but Rommel would offer no protest about the drive to Soissons. With so much now at stake, he would take whatever crumbs the High Command was offering.

  MARGIVAL, NEAR SOISSONS

  JUNE 17, 1944

  Hitler sat in the center of the room peering over a map table, and Rommel was shocked by the man’s appearance. His face was drawn, pale and sickly, his hands shaking, his shoulders slumped forward in frail weakness. In his hand, Hitler grasped a strange mix of colored pencils, as though prepared to make his marks on the map, but instead, he fingered them with noisy clicks and only stared at the map in front of him.

  “You have allowed the enemy to whip you like so many little boys. I have been told that our troops were caught in their underwear, sleeping on the beaches, enjoying an idle holiday when the enemy arrived.”

  Rommel looked at von Rundstedt but saw no energy for protest against Hitler’s absurdity. Rommel had heard that report from the BBC as well, nothing more than rabble-rousing propaganda for the benefit of British civilians.

  “My Führer, that is not true. It is not true at all. We inflicted costly blows against the enemy landing forces. But we were not equipped to drive him away. Despite all my urgings, we had neither naval nor air support, and we did not have the time to complete the construction that was under way. Nor were sufficient materials provided to my command, the materials I had urgently requested.”

  Hitler did not look at him but stared at the map still, seemed to struggle to focus, his eyes blinking rapidly. “You always have excuses.”

  Rommel looked toward von Rundstedt and shook his head, a silent request for help.

  “Herr Rommel is correct,” the old man said. “The fighting spirit of our troops has never been higher, but we are facing an enemy who brings far more to the fight than we can offer him.”

  Rommel waited for more, but von Rundstedt seemed content to offer a small show of support for Rommel’s report and little else. Rommel looked beyond Hitler, at Jodl, but the man’s face showed perfect mimicry of Hitler’s dissatisfaction. Rommel looked around the room: Speidel in one corner, no emotion on his face, others wary; no one offering anything at all. He moved a step closer to the map, trying to see where Hitler’s focus might be, something specific he could address. But Hitler seemed to be staring at nothing at all. The only sound in the room was the pencils clicking together in his hand.

  Rommel waded through the silence. He leaned closer to the map, could smell something in Hitler’s breath, sour and medicinal.

  “My Führer, the enemy has total dominance of the air and the sea. In those areas…here…where we are still within range of his battleships, our troops are absorbing hellish losses. The armor…The Twenty-first Panzer is down to half strength. Panzer Lehr and the Twelfth SS Panzer have lost a third of their manpower and armor. The Hundred-and-first Panzer have lost half their strength from air attacks alone! If we remain where we are now, the enemy will continue to engage us in a war of attrition. Mutual destruction damages us f
ar more than it damages him. I propose—”

  “You will not propose anything right now. We will have lunch and take a fresh look at the maps. I cannot concentrate. There is too much gloom in this place.”

  Hitler stood, the others stiffening, and Rommel could only watch as Hitler waved them toward the door.

  “Go! My chef has prepared something, I am certain of it.”

  Rommel waited for more, some sign that Hitler intended to speak to him privately. But Hitler ignored him and stared at the map, rocking on his heels, his hands clasped behind his back, the pencils still clicking. He had not paid any attention to von Rundstedt at all.

  “Come, lunch awaits,” von Rundstedt said. “We shall resume this afterward.”

  Hitler turned abruptly and marched out of the room. Rommel waited still for some kind of instruction, some hint that this meeting might have actual meaning.

  Von Rundstedt moved closer to him. “Lunch,” he replied.

  They moved through thick wet walls, stale air, and climbed a short flight of steps. The mess was brighter, a hint of warmth, but there was no sun, the room lit by a row of lightbulbs. On all sides they were held in by thick wet concrete; Rommel saw guards manning machine guns along a parapet high up on three sides of them. The table had been set, servants scurrying quickly, under the deadly gaze of a colonel, a particularly fierce-looking man Rommel knew as Stürtz.

