The Rising Tide: A Novel of World War II (3 page)

In August 1914, Rommel marches to war with his regiment. Immediately, the men under him recognize something unusual in their lieutenant, a fearless devotion to the fight, a sharp mind that reacts decisively under fire. Brave to the point of recklessness, Rommel’s reputation grows. By January 1915, he is twice awarded the Iron Cross, for heroism and leadership under fire. But as the fighting along the Western Front settles into stalemate, Rommel chafes at the inactivity. Promoted to first lieutenant, he welcomes a new assignment, joins a mountain battalion, and is sent to Romania, and then the mountains along the Italian border. In November 1916, during one brief furlough, he returns to Danzig and marries Lucy.

He continues to excel in combat through the mountainous terrain of northern Italy, and in October 1917 his unit is assigned to assist Austrian forces in a struggle with the Italians near the city of Caporetto. Rommel leads two companies in an audacious attack against Italian defenses, and gathering additional troops along the front lines, he scales a formidable mountain fortification and captures nearly ten thousand Italian soldiers. He is thus awarded Germany’s highest military honor, the Pour le Mérite (known also as the Blue Max).

After the Great War ends, Rommel, now a captain, continues in the downsized German army. In 1921, he is assigned to Stuttgart, commanding a regiment of infantry, a post he holds for eight years. There, in 1928, his only child is born, a son he names Manfred.

In 1929, Rommel is assigned as an instructor to the army’s Infantry School at Dresden. Unhappy with most of the texts and manuals he must use, he begins to write his own, though the book will not be published until 1937.

In the early 1930s, as high-ranking German officers begin to cement their plans for rebuilding the German military, Rommel’s name is often mentioned. Though he never participates in such closed-door meetings, he is highly respected, regarded as the kind of officer the army must have. In 1933, he is promoted to major and is assigned to command a mountain battalion at Goslar, in central Germany. Here he becomes known as a no-nonsense drill instructor who drives his men relentlessly. Few can object, however, since Rommel drives himself with the same level of physical intensity.

Rommel is shocked by Hitler’s rise to power, has paid little attention to the political wrangling of postwar Germany. When Hitler names himself dictator of Germany, Rommel is disgusted by the brutish tactics of Hitler’s henchmen. To his wife, Rommel remarks that the Nazis “seem to be a set of scallywags.” But Hitler begins to intrigue him, seems to Rommel to be an idealist, a man with the energy to rescue Germany from the clutches of its enemies, especially communism. Rommel comes to believe that Hitler is precisely what Germany needs: a man who can reunite the German people and reclaim Germany’s lost pride.

As Hitler cements his power over the highest-ranking military officers, Rommel feels the pressure to become a member of the Nazi Party. But he still regards politics as unbefitting a soldier and does not join. Regardless of their discomfort with many of Hitler’s ideas, the military appreciate that Hitler is allowing them a free hand to modernize and reequip. Thus even those who object to Hitler’s aggressiveness against Czechoslovakia and Austria keep their criticisms behind closed doors. Compared to the chaos of the 1920s, Hitler has given Germany’s officers a powerful structure within which they can ply their trade.

In February 1937, Rommel is assigned to command the Hitler Youth, a new organization that seeks to educate German boys in the art of war. But Rommel recognizes the group for what it quickly becomes: a nest of bullies and spoiled misfits. Rommel finds the job utterly distasteful, remarks that he did not join the army just to train “little Napoléons.” A year later, he is given command of the War Academy at Wiener Neustadt, near Vienna, Austria. Once again he captures the attention of Joseph Goebbels, who has arranged for Rommel’s textbook, titled
Infantry Attacks,
to be published. For this, Rommel will feel a debt toward Goebbels for the rest of his life.

In August 1939, Rommel is promoted to major general, and he witnesses the invasion of Poland from Hitler’s headquarters. Ignoring the brutality inflicted on the Polish people, Rommel absorbs the lessons of the German attack, which plays into his own military instincts: strike hard and fast, with overwhelming power. He is especially drawn to the brutal success of the German armor, the panzers. He realizes with perfect certainty that his place is at the vanguard of a massive column of powerful tanks.

