Death or Glory I: The Last Commando: The Last Commando

by Michael Asher

  Klopper had signed the surrender document in front of the assembled Axis staff without a quibble, but instead of treating him with the dignity due to a defeated warrior, Rommel had lost his rag and sworn at him like a fishmonger. His staff had been shocked at this breach of his own protocol – Rommel was renowned for his rigid views on proper military conduct. Even Mellenthin's quip to the South African general, in English, that he had ‘come a klopper this time’ hadn't broken the tension.

  Rommel frowned as he replayed the meeting in his head. What had queered the pitch was Klopper's request for water for his thirty-two thousand prisoners, and for fresh clothing and boots for those whose uniforms had been ruined while dumping their own petrol stocks. ‘Water?’ Rommel had bellowed at the astonished South African. ‘What am I, a magician? It was your troops who destroyed the water tanks, and wrecked the only sea-water distillation plant available, so as far as I am concerned they can drink their own piss. If their uniforms are ruined, let them go round bollock naked. You should have thought about that before you gave them orders to sabotage vital supplies.’

  Rommel had been a soldier most of his life, and knew that, in Klopper's place, he would have given precisely the same orders. What was really gnawing at him was the fact that while his men had captured nearly two thousand vehicles and five thousand tons of food, enemy petrol stocks had only amounted to two thousand tons. Unless he found more petrol soon, and without a secure water source behind him, he might not be able to continue his advance into Egypt. It was crucial to strike now, he thought, while Eighth Army was in total disarray.

  It was almost noon and the air was humid and muggy. Rommel was dressed formally in brown bush-jacket, khaki jodhpurs and high cavalry boots, his peaked service cap carrying the sand-goggles he'd looted a year earlier from a British general. He felt envious of Captain Kiel, chief of his Battle Staff, and his men, dressed freely in boots and shorts. He watched them go about their duties in the ruined yard, enjoying the smells of hot oil and canvas, the familiar purposeful bustle that had become his way of life – driver-mechanics repairing punctures and going about the routine servicing of command vehicles, aides setting up awnings and work-stations, men of his personal signals detachment erecting aerials, running out cables, adjusting wireless sets, his bodyguard taking up arcs of fire around the perimeter with the precision of long practice. Back before the Great War – before most of these boys had been born – Rommel had served as both a private and a sergeant in the infantry. He still preferred the company of his men to that of the top-brass stuffed shirts and the Prussian aristocracy.

  He turned and marched into the half-derelict building, grateful for the respite from the mid-day sun. Inside, he found Berndt and Schmidt tacking up maps and arranging camp-chairs around a trestle table for the forthcoming meeting, while Günther brewed coffee on a solid-fuel stove. Rommel had just accepted a cup of coffee when Mellenthin marched in carrying a sheaf of message forms. He held them out to Rommel, who waved them away, focusing his attention on his coffee. ‘Just tell me,’ he said.

  Mellenthin smiled thinly. He was a bean-pole, stiff-moustached Prussian from an old military family who, like Rommel, had once served as a private soldier, though in a cavalry rather than an infantry regiment. As a direct descendant of Frederick the Great of Prussia, he belonged to precisely the group that Rommel disdained, but the GOC couldn't but appreciate his meticulous attention to detail, his ruthless efficiency, and his courage. Only a few days earlier, when his HQ had somehow found itself behind Allied lines, the IO had fought off an enemy attack single-handed with a sub-machine gun.

  ‘We have a confirmation on those captured documents, general,’ Mellenthin said. ‘One of our agents in Cairo verifies that Eighth Army has been ordered to take up a fall-back position at Mersa Matruh.’

  Rommel grunted: this was hardly a surprise. British generals always preferred defensive positions to mobility – it was the same rigidity of thinking that had led to their loss of the Gazala Line. The British were stubborn fighters, but they thought in terms of ‘Boxes’. They hadn't yet got the hang of fast-moving mechanical warfare – he'd been told that they even referred to their tanks as ‘horses’. They were good at grandiose plans but lacked the individual initiative and the ability to improvise that was the great strength of German troops.

  Rommel finished his coffee and put the cup down. ‘Ritchie is a dunderhead,’ he told Mellenthin. ‘He still hasn't learned that any defensive position on the coast, no matter how strong, can always be outflanked via the desert.’

