The Rising Tide: A Novel of World War II (13 page)

“Sir! We must leave here!”

Rommel lowered the glasses. “Yes, Colonel. It is time to leave. It is time for all of us to leave.”

He looked at von Thoma, saw the man nod slowly. He understands, of course.

“General, order your armor to pull back. We cannot fight on this ground.”

Westphal said, “Sir! Retreat?”

Rommel looked at him, felt the stirring, the fire growing inside of him.

“It is time, Colonel. We are a mobile army, and if we are to survive, we must be mobile again. Order the infantry commanders to withdraw in good order, if possible. The artillery should withdraw as rapidly as possible. They are our best line of defense. Everyone should attempt to reach the line we have established below Fuka.”

Westphal stared at him, said nothing.

Von Thoma said, “Sir, if we withdraw the artillery, the enemy will be able to maintain close pursuit. We must put up a rear-guard screen. If not…it could be a slaughter, sir.”

“Obey my orders, General. Send word to every senior commander. Do you understand?”

Von Thoma saluted him, moved away down the hill, toward the command vehicles, toward the radios.

Rommel looked at Westphal, said, “Montgomery will not pursue. There is surprise in retreat as well as attack. When he realizes we have disengaged, he will assess and analyze. That is still our great advantage.”

NEAR EL DABA, EGYPT—NOVEMBER 3, 1942

The battle at El Alamein had been lost. But the
Panzerarmee
could survive, and there was still a strong defense to be made, if somehow the flow of ammunition and fuel could continue. There were good places for defensive fighting all across Libya, the obstacles that Rommel had once breached against Wavell and Auchinleck, strong positions that would hold Montgomery at bay until some decision was made in Berlin, a decision about what Rommel was expected to do next. Salvaging what remained of the
Panzerarmee
was Rommel’s priority, and if Hitler agreed, the tanks and heavy equipment could be withdrawn to the seaports. There, the Luftwaffe could make a strong showing, protecting the ships that could pull Rommel’s forces out of Africa altogether, forces that would still be able to make a good fight where the Führer might need them. Once Montgomery realized how complete his victory had been, he would come again. The only question was, when?

R
ommel had made his way westward, along roadways choked with a desperate wave of humanity. Throughout the day, the British had held fast to their new breakthrough, no signs yet of a major pursuit. Rommel had to believe that Montgomery was simply reveling in the victory, or even better, the British commander was completely unaware the victory had been handed to him.

The command car rolled out into the desert, passing a crippled truck, its crew abandoning the vehicle, making their way on foot, joining the vast throng of retreating soldiers. The car lurched and bounced, Rommel holding tightly to the side, could see an oasis, a cluster of palm trees. He knew the landmark, knew they were only a few miles from the line where the army could make its next stand. It would be a temporary defense, putting the remaining eighty-eights and the heavy tanks in position to screen the rest of the army as it made its escape. If Montgomery followed at all, he would first have to absorb a horrific pounding from Rommel’s guns. Rommel guessed that the British soldiers were as exhausted as the Germans and the Italians. Confronting Rommel’s defensive screen might give Montgomery’s troops the excuse to stop.

He knew from the maps and landmarks that he was still ten miles east of the village of El Daba. There were ridges here, dry wadis where the eighty-eights had begun to dig in. The car rolled down through a trail in the wadi, then up the other side, and he saw another cluster of palms, pointed, the driver obeying. They reached the oasis, and the car rolled to a stop. Rommel saw tents being raised, officers shouting instructions to work crews, who were shirtless and sweating. He stepped out of the car, moved toward them, and they saw him now, the work stopping, the men giving him a cheer.

He held up a hand, a silent gesture, thank you, pointed to the worn canvas, said, “Do not stop work. This is the new headquarters, at least for now.”

More cars stopped, and he watched as his staff officers scrambled to work, men with radios, moving quickly to string an antenna into one of the palms. More trucks were gathering, and beyond, he could see the makeshift airstrip, a row of cargo planes, blessed fuel, a meager supply that had somehow found him. He saw staff officers carrying bundles of maps from the car. Good, very good, he thought. We’ll be in operation here very quickly.

“Sir!” Westphal was coming toward him now, held a paper in his hand. “A wireless message, from Berlin, sir!”

Rommel took the paper, began to read, felt a cold tumble in his stomach.

…In the situation in which you find yourself, there can be no other thought but to stand fast, yield not a yard of ground, and throw every gun and every man into the battle…. As to your troops, you can show them no other road than that to victory or death.

