The Rising Tide: A Novel of World War II (11 page)

Regardless of Montgomery’s reasons for delay, Operation Torch was rolling into motion. With so much at stake, even Eisenhower had begun to wonder if Montgomery intended to participate.

8. ROMMEL

SEMMERING, THE AUSTRIAN ALPS
OCTOBER 24, 1942

I
t had been three weeks, but the doctors said it would take him far longer to fully regain his health. In Egypt, he had left behind careful instructions for the continuing defense of his army, to guard against the inevitable offensive that Montgomery must surely launch. From every report he received, it was obvious that the British were continuing to prepare for a new operation, were preparing massive supply dumps and pipelines to fuel an ever-expanding army, an army that the German and Italian forces might not be able to contain. Rommel knew that Montgomery’s offensive, whenever it came, would most likely succeed.

Rommel’s army was now in the hands of General Georg Stumme, a reasonably capable field commander, who had gained considerable experience in the early days of the Russian campaign. Stumme did not look the part of the lean and hungry panzer officer, was severely overweight, and had suffered a variety of ailments. Rommel had been concerned at the man’s appearance, was concerned as well that Stumme seemed to believe that his assignment was permanent. Regardless of what Stumme might have been told in Berlin, Rommel had been specific in his instructions. Stumme was expected to follow Rommel’s orders for troop positioning and defense, and if events turned particularly dangerous, Rommel fully expected to be back. Westphal’s letters came far more often than Stumme’s, and at the very least, Rommel was getting an accurate picture of how his increasingly ragged army was being used.

Throughout his stay at Semmering, his only other source of information had been the newspapers. He already knew to ignore most of what he saw there, the daily dose of pleasantries that were spoon-fed the German people. Lately, the papers seemed more interested in trumpeting the various triumphs from the other theaters of the war, the Japanese conquests of Asia, the obliteration of British and American forces in the Pacific. But the greatest headlines were reserved for the Russian campaign. The papers blared the loudest for Friedrich Paulus, who commanded the great German wave that was sure to engulf Stalingrad. The news from Paulus’s army was presented with the same flare for dramatics that Rommel had once seen spouting from Libya, dutifully reported by men like Berndt. It was their job, after all, to feed Goebbels’s propaganda machine, the machine that would then feed the German people. The reports from Russia claimed that Paulus was certain to crush the last major resistance from Stalin’s vastly inferior forces, opening the way for Hitler’s armies to sweep unmolested into the rich oil fields and breadbaskets of the Caucasus and the Middle East. Before Rommel left Africa, Kesselring had given him a sketchy report, blunt, but hopeful, a delicate optimism that there might be a measure of truth to what Hitler’s propaganda machine was reporting. Paulus could indeed crush the Russian defenses around Stalingrad, a victory so significant that Joseph Stalin would be pressured to accept peace, Hitler’s peace. Rommel accepted that Kesselring could be right after all. Both men knew that the Führer’s energy was directed far more toward Russia than it had ever been to North Africa.

On Rommel’s journey northward, he had stopped first in Rome, had been met with accolades and bright flourishes from Mussolini. The talk was the same, promises of vast fleets of tankers and cargo ships, the Italians seemingly more convinced than ever that some monumental success was only days away. Rommel had gritted his teeth through the speeches, the backslapping congratulations that met him at Comando Supremo. He had become accustomed to the strange blindness of the Italian military, but what he saw in Rome had been far worse. The city itself, vast throngs of civilians, seemed oblivious to any crisis, rolling through their daily lives as though no war even existed. It was a marked contrast to what Rommel knew was happening in Germany, where the cities endured constant Allied bombardment, food and fuel shortages beginning to creep through the countryside. But Rome showed no signs of shortages or deprivation at all. As much as Rommel despised the incompetence and inept leadership that tormented his command, he could not help feeling an odd respect for Mussolini. The man had an amazing ability to wield a unique kind of power, not with the boot or the gun, but with the minds of his subjects. Mussolini had told the perfect lie, had convinced the Italian people that everything was going their way, and they had believed him. If there was a war at all, it was for the good, would insure Italian peace and prosperity for generations. Mussolini’s ridiculous ambition for a new Roman Empire had actually been achieved in the man himself, in how the Italian people accepted, even celebrated, his self-proclaimed grandeur. To Rommel, Italy felt like a dream, some bizarre fantasy. And then, he had gone to see Hitler.

