The Steel Wave (48 page)

Rommel’s hand was tight around the receiver, sweat in his clothes, and he fought through the empty helplessness, searched his brain for a response. Von Rundstedt’s voice rattled again in his ear.

“Are you there, Field Marshal?”

Rommel pushed out the words. “Yes. I heard you. General Jodl believes that the Normandy landing is the enemy’s sole plan of attack, and yet I am to leave the entire Fifteenth Army at Calais in the event that he is wrong? The enemy is only coming on one front, but I am to prepare for another front, a front on which we do not believe he will attack?”

“I am following orders here, Erwin. You shall do the same. I will hang up now. There are duties here that require my attention.” Von Rundstedt paused again, and Rommel heard the sarcasm in his words. “Heil Hitler.”

The phone line went dead. Rommel dropped the receiver on the table in front of him, a sharp tumble that startled Geyr’s aides. Across from him, Geyr was watching him from behind a desk, cautious, curious. Rommel sat down on a small wood chair, feeling the usual weariness. He had endured too many explosions inside, the utter frustration of fighting a war with half his weapons.

“I assume that we are to continue with our current strategy, the armor advancing northward and then maintaining our position,” Geyr said.

“Of course we are. Even von Rundstedt knows that’s a bad idea. But never mind. He’s busy pruning his rose garden.”

Geyr turned toward the large map, and Rommel thought, Yes, look at your map. Make a good show of it. Pretend to plan something new. There is nothing new, General. We are fighting the inevitable.

Rommel stood slowly, and Geyr turned to him, “I had hoped our petroleum situation would have improved. It is difficult to resupply and refuel my tanks. We are rationing our ammunition, as well. The railroads—”

“The railroads are useless, and the roads are impossible except at night—yes, yes, I know all of that. It seems that finally that old man in Paris has learned this as well. So tell me, General, even if I could move a convoy of trucks, how do I send you gasoline when the supply officers in Paris won’t even acknowledge my requests? Von Rundstedt tells me we have plenty of supplies, because he studies great rows of numbers scribbled on sheets of paper. It is those same pieces of paper that tell the High Command how powerful our fighting divisions are. It is so much fiction, General. But I will tell you what is
not
fiction. Right now, the enemy is continuing to strengthen, reinforcing on
his
beaches. He possesses an infinite ability to strengthen himself, and we cannot even summon our valiant Luftwaffe to protect a gasoline truck!”

Rommel paused, then said, “Reichsmarschall Göring cannot be bothered to respond to my requests himself, so he sends his minions to assure us that all will be well and our vaunted air force will soon sweep the enemy from the skies. In the meantime, he insists that we conserve our ground forces. Conserve! And you—I have seen the same tendency in this command, Herr Geyr. Too much conserving, and not enough attacking! If the armor had been at my disposal, I would have destroyed the enemy on the beaches. Now, when the tanks are finally brought forward, we are cautious; we do not wish to commit our greatest strength to the fight!”

He was breathing heavily, the fury tearing through him; he put his hand on the table and steadied himself. Geyr did not argue—surprising—and turned again toward the map. Good, he thought. Geyr is afraid of me. I should just kill him and make this simpler.

After a moment, Geyr said, “Sir, I have done all I can to prevent the enemy from damaging our armored strength with his naval guns. We never could have hoped to hold on to the beaches. They should never have been regarded as anything more that outposts, observation points! The armor requires fields of maneuver and cannot be used to prick the enemy like a handful of sewing needles. I have tried to explain this to von Rundstedt, and I have tried to explain this to you. We cannot fight a decisive battle on
this
ground. The conditions here are absurd: We are either in this obscene bocage country or hemmed in by small villages at every turn. We must choose the terrain that is best suited for our tanks! When the enemy comes, we will respond to him the way our armor has responded before, a hard strike in force on a narrow front. Yes, I am conserving our armor, because if we do not, if we continue to strike the enemy in small-scale assaults, we will accomplish nothing at all.”