Adolf Hitler

The paper fell away from his hand, settled to the hot ground at his feet. He stared toward the roadway, his eyes not focusing on the parade of exhausted, beaten men.

Westphal said, “Is it new orders, sir?”

Rommel could not look at him, turned away, stared out toward the vast, empty desert. He had ignored the sickness for as long as he could, the pains in his side, the tightness in his throat. He had drawn strength from the power of his army, a power that even now, beaten and bloodied, could still make the good fight, if they were only given the time, precious time to gather and refit and resupply. He felt himself drained of strength, as drained as his army, could see only the face of Hitler, the man’s utter detachment, his inability to see an unpleasant truth. And now, you would order us to fight and die and sacrifice this army, sacrifice the men who are
devoted
to you…for what?

“Sir? What does it mean?”

“It means, Colonel…” He stopped, held on to the words inside him, could not betray what he had held on to for so long. But it is there, he thought, lying at my feet, the simple order on a piece of paper, the order from a man who lives only in his dreams, who believes only in the fantastic and the glorious, and ignores the truth. No, that is not right. He does not
ignore
. He simply does not hear at all. To Hitler, none of this is…
real
.

“It means, Colonel, that the Führer is insane.”

NOVEMBER 4, 1942

He had sent Lieutenant Berndt in the first available plane to report to Hitler’s high command, to explain exactly what was happening to the
Panzerarmee
. Rommel had not been polite, had stopped worrying about the boisterous Gestapo officer. It had always been known that Berndt had Hitler’s ear, and so, Berndt would go directly to the Führer, would be told exactly what Rommel needed him to know. The report would be brief and direct: if the
Panzerarmee
stands its ground, in no more than a few days it will be exterminated.

“T
hey have never done this before. Never. There was advice and complaining, but never did anyone, not even the Führer, tell me how to move my army.”

Kesselring nodded, rubbed his chin. He had only been on the ground for a few minutes, had seemed as surprised as Rommel by the extraordinary order from Hitler.

“Albert, I have obeyed him. I have halted the army. We are able to stand here now only because Montgomery is confused, as I knew he would be. But he is coming, and when he comes, any of us who remain here will be swallowed up. There will be no
Panzerarmee,
no Afrika Korps.”

Kesselring looked past him, toward the other officers, the men who stood silently, said slowly, “This is not an order you should obey. The Führer has made an error, does not have the proper information. You say Berndt is on his way there?”

Rommel nodded. “He should arrive in a few hours. If he is not shot down.”

“I will contact the Führer myself and explain the situation. He can be made to understand. He must. If this army is destroyed, all of North Africa will be lost. The Führer will understand that it cannot be so.”

Rommel turned away, did not want to hear Kesselring’s optimism. It seemed mindless, idiotic now. He looked toward Westphal, said, “We have one chance for survival. We must move west, to the Fuka line, regroup, and then move west again. If we fight a strong retreating action, we can hold the British away. But there must be
speed
.”

There was silence for a long moment, and Kesselring said, “I would have had you withdraw much sooner. You should not have made a stand at El Alamein.”

Rommel stared at him. Are you trying to be fatherly? He felt the explosion coming, knew it should not happen, not with the others there. But the words came out in a rush, no strength left to hold them back.

“You would tell me how to command my army? You would tell me
now
what I should have done? You would give me advice that no one can follow?” He was shouting, and his voice began to crack, waver. He began to shake, his throat tightening. His fists were clenched, and he pulled his arms up to his chest, pulling at himself, trying to hold the anger inside. Kesselring stepped back, and Rommel suddenly realized, he is afraid of me. Yes, damn you! You should be afraid of me! They all should.

Westphal had moved up beside him, and Kesselring spoke softly, the words directed toward Westphal.

“I will send word to the Führer. I will explain. It will be on my authority. Have the commanders make immediate preparation to withdraw to the positions designated to them before the halt. Speed is essential. Maintain a strong defensive rear guard. Where is General von Thoma? How many tanks are operational?”

A voice came from behind Rommel. “Sir, General von Thoma was taken by the enemy. We do not know if he is alive.”

Kesselring was wide-eyed, said, “My God. We must learn if he was captured.”

Rommel forced out the words: “He will survive. He is a fighter.”

Another voice behind Rommel said, “We have only thirty-five tanks in operation, sir.”

“Thirty…five? That is all?”

Rommel looked at Kesselring again, saw the face of a man who was trying to assume command, to gain control of a situation where no control could be had. Rommel straightened himself, the chill gone, and he flexed his fingers, worked air into his lungs.

“This is still my army.”