The Führer showed him respect, was pleased at Rommel’s
progress.
Clearly, Hitler was still attached to Goebbels’s portrait of Rommel the Great Hero. The setback at Alam Halfa was merely a minor delay in the grand scheme, Hitler and his staff convinced more than ever that the British were destined to collapse in front of the vast power of Rommel’s tanks, tanks that Rommel knew simply didn’t exist. Promises were made, renewed efforts at supplying the
Panzerarmee
by sea, an enormous navy of new flat-bottomed cargo ships, impossible to torpedo, and heavily armed against any British threat from the air. Rommel had endured the outpouring of glorified optimism, had felt too weak and too sick to object to any of it. If there was one perfect symbol of Hitler’s amazing visions of the war, it came from Hermann Göring, the German air commander. Rommel had been plain and direct that British air superiority had entirely changed the African campaign, and that if the British continued to dominate the sky, there could only be one dismal outcome. But Göring had loudly dismissed Rommel’s report, had insisted that the Luftwaffe was far superior and would soon sweep the British away. To Rommel’s grinding distress, he could see that Hitler leaned heavily on Göring’s boastfulness. As he left Hitler’s lair, Rommel tried to hold to the promises, tried to believe that what the Führer had told him might be true. But that dream had faded as well, the blissful air of victory confined only to the staff rooms and quarters of the men who had glued themselves to Hitler’s unreal dreams. Beyond the walls of Hitler’s headquarters, Rommel felt the depression returning, rammed into him by his illness, and by the truth of what was happening to his men. He carried that with him to the hospital at Semmering, had begun his rest and recuperation under a dark cloud. Despite the attention of the doctors, despite three weeks of pampering relaxation, the cloud stayed with him. He stared out toward the tranquil beauty of the Alps but saw only Africa, could not escape from the visions of his men, good soldiers who squatted in hard, rocky dryness, who manned the ragged tanks and worn-out artillery, who could only wait for the inevitable at El Alamein.

T
he lunch had been enjoyable, one of the first meals that seemed to agree with his tender stomach. It was a good sign, and Rommel leaned back against the pillow, probed his abdomen with his fingers, touched the sore places, particularly the right side. A bolt of pain shot through him, a surprise, and he groaned, said aloud, “Damn! Not again! What must I do?”

He saw them coming, the nurses responding quickly. It was the luxury of being the
Great Rommel
that every one of the staff would rush to him when he called. His liver problems were still acute, the doctors as frustrated as he was, and they all knew that should something disastrous happen to him, the first inquiries would come from the Gestapo.

The nurses had begun to gather, then stood back, made way for the doctor, a short, stocky man named Besser.

“Your liver again?”

“Yes, dammit.” Rommel paused. “Doctor, you must understand. I came here believing I would find rest and rejuvenation. It has been three weeks, and I am not much better than when I arrived. Three weeks, added to a year.”

Besser said, “Sir, this sort of ailment requires time. You should remain here for two months, perhaps longer.”

“I do not have two months, Doctor.”

“Sir!”

Rommel looked toward the woman’s voice, the nurse coming toward him in quick, precise steps.

Besser said, “Yes, what is it?”

“Excuse me, Doctor. Field Marshal Rommel has a telephone call. They say it is very urgent, sir.”

Rommel felt the pain again, the dull ache as he sat up. He looked at the soft face of the nurse, thought, she’s afraid. Good God, what do they think I’m going to do to them?

