The Rising Tide: A Novel of World War II (20 page)

Hutchinson was down, close to the captain, called back to Logan, “Hey, Jack. Say hello to the Big Red One.”

The officers moved away in a group, and behind him, Logan heard the last of the tank engines shutting down. The wide streets were still filling with soldiers, and there were handshakes, more officers, Captain Gregg talking to a colonel. Hutchinson came back to the tank, stood in front, spoke to the open hatches down front, to Baxter and Parnell.

“Come on out. Looks like we’ll be here for a while.” He moved around to the side, toward Logan, slapped the tank hull, said, “We’re damned lucky, Jack. The First was about to open up with their artillery, blow hell out of the city. They were expecting to fight their way in. Good thing we didn’t run out of gas a mile back, we’d have been caught up in a real mess. They didn’t know we were here.”

Logan climbed out of the hatch, stood high on the tank hull, saw a jeep coming from the east, more trucks, heard tanks coming up from behind, more men emerging. He saw familiar officers, Colonel Waters, Colonel Todd. The two men came forward quickly, were greeted by the infantry officers, more handshakes, quick words, serious. Logan saw another jeep now, coming up behind the infantrymen, another officer, older, the man stepping out, standing tall, thick-chested, the walk of an athlete. He came closer to the tank, and Logan saw the man’s shoulder,
two stars
.

Hutchinson saw him too, said, “You know who that is?”

“Gotta be Terry Allen.”

The man who commanded the First Infantry Division moved toward Colonel Waters, who faced him, a sharp salute. The soldiers around them were nearly silent, very aware of Allen’s presence.

Waters said, “General, may I offer you the city of Oran?”

Allen put his hands on his hips, shook his head. “I suppose we’ll take it. Guess you boys saved us some trouble.”

There was commotion to one side, shouts, a rush of color. Logan saw the infantry reacting, rifles coming down. But he could see now, it was civilians, women, men in suits, emerging from barricaded doors. One man was older than the others, carried the tricolor, the French flag, waved it over his head. The man spoke in a torrent of French, the soldiers eyeing him carefully, the man moving closer to the tanks. Soldiers began laughing, calling out to him, rude jokes, then silence, as their commander pushed past them, made his way toward the old man through the parting sea of soldiers. But the Frenchman ignored the general, ran straight at the tank. Logan reached down, felt for the grip of his pistol, but the old man stopped, tossed the flag, draped it across the hull of the tank. The man was sobbing, fell to his knees, his hands up on a wheel of the tank.

“Vive l’Amérique! Vive les Américaines!”

Other civilians were shouting out, calling to the soldiers, their courage growing, men and women old and young stepping into the crowd of soldiers, the soldiers responding, hugs and handshakes. Logan watched the old man, red-faced, more tears, Captain Gregg beside him, leaning low. The man stood, Gregg helