The Rising Tide: A Novel of World War II (7 page)

Montgomery was truly angry now, had not thought his decisions would be held up to such doubt. He saw concern on Alexander’s face, but he could not stop the words.

“And the artillery. Until now, we have scattered our big guns in every part of the field, using them in small, useless packets. No longer. I have massed them into one body, to focus on one primary point of attack. The armor should be used the same way, with emphasis not just on their mobility, but on their firepower. A tank is a mobile cannon, but it is still a cannon. I have no intention of throwing tanks away piecemeal, like we have done so many times before.”

Churchill turned slowly, the short stub of the cigar clamped in his mouth, his eyes peering at Montgomery from under the brim of the ridiculous hat.

“I know.”

Montgomery was confused. “Sir?”

Alexander laughed now, and Churchill smiled.

“I said, I know. I saw it all today, Monty. Just wanted to hear you say it. Napoléon wanted generals who were lucky. I would rather have generals who were prepared, who understood their enemy. Claude Auchinleck was a good man, no matter how you feel about him. He failed because he put the wrong people in the wrong place. Whether he was unlucky or not, I don’t know. But he wasn’t prepared for what Rommel gave him. It broke my heart to remove him, but I had no choice. He had played his last card.”

Montgomery said nothing, had never considered luck to play any part in what he did.

Churchill stared out to sea again, said, “Gentlemen, failure is more expensive in London than it is here. I must answer to the parliament and to the people, people who don’t know beans about war. But they know humiliation, and we’ve had quite enough of that.” Churchill tossed the spent cigar into the water. “I was in Washington, in a meeting with Roosevelt, when word came that we had lost Tobruk. Nothing like being humiliated right in front of your most critical ally. It was as bad as Singapore, hearing how the Japanese kicked us straight in the privates. Defeat I can take. But not disgrace. England won’t stand for it. I won’t stand for it. We need a victory, Monty. You have far more armor than the Eighth Army has had before. That should inspire you to take a chance here and there.”

Montgomery said, “There is no gamble here, sir. This is not some bloody game of politics, where the loudest voice, the hottest rhetoric, wins the day. I have the tanks and the artillery and I bloody well have the ground. If Rommel does not attack us, then in six weeks’ time, I am prepared to attack him.”

Churchill looked toward Alexander, said, “Six weeks? It will require six weeks? I had hoped…sooner.”

Alexander said nothing, and Montgomery said, “We must be prepared, sir. Only then.”

Churchill turned slowly in the water, searching the shoreline.

Alexander said, “Is everything all right, Prime Minister?”

“Quite. No bystanders lurking hereabouts. Tell me, Monty, how much has Alex told you about Torch?”

Alexander said, “I’ve not discussed the details with anyone in my command, sir. Premature, I’d say. A good many things to be worked out yet.”

Churchill grunted. “That’s the Americans for you. Strong-minded lot. You bloody well have to lead them on a damned leash. But, without them, we’d be in a serious pickle. Roosevelt is a friend to England, and the one man who can provide the means for us to win this war. I suppose that gives him the right to have his people decide where that war is going to be fought. It’s been a devil of an effort, but I finally got them to stop looking across the English Channel. Every damned one of them, Marshall on down, wants to invade the French coast. I can imagine every general in their army wants to go back to that bloody cemetery in Paris just so he can say something about Lafayette again: ‘Lafayette we are here.’ That’s all some of them remember from the first big war. They do so like their slogans.”

“I believe they’re holding out on us, sir.”

Montgomery’s words settled on the water like a dull slap. Alexander looked at him, frowned, shook his head, a silent no.

Montgomery was surprised by the reaction, and Churchill said, “What the hell are you talking about, Monty?”

“The Grant tanks, sir. I was told they’d be delivering four hundred new tanks. I counted a hundred sixty. No mystery there. They’re hoarding them, keeping their best armor for themselves. Leaving me to fight Rommel with outdated equipment.”

Churchill stared at him for a long moment, his eyes closing into tight slits.

Alexander said, “General Montgomery is aware, sir, that the Americans have been extremely helpful.”

“Damned right they have. You say they’ve delivered a hundred sixty Grants?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Sounds to me like a bloody load of armor. You used any of them yet?”

“They’re being placed into position, assigned to the appropriate commands even now, sir.”