Besser helped him to his feet, and the nurse moved close, put a soft hand beneath his arm, said in a low urgent voice, “Sir, it’s the Führer’s headquarters! It is General Keitel himself!”

Rommel felt his stomach reacting to the name. His lunch was turning over inside him, and he shuffled in slow steps toward the door. There were more nurses, and he saw the small office, the place where the telephone waited, knew Keitel’s reedy voice, the field marshal whose ability was to function perfectly as Hitler’s office boy. Rommel stared down at the earpiece, tried to calm himself. There is only one reason he would call me, he thought. It has begun.

The second call came from Hitler, several hours after the first news from Keitel. Hitler had asked the same question Keitel had: Are you well enough to return to command? Rommel was surprised that Hitler himself seemed genuinely concerned, that should Rommel feel unfit, there would be no order. But the urgency was clear, and Rommel would never have refused. He was going back to Africa.

The first sign of Montgomery’s attack had come from the British artillery, wave upon wave of shelling that poured over the German and Italian positions, followed by massive night and early-morning bombing from unstoppable swarms of British bombers. The combined assaults had blown great gaps in the defensive line, some Italian units simply melting away, conceding the ground to whatever Montgomery was sending toward them. Rommel knew that Hitler’s headquarters would not know what was really happening, not yet, not until it was over, when the reports were written, the numbers tallied. But the first report from Keitel was less about facts and figures than the one piece of news that Rommel found hard to fathom. Somewhere in the midst of the British attack, Rommel’s temporary replacement had disappeared. Keitel had used the appropriate word of course: missing. This one detail gave Rommel the worst agony, kept him awake throughout the endless night. When the
Panzerarmee
most needed the strength of a leader, Georg Stumme, the man whose critical job was to coordinate the defense, had simply vanished.

NEAR TEL EL AQQAQIR, EGYPT—OCTOBER 25, 1942

The plane had taken him directly to Rome, where he had been given the details that had been relayed from El Alamein. He knew not to depend on the reports of the fighting itself, that desert war was fluid, situations changing constantly. For that, he would see it for himself. But far worse was the confirmation that came from the supply officers. No matter how much effort had been put into transporting fuel to Rommel’s army, the British bombers and torpedo planes had continued to find their mark. Much of the available gasoline meant for his armor was being sent to the bottom of the Mediterranean.

When he reached the airfield at Qasada, he made the last leg of the flight himself, in the Storch, his own small plane. He stayed low, skimmed the smooth surface of the desert, had ignored anything that might be flying high above him. The Storch was small enough that it would be ignored as well, no squadron of British fighters caring much about a single slow-moving spotter plane this far in the German rear.

The smoke drew him to the landing site, the sky smeared with black and gray, but he did not scout anything, had no interest now in observing the movement of his panzers. With the sun a deep red in the west, he brought the plane in slow, touched down. As he pulled himself stiffly out of the plane, the first man he saw was Westphal.

“G
eneral Stumme is dead, sir. We found his body this afternoon. There were no wounds. He apparently…fell out of his command vehicle. His heart stopped, possibly.”

Rommel kept moving, saw the other officers gathering outside the tents. Westphal followed him closely, said, “Sir. I’m not sure what else we could have done.”

The words punched Rommel, and he stopped, spun around, had never heard that kind of hesitation from the young man before. Westphal seemed to flinch, and Rommel stared hard into his eyes.

“Done about
what,
Colonel? What did you not do?”

Westphal glanced past him, and Rommel knew the others were listening. Rommel had no patience, the agony in his gut rolling over like bricks of ice. He knew there would be fault somewhere, someone on the line, someone in these tents panicking because of Stumme, because the army had become headless.

“What happened, Colonel?”

“Sir, the British gave us every indication they were massing for an assault to the southern flank. Our scout planes located fuel depots there and we easily spotted an enormous number of vehicles parked under camouflage. Large numbers of troops were seen marching to the south. For weeks they had been constructing a pipeline, which the observers believed to be a fuel line. Every indication was that the enemy was intending to attack us in that direction.”