During and after the invasion of Poland, Rommel is assigned to command Hitler’s personal security force, essentially becoming Hitler’s bodyguard. During this time, Hitler forms an attachment to Rommel that will influence both men. But Rommel chafes at such a command, despises the staff officers who flock around Hitler, referring to them as “so many pitiful birds.” When Hitler offers Rommel a command in the field, Rommel does not hesitate, and Hitler grants his particular request, command of the Seventh Panzer Division. Within weeks, Rommel begins preparing for the order from Hitler that will unleash the German army westward.

In May 1940, Rommel’s Seventh Armor bursts through the frontier south of Liège, Belgium, and he is the first German commander to cross the Meuse River. Driving the enemy before him, he nearly drives too far and is almost crushed by British tanks, who are surprised to find themselves on the German flank. But Rommel’s audacity rescues him, and continuing his push westward, he arrives at the coast near Dunkirk, only to be told that Hitler has ordered a halt.

After the British escape at Dunkirk, a disgusted Rommel goes on the attack once more and captures several French towns, crushing pockets of French and British opposition as he goes. On June 12, 1940, he captures the coastal town of Saint-Valéry, France, along with twelve thousand British and French prisoners. Two days after the Germans march into Paris, Rommel captures the city of Cherbourg and receives the surrender of thirty thousand French soldiers.

In the overall campaign that results in Hitler’s conquest of Western Europe, Rommel’s command captures nearly a hundred thousand prisoners, three hundred artillery pieces, and more than four hundred tanks. His own division suffers casualties of less than three thousand men, with a loss of forty-two tanks. Though Rommel’s star rises considerably, he receives his first taste of the jealousy and backbiting from other officers that will haunt his career. Hitler is not swayed by talk from Rommel’s superiors, who insist that Rommel is too brash for high command.

Though Hitler soon becomes obsessed with his dreams of conquering Russia, he cannot completely ignore his own staff officers, who suggest that Mussolini is unstable. Hitler is convinced that if the Italians continue to suffer setbacks against the British in North Africa, Mussolini might simply drop out of the war. Hitler calls upon Rommel, and against the advice of many of his senior staff, Hitler offers Rommel command of what will become the Deutsches Afrika Korps.

On February 12, 1941, Rommel arrives in Tripoli, in western Libya.

Almost immediately, Rommel changes the landscape of the war in North Africa, and the British are sent reeling back toward Egypt. But Rommel receives neither the resources nor the cooperation of his Italian superiors, and the British begin to fight back. Throughout the rest of 1941, the campaign swings in both directions, momentum changing hands, Rommel’s audacity and superior tactics balanced by his inability to match the British in numbers and avenues of supply. Regardless of Rommel’s shortcomings, including his tendency to separate himself from his own headquarters, his successes overshadow his mistakes. The legend of the “Desert Fox” begins to grow, and even the British share Hitler’s high regard for Rommel and his tactics. To the British parliament, Winston Churchill remarks that Rommel is “a very daring and skillful opponent…a great general.”

On December 8, 1941, Rommel learns that the Japanese have bombed Pearl Harbor. He knows that America’s entry into the war will help the British immeasurably. As word reaches him of German setbacks in Russia, Rommel realizes that Hitler’s vast dreams may not be attainable. Rommel begins to understand: unless he can destroy the British who confront him and conquer North Africa, Germany cannot win the war.

PART ONE

The bravest are surely those who have the clearest vision of what is before them, glory and danger alike, and yet notwithstanding, go out and meet it.

THUCYDIDES

I would rather be the hammer than the anvil.

ERWIN ROMMEL

1. THE DESERT RAT

THE LIBYAN DESERT
MAY 27, 1942

T
hey huddled in the chill, encased in hard steel, waiting, energized by rumors. Behind them, to the east, the black horizon was visible, silhouetted by the first glow of sunrise. The wireless radio was chattering, the voices of nervous officers far behind the line, the men in tents, who pored over maps, unsure, powerless to do anything about an enemy who might be anywhere at all.

