by Jeff Shaara
Rommel’s recovery relied partly on exercise, and for days now Manfred had accompanied him on frequent walks, winding paths near the house, through the woods that Rommel loved. But word had come, from friends and from visiting officers still loyal to him. The Gestapo was watching him and had established an unnerving presence in the small town, men in black uniforms who seemed to enjoy frightening the local prefect. Their presence had clear meaning to Rommel. As the walks with his son continued, Rommel armed them both with pistols. If the Gestapo or anyone else sought to eliminate him with a clumsy assassination attempt, there would at least be a fight.
“How are you, Hans?”
Speidel bowed slightly. “I have been removed as chief of staff of Army Group B.”
Rommel sipped from the cup and held it close to his face, the steam from the tea dampening the eye patch, soothing the rough dryness. “I heard.”
“They did it with some decorum, as though there will be some post for me in the future. I should be honored not to have been dragged away in chains. I don’t know who they intend to replace me with a job that is, I suppose, impossible.”
“The job is a fantasy. What remains of Army Group B? How much staff were you chief of?”
Speidel looked toward a chair, a request to sit, and Rommel pointed. “My apologies. Rest yourself. We need not have any formality between us. Not any longer.”
“So you do not expect to return to service?”
Rommel glanced down at his clothes, no hint of a uniform. “Service to what? Sorry, that is an inappropriate question. If my Führer summoned me to command, I would go.”
“I am certain, sir, that my service has concluded.”
Speidel seemed nervous, his hands fidgeting in front of him, one hand now up on his wire-rimmed glasses, a needless adjustment. Rommel felt the man’s fear and searched for reassuring words.
“They have not yet arrested you. Surely if they intended that, it would have happened.”
“It is coming very soon. I have been informed, discreetly. My time is short.”
“Nonsense. You have friends, loyal friends. Loyal to the Führer. Even if they do arrest you, I will do what I can to speak out for you. As far as I know, even I have some friends remaining.”
It was a weak attempt at humor, and Speidel did not smile. After a brief silence, Speidel said, “I have been reading Mein Kampf. Rereading it, of course. I thought if I grew more familiar with the Führer’s ideals, it would be useful.”
“It has been a while since I read it. Any revelations?”
Speidel nodded slowly. “Yes, actually. Not what I expected, though. He talks about the rights of officers. He claims that if any professional soldier believes he has been given an outrageous order, he has the right to rebel, to speak out, to act against it. It is the duty of a soldier to fight for the good of his fatherland, not merely the wishes of his superiors. I hadn’t recalled reading that before.”
“It wasn’t relevant before.”
“But it is relevant now!”
Speidel’s voice had grown louder, and he was self-conscious, seeming to shrink slightly.
“No, I’m afraid you are wrong, Hans. There is only one relevance, and it need not appeal to you or to me. This is not a world in which a soldier has any importance. We are merely the pieces of a broken machine, broken ourselves.”
“Sir, will you try again? Can you talk to Hitler, offer him some reasoning, some clarity? The war in the west is all but lost. We are in full retreat, and only by the grace of God does our army still have the means to fight. But there can be no victory! You must try to convince the Führer that some kind of entreaty must be made to the Americans.”
“No. There is no longer any point. The High Command has insulated itself from any reality because that is what Hitler requires of them.”
Speidel rubbed his hands together again, stared at the floor. “How different things would be if they had killed him.”
Rommel sat up, tried not to feel the throb of pain in his head. “Different? How? I can tell you, Hans. Hitler would now be a martyr to those who believed in him. Those who were the most loyal would fight to maintain power, and that would mean civil war. Hitler’s power was given to him by a fanatical belief that he would preserve us, eliminate the enemies of Germany who tried mightily to destroy us after the last war. He convinced us that he spoke only for the good of Germany, that he would bring a unique peace to the entire world, a world ruled by German ideals. Too many of us believed him, believed that was a good thing. Many believe it now! If Hitler is killed by our hands, those who believe in him will draw strength from his message, and that alone would inspire enough fanaticism to continue this war. Worse, they will wage war on anyone inside Germany who does not agree.
Rommel paused. “That was always the mistake, always the stupidity of the plan! All of you seemed to think that Hitler’s death would bring about some kind of peaceful breeze to Germany, as though all the hate and anger and brutality would simply vanish! I admit, for a time I believed that the British and the Americans would accept that we are not their enemy! I struggled with the idea that we should make direct contact with them, that I should commit treason by sending someone, you, perhaps, through our lines, to communicate to them that we were willing to end the war on their terms. For a while, I believed it would work, I truly did. But then I saw what was happening to our army. I saw what kind of effort they were making to kill us. And not just our Führer but all of us! The bombers do not target the Führer, they target German cities! I thought we could ask them to join with us, to save Germany by helping us stand up to the Russians. A fool’s dream.”
He paused again, rubbed a hand softly on the patch on his eye.