  Mellenthin regarded him thoughtfully and stepped over to the theatre-map Berndt had just stuck on the wall. ‘That's generally true,’ he said, ‘but not further east… here… at Alamein. The open flank there is guarded by the Qattara Depression – all salt marsh and quicksands. If I were Auchinleck and I wanted to make a stand, that's where it would be.’

  ‘There won't be any stand,’ Rommel scoffed. ‘Eighth Army is finished.’

  Mellenthin's brow puckered. ‘I've got something here from No. 2 Company of the Brandenburg Regiment,’ he said. ‘It might be important or it might not. They have picked up a British courier from Allied HQ Egypt. She's being held at Biska, pending interrogation by the Abwehr.’

  ‘She?’ Rommel interjected, chortling. ‘The Auk must be hard up if he's using bints to run his errands now. Who is she?’

  ‘According to the message, she's a Royal Navy staff officer with the equivalent rank of major. Her aircraft crashed south of the Green Mountain three days ago. We had a tip-off from our source Stürmer, in Cairo, that her mission might be significant – to Winston Churchill in London, no less. Our “Y” Service people intercepted wireless chatter from her aircraft, and heard her codename – Runefish – being used. We were able to track the plane and shoot her down. The woman – Runefish – bailed out by parachute, and 2 Company have been looking for her ever since. Incidentally, it seems that a couple of their platoons may have run into enemy raiding units deep behind our lines. It's only conjecture, but it is possible that these units were sent to rescue Runefish.’

  Rommel glanced at his watch. ‘Can this wait?’ he asked. ‘“Smiling Albert” will be here any minute, and you can bet he's got more on his mind than offering me congratulations.’

  Mellenthin frowned again. Rommel had been in a curiously fractious mood all day, considering that he'd just achieved one of the more glittering successes of his life. The IO had been astonished at his treatment of Klopper, but he supposed that no matter how brilliant an officer was, a lower-class background would always out in the end. The capture of a female naval officer might be small fry, but there were aspects of this Runefish case that looked interesting – if those raiding units had been sent to pull her out, it suggested that what she was carrying was highly important.

  Mellenthin hated to drop things once the engines of his intellect were engaged. He took a deep breath and tried again. ‘Sir, Runefish destroyed the documents she was carrying before 2 Company found her, but they did manage to retrieve one line in code. That line has been decrypted by the Abwehr, and it suggests that her mission concerned the condition of the Eighth Army.’

  ‘If she destroyed the documents, she's not much use to us, is she?’ Rommel snapped. ‘That's what you get when you send Abwehr hounds to do a real soldier's job.’

  Mellenthin smiled sardonically, knowing Rommel's mistrust of the Abwehr and its chief, Admiral Canaris. He regarded the Brandenburgers as political troops like the Waffen SS, rather than real soldiers.

  ‘The intelligence isn't necessarily lost, sir,’ he said. ‘British standard operating procedure is to have the courier memorize the details as a back-up. They will probably have chosen this woman because of her retentive memory. It only requires a skilled interrogator…’

  ‘Let me know when you've got something more concrete,’ Rommel said. At that moment Lt Berndt came to attention with a click of the heels, rendering a ‘Heil Hitler’ salute. ‘Field Marshal Kesselring a
nd General Bastico, sir,’ he announced.

  Wheeling around towards the two staff officers now sweeping in through the main entrance, Rommel and Mellenthin delivered sharp Wehrmacht salutes. Though one of the newcomers was German and the other Italian, they wore almost identical khaki drill uniforms, with full chests of medal-ribbons. Albert Kesselring pumped Rommel's hand. ‘Well done, General, well done indeed,’ he roared, sporting the familiar toothy grin that had earned him the nickname ‘Smiling Albert’. ‘A magnificent show. Remarkable. Today, the eyes of all Germany are upon you.’

  Rommel took the compliments self-effacingly: as General Officer Commanding the Mediterranean theatre, Kesselring was technically his superior. A Bavarian like Rommel, he'd been a gunner in the Great War, and had only learned to fly an aircraft at the age of forty-eight. A brave pilot who'd been shot down no fewer than five times, and a superb administrator, he was also deep Luftwaffe, and Rommel regarded his knowledge of ground warfare as cursory.