They had climbed into the tank at the first sign of daylight, each of the four men finding his place, their commander perched higher than the rest, settling into his seat just beneath the hatch of the turret. It was still too dark in the west, and the narrow view through the prism of the periscope was too confining, and so he stood, his head and shoulders outside the hatch. The long, thin barrel of the two-pound cannon was just below him, pointing westward, where the enemy was thought to be. He stared until his eyes watered, tried to see the horizon. But it would not be there, not yet, not until the sun had given them enough light to distinguish dull, flat ground from the empty sky.

The air was sharp and cold, but that would not last. Once the sun rose, the heat would come again, and the infantry, a mass of men waiting far behind their armor wall, would seek whatever shelter they had, waking the insects and the scorpions and the snakes. The tank was as good a shelter as a man had in the desert, but there was a price for shade. The thick steel made a perfect oven, and the men would man their posts and glance instinctively toward the hatches, hoping for the faintest wisp of breeze. He blinked, wiped his eyes with a dirty hand, annoyed at the crackling intrusion from the wireless.

“Turn that off!”

“Sir, can’t do that, you know. Orders. The captain…”

He ignored the young man’s protest, stared out again. The sun would quickly rise, nothing to block the light, no mountains, no trees, no rolling terrain. In a few short minutes he could see flecks of detail, an uneven field pockmarked by small rocks. There was a shadow, right in front of him, beneath the barrel of the two-pounder. It was his, of course, the low, hulking form of the tank. It makes us a target, he thought. But, then, the Germans are in the west, will have to attack straight into the rising sun. We’ll be able to see them first, certainly. Stupid tactic. But what isn’t stupid out here? Sitting in a fat tin can, armed with a two-pound pop gun, hoping like hell we see him before he sees us.

There was a loud squawk from the wireless.

“Dammit, at least turn that thing down!”

“Sir, I think it’s Captain Digby. He’s upset about something.”

Digby. He stared at the horizon, clear, distinct, thought of the officer who sat sucking on that idiotic pipe. His tank smells like a Turkish whorehouse. And he’s upset. Good. Bloody fool. Carries fat rolls of maps so he can find his way. In a place with no landmarks, no signposts. Stuffs the damned maps into his ammo holders, and so, he runs out of ammo. Begs the rest of us for help. Just look at the sun, Captain. All the signpost you need.

The radio squawked again, and he heard the voice now. Yep. Digby.

“Rec report…enemy in motion…
zzzzzzzzz
…two hundred…
zzzzzzzz.
” The wireless seemed to go dead, and he looked to the north, could see the British tanks in a ragged line. The crews had climbed into their vehicles, and most of the tank commanders were standing up, searching for something across the vast emptiness. He still looked to the north, thought, yep, there’s Digby. The sixth tank over. Brew yourself a cup of tea, Captain. There’s nothing out here but us Rats.

He glanced down through the hatch, could see little, the tank dark. He knew each man well, more experienced than most, but so very young. They were better than the tank they pushed, the A9. She was fast, maybe faster than anything the Germans had, could maneuver easily over the rocky ground, spin around like a top. In training they had been told that the two-pounder was an effective antitank weapon, firing a solid-steel projectile, supposed to pierce anything the enemy had. It had certainly worked against the Italians, who had come at them with machines that were worn-out in 1918. The armor battles had been one-sided affairs, British tanks and artillery decimating the primitive weapons of their enemy. He remembered the first Italian tanks that had actually put up a good fight, something called an M13. But even that machine was small, and far too light, padded by a sad pile of sandbags around the turret. He could see it in his mind, the direct hit on an M13 that made it seem like an exploding sack of flour. And no one inside survived, ever. Bloody awful, that one. Target practice. Brave men sent to die in broken-down toys.

But then the Germans came, and they brought the real thing, heavier, faster tanks, bigger guns, and suddenly the A9 crews were no longer as fond of their machines. There was something else the Germans had, a particular genius for weaponry. They had an eighty-eight millimeter antiaircraft cannon, long barrel, that threw a shell high enough to churn any pilot’s guts. But the Germans figured out that lowering the barrel and pointing it horizontally made for an antitank weapon like no other. Most of the larger artillery on both sides was like the basic howitzers, firing their shells in an arc. You could hear them coming and might even have a brief second to prepare for impact, time enough perhaps to dive into a slit trench. But the long barrel of the eighty-eight blew a shell right through you in a straight line. No high-screaming wail, no warning. And there wasn’t a single British machine that the eighty-eight wouldn’t blow to pieces.

