The Rising Tide: A Novel of World War II (4 page)

“Move! Ninety degrees starboard! Forward!”

He searched for another target, all four men rising to the battle, all a part of the chaos, a desperate dance of men and machine.

T
hey were a part of the British Seventh Armored Division, and from their earliest days in the fight in North Africa, they had been known as the Desert Rats. They took the name from the greater Egyptian jerboa, a strange and awkward rodent that bore an uncanny resemblance to a tiny kangaroo. The jerboa had made its appearance at every supply depot, every place where man brought something edible to this inhospitable place. They seemed to hate the sunlight and avoided the heat, which seemed more than a little odd for a creature who made his home in the desert. It was a trait the jerboa shared with the men of the British Seventh Armored.

The tank commander’s name was Clyde Atkins, and at twenty-eight he was among the oldest of the noncoms who ran the tanks. Most of the big machines were run by sergeants, men who were inappropriately called “sir” by their crews. No one seemed to care about the breach of protocol. To the Desert Rats, being in charge of a tank earned a man the right to be called sir. There were officers of course, at the head of each squadron, men like the despised Digby, who commanded groups of six or eight of the big machines. But driving a tank in battle was a young man’s game, quick reflexes and a hardiness required to work in conditions that no amount of training could accurately duplicate. In the chaos of a fight in the desert, each tank fought its own war.

Though the Italians had fared well against the first British troops they’d confronted, when the Seventh arrived, the tide had turned. The British had marveled at the gallant men in obscenely outdated vehicles, whose bravery and amazing willingness to die had not slowed the British from sweeping them entirely across Libya. The power of the British tanks was a shocking surprise to the unfortunate Italians, who had been told their own tanks would crush any foe. And no matter how gallant they had been, their commanders had seemed utterly worthless, something the British had observed from their very first confrontations. The lack of respect the British felt for the Italian commanders extended all the way up the chain of command to Mussolini himself. The British quickly understood that the Italian armies were being sacrificed by an arrogantly stupid man whom the men began to call a “small-bore dictator,” a stooge for Hitler. Even now the Italian prisoners brought the stories, how Mussolini had assured them that their conquest of North Africa was only the first chapter in the birth of a new Roman Empire. But the prisoners Atkins had seen cared nothing at all for some glorious legacy and seemed to care little for Mussolini himself. Their officers were a different story. They had marched into the British camps protesting all the way, outraged at being captured, insulted by defeat, oblivious to the catastrophic ineptness that had killed so many of their own good men.

The Seventh Armored had been a major part of the push that had driven the Italians halfway across Libya. Near Benghazi, the Desert Rats had emerged from their tanks with the glow of victory, many speaking of a quick end to the entire war.

Then, Rommel arrived.

The Desert Rats knew little of the new German commander, but in the battles that followed, they learned that he had brought the most modern guns and armor in any theater of the war. The Italians who had survived were now alongside an ally who had known only victory, who had crushed the French, and the British themselves. Sergeant Atkins and the other tank commanders soon understood that their cherished two-pounder was seriously outgunned. If the A9 was to succeed, it had to be at close range and to the side, firing into the thinner, weaker flank of the German armor. Otherwise, it would take a lucky shot beneath the turret to have any effect at all. To many, the bigger guns on the German tanks, combined with the eighty-eights lurking behind their armor, made Rommel seem virtually unstoppable.

The Seventh had suffered as badly as any, but worse for their morale, they had lost their beloved commander. General Jock Campbell had brought fire to the Seventh Armored, but Campbell was dead, not from combat, but by the cruel joke of an auto accident, his car overturning on a dismal stretch of desert road. Campbell had inspired not only his men, but the British high command, and convinced them to understand the value of the massed, carefully coordinated armor strike, the same kind of tactic Hitler’s army had used in France. The Seventh took pride that they were recognized as the very force that would lead this kind of strike, what were now called “Jock columns.” Though the Germans might have the better machines, Campbell had given his Desert Rats the confidence that no army had better men.

D
arkness brought the fighting to an end.

They huddled beside the tank, beneath a thin canvas shelter they had unrolled from the rear of the turret. The canvas partially covered the tank itself, an attempt at camouflage, hiding both men and machine. They were filthy and exhausted and slowly fumbled with their ration tins, the first food any of them had eaten all day. Simmons had poured a cup of gasoline into a small, round hole in the dirt, the fire surrounded by a circle of rocks, just wide enough to support a pot of water. At least they would have tea.

No one spoke. Atkins scanned the edges of the canvas tent, reached out and pulled one side away from the tread of the tank. He was careful, no light could leak, nothing to give any gunner a place to aim. Somewhere, on all sides of them, men were doing as they were doing, finding time for food, sleep perhaps, a little tea. The Germans were there too, in all directions, two armies lost in the same span of desert, scattered tanks and armored vehicles, some in small clusters, others alone, all of them knowing that in the darkness, just
out there,
the enemy was close.

The tank was still warm, but the air was already cool, would get colder, and the men had wrapped themselves in ragged sheepskin coats, pulled from hidden nooks inside the tank.

The routine at the day’s end was to gather the tank squads into camps, canvas sheets draping the tanks, which were parked in uneven rows. In this part of the desert, the British had made good use of any cover they could find, patches of camel thorn that would add to the camouflage of the vehicles. If the Germans sent a patrol to poke around, either side might fire starlight flares, the black desert suddenly bursting with light, tanks silhouetted for a brief moment, enough time for an artillery observer to guide a well-placed shell. But with the profiles of the tanks blending into the brush, there was not enough time for the enemy scouts to choose a target. That was the routine. But today, nothing had been routine. The fights had swept over the entire front, all the way north to the great escarpment that separated the sea from this flat table of desert. And the British had taken the heavier blow, Rommel’s massive surge of armor flowing right through and around the British units. Confusion and fiery destruction had sent many of the British tanks back, panicked drivers blindly seeking the safety of the artillery support to the rear. But many could not get that far, were cut off, chopped to pieces by Rommel’s rapid advance. It was the German’s great genius, avoiding the head-on confrontation, sweeping the flank of the British armor. The tactic was obvious to the men in the tanks, and yet somehow the British command was all too often caught off guard by Rommel’s rapid circular attacks. Today, the blow had been terrifyingly precise, and all across the British position, tank squadrons had been obliterated, some of the wrecked machines visible even now, scattered across the desert, small specks of flame.

Atkins waited for Simmons to pour the boiling water, stared at the cup in his hands, holding the last of his special hoard of tea. He knew that somewhere to the east, the food and water wagons were waiting, anxious men wondering if the tank squads they served had survived the day. Yes, we’re alive, he thought. No bloody idea where we are, or what’s between us and all that hot food. And water. And gasoline.

“How much petrol we have left?”

Simmons looked at him, said, “An hour. Maybe a quarter more. Not enough to play around.”

“How many shells?”

Moxley was holding his tin cup as well, staring at the small, dimming fire. “Maybe…twenty-five. Thirty.”

Atkins nodded, and Batchelor, his loader said, “Four boxes for the Vickers.”

Four boxes. Enough machine-gun fire for what? Maybe an hour of fighting? Then what? Did that bloody Rommel get to our ammo dumps today too? He stirred the water in his cup, knew they were looking to him, would measure their own despair by his response. He nodded, tried to seem as positive as he could.

“That’s enough. Ought to get us out of this mess. We’ve got at least a half dozen tanks to our south. We can team up at first light, drive east.”

He knew they would understand the word:
east.
Retreat. No, more than retreat. Get the hell out of here. He thought of the big tents, the men with the maps. Hell, you don’t know where we are any more than we do. But you sure better know what kind of whack we took today.

Simmons pushed dirt into his fire hole, killing the last flicker of light. They sat in total darkness, each man’s eyes trying to find some glimpse, something to adjust to.

Simmons said, “Sir, we took a good licking, eh?”

“It wasn’t pretty.”

“I saw Captain Digby brew up. Looked like he got hit by an eighty-eight.”

“You don’t know that.”

Simmons was silent for a moment. “I saw him brew up, sir. Nobody got out.”

Brew up.

Atkins sipped at his tea. Damned strange description of it. He had seen the explosion as well, but there was no time to think about it, beyond the glimpse of Digby’s command flag. Never liked that chap. But…not what I had in mind.

There was a burst of firing, a machine gun, and Atkins pulled back the canvas, saw streaks of tracers arcing toward the north. Now another, a sharp streak of white light, then red, the response. Damned fools. Shooting at ghosts. Just as likely to kill your own.

“Sit tight, chaps. A lot of itchy fingers. Maybe wounded, just shooting to show how pissed they are. No targets until morning.”

