The Steel Wave (5 page)

“Yeah. Never knew what hit him, most likely. A blessing in that. We were damned lucky to get out of there.” The lieutenant looked down toward his own belt, raised the pouch. “Mission accomplished. Got what we came for. They’ll test this sand, see what it can hold.”

Dundee nodded slowly, tried to see Henley’s face, gone now, as though he never existed. The word came to him again, the word they all understood:
expendable.
He put his hand on his waist, felt for the pouch, the rocks. He pulled the pouch around in front of him, unfastened the strap, held it up. Mission accomplished. Those bloody engineers had better make some use of this. We lost a good man…for a bag of rocks.

2. ROMMEL

NEAR SAINT-LAURENT-SUR-MER, FRANCE
JANUARY 26, 1944

T
hey brought the body up the draw on a stretcher, four men whose faces showed no taste for the job they were doing. Rommel watched from above, turned away now, said, “British?”

“Yes, sir. About one this morning. We sent out patrols along the beach in both directions, searched every possible hiding place. This body was all we found.”

Rommel turned toward the water again, pointed out. “Do we have any idea how many there were?”

“No, sir. This one is wearing fatigue clothing, beneath a rubber suit. No firearm, no demolition equipment. There had to be more than one of them. This one apparently tripped a land mine. Along the beach, there are tracks in the sand, men running, toward the east, and we found a strip of some sort of marking ribbon. They must certainly have escaped in a boat.”

“But you saw no boat?”

“No, Field Marshal.”

“And no equipment? His friends may have been able to carry it away.” Rommel stared out along the wide beach, scanned down into the sandy draw, the wide cut in the cliffs. “Where is the barbed wire I ordered?”

“It has not yet arrived, sir.”

Rommel rolled his hand tightly around his baton, slapped it into his palm.

“No, of course it has not arrived. Never mind. I will make some calls. Again.”

Below them, the tide had fallen quickly, and men were filing out onto the flat beach, a wide plain of wet sand. Rommel saw the pattern of steel and wood stakes, other barriers, more elaborate, crisscrossed steel beams, what the soldiers were calling
hedgehogs.
The columns of men began to move past the rows of stakes, some carrying poles, others in pairs hauling more steel, some with tools, shovels, one small bulldozer following behind. He watched them for a moment, spreading out over the exposed sand. Yes, he thought, move
more
slowly. Go about your job as though you have an eternity to complete it. He was angry, knew the feeling too well, slapped the baton into his hand again.

“Colonel Heckner, I want more men on that job. You have four companies of infantry within a kilometer of here. Call upon them, under my authority. I did not order these works to be constructed to provide these men a holiday at the beach.” He watched for a response, saw a slight nod, weary obedience. “Are you paying
attention,
Colonel?”

The man seemed to wake up, snapped his heels together. “Yes, certainly, Field Marshal. I will see that more men are put to work on the barriers.”

Rommel could see there was more, the man hesitating with his words.

“You have something to say, Colonel?”

The man glanced down. “Well, yes, sir. There are reports…. I have heard that the enemy is planning an invasion of Norway. It seems to me, sir, that our energies should be directed to where we know he is coming. Forgive me, Field Marshal, but is that not reasonable?”

“Colonel Heckner, I will not waste your time with a discussion about matters of strategy, of which you know nothing at all.” He felt his voice rising, the control slipping away. “You have orders.
My orders!
You will construct a strong line of obstacles to prepare against an invasion along this portion of this beach in which you hold command! In both directions, commanders have been ordered to perform the same task. What might occur in Norway is none of your concern. It is none of your concern what might occur anywhere along this entire front, except in your specific zone of command. Should I be explaining this to you, Colonel?”

The man remained stiff, staring ahead, past Rommel. “Certainly not, Field Marshal.”

Rommel turned away, fingered the binoculars at his chest, took a long breath, calmed himself. How much of this can be blamed on one colonel? These are soldiers, after all, and we put them to work beside laborers, so they begin to think like laborers. He stared out to sea, raised the binoculars, stared at the empty horizon: old habit.

“What did they want here, Colonel?”

“I have considered that, sir. The guns, perhaps. The shore batteries. All would make good targets.”