He lowered himself into the hatch, tried to see the wireless operator, Batchelor, the man who doubled as the gun loader.

“Batch. Did Digby say anything else?”

“I’m trying to raise him, sir. He said something about the rec, then I lost him.”

He pulled himself up, stared out again, mulled over the word:
rec.
Reconnaissance. Hell of a job, flitting all over the place in light armored cars. They run right up to the Jerries, see what’s what, then run like hell to get away. Nothing but machine guns for protection. Ballsy chaps, those fellows.

Below the gun barrel in front of him, a small hatch opened, and a head emerged. It was the driver, Simmons.

“It’s warming up a bit, sir.”

Simmons was the youngest man in the crew, with bad skin and an unfortunate natural odor that even soap could not seem to cure. But there was no soap here, barely enough water to keep a man alive, and so Simmons had become just one more tank crewman who had to be accepted by his own, regardless of whatever unpleasant personal traits he might bring to the confined space. By now, they all smelled bad enough to offend anyone but themselves. Like Captain Digby’s pipe smoke, it had become a part of each tank’s personality.

“I say, sir. What’s that?”

Simmons was pointing out to the left of the barrel, eleven o’clock, and he stared with the young man, could see the cloud rising up, dark, obliterating the horizon. Simmons said, “A dust storm. Big one. Bloody hell.”

The young man disappeared into the tank, the hatch pulled down over his narrow compartment. The cloud seemed to spread out to the south, farther left, swirling darkness, sunlight reflected in small flecks. The radio squawked again, a chaos of voices, and now he could see new motion, a vehicle emerging from the storm, then two more, their dust trails billowing out behind them as they roared toward the line of tanks. His heart jumped, and he raised his binoculars, saw that they were armored cars, their own, the rec boys. He glanced toward the north, toward Digby’s command tank, looking for the colored flag that would tell them to start the powerful engines. But Digby’s wire antenna held nothing but the command flag, no other sign yet.

He glanced down into the tank, said, “Hands off triggers. Those are ours.”

It was an unnecessary order, the big gun not yet loaded, the machine guns still waiting for the belts of ammo that would feed them. The armored cars rolled past the line of tanks, did not stop. He said aloud, to no one in particular, “Jeez. They’re moving like hell.”

He calmed now, ignored the new sounds from the wireless, thought, guess those chaps don’t like eating that dust storm any more than we do. He looked out toward the dark cloud again, no more than a mile away, rolling closer. He let out a breath. Sure. Why not start the day with another one of these damned storms? By all means let’s eat dirt for breakfast. He began to move, lowering himself into the tank, then he stopped, frozen by a new sound. He looked again toward the great swirling cloud, ugly and familiar, the dull roar of wind and fine grit, a dozen tornadoes winding around themselves. But there were other sounds now, familiar as well. Tracks. Steel on rock. Engines. He froze, stared at the sounds, felt a light breeze in his face. That’s not a dust storm, you bloody idiot. That’s armor. Making their own damned storm.

“Jerries!”

Close by, he heard engines turning over, great belches of black smoke spitting from the other tanks in the formation. He looked that way, saw men disappearing into their tanks, hatches closing. He did not wait for the order from Digby, dropped down to his hard leather seat, pulled the hatch shut, shouted, “Fire ’er up!”

The driver responded, the tank pulsing, a deafening roar that drowned out the ongoing noise from the wireless. He leaned forward, searched through the periscope, felt for his machine gun, shouted again:

“Load ’em! Guns ready!”

The men moved with tight precision, each one doing his job. He looked down, saw the gunner, Moxley, right below and in front of him. He slid forward, put his knees right against the young man’s back. It was the position they had repeated many times, and Moxley never protested, the discomfort of the pressure giving them both leverage as the tank rolled and tossed them about. He reached down, tapped the gunner on the shoulder.

“Wait for my order. Patience. Use the sights. How many rounds?”