“Then before you bellyache, General Montgomery, perhaps you should find out if a hundred sixty new American tanks might win you a battle. So you think they’re holding back a few, eh?”

Montgomery ignored the scowl on Alexander’s face, said, “I believe they should provide what they said they would provide.”

“Torch, General. Look past your own command. You’ve got Rommel sitting right in front of you. I can think of no more intelligent a plan than to send another army right up his backside. That army will be American, mostly. And, despite your objections, it might be fitting if they provide some armor for their own people.”

Montgomery had heard the first details of what they now called Operation Torch, the first large-scale assault by American forces in the European theater. He held tightly to his words now, watched as Churchill turned away, the man working his jaw, attacking a cigar that wasn’t there. Alexander seemed to relax, but Montgomery refused to feel chastised, spoke to Churchill in his mind: We don’t need another army on this continent. Send the damned Yanks to France, let them find out what Jerry can do to them. I’ve got Rommel right where I want him, and damned if I’m going to let some Yank who’s never led a rubbish detail grab this victory.

Churchill removed his pith helmet, splashed water on his head, then stood up, stared out to the open sea. “Any U-boats around here?”

Alexander said, “Highly unlikely, sir. The air force keeps a close eye on the coast. Destroyers are patrolling regularly.”

Churchill looked down at his own vast expanse of chalky skin, put a fat hand on his stomach.

“Hmph. Too bad. I’d like to see a periscope pop up right out there, let him get a look at this. Might scare him worse than any damned destroyer.”

5. ROMMEL

NEAR TEL EL AQQAQIR, EGYPT
AUGUST 1942

Dearest Lu,

The situation is changing daily to my advantage….

He hated lying to her.

He set the paper aside, had no energy to complete the letter. What do I tell her? She knows that what she hears from the propaganda ministry is just that: propaganda. Should I simply add to that?

Westphal was outside the tent, restocking the Mammoth. Rommel stood, stretched, probed the dull ache in his side, felt the slight dizziness, the same sensation now every time he stood up. He tried to ignore it, was suddenly hungry, unusual, called out, “Colonel. Have you a tin of sardines there?”

Westphal appeared at the tent. “Certainly, sir. Just one? We have a whole crate of them.”

“Just one.”

Westphal disappeared, and Rommel went to the low, hard cot, sat, his knees groaning. He probed the pain again, too familiar now, draining his energy, the pain that usually took his appetite away. This is not good, he thought. Not good at all. What is it about this place that requires so much of a man’s body? The war alone is not sufficient to break down an army. This desert must take its toll as well.

He looked at the short legs of the cot, each one immersed in a small can of oily water. The cans were a barrier, a trap for the astounding variety of wingless pests that would attack a man while he slept. He stared at the variety of drowned insects, thought, my own personal minefield. And just as ineffective. Now…this. He stretched his side, could not escape the ache. What other beast has invaded me?

He had suffered from jaundice the year before, something the doctors blamed on the food, a diet so inappropriate for the heat and dryness of the desert. He thought of the doctor, Horster, the man’s gloomy diagnosis, the harsh recommendation that Rommel should return to Germany, recover from the jaundice. He knew that Horster had sent that same recommendation to Germany, the strong hint that Rommel might not be fit to command. Kesselring had come again, was in camp frequently now. Yes, he’s watching me, they are all watching me. Stay here awhile, all of you. Find out for yourself what the desert does to a man. There are plagues out here no man can stand up to, caused by…what? Just look at the creatures that are spawned here. He struggled to take a deep breath, looked again at the odd mix of bugs in the water cans. If not you, then what? He had no idea what kind of creature caused the diseases that were attacking his army, whether it was a creature at all. No man seemed immune, the torture of sun and dust and dryness ripping sores in the skin, and then, when a man’s outsides were weakened, the insides would be attacked, all manner of ailments spreading to the gut, or worse, like the jaundice that had swelled Rommel’s liver. I’ve been nineteen months in the desert, he thought. Horster claims no officer over forty has equaled that record, like I should be given some Olympic medal. It is no accomplishment, Doctor, it is duty.

His batman, Gunther, was there now, holding the tin of sardines and a small fork.

“Sir. Colonel Westphal instructed me to bring this.”

Rommel took the sardines, the smell of the oil turning his stomach. He shook his head, handed the tin back to Gunther, said, “Not now, Herbert. I’ve changed my mind. Eat them yourself. Don’t waste them.”