Kesselring looked past him, seemed to test the statement, measure the reaction of the others. Rommel did not look behind him, thought, they are loyal to me still. They will still fight for me.

Kesselring nodded to him now, said, “Yes. I agree. I will tell the Führer that. But you must not allow the enemy to confront or ensnare you. Every piece of equipment has value. You must now fight a poor man’s war.”

Rommel looked hard at Kesselring, weighed his words, said, “I have
always
fought a poor man’s war. If I could have fought any other way, we would be in Cairo now.” He felt his strength returning, the sickness releasing him. He turned, looked at the others, saw the confidence, hard faces of men who had survived the worst the enemy could give them. And we will survive now, he thought. All we need is time. And one good commander to show them the way.

O
n November 5, word came from Hitler’s headquarters. Influenced by both Berndt and Kesselring, Hitler had changed his mind, had now approved the decision that Rommel should withdraw his army. When the word reached Rommel, the
Panzerarmee
was already out of harm’s way. Montgomery had delayed once more, had allowed Rommel all the head start he would need.

Though the British had won a decisive victory at El Alamein, Montgomery could not complete the task, could not deliver the final blow. The fight with Rommel had taken an enormous toll on the fighting strength of the British troops and their machines. When Montgomery finally gave chase, the men who pushed across the desert knew that by allowing Rommel to escape, it only meant that there would yet be another fight, that no matter how many tanks they had, how superior the British were in numbers, they would still have to risk another costly and dangerous duel with the
Panzerarmee,
and the man who led them.

9. EISENHOWER

GIBRALTAR
NOVEMBER 5, 1942

F
ive planes were in the formation, each one carrying ten officers or aides, dividing the headquarters staff so that if any one plane was shot down, someone might survive who could still command the operation. There had been fog, a blessing of course, since no German fighter was likely to find the heavy bombers, and despite the nervous fingers of the gunners who stared into the gray darkness, the trip had been as uneventful as anyone could hope. Eisenhower flew in the
Red Gremlin,
the same plane that had carried Clark to Gibraltar, the first leg of Clark’s secret mission to Africa. The pilot was the same as well, Major Paul Tibbets. The decision to leave London, to make the flight despite the inclement weather, had been Eisenhower’s. The decision about just how to get there safely belonged to Tibbets, who now had a reputation as one of the finest pilots in the U.S. air force.

After a steep descent, they landed abruptly, and Eisenhower could see now why the airfield was such a challenge. The runway was surprisingly short and was flanked by dense rows of British Spitfires. The fighters had been assembled for one purpose, would serve as the screen for the invasion fleets, hoping to hold back the enemy planes that would certainly try to interfere in the landings along the North African coast. Whether those planes would be German or French, even Eisenhower had no idea.

Eisenhower was met by the royal governor, General Sir Frank Mason-MacFarlane, and the staff would be housed in MacFarlane’s home, a gracious gesture from their British host. But there was little time for social pleasantries, something the governor seemed to recognize. Immediately, Eisenhower was escorted to his new headquarters, down a corridor nearly a half mile deep into solid rock. It was a formidable fortress, a place that had for centuries guarded British interests in the Mediterranean, but Eisenhower could see now that this extraordinary landmark was far more than a great lump of rock. The British staffers led him down long, damp corridors that had been carved right into the rock. The Rock of Gibraltar was in fact an enormous office building.

T
he room, lit by one bare lightbulb, was barely eight feet square. There were two desks, two chairs, and Eisenhower sat in one, watched as the piles of folders, maps, and documents were hauled in by the aides. Clark had the other desk and stood by the narrow door, directing the flow, the aides unloading their haul, then moving quickly out. Clark shifted a box behind his desk, laughed, said, “Well, this is cozy. I’ll do you the favor of taking a bath once in a while.”

Eisenhower tried to smile, felt the chair hard against his back, the tightness in his chest gripping him, stiff and uncomfortable. It had been this way for nearly a week now, the same feeling of anxious helplessness that had engulfed him once the final orders had been given. It was all in motion, 120,000 men, planes, tanks, artillery, all of it rolling across the seas, two great arms extending slowly toward Africa. He imagined it as some beast, claws extended, one arm to the west, Patton, in the open ocean, driving slowly toward Casablanca. The other was shorter, sliding through the Strait of Gibraltar, and once there, opening into two fists, each one punching its target, like a boxer unleashing a hard left hook. But the punches were three days away, and the targets themselves were hidden in doubt, obscured by the absurd political fog of the French. Through it all Eisenhower could only wait, sitting in a tiny office, deep inside a wet, cold rock.