“There will be no peace without unconditional surrender. It is not merely Hitler who wages this war, it is the German army. We pledged an oath to him and we fought for him, and whether he dies tomorrow or lives for fifty years, we must accept that the defeat belongs to us. This is our responsibility, Hans! Ours!”
Rommel stopped, felt drained of energy, saw Manfred standing at the door.
“Come in here, son. Sit down.”
The boy obeyed, a short respectful nod toward Speidel.
“Manfred, do you remember what I told you about obedience?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What I told him, Hans, was that if he intends to be a soldier, he must learn not to question. I told him that one day he will receive an order he does not understand or does not agree with. He has no choice but to obey that order unconditionally.” He looked at Manfred. “Now I am telling him that such obedience has destroyed us. He does not yet believe me, but he will.”
Speidel looked toward the boy, who stayed silent. “Your father is correct. Each of us must pay a price for our obedience.” He looked again at Rommel, stood slowly. “I will pay my own very soon, I fear.” Speidel snapped his heels together, raised a salute. “I am honored to have been in your service, Field Marshal.”
Rommel did not want Speidel to leave, but there was nothing else he could say, no words of comfort. He felt a knot rising in his throat and pushed himself up from the chair, Manfred surging forward to help, grabbing his arm, lifting. Rommel stepped closer to Speidel, ignored the salute, held out a hand. Speidel glanced down, seemed to fight for control, took the hand, and Rommel felt the firmness, the man’s resolve.
“There is no justice, sir,” Speidel said.
“Oh, yes, there is, Hans. In the end, there will be justice for all of us.”
Speidel was arrested the next day. Rommel went to work immediately on his behalf, producing a lengthy letter to Hitler, imploring him to remember Speidel’s efficient and loyal service, to the army and to the Führer himself. But no word came from Berlin, no response at all. Rommel had no idea where Speidel was or if anything had yet happened to him.
HERRLINGEN, SOUTHERN GERMANY
OCTOBER 14, 1944
Rommel sat alone in his study, glanced up at the clock—nearly noon�
��knew that Lucie would have some sort of lunch put out soon, to accommodate their guest. Captain Hermann Aldinger was one of Rommel’s most long-standing aides, a friend as well as a subordinate, who had served with Rommel as far back as the First World War. Rommel welcomed Aldinger as he had welcomed the steady parade of well-wishers and former comrades-in-arms, but the visits from friends had grown less frequent, word continuing to spread that the house and Rommel himself were under the watchful eye of the Gestapo. Rommel felt restless. He picked up a paper on his desk, read it—his eyesight had improved—and thought, My friends have jumped this ship like so many rats. But do I blame them? What future is there for anyone who lingers around here? He focused on the paper, scanned the small sketch of a map, studied for a long moment. If this is accurate, he thought, it seems there is some hope. A delay in the inevitable, I suppose.
Rommel continued to receive reports from the battlefronts, passed along by former staff officers and loyal subordinates. He had been surprised that despite the chaotic annihilation of so much of his army, some organization was returning, the defenses that kept the enemy out of Germany still holding. It was logical to a soldier that no army, no matter their success, could maintain the kind of aggressive push the Allies had thrown against the Germans. Even victorious men must have rest, he thought, and so there will be delays. They must rejuvenate and bring in replacements and supplies. We must make good use of that small favor. It might be all we have. He glanced again at the map, names of units and commanders, good men, some of them, men who will still fight. And someone will step forward to lead them. But it will not be me.
He tossed the map aside and glanced at a lone paper, sitting separately on the corner of his desk. It had come on October 8, a note from General Keitel, a summons for Rommel to travel to Berlin. The request had been formal but not hostile; arrangements made for a private train to carry him, as though protecting him from the crowds. The thought echoed through him now, as it had on that day. How utterly stupid do they think I am? Is this someone’s idea of a well-conceived plot? He had already heard hints from several friends closer to Hitler, word slipping out that Rommel was a marked man. Hitler himself had lost faith that Rommel could ever be trusted again. Rommel knew there was no direct connection tying him to the plot to kill Hitler, because no such connection existed. But the Gestapo relied less on facts than on their own paranoia, and he knew they were continuing to gather up anyone who had demonstrated any vague animosity toward Hitler. That would certainly include me, he thought. You do not have to be an inept conspirator to understand why Hitler cannot win this war, and I have been too honest about that. So now they will remove me. A train, no less. So what would they do? Would there be a bomb on the tracks, something the High Command could trumpet loudly was the outrageous act of some underground agent? Perhaps some itinerant madman will jump aboard and shoot me in his deranged lunacy. He would then shoot himself, of course, the neatest way to solve the problem of any witness. It would be a terrible accident of fate, so the headlines would say, inspiring sorrow from every corner of the Reich. The Führer could then wring his hands publicly and declare that, all over Germany, the insane in the hospitals must be executed as reprisal for the tragic death of the great hero, the Desert Fox. Why should he exclude them, after all? Has he not already executed anyone whose culture he found repulsive?