“General Geyr, what we
accomplish
is not our concern. I learned long ago that the High Command is concerned with methods and planning and lines on maps. Our orders have been made clear to me. We are directed to meet the enemy’s thrusts where and when he makes them. We are to advance the panzer divisions where the enemy is pressing forward, to blunt his advances. Thus far, the enemy is making needle pricks of his own, probing, testing, trying to find our weak points. He is having just as much difficulty in the bocage country as we are, but since that is where he is, that is where we are ordered to strike him. Disagree with me all you wish, General, but had Hitler approved my tactics six months ago, the enemy would not be in this country at all. He would be fishing his corpses out of the sea.”

“Sir, how else can I explain this? If not to you, to the High Command! We must have room for the tanks to maneuver! There is ample open ground to the south and east! Do they not understand?”

“What the High Command understands is that we are to obey the instructions they give us. I know something of armor tactics, General. I know what kind of
ground
is best.” Rommel stopped, stared blankly at the map. He thought of North Africa, the maps so much simpler. Open and flat, no obstructions, speed and power and mobility. Paradise for the armor. And now, we run and hide behind rows of bushes.

Geyr was angry now, red-faced, pacing. “I cannot make my argument with the High Command, but I must protest once again to you! You hold on to this idea that the enemy could have been destroyed on the beaches! Even if the panzers had been positioned perfectly, if I had sent in my tanks directly to the beaches, the naval artillery would have crushed us. But none of that matters now! We must convince von Rundstedt, or even the Führer, that the most effective way to defeat the enemy is to pull back into open country where we can meet him on
our
terms.”

“When?”

Geyr seemed surprised by the question. “When the enemy, um…”

“No, General, the time has passed. We have allowed the enemy to land his army, and now he is fortifying it. No matter what kind of fight we make, nothing will be on
our
terms. He will come only when he is ready to come. That is Montgomery over there! He will only move when he is comfortable, when he can stroll placidly through the lines with his cup of tea and feel no threat from us. Every day that passes he is stronger, one step closer to striking us in a way to which we cannot respond. Our only hope is to strike him right now, all across the front, to shock him and send his troops back in confusion.”

Geyr shook his head. “I fear, sir, you are still fighting the African war.”

Rommel saw nervousness on Geyr’s face, a line crossed. But the energy for the argument was draining away, and Rommel stepped slowly to the map. “You mean, General, the war we should have
won.
”

“I meant no insult.”

“Insult me all you wish. I am accustomed to it.” Rommel studied the map. “The enemy has linked his beachheads. It is obvious to me that Montgomery’s intentions are to capture Caen and then drive us away from the favorable ground you so cherish so he might use it himself, to stage his grand assault toward Paris. The Americans will most certainly drive northward to capture Cherbourg. The enemy possesses complete air superiority over this front, and thus he can resupply himself at will, while we must struggle to shift our tactical positions in difficult ground at night. I would much prefer that we withdraw the armor to more suitable ground, where we can form up a massive strike. Those forward positions can be manned by infantry, but the infantry is slow to arrive because, like your tanks, they can move only at night. And because we cannot get sufficient gasoline and vehicles, and because the railroads are virtually worthless, we must advance our troops on foot. All the while, the enemy is expending lavish amounts of ammunition from infinite sources, and we must ration ours. Despite what von Rundstedt believes, none of our divisions are at full fighting strength, while the Americans are crossing the ocean in great waves of steel that we cannot hold back. We have lost the U-boat war and the battleship war; despite Göring’s ridiculous boasts, we have lost the air war. The infantry and your tanks are still capable of delivering an effective blow, but every day those forces grow weaker.” He turned, saw no expression on Geyr’s face. “Is that too much
defeatism
for you, General? Should we all remain optimistic and content ourselves with gardening, like that foolish old man in Paris? Or should we all do what Reichsmarschall Göring does? When things become difficult, let us consume a draft of morphine, and all our ills will become perfectly pleasant.”

Geyr glanced at his aides, who seemed to flinch. “Sir! I will not permit such disrespect.”