“Ike?”

He looked up at Clark, the tall, thin man leaning across his desk, focused. “What?”

“I thought you’d want to get word back to England. The courier says there’re some pretty jumpy folks in London, wondering if we got here okay.”

Eisenhower realized there was another man in the room, short, standing behind Clark. “The Brits didn’t send word?”

Clark shook his head. “Apparently not. I understand the prime minister is doing a dance all over the walls of Ten Downing Street. We should let them know we landed.”

“Yes, of course. Send word. Send it twice. We’re giving them enough to worry about already.”

Clark gave the instructions, ordered the aide away, moved to his desk, sat, said, “You see all that gasoline?”

“The governor told me about it. Didn’t go looking for it.”

“Holy mackerel, Ike, they’ve got gas cans stuck in every crack on this rock. The British say they’re holding a million gallons at least, every bit of it in four-gallon tin cans. With the two hundred Spitfires sitting in the open out there, you know that the Krauts are gonna send a few bombers overhead. The governor says the Germans have observers draped all over that barbed-wire fence, watching everything that goes on here. One bomb hits that gas…this whole rock might turn into a Fourth of July celebration.”

Eisenhower scratched his head, worked the stiffness out of his back. “Where else they supposed to store it, Wayne? This is the only friendly spot on the whole damned European continent.”

“Well, ships, for one. The governor was hoping we could get a tanker in here, keep the stuff offshore.”

“You don’t think a tanker would be a target?”

“
We
wouldn’t be on that tanker, sir.”

Eisenhower heard a soft plop, saw a small splatter on his desk. He looked up, the drip gathering on the rock above him, another plopping on the floor beside him. He felt a chill, could see a watery sheen on the entire ceiling above him, smears of crusty color, from whatever minerals made up the rock.

“Hard to imagine this place would ever catch fire. Forget about it. We have too many other things to sweat about. We heard from the sub?”

“I’ll check on it. Radio room down the hall.”

Clark left the room, and Eisenhower could see activity outside, more of the bare lightbulbs, the wetness, men hustling through the rock corridor, boxes, papers, all the business of war. He looked at the papers on his desk, began to sort through the pile, stopped, thought of Giraud. How much of this depends on you? And where the hell are you?

Henri Giraud was supposedly en route to Gibraltar, after a haze of messages and requests had jammed the airways in both directions. According to the diplomat Murphy, Giraud had seemed completely receptive to the role the Allies needed him to play, Giraud suggesting that he be taken directly to Algiers. But neither Giraud nor any of the French commanders had yet been informed of the specific details of Torch, did not yet know the timetable for the landings, had no idea that the invasion fleets were already in motion. Rather than put Giraud right into the middle of a combat zone, it made far more sense to bring the Frenchman to Gibraltar, to meet directly with Eisenhower, to clear up any doubts about the French general’s loyalties, and what he could do to prevent a bloody fight at the landing zones. The plan called for him to slip away from his hiding place in Lyon, to a designated site along the beach, where a submarine would be waiting. Once away from the French coast, he would be picked up by a seaplane for the final leg of the trip to Gibraltar. The submarine was the
Seraph,
the same craft that had transported Clark to the Algerian beach. But true to form, the Frenchman would not accept any transport by a British ship. It was the old ugliness rearing its head, French resentment against the British. There seemed to be no ignoring the centuries of rivalry and animosity between the two countries. The British had opened the latest wound after the fall of France, when Admiral Darlan, who was becoming Pétain’s number two man in the Vichy government, would not agree to allow the French fleet to escape the umbrella of German control. The French navy was the fourth largest in the world, and should those ships sail alongside the Germans, the British would certainly lose whatever dominance they had on water. With Darlan refusing to release that part of the fleet anchored in French ports in North Africa, the British had no choice but to treat those warships as hostile. In July 1940, the French ships anchored in Oran, Algeria, refused British ultimatums and chose to fight. It was a significant mistake. The British navy responded by sinking several major craft, which not only cost the Germans eventual use of the ships, but was of course an embarrassment to the French admiralty. Regardless of British logic in their approach to the problem, it was just one more thorn in their relationship with the French, a thorn that was now digging into Eisenhower’s planning. Giraud had demanded that he be transported in an American submarine, despite there being no Americans subs available anywhere near the Mediterranean. So the
Seraph
would become American, with an American skipper, just long enough to bring Giraud to safety.

GIBRALTAR—NOVEMBER 6, 1942

A dozen aides were scattered throughout the vast cavern, voices low, all noise subdued by the dense rock around them.