Simmons said, “You think they went after Tobruk again, sir?”

“Hell if I know. That’s forty miles from here. I think. Rommel pushed around the south of us. He might have pushed north too. Tobruk’s not our problem.”

There was a long silent moment, and Atkins pushed at the canvas again, tossed it back, the cold air rolling over them. No one protested, the men simply huddling up tighter, tugging at their coats. He slid out from beneath the heavy cloth, could make out the dark shapes of tanks, trucks in the distance, faint silhouettes in the light of a low crescent moon. There were still fires, smaller now, distant, but most of the burned hulks were cold and silent. He looked up, stared at the vast open sky, a million flickering lights, the night perfect and clear. He watched the stars for a long minute, felt the chill inside his coat. He realized now how truly tired he was, how every part of him ached. He looked back into the dark canvas cave, thought, you better get some sleep. Tomorrow, if we’re lucky, we can get the hell out of here, regroup, wait for those damned generals to figure out what we’re supposed to do next. But we weren’t lucky today. Today, Rommel kicked us in the ass.

2. ROMMEL

THE LIBYAN DESERT
MAY 29, 1942

H
e had been out front again, his command truck careening in and around the storm of dust and debris. The panzer divisions had staggered the British throughout most of the fight, but it was far from decided.

Rommel’s command vehicle was a British “Mammoth,” a huge, lumbering hulk captured in one of the many fights the preceding year. He rode up on top, high above anyone else, sat on the hard metal with his feet hanging down through an open hatch. The driver knew to push the fat truck right into the dust, that Rommel would not be satisfied until he could see it for himself, tank against tank, and if that meant he must direct the fight from the front lines, then that’s where he would go.

The truck was a communication center, alive with crew and equipment designed to maintain some control of the battle around him. But the radios only brought confusion, coded messages that might require long wasted minutes to translate, or worse, voices speaking “in the clear,” using no code at all, panicked men whose reports were a waste of time, since the enemy could hear them as well. His decisions were based on what he saw, not what he heard, and he would not rely on some bloodied tank officer to guide a fight from the blind hole of one tank. With so many tanks and armored gun carriers swirling around each other, a man whose survival depended on perfect control of one gun had better things to do.

Rommel had heard all the discreet complaining from his staff, well-tempered urgings that he should stay put, keep away from the worst of the bloody fighting. They knew not to push him too hard, and he tolerated the pressure from his senior staff, the men he respected, like Westphal, a good loyal officer who did his job. Now, in the midst of a full-scale tank battle, the staff’s job was to coordinate things from the rear, keep the supplies moving forward, fueling and feeding this marvelous army.

The two heavy-armor divisions of the Afrika Korps were only a part of the total force he commanded, which included other German infantry and motorized units whose mobility and firepower had usually overmatched the British. In the field, he also commanded the Italians, both armor and infantry, men who had seen too much of defeat. But he tried to show respect for the Italians, knew that a fighting man should not be judged by his uniform, but by how he met the enemy. His respect for the front-line Italian soldiers had inspired them, this hard-bitten German who expected them to fight. The Italians responded, offering more tribute to Rommel than they ever had to their own officers. But the officers continued to listen to their paper commanders, the men appointed by Rome, who had been told that they outranked Rommel, or a delusion greater still, that Rommel would actually obey them. He knew his place in the chain of command, understood obedience as well as any good soldier. But he had seen too much of the Italians’ petty grandstanding, pompous authority exercised by worthless officers who knew nothing of strategy and tactics. The Italians were embarrassed, humiliated, chose not to understand why Mussolini had allowed the Germans to come into North Africa. For all Rommel knew, even Mussolini was humiliated, though no one would ever detect a hint of that from the man’s absurd declarations.

At first, he’d actually liked Mussolini, the man the Italians called Il Duce. Rommel had been attracted by the man’s aggressive charm, and more, by Mussolini’s ability to make good his own boasts. It was the luxury of being a dictator. No matter how bombastic his pronouncements, he would suggest only those strategies he had the absolute power to carry out. That way, he could maintain an aura of flawlessness. But Rommel had soon learned that Germany’s ally was anything but flawless. Il Duce would do anything to save face, whether it made sense on the battlefield or not.

Even before Rommel had come to Africa, Hitler’s overwhelming success in northern Europe had put Mussolini in the background. It was a form of humiliation that the Italian dictator would simply not accept. And so, he would make a glorious show of his own. In late 1940, Mussolini made the astonishing decision to invade Greece, without consulting Hitler at all. It was clear to all that Il Duce was attempting his own blitzkrieg, a lightning strike to conquer an inferior foe, more to impress Hitler than to accomplish anything of strategic value. But Mussolini’s grand scheme backfired dramatically. Greece was no outclassed weakling. The Italian invaders were severely bloodied and sent reeling back. The message to the Germans was clear. Despite all of Mussolini’s rousing oratory, his army might not be as inspired as their leader had promised. It was a lesson not lost on Rommel. Mussolini’s ambitions for North Africa had little to do with the reality of what was required there, especially in confronting a British army that was constantly reinforcing and improving its equipment. Despite the exhortations from Rome, the Italian supply service did little to actually help their cause. The navy seemed far more interested in preserving their ships for posterity than risking them by hauling essential cargo across the Mediterranean. Rommel had struggled not only to secure an adequate number of troops and armor, but the food and fuel essential to maintaining his army in the field. Promises poured over him from Rome, and every day, fewer ships arrived to fulfill them. All the while, Mussolini spoke loudly of his valiant campaign to secure Africa for the new Roman Empire.

R
ommel passed the burning wreckage of a British scout car, ignored the black shapes that still sat upright behind the shattered windshield. His tanks had mostly moved away, pushing northward, in rapid pursuit of a disordered British retreat. He coughed from the smoke, adjusted his goggles, shouted into the Mammoth, “Forward! Follow the dust. We must not lose contact.”

The Mammoth continued to move, picking up speed, bouncing over rocks, swerving slightly to avoid black debris. He gripped the hatchway with one gloved hand, raised the binoculars with the other, but there was nothing to see, the smoke and dust blocking any sign of the fight. He could still hear the thumps of the artillery, knew from the sound it was the good work of the eighty-eights. But there were not as many now, the artillery fire beginning to slow.

“Stop! Stop now!”

The Mammoth crawled to a stop, and he scanned the dusty horizon. Still nothing to see. He lowered the binoculars, clasped his hands tightly around them, could hear scattered fights in all directions, even behind him, something he was used to now. But the sounds were too infrequent, too spread out.

“Send word to Crüwell. I want him in the air. If his tanks aren’t firing, he’s lost contact. He must find the enemy before they escape!”

The radio operator went to work, and Rommel still scanned to the north. Yes, General, get in your airplane and find them. That’s why we do not sit in tents.

Ludwig Crüwell, the commander of the panzer divisions, was a man Rommel had come to rely on. The man had a quick mind and agreed with Rommel that leadership should not be exercised from behind. Most of the senior commanders had their own small planes, Rommel included. It was usually a Storch, a narrow two-seater that could land and take off on nearly any short stretch of flat ground, and the desert here was nothing but flat ground. Crüwell had adapted well to Rommel’s habit of seeing a fight from the air, though unlike Rommel, Crüwell used a pilot. Rommel had learned long ago that a pilot was one more man, one more
detail
to keep track of. The most efficient way of getting around in a plane was to fly yourself.

“Sir, General Crüwell acknowledges your order. He will scout the enemy immediately.”

Rommel stared ahead, thought, I should not have had to tell him. When your guns grow quiet, General, you have either killed all your enemy, or he has left you. I do not believe the British have allowed themselves to be obliterated.

The dust was drifting past him still, driven by a light, hot breeze. He spat dust, pulled his scarf up over his mouth, searched for some movement, some sign of his armor. Or anyone else’s. He was feeling the familiar frustration, the blindness. Where have they gone? He turned, looked more to the east, thought of the British. You’re out there, still. You didn’t just simply run away like so many gazelles. And I am not yet finished with you.

The air above him ripped with a high scream, the sound fading, the shell landing far to the west. He laughed, said aloud, “So, you read my mind, eh? You don’t care for my little insult?”

Another shell streaked overhead, and he could see the thin, white line, the trail of the shell fading quickly. Big one, he thought. Shooting at nothing. A protest of their own fear. Now another shell came from behind, the streak more red, the scream passing over in the opposite direction, quickly fading away. He waited, heard a small burst of thunder to the east. He smiled now, looked up again, waited for the next one. It came seconds later, followed by two more. The shells were arcing straight over him, and he ignored the nervous voices in the Mammoth, had heard all of that before, concern that they should move, get Rommel out of harm’s way. Why? They aren’t shooting at us. We’re in the perfect place, right between them. A duel, and we’re the audience. He felt strangely excited, thought not of the guns, not of the men who worked them. He thought instead of the observers, far out in front somewhere, maybe close by, right here, around us hidden in some low pile of rocks. Here is the chess game, the
fun,
waiting, watching for your enemy to make some mistake, an enemy gunner carelessly revealing his position. He imagined himself deep in some thorny brush, peering over rocks. Yes, there, the flash, the brief plume of smoke. I
see
you, fool. He leaned back slightly, put his hands behind him, the gloves protecting him from the searing heat of the Mammoth’s rooftop, smiled. So, now you know where they are, and so, you make the call to the battery. The power is yours, guided by your hand. First one shell, to judge the range, then, adjust, nearer, farther, to one side or the other. And for the enemy there is no escape. He knows what he has done, knows that he has made a deadly error, and in seconds it will kill him, his gun, his entire crew. And the observer…he will see it happen. It is a perfect moment.

He waited for more, a minute, then two. But the guns were silent and he looked back toward the west, to where his artillery would be, knew it was done. This one belongs to us. The final shot of the duel. Yes, good work. Whoever you are, I would shake your hand.

T
he Mammoth slowed, dust billowing from below, bathing the small sea of tents in a choking fog. Rommel was down quickly, saw officers gathering, was surprised to see Kesselring.

“Field Marshal, I did not expect to see you. I came for General Crüwell’s report.”

“Come, let us walk.”

Albert Kesselring’s primary responsibility was the Luftwaffe, the German air forces that patrolled throughout the Mediterranean. He answered to Hermann Göring, who controlled all of Hitler’s air forces. But Kesselring outranked Rommel and was in nominal command of the entire southern theater of the war, and so, Rommel’s decisions were subject to Kesselring’s approval. Rommel did not particularly like the man, and he suspected that the feeling was mutual, but from necessity they had formed a good working relationship. Kesselring was far more of a diplomat and so could deal far more gently and effectively with the Italians both in Rome and in North Africa, who continued to believe they were running the show. Rommel’s constant screaming for supplies had made him an unwelcome voice in Rome, and increasingly, in Berlin. Kesselring was highly regarded by Hitler and could soften the indiscreet blows made by Rommel against “chairborne” generals and inept staff officers.

The two men walked away from the dusty tents, and Rommel, feeling impatient, said, “I don’t need to hear bad news just now. Do you not hear the fight?”

Kesselring stopped, and Rommel knew he couldn’t prevent the man from telling him of yet another calamity in Rome, some new reason why gasoline could not be sent.

Kesselring said, “I will inconvenience you anyway. General Crüwell has been shot down. Word was received here that his Storch took fire, and that he landed among the British. We do not know if he is dead, and certainly, there is hope he may only be captured.”

“How long ago?”

“Within the hour. I received word back at my headquarters and flew up here as quickly as possible. We tried…” Kesselring stopped, and Rommel knew what was coming. “We did not know where you were. Colonel Westphal said you were somewhere at the front.”

“I am here now. Do we know the enemy’s position?”

A low roll of thunder erupted in the east, beyond the flat ground. Both men turned, and Kesselring said, “From what I can tell, the enemy is holding on to several key positions. We have taken a heavy toll on his armor, but he is not defeated. What do you intend to do?”

Rommel looked at the man, the genial face, the man’s bald head hidden by the distinctive white-crowned hat of the Luftwaffe. The shape of the man’s mouth made him appear to be smiling, though Kesselring was usually quite serious, was certainly serious now. Rommel pointed toward the sounds of the firing.

“I intend to find out why we do not hear more of that.”

He saw words forming, Kesselring preparing the same tired protest. But Kesselring let it go, stepped back, made a short bow.

“Go. Do not let me stand in your way. This is your fight. I should notify Berlin about General Crüwell.”

“Might it wait a moment? I need you to do something more important. Come.”

Rommel led Kesselring toward the largest tent, Crüwell’s staff gathering. He focused on the small table, maps spread out, papers overlapping. Rommel studied one, looked out, listened, the low rumbles coming again. He looked at Kesselring, said, “With Crüwell absent, the ranking officer in this sector is Italian. I would prefer…the panzers require a German to lead them. I need you to take over this position, take command of this wing of the attack. Coordinate the tank battalions. Find where the enemy is holding strong and push the fight around those positions.”