“What shore batteries, Colonel? Most of them are not yet constructed. The largest piece I see here is a 105, not what I would call a target to inspire a commando attack. You said the man carried no demolition equipment. Would they risk a team of commandos just to see how our construction work is progressing? They can do that from the air.”

“We have first-class antiaircraft personnel, here, sir. The British know that. They would not dare—”

“Do not tell me what the British would do. They
dare,
Colonel. Those commandos came here for a specific mission. They have been coming in all along this coast for weeks now. We capture some, kill some, and we cannot know how many more complete their missions and return home.”

“Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”

Rommel looked at the man, thought, An empty mind, telling me only what I want to hear, so I will leave him in peace. He thought a moment. All right, here’s some peace for you, Colonel. “It occurs to me, Colonel Heckner…perhaps, it was
you
they were after, an assassination squad, targeting senior officers. Your minefield might have saved your life.”

The man seemed to soak up his words, pondering the thought with growing alarm. Rommel had planted as much of a seed as his patience would allow, thought, Maybe tonight you will be more vigilant. He turned away, moving toward the staff officers, who waited beside his car. They stiffened as he approached, and he looked past them, saw a cluster of soldiers gathered around the dead commando, could see the man’s black bloody clothes, shreds of rubber on the man’s blasted legs. All eyes were on Rommel now, the men moving slowly to attention. He scanned them. Yes, they look like common laborers. What has happened to my soldiers? He turned and looked back toward Heckner, who stiffened again.

“I will have your barbed wire here as soon as possible. I want it deployed in depth across every access point at the base of this bluff. I will also send you more land mines, a great many more. Those barricades in the tidal area must be increased, made far more numerous. Take advantage of the lowest tides and add another row, farther out. And, for God’s sake, widen that tank trap. The enemy has engineers, Colonel. They will find a way to bridge your little ditch. Put land mines in the bottom.”

“It will be done, sir.”

“It will be done
immediately,
Colonel.”

T
he staff car bounced along the pockmarked farm lane, past open fields hemmed in by tall ridges of brush. The roads were mostly hard, gravel or packed dirt, and Rommel kept his eye in front of the car, thinking of tanks, the road’s surface more than adequate to support a panzer division. In the front seat, his aide said, “Sir, we are approaching zone fourteen. Colonel Sasser’s headquarters.”

Rommel thought of Sasser, a small thin man, capable. “Yes, very well. Let us visit Colonel Sasser.”

“He will probably be out with his men, you know. He does that sort of thing.”

The voice came from beside him, the tall man in the dark uniform of the German navy. Rommel nodded. “Yes, Friedrich, I know. Sasser is a colonel who uses a shovel. If we had more like him, we might be winning this war.”

The naval officer did not respond, and Rommel thought of the ears in the front seat, the staff officer, the driver. He glanced at the man beside him, nodded. Yes, I know. I should not make the staff uncomfortable. Some thoughts are best kept quiet. He spoke silently in his mind, apologizing to the man beside him.

Vice Admiral Friedrich Ruge had been assigned to Rommel’s command as a liaison for the navy, to coordinate naval strategies and activities along the French coast, that vast stretch of territory that Rommel controlled as commander of Army Group B. Both men had come to France from Italy. While Rommel had chafed in the northern mountains with virtually nothing to do, Ruge had been effective as head of naval operations in the one theater of the war that might still favor the Germans. Rommel knew Ruge had spent most of his life on the water and was one of the most capable seamen in the Kriegsmarine. He was three years younger than Rommel, their ages close enough that each man knew the various daily challenges of rising up from a hard bed. Besides Ruge’s expertise and clear-headed grasp of naval tactics, Rommel had been surprised to find that, unlike most of Hitler’s naval commanders, Ruge understood the army’s side of the war as well, and thus was perfect for the job as Rommel’s liaison. Rommel had become far too accustomed to commanders and their subordinates who seemed to be fighting a war to serve their own glory. Others were fighting only for survival, to find a way to endure the inevitable, a war going badly, men making discreet preparations to protect their families should Hitler’s Reich collapse. Ruge seemed to have none of that, no pretense, no mindless pride, none of the conspirator’s slipperiness, and no need to curry favor with anyone. After working alongside the man for a few short weeks, Rommel had come to regard Admiral Ruge not only as a valuable colleague but also as a trusted friend, something Rommel had not experienced since his days in North Africa.