Butcher was there now, and Eisenhower asked, “Have we heard from George? What about the weather in the Atlantic?”

“Latest reports don’t change the forecast. Still calling for rough seas.”

“Keep me posted. Less than forty-eight hours. I want to know what those beaches are like.”

“Aye, sir.”

Butcher moved away, and Eisenhower stared again at the map, British staffers using long sticks to adjust the position of the blue ships, the fleets, edging them closer to their goals. He scanned the map, his eyes resting on Spain. He thought of Patton, couldn’t help a smile. The surf conditions near Casablanca were notoriously difficult, rough seas that would make any landing a challenge. There had been concern that the landing might be canceled, Patton’s troops forced to shift to another zone, perhaps linking up with one of the other groups inside the Mediterranean. Patton’s response had been no surprise:
If we can’t land in West Africa, we’ll find some place else. How about Spain?
Leave it to Georgie to start a whole new war. He’d win it too.

“Sir, the press are in the briefing room. Commander Butcher has given them a briefing, but they’re asking to speak to you.”

Eisenhower turned to the aide, who made a smart, unnecessary salute.

“Fine. I’ll be right there.”

He usually did well with the newspapermen and radio reporters, had actually built a friendship with Edward R. Murrow. It was an essential part of his job, one reason why Eisenhower could function outside of the public eye so effectively. And it was a mutually beneficial relationship. If the reporters wanted to know what was going on, for the most part Eisenhower would tell them. In return, it was clearly understood that they had to exercise extraordinary discretion in what information they passed on to the public.

He saw two Americans and two Brits waiting at the door of the briefing room, the only reporters allowed to make the trip. They made a path for him, and he moved through a cloud of cigarette smoke, scanned the familiar faces, moved to one end of the small room.

Butcher appeared in the doorway now, and Eisenhower looked toward him, said, “Commander Butcher has briefed you, I understand?”

There were nods.

“Quite.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. I don’t have much to add. The timetable has not changed. Weather could still be a factor in the Atlantic. I understand that you all brought a considerable amount of winter clothing.”

They smiled with him, and Wes Gallagher, of the Associated Press, said, “Still looking for the glaciers, sir. Can’t seem to find any fjords either.”

“Sorry. Couldn’t be helped. We had to indicate at every opportunity that we were going to Norway. It was simply too important to mention anything else.”

Gallagher said, “I’d donate my heavy woolens to the Red Cross hereabouts, but they don’t seem interested.”

Another man, Cunningham, from the United Press, said, “Sir, if no one else has done so, allow me to be the first to congratulate you.”

Eisenhower glanced at Butcher, saw a smile, said, “What do you mean?”

“We got word that MacArthur, Ohio, has changed its name to Eisenhower.”

Butcher laughed, the others joining in, and Eisenhower held up a hand, quieting them.

“If that’s true…well, I’m certain that before this is over, they’ll change it back. You all know full well that I’m not as, um,
juicy
as General MacArthur.”

They grew silent now, and he said, “You know your jobs, gentlemen. The public needs to know the facts, and I’m all for that, as long as nothing gets out that helps the enemy. There has been a great deal of planning for this operation that was extremely sensitive, and so, we had to hold back telling you things. I know you want to win this war as quickly as we do, and you can all assist by doing the right kind of job here. We’ll be as open with you as we feel we can, so don’t spy on us. Be assured that if anyone here violates the faith we’ve placed in you, if I can catch you, I’ll shoot you. Good day, gentlemen.”

He moved out through the small room, was past Butcher, who beamed a smile, said in a low voice, “Nicely done, sir.”

Eisenhower didn’t smile, turned toward his office, said, “I meant it.”

“S
ir, it’s Admiral Cunningham.”

Eisenhower stood, and Butcher stood aside, stiff and formal, making way for the older man to enter the office. Cunningham stepped in slowly, leaned on a cane. He clamped his hat firmly under one arm, the dark blue uniform having a formalizing effect on Butcher that made Eisenhower smile. Yep, Harry’s still a navy man.

Andrew Browne Cunningham was one of Britain’s most effective fighting sailors. He had scored impressive victories over the Italian navy early in the war, which had allowed the British to maintain naval control of the Mediterranean. He was several years older than Eisenhower, carried himself with that distinctly British stiffness, but bore no resemblance to those officers who strutted and preened far more than they actually fought. The admiral had been named overall naval commander of the Allied forces in the Mediterranean and North Africa and, as such, was the highest-ranking naval officer under Eisenhower’s command. It was a fortunate choice, since Eisenhower had taken an immediate liking to the man.