“A hundred twenty.”

“They’ll go quick. Don’t want to run out. Not in the mood to be a sitting duck, Private.”

“Me either, sir.”

“Loader!”

“Sir!”

“My Vickers ready?”

“Fit to fire, sir!”

His fingers wrapped around the trigger, and he squeezed, testing, the machine gun coming to life, a brief burst of fire. It was the signal to Simmons to do the same, the driver blessed with two of the Vickers machine guns up front. Simmons let loose a short burst. Well, all right then. We’re ready for you, Jerry. He was breathing heavily, the diesel’s smoke swirling around them, and he focused through the periscope, the dust cloud rolling closer.

“Where the hell are they?”

He punched the button on the crude intercom, wanted to give Simmons the order to move forward. No, wait. Show a little patience yourself. We don’t know what’s out there, not yet. Find a target. He spoke into the intercom now, the only way they could hear him through the roar of the engine.

“Gunner. Anything?”

“Nothing yet. Just dust.”

He stared as they all stared, the fine sand blowing thin clouds against the glass of the periscope, blinding, his eyes watering. He pulled his goggles off the hook beside him, slid them over his head. He hated the goggles, the lenses scratched, blurred, but they kept his eyes dry. He caught a flash of movement, above the dust cloud, coming at them, fast, now right above them. He heard the scream as it passed by and he hunched his shoulders, instinct, shouted, “109s!”

More planes roared past, barely a hundred feet above them, and he tried to ignore them, thought, no sightseeing, you bloody fool. You know what a Messerschmitt looks like. And, we haven’t been blown to hell, so they’re not coming for us. The supply dumps or the support trucks, most likely. Strafe the infantry. Poor bastards. He thought of the antiaircraft gunners, far back, dug into patches of camel thorn brush, lucky to get a brief burst of fire at the low-flying planes. Shoot straight, boys. Knock a few Jerries out of their seats. He stared into the dust cloud again, scanned from side to side. He could still hear the Messerschmitts ripping past, thought, a good-sized flock. If there’s that many 109s, there’s something coming with them. Come on, where the hell are you?

And now he saw them.

On both sides tanks erupted from the dust, rolled right past, the air punched by dull sounds, streaks of white light. He turned in his seat.

“Port! Ninety to port. Move it!”

The tank lurched forward, then spun, pivoting to the left. The dust cloud was everywhere, churned into thick, gray fog by the movement of the big machines. The tank rumbled blindly forward over a carpet of small rocks, and there was a bright flash, a sharp streak of light, thunder on the right side. He jumped in his seat, searched the dust frantically. You missed me! Hah! The gunner spun the turret, and he saw the tank now, black crosses on the sand-yellow armor. The German turret was moving as well, the big gun trying to follow his movement. He shouted to Moxley:

“Ten o’clock! A hundred yards!”

The turret kept moving, painfully slowly, and he watched the barrel of the two-pounder slide into position.

Moxley said, “Got him, sir!”

“Fire when ready!”

The words still hung in the air as the tank rocked from the recoil of the big gun. He fought to see through the smoke and dust, saw the crosses again, said, “Again!”

The two-pounder fired again, and Moxley let out a sound.

“Hit him! Hit him!”

“Fire again!”

They worked in perfect unison, the loader feeding the shells into the breech of the gun, the spent shells ejected automatically into the canvas bag that draped below. He coughed, the cordite smell filling the cabin, and still saw the crosses right in front of him.

“Stop! Watch him!”

They jerked to a halt, and he could see smoke coming from the German tank, waited for the movement, saw it now, the hatch coming open. A thick plume of black smoke poured up from inside the tank, and the men appeared, scrambling out, escaping the burning hulk. His hand gripped the trigger of the machine gun, and he watched four men drop to the ground, staggering, wounded, blinded by the smoke and the shattering blast that had ripped into them. He pulled the trigger, sprayed the machine-gun fire back and forth, all four men going down quickly. He paused, took another breath, fought through the stink of gunpowder, saw movement beyond, more tanks, streaks of light. The fight was all around them, tanks and armored cars, perfect confusion, enemies only yards apart, seeking a target in the dust, firing point-blank.