T
hey stepped from the staff car, and Rommel saw the salutes, the troops quickly aware of his presence. He began to move, stopped on instinct, heard a low hum, the men close to him staring up, searching the sky. The sounds grew, a low steady drone, very high and far away, the sound of bombers. It was commonplace now, American B-17s making their daylight raids far behind Rommel’s Atlantic Wall, into Germany itself. All throughout Germany the raids had grown more numerous and more intense, the bombers seeking industrial and military targets around every major city. It had become well known that the Americans came only in daylight and the British at night, a peculiar division of labor Rommel had never understood. He avoided the skyward stares of the troops—there was nothing to see and certainly no danger here, so close to the coastline. Behind him, Ruge emerged from the car, a second car rolling to a halt, discharging more staff officers.

Along the edge of a wide field, tents were scattered, a field headquarters, sheltered by sheets of camouflaged netting. The officers were emerging now, word reaching them that Rommel had arrived.

“Welcome, sir!”

Rommel recognized the face, a young captain, Sasser’s aide. “Where is Colonel Sasser?”

The man stood at attention, saluted, then pointed.

“He is to be found on the bluff, sir, at the sea. They are constructing a large artillery emplacement, largest one in this sector, sir.”

“Yes, I know, Captain. You may lead the way.”

“I am honored, Field Marshal.”

Rommel glanced at Ruge, saw a smile. The young captain did not hesitate but moved away along a wide graveled trail. Ruge, now beside Rommel, said, “I never received any reception like this, not on any ship in my command. It’s true, all that talk I’ve been hearing. You are nothing less than their hero.”

“Silence that, please. I am their worst terror, and they know it. Until they hear the enemy shooting at them, they know they have nothing more to fear than me. I shall continue to accommodate them.”

They followed the young officer, climbing a short rise, a cold stiff wind in Rommel’s face, the ground falling away to the open sea. Below, along the beach, a swarm of men were hauling and digging, more pieces of the same barricades Rommel had ordered all along the coast. To one side of him, the ground rose to a fat knob, made fatter by a vast wall of concrete. Above, a crane holding a large spiderweb of reinforcing steel began to lower it into place, one more piece of the great wall, shirtless men shoveling wet concrete into a vast pit below. Rommel heard shouts, commands, a half dozen men responding, moving in one motion toward the descending web of steel, hands going up, turning, guiding, as the steel settled into the waiting concrete. Rommel clamped the baton under one arm, clenched his fists. Yes, by God, that is strength! That is what this ridiculous Atlantic Wall is
supposed
to be.

“Sir! Field Marshal! Forgive me!”

Rommel saw him now, the short man scampering up the bluff. Sasser’s shirt was open, a gray smear across his white undershirt. He drew himself up, saluted, said, “Welcome, sir! I did not know when you would arrive.”

“And you never will, Colonel. You may compose yourself.”

The man seemed aware of his uniform now, a slight panic, buttoned his shirt, tugged at his jacket, the image of the officer replacing the manual laborer.

“Please forgive me, Field Marshal. I have found that our productivity increases—the men respond better to orders if I show them I am not above the work. It…inspires them, sir.”

Rommel thought of Africa, riding a tank straight into the chaos of a fight, seeing it for himself, the inspiration the men drew from that, and the enjoyment Rommel felt from the startled looks on the faces of his young lieutenants who thought
they
were in command. Where was Sasser when I needed this kind of man in Egypt?

“May I see your hands, Colonel?”

Sasser seemed puzzled, turned his palms up, glanced at them, then jutted them out toward Rommel.

“Certainly, sir. I do not understand—”

Rommel grabbed the man’s hands, looked at Ruge.

“Look at this. An officer who is not afraid to get his hands dirty. Or better yet, who raises blisters.” He released Sasser’s hands and turned toward an aide. “Go to the car. Retrieve a concertina.”