  ‘A thousand congratulations, General,’ rumbled Ettore Bastico, a lopsided, bear-like Italian whose good-natured face was framed by a non-regulation beard. ‘Today will go down in history as the beginning of the end for the British in North Africa. The start of a new era.’

  ‘Let's hope so.’

  ‘Perhaps it's premature to tell you,’ Kesselring said playfully, removing his peaked service cap and drawing a hand across his balding skull, ‘but I'm sure you won't object. Our dear Führer has made you a special award: a field marshal's baton. Congratulations again – most well deserved. From tomorrow you won't have to salute me any more.’

  Rommel remained poker-faced. ‘The Führer is very generous,’ he said, ‘but with all due respect, I would rather have had an extra division.’

  Kesselring and Bastico laughed. It was the sort of remark expected of the ‘Desert Fox’, Mellenthin thought: one that would be remembered and repeated endlessly in canteens and messes throughout the Panzer Group. Rommel loved to play the bluff soldier, but the faintest reddening of his cheeks showed Mellenthin that he was thrilled. Not that his CO was inordinately vain, either: it was true that he often blamed others for his own mistakes, but it was also true that he had no inflated idea of himself. His vanity was there, but it was altogether of an ordinary, very human kind.

  A few minutes later, after Berndt had seated the three generals at the table and handed out cups of coffee, Kesselring leaned forward and said, ‘Now, gentlemen. With the fall of Tobruk behind us, the time has come to carry out the next step of the plan we agreed on at Obersalzberg in March – Op Herkules – the capture of Malta. The full-moon phase is almost upon us, so the assault must be carried out very soon. Our 1st Parachute Brigade and the Italian Folgore Airborne Division are already in training at Tarquinia and Apulia for the op, under the supervision of Bernhard Ramcke. We also have a sea-landing brigade and seventeen ships assigned to us.’

  He paused for breath and saw that Rommel had fixed him with a glassy stare.

  ‘Field Marshal,’ he said coolly. ‘When we discussed this plan with the Führer at Obersalzberg, you made it clear that the success of Herkules would require the deployment of all the Luftwaffe squadrons in this theatre. If that is still the case, may I ask where am I going to get the air support for my advance into Egypt?’

  Kesselring scratched his nose. ‘Obviously we don't have enough aircraft to support both the attack on Malta and an advance into Egypt. Your advance will have to wait until Herkules is completed. The Malta op is the more urgent, because as long as Allied air units and submarines are able to operate from Malta, none of our supply columns is safe. As it is, only one out of every four sea convoys to Tripoli is coming through intact…’ He paused, noticing that Rommel was tapping calloused fingers on the table-top, and that there was a dangerous gleam in his eye. ‘Therefore, General,’ Kesselring went on, looking straight at him, ‘your forces will proceed to the frontier, where you will await the outcome of the Malta operation. In August, you will be able to advance to the Nile with full air support.’

  ‘August?’ Rommel repeated, as if he hadn't heard right. ‘By that time the Allies will have set up a new front. Eighth Army will have been reinforced by God knows how many fresh divisions and new tanks.’ He shook his head gravely. ‘No, no, a thousand times no. We have to push across the frontier now in a lightning thrust. Eighth Army is shattered: it has fallen to pieces, lost its cohesion. We must overtake what's left of it and crush it before it can escape. To go for Malta instead would be the act of a fool.’

  Kesselring now bore little resemblance to the mythical ‘Smiling Albert’. ‘Be careful, General,’ he growled. ‘That strategy was agreed on in March, by the Duce, and by the Führer himself. I was there, you were there, and General Cavallero was there. If there are any fools involved, you are one of them, because I don't remember your making any objection at the time.’

  ‘Things have changed since March. War is fluid. Situations evolve.’

  Kesselring took a deep breath and leaned back in his chair. ‘General, your troops – both German and Italian – have fought hard, and they are tired. The DAK alone has lost almost four thousand men killed in action over the past weeks. The fact is that you are short of men, short of armour, short of transport, short of supplies. Wouldn't it be more reasonable to rest and refit? You would be in a far stronger position in a month's time.’