“Be silent, General. I am not concerned what others think of me. I do not fear the Gestapo. I am too far removed—
erased
—from any kind of future, no matter how this war ends. Might we still prevail? I have heard the same talk you have, all that blather about our new secret weapons. The High Command whispers of great secrets: We will soon have doomsday machines, great powerful weapons no one has yet seen. Is that fiction as well? I don’t know. Do you? Does von Rundstedt? But what do I care about that? If we have such weapons, and we turn the tide of this war—or even prevail—I will be tossed out the window by the sycophantic monkeys that surround Hitler. If the enemy defeats us, I will be held as a war criminal. I am a soldier first, General, and my duty is to attack the enemy. But I will say what I think. You may disagree with me, but you will not silence me with your outrage. You should be far more outraged by what is happening to your tanks.”

T
he car drove rapidly, the armored truck in front, and Rommel studied the map, ignoring the bouncing of the rough road.

“Sir, we should seek shelter until nightfall.”

Rommel did not look up. “Yes, Captain, I know. But there is much to do, and La Roche Guyon will give us shelter enough. For reasons I do not understand, the enemy respects our antiaircraft batteries there. We must be grateful for small favors. I am quite certain the enemy spotter planes are searching for more meaningful targets than this one car and that single truck.”

He set the map aside as the car moved up a rise and down again: rolling country, free of the annoying confinement of the hedgerows, the bocage. Geyr is right of course. In those conditions, one man with an antitank weapon can block a road by himself, hold up an entire battalion of armor. Why did the enemy choose to invade
this
place? The key to an invasion is to move rapidly, establish your strong base, yet they chose beaches that would lead them into that infernal bocage. I would not have done so. And because it is not what I would have done, I was surprised. We were all surprised. If the enemy comes at Calais, another invasion, then I shall be surprised again.

The car climbed familiar ground, green fields and tall trees, the stark beauty of the castle that was his headquarters. The road ran along the river, and he looked up at the pockets of antiaircraft guns, the batteries of machine guns and eighty-eights that kept him safe. The car rolled to a stop, the guards coming to attention, one man pulling open the door. Rommel stepped out into the usual respectful silence, but there was commotion at the grand entranceway, and he saw Speidel, more aides behind him, all coming forward.

“Sir! We have just received this! I have not yet confirmed its authenticity, but it appears genuine!”

Rommel felt the usual dread. What has happened now? “What is it, General?”

“We should go inside, sir.”

“It’s a little late for discretion, Hans. You have just alerted the entire compound.”

Speidel leaned close, held a paper in his hand. “Sir, this came from Captain Merling, an observation outpost near Le Caine. The enemy has struck with their bombers. It is most tragic, sir.”

Le Caine, Rommel thought. Geyr’s headquarters. “Silence. Let us go inside.”

They moved quickly with heavy steps, and Rommel felt the familiar cold in his gut, walked into his office, Speidel shouting orders to the staff: no disturbance. Speidel closed the door behind them.

“What has happened to General Geyr?”

“Apparently he is only injured, sir. But the enemy struck his headquarters with an air attack that seemed directed to the place. They must have discovered—”

“What is the tragedy?”

Speidel stopped and handed Rommel the paper. “From first reports, sir, it seems that the enemy has destroyed the entire headquarters of Panzer Group West. Most all of General Geyr’s staff was likely killed. I have not yet spoken to General Geyr, and I do not know his whereabouts. But the observation post did say he had been seen by doctors and was probably not seriously hurt.”

Rommel moved to the chair, sat, faced the tall window. “When did this happen?”

“The observer said they saw your car pass by…about thirty minutes before the raid.”

“Thirty minutes. Well, Hans, those are the fortunes of war. I could have remained there arguing with him until—well, it is unlikely they were targeting me. But you’re right. They somehow learned of the position of his headquarters. His entire staff?”

“Most everyone. There is no specific confirmation. Apparently everything was destroyed.”

Rommel tried to see the faces. Geyr had good officers in his command, some of them tank commanders who had served with Rommel in North Africa. And somehow Geyr escaped. The fortunate placement of his latrine, perhaps. He turned in the chair, saw Speidel looking down.