“You certain, sir? I can fix you something else.”

“No. I should take the Storch aloft. Search out the British defenses. With a new man at the top, there will be uncertainty, new planning, this man Montgomery anxious to put his own stamp on his army. I should see what they’re up to. You care to join me?”

It was a standing joke between them, as much as Rommel would joke with anyone.

“Is that an order, sir?”

Gunther’s expression never changed, a testament to his loyalty, but Rommel knew the young man was terrified of the tiny airplane.

Rommel smiled. “Tell Colonel Westphal to have my plane prepared. I shall go aloft.”

Gunther was quickly gone, and Rommel forced himself to stand, blinked at the dry crust in his eyes, wiped his face with a dirty handkerchief. He took another deep breath, a futile effort to clear the staleness from his lungs. He heard Westphal’s voice, the man suddenly appearing at the tent.

“Sir, Corporal Gunther tells me you wish to take the Storch. I must insist not, sir.”

“You what?”

“Sir, the enemy fighters have been out in considerable force. Our pilots are not able to control the airspace.”

“Nonsense.”

“Marshal Kesselring has been very precise, sir. The Luftwaffe cannot guarantee your safety.”

Rommel wanted to protest, but he could not deny that Westphal was right. For weeks now the Spitfires and Hurricanes had dominated the skies, more evidence of Kesselring’s failure to convince the Italians to send more fuel. But he knew it was more than a lack of gasoline. The Messerschmitts had become outnumbered by a wide margin, the flow of British aircraft increasing at a rate the Germans could not hope to match. He could see Kesselring in his mind, the man that some called Smiling Al. But there is nothing to smile about now. Even his spirits have come to earth. Kesselring must beg Göring for aircraft, and still Göring ignores him. Why send Messerschmitts to Africa when there is so much glory to be had conquering Russia? No, Berlin doesn’t listen to Kesselring any more than Rome does, and none of them listens to me.

“Sir, I must insist you remain on the ground. We cannot allow anything to happen to you—”

Rommel held up a hand. “What did Kesselring tell you?”

“He was very plain, sir. He said…”

Westphal paused, and Rommel smiled again, said, “He said, ‘Rommel won’t obey me anyway,’ or something close to that.”

Westphal smiled as well. “That’s approximately correct, sir.”

“Did Marshal Kesselring order me to sit in my tent?”

Westphal seemed unsure if Rommel was teasing him or not. “I don’t believe so.”

“Relax, Colonel. I’ll leave the flying to the Messerschmitts, if Berlin decides to send us a few. You have any problem with me
driving
to the front? Or am I too fragile to see anything for myself?”

“Would you prefer the Volkswagen or the Mammoth, sir?”

“The Volkswagen will suffice. You remain here. Have five armored cars follow well behind, scattered formation, in case I run into something unexpected. Tell them to keep behind me. I’ve eaten enough dust for one day.” He stepped outside, blinked at the sunlight, saw Gunther close by, finishing the sardines.

“Let’s go, Corporal. If you won’t fly with me, you can ride.”

Rommel moved toward the auto park, saw Westphal beside the open-topped automobile. The Volkswagen carried no mounted machine gun, but the driver, and now Gunther, both carried sidearms. Rommel had no interest in getting into a firefight with anyone. His armored-car escorts were a different matter, each with a heavy machine gun, and a crew whose sole job was to keep watch on the horizon, to swarm forward and protect Rommel should the enemy suddenly appear.

The engines of all the vehicles were running now, and Rommel saw Westphal speaking to one of the armored-car drivers. He smiled to himself, thought, don’t worry, Colonel, I’m not going to run off and leave anyone behind.

Westphal was coming toward him, said, “Sir, which direction are you traveling? In the event—”

“Southeast. I want to see this Qattara Depression. I can’t believe it’s as impassable as I’ve heard.”

R
ommel ordered his driver to halt, glanced back as the armored trucks behind him stopped as well. A few yards in front of him, the hard, rocky floor of the desert fell away abruptly, a sheer drop of more than a hundred feet.

He stepped out of the auto, said, “Remain here.”