  Hitler sat himself quickly, the others tentative, the usual custom. No one would presume to sit at Hitler’s right hand, the chair often left vacant. Several chairs away from Hitler, Rommel watched the routine he had seen before. Hitler’s plate appeared, a mix of overcooked vegetables, surrounded by a dozen pills of various shapes and colors and, alongside the plate, four small sherry glasses, each one filled with various shades of dark liquid. Rommel thought of the pungent odor of Hitler’s breath and rolled the word around in his mind: medicine. Alongside the plates of the others, wineglasses sat empty, ashtrays conspicuously absent. It was another custom. Hitler allowed no one to smoke in the presence of his food, and no officer would dare to risk any sign of alcohol impairment.

  A man stepped forward, familiar to Rommel: Hitler’s doctor. The man leaned low beside Hitler, a fork in his hand, scooped a piece of something yellow from Hitler’s plate, and tasted it. He seemed to enjoy the ritual. He made a pronounced swallow and then stood back, keeping a mothering stare on Hitler’s back. Hitler ignored him, but Jodl and the other members of Hitler’s staff watched the man, as though expecting some horrible result. Rommel couldn’t help glancing at Speidel, saw his own chief of staff looking purposefully at the empty plate in front of him, avoiding the doctor altogether. Rommel felt uneasy now, thought, What do you know, Hans? He looked again at the doctor, who kept his pose.

  Hitler seemed to know how long to wait, then leaned over close to his plate and scooped up a handful of food with his right hand. He kept his face close to the plate, stuffed the food into his mouth in audible slurps, and then repeated the motion. Around the room, food appeared, plates of meat and more vegetables set on the table, Hitler’s staff officers helping themselves with as much silence as they could muster. Rommel did the same, stabbed a piece of dark brown beef, dropped it on his plate, then studied a bowl of what seemed to be peas, a dull green mass of paste. Settle for the beef, he thought. Hitler sat upright, looked at the others, motioned with his left hand, said something in a full-mouthed mumble. He leaned low again, his right hand scooping more of the mushy food into his mouth. It was the signal the others seemed to wait for, and they began to eat as well. Rommel pushed the piece of meat around the plate and felt a wave of sickness at the hopelessness of the exercise. This is the man our army is dying for.

  “My Führer,” Rommel said, “if you will allow me to add to what I said earlier—”

  Hitler glared at him, food on his chin, and shook his head. “Enjoy your meal, Field Marshal.” Hitler sat up now, ignored the napkin, his spirits suddenly changing, a broad smile. “Have you heard about our new weapons? It is a glorious triumph for us. We shall destroy any will to fight that the English still possess.”

  “Yes, we have heard,” von Rundstedt said. “The launchers are in our command sector.”

  “Ah, yes, of course. It is our greatest achievement of the war! Launch a bomb into the sky, and the enemy has no way to stop it, no way to know where it will come down. Total surprise! Devastating! It is truly a wonder. It is our scientists who will win this war. I have no doubt of that.”

  Rommel watched von Rundstedt eating his meal, the old man not commenting at all now. Fine. Someone has to say something.

  “My Führer, would it not be of some benefit to direct such weapons onto the enemy troops? It could be a most effective way to damage their supply system, their support. The shock value could be very effective in turning his morale to our favor.”

  Hitler sat back from the table. “Are you familiar with General Heinemann of the Artillery Command? He has earned our respect for his study of the best use of the V-1. General Heinemann says that because the V-1 has a random target radius of fifteen kilometers, we cannot choose a precise target. Launching this weapon toward enemy troops would offer no guarantee that any targets would be hit, and there is a danger they could harm our own people. However, when launched against a large city, such randomness is the perfect advantage. There will most certainly be targets hit! That is the genius of it!”

  “But why target civilians? We attempted to do that once before, and it did not drive the British out of the war.”