He sat back, blinked the injured eye inside the patch, and squeezed it shut for a long painful moment. Perhaps the train would be safe, and they will wait until I reach Berlin. A trial perhaps, some general reading aloud carefully edited excerpts from my letters to Hitler, all my traitorous pessimism. No, they will risk none of that, no public show, no chance for me to speak out, to tell my own truth. It could prove embarrassing. Instead, they will do it…here.
When the letter arrived, he had phoned Keitel, who had been far too busy to take the call, consumed of course by the business of the High Command. Rommel had been tossed off to Wilhelm Burgdorf, an old acquaintance from before the war, a man who knew very well why Rommel had called and why Keitel would not speak to him. Rommel had been careful but direct to Burgdorf. There would be no visit to Berlin, no need for some special train. He was, after all, still recovering from severe wounds and he was not yet fit to travel. Burgdorf had been compassionate and understanding, but then, five days later, word came to Rommel’s home. Burgdorf would travel instead to see him.
He heard footsteps above him, thought of Lucie, padding around on the second floor, nervous, fiddling with laundry or bed linens. Manfred was there as well, home again after a brief return to his antiaircraft battery. Rommel heard a car outside, gravel and tires, and felt a rumble in his gut, the tight knot he had felt so many times before. Burgdorf. Damn you.
The conversation had a solemn air, nothing openly hostile, Burgdorf reading an order from Keitel, emphasizing Keitel’s assurance that it came directly from Hitler. Rommel didn’t need that assurance. He knew Keitel had never made an independent decision. If Rommel was to be eliminated, Keitel would merely be the messenger.
Burgdorf was accompanied by another general, Ernst Maisel, a skinny ferret of a man whom Rommel barely knew. As they spoke, Maisel stood silently to one side, and Rommel knew he was there more to witness the conversation, and perhaps to protect Burgdorf, the pistol on his belt conspicuous, the flap over the holster unfastened. Rommel could be dangerous, after all.
Burgdorf spoke to him in earnest tones, reminiscing about Rommel’s more glorious days, a useless rehashing of exploits that Rommel himself had no interest in recalling. But then, after long minutes of pointless conversation, Burgdorf got to the point. The papers emerged from a narrow briefcase, excerpts of testimony from the many secret trials of the conspirators in the assassination plot, some of the accused mentioning Rommel by name, as though he were certainly aware of the plan. After a half hour of emotionless accusations, there had been a final order, Burgdorf allowing Rommel time to speak to his family. Then, the two officers stepped outside, to wait in Rommel’s garden. He had been granted ten minutes.
He changed from the civilian clothes and buttoned up his jacket, the tan tunic that bore the insignia of the Afrika Korps. It was his favorite uniform. She sat on the bed and watched him, her hands wrapped together in her lap.
“How can they do this, Erwin?” The emotions were rising in her, redness in her eyes.
Rommel glanced at his uniform in the mirror. “They do this because they believe it is the right thing to do. They are doing their job. They have evidence that claims I am in conspiracy with people I have never met. They have volumes of ridiculous proof that I am a traitor to the Reich. It does not matter if it is false.”
“Well, tell them it is false!”
“I have told them, my sweet. There is no argument here, no room for debate. This is all some sort of ceremony, and they are both good officers. I had thought perhaps they would want to extort something from me, that Hitler would still believe me useful. I had hoped perhaps he would force me to make some sort of public speech, some valiant call to arms supporting the fantasy that this war can be won. That was…optimistic of me. I know now that my fate was decided before they left Berlin. They first offered to have me stand trial, to accept public humiliation.”
“Well, yes! Do that! What does it matter now?”
His own emotions were loosening, his voice rising. “It is a sham! I would never survive long enough to reach my own trial. If I accompany them away from here, I promise you, my assassination has already been planned. They don’t dare give me a trial and will not risk having me speak out. And I would not risk it either. If I had dared to give them any kind of truth, anything they did not want to hear, it was very clear that there would be a price for you to pay. You and Manfred would become targets as well, enemies of the state. I will not have you suffer. There is nothing to be gained by truth. Not anymore.”
She began to cry now. “I cannot understand this. You are accepting death. What am I to do? How do I respond to that?”
“Father?”
Rommel turned, saw Manfred at the door, the boy staring at his mother with alarm. “What is it? Are they arresting you? I saw more cars outside…civilians.”
Rommel motioned for the boy to enter. “Yes, I know. They are Gestapo. Manfred, I must be brief. In one quarter hour, I will be dead.”
Lucie made a gasping sound, the tears flowing.
“No…that cannot be,” Manfred said. “Why?”
“It is done, Manfred. Those men have evidence that I am complicit in the plot to assassinate the Führer. It is all lies, confessions drawn from tortured men, but they must have their prizes. I am…regrettably…a prize. I have been granted assurances, that by doing this now, my family will not be harmed or disgraced.”