  ‘The enemy will be ten times stronger. No, Field Marshal, we must strike now, today. The Eighth Army is on the verge of collapse – the men have been so badly served by their top brass that I wouldn't be surprised to hear of mass desertion, even mutiny. The time is ripe. We must go in now, and we must go in fast.’

  ‘What makes you so certain that Eighth Army is finished?’ Bastico asked in a low voice. ‘Our intelligence suggests that even after Gazala, the Allies are still capable of mustering more men, more armour, more guns, and more supplies than we are. Do you have any proof to the contrary?’

  ‘My nose tells me so.’

  Bastico smirked. ‘With all due respect, General, your nose is not always your best advisor. In November last year you rejected our reports that the Allies were preparing an offensive, to such a degree that you were in Rome when they launched it. Even then, you refused to believe it until you saw it with your own eyes. I have great respect for you, General Rommel – you are a master of blitzkrieg and perhaps the only leader we have who truly understands mobile warfare, but this is not just about mobile warfare, it is also about logistics.’

  ‘About pen-pushers, you mean,’ Rommel snorted. ‘About your fat, indolent supply staffs in Rome who wouldn't know a day's work if it got up and punched them in the face. If those blighters did a decent job now and again, if they put in the same effort my troops in the field put in, then we'd have the supplies you continually promise me at Benghazi and at the forward ports, here in Tobruk, and at Mersa Matruh when we take it, not a thousand miles away in Tripoli.’

  ‘Are you aware,’ Bastico cut in sourly, ‘that your 8000-ton steamer Reichenfels was sunk only this morning by an RAF squadron operating out of Malta? Did you know that, the day before yesterday, the Italian cruiser Trento was sunk by the same squadron, and the battleship Littorio badly damaged? We can't get supplies to the forward ports, General, because Malta is in our way. While Malta stands, we can't guarantee our supplies, not even at Tripoli. You have won a great victory here at Tobruk, no doubt, but that victory can't be exploited unless the supply system functions smoothly. To push into Egypt without securing the supply base would be a major strategic blunder. I have no choice but to forbid you to advance further than the frontier.’

  For a moment, Rommel eyed him incredulously. Then he let out an explosive chuckle. ‘You forbid me? I'm sorry, General: you may be Governor-General of Tripolitania, but any decisions concerning the Panzer Group are my responsibility, and mine alone. You can't do any more than give me advice, and in this case I consider your advice unacceptable…’

  ‘You may not be under
my orders,’ Bastico said sharply, ‘but you are under the orders of the Duce, and as far as I recall, it is he who has forbidden any advance until Malta has fallen. Think about it carefully, General. No decision you have ever taken since the foundation of the Afrika Korps will have such far-reaching consequences as this one. If you proceed and are turned back this time, you will effectively have destroyed our chances of retaining influence in Africa.’

  Rommel shook his head again, his eyes alight. ‘War isn't about paper-pushing,’ he said. ‘It's about balls – about boldness, force and speed. I won't be turned back. My divisions will move like greased lightning: we'll be in Alexandria and Cairo in ten days at the most, maybe a week. The Eighth Army is finished, and nothing can stand in our way. I don't need your damned supply lines. With what I've collected here in Tobruk, and what I can gather on the way, I'll be self-sufficient in supplies –’ He stopped himself, remembering that what he had just said was at least partly a lie. He did not have enough fuel to get to Alexandria: he was simply gambling on getting more en route. He smiled truculently as a thought popped into his head. ‘In fact,’ he said, ‘I think I'll have Berndt reserve a table for all three of us at the famous Shepheard's Hotel. What do you say, General Bastico? A nice candle-lit table, dinner for three at Shepheard's, for the evening of – shall we say, 2 July?’

  Bastico's plump cheeks glowed, but before he could speak, Kesselring leaned forward. ‘That's quite enough of that, General,’ he said, his face now pale with fury. ‘You insult our allies and you insult me. All the authorities are behind the Malta operation – the Führer, the Duce, the Comando Supremo, the OKH, German Naval Command, even our Italian liaison officer, General von Rintelin. I'm telling you now, that you are to proceed no further than the Egyptian border.’