  Rommel stopped, saw an open mouth on Jodl, knew he had trodden dangerously. But Hitler seemed unaffected and strangely cheerful still.

  “Do not concern me with such musings. Your responsibility is the battlefield. The V-1 is a masterful weapon that is perfect for destroying the will of a people to support their army. I should thoroughly enjoy observing Herr Churchill’s face as the bombs fly over his head. The uncertainty, the fear. That is how wars are won!”

  The doctor leaned close and said something in Hitler’s ear, and Hitler reached for one of the small glasses and drank one of the concoctions, his face twisting in response.

  “I am not certain we can prevent the enemy from cutting the Cotentin Peninsula,” Rommel said. “Perhaps the V-1 could be used to hold back his push in that sector. Precision is not as critical in that kind of tactic.”

  Hitler shook his head. “The peninsula itself is not my concern. Our priority is Cherbourg. We shall pick the best man possible for the job and place him in that city with instructions for the garrison there to hold to the last. It is already a fortress, Field Marshal, a mighty wall against which the enemy shall bash out his brains. If we deny him Cherbourg, he will have no way to support his army in the field. We shall starve him. All we require is that Cherbourg remain in our hands for another month or two.”

  “My Führer, the enemy is resupplying himself now, on the very beaches where he made his landings. Perhaps I can convince you to come to the front with me, to make an inspection yourself. The morale of the men would be enormously bolstered by your presence. Marshal von Rundstedt and I assure your safety, and you can see for yourself the conditions our men must confront and what the enemy is bringing to this fight.”

  Hitler seemed amused by the suggestion and glanced at Jodl, who smiled in turn. Then he looked at Rommel again.

  “I am well aware of conditions in your front. Be clear about this. I know your concerns about the enemy’s air superiority. I promise you, Field Marshal, we will soon have available many times more aircraft than we have had before. Our factories are concentrating precisely on those tools that you require. There has been increased production of Tiger tanks and long-range artillery pieces. In a few short weeks, these weapons will begin to arrive in your sector. The navy is now engaged in a plan to greatly expand our minefields off the French coastline, with special attention to the port at Cherbourg. We will soon begin a significant operation to drive away or destroy those battleships whic
h concern you so. I assure you that such things will greatly bolster the army’s morale. I also assure you that once the might of our scientists and our factories is put into line against the starving enemy, you and I will have no further need of these discussions.”

  MARGIVAL, NEAR SOISSONS

  JUNE 18, 1944

  It had come well before dawn, a thunderous blast that could only be a bomb. The impact had shaken the bunker itself, and Rommel had sat up in his bed, staring into darkness, waiting for more. But there had only been the single blast, and very soon guards had come, Hitler’s staff officers spreading the word, no cause for alarm, no one injured. Then the explanation reached the bunker, furious apologies pouring in from launch sites to the west. It had been an accident, an errant V-1 whose gyroscope had likely been faulty. As Rommel dressed, a guard had come to him with an unsealed note from Hitler. The note had been brief, to the point, and entirely expected.

  You will hold fast to every square meter of soil.

  But for now there would be no more meetings about the matter, no more of the discussions that so annoyed the Führer. The guard relayed word that Hitler had gone, well before dawn, shortly after the bomb had exploded.

  Rommel had waited for daylight, and after a brief farewell to von Rundstedt, had boarded his own car with Speidel, for the trip back to La Roche-Guyon. As his car bounced slowly past blasted bridges and pockmarked countryside, Rommel absorbed the obvious: The stray V-1 had done what his own generals would not dare to do, awakened Hitler from his drugged sleep. But Rommel knew as well that the timing of the Führer’s departure was not coincidence. As his car finally rolled into the grounds of his palatial headquarters, Rommel understood with perfect clarity that the Führer had no stomach for the sounds of war. He would never choose to visit the front, would never see the condition of his withering army, would never bother to gaze upon the fantasy of his mighty Atlantic Wall.