Rommel stepped across the hard ground toward the edge of the precipice. The desert spread out before him in a golden sea of sandy hills, waves of tall dunes, dropping away into deep swales darkened by shadows. He moved along the edge of the hard ground, saw a shallow cut leading down to a gentle slope in the face of the rocky cliff. There were tracks, some kind of hoofprints, a camel perhaps, and he followed the trail, saw that the beast had walked down into the vast sand plain, the tracks changing to dimples in the sand, and then, the tracks were completely gone, absorbed by the endless landscape. He eased his way down the slope, used the rocks as steps. He had moved out away from the shadows, felt the heat rising up to meet him, a hot breath of stifling air. He put a hand over his mouth, pulled the goggles down over his eyes; he was in the sand now, his boots sinking into the hot softness, ankle deep. The breeze stopped, and he raised the goggles, looked out toward the vast mountains of sand, the surfaces scored by the wind, wisps of dust clouds in the distance, rippled by the glassy shimmer of heat and breeze. Stillness and movement, he thought, like an ocean. But there is a difference, one distinct difference. In all the vastness, the heat, the gentle sprays of sand, he could hear only one sound, the sound of his own breathing. There was no other sound at all.

He smiled.

How far does it go? he thought. He had seen the maps, sketchy details, tens of miles, certainly. And then, to the south and west, the greatest sand sea of them all, the Sahara. This is just a small piece, a child of an enormous mother. And here we choose to fight a war. The arrogance of that, that any of us believe we will
occupy
this place. We do not occupy the desert, any more than a ship occupies the ocean. How many conquerors have swept through here with the same arrogance? The Romans certainly, and how many others? But we believe we are superior, that with our modern machines we can make war anywhere. And all the while, the desert watches us and waits for us to pass, and if we don’t pass, if we remain too long, the desert will consume us. Like it is consuming me.

The smile was gone now, and he turned, saw figures silhouetted along the precipice above him. All right, enough of this. He pulled his boots from the sand, struggled toward the rocks. We may have brought war to the desert, but not to
this
piece of desert. I’m not sending any tanks into this.

AUGUST 30, 1942

Rommel had rebuilt his
Panzerarmee
to a strength of more than four hundred fifty tanks, but over half of those were the inferior Italian machines. Across from him, he could only guess, the scouts bringing him reports that the British faced him with as many as seven hundred tanks, including a hundred or more of the Grants, the new American machine that carried a seventy-five millimeter gun, nearly as strong as anything in Rommel’s army. He did not dwell on numbers, held tightly to the belief that no matter what kind of man Montgomery was, the British were still the British, and they would fight as they had fought before. Numbers mattered little if the enemy launched his tanks at you in small clusters. And whether Montgomery planned to launch them at all, Rommel knew that trading casualties with the British had become an unacceptable option. Every day the British were pouring supplies and reinforcements through the Suez Canal, and with Rommel’s army sprawled across the desert, far from their dwindling supplies, suffering from the neglect and the unwillingness of the quartermasters in Berlin and Rome, time was clearly not on their side. There was only one way for Rommel to have his victory in North Africa. He had to press forward.

The plan was simple: The British were spread out over the ridges and hillsides from the coast at El Alamein, southward into the desert. Rommel had one good option, to sweep around and past the British position, then turn north, slicing across their rear. If the German armor could reach the seacoast, the British would be cut off from their supply lines. Montgomery would learn as the others had learned before him. Armor meant mobility and armor meant power, and Rommel understood both far better than his opponents.

It was called the Battle of Alam Halfa Ridge, and Rommel did as he had always done, using the tactic that had almost always worked. August 30, he shoved armor and infantry in a noisy threat to the British right and center. But then, in the darkness, he slipped the armor down to the south and, in the moonlight, pushed them eastward.

Almost immediately, the plan disintegrated, an unmapped British minefield causing the first major delay. Then, the ground below the British flank proved much softer than expected, which slowed the tanks and caused them to consume more fuel than they could afford. Rommel was forced to shorten the routes of the armor and send them northward much sooner than he had planned. This ran the German tanks straight into the strongest part of Montgomery’s position: Alam Halfa Ridge. Instead of counterattacking Rommel’s tanks, the British held fast to their good ground, and British artillery and the guns of their armor began to punch gaping holes in Rommel’s strength. By nightfall on August 31, Rommel was forcd to halt the attack.

SOUTH OF ALAM HALFA RIDGE—AUGUST 31, 1942

“There is no fuel, sir! We are halted!”

The man’s voice cut through him like a hot razor, and Rommel fought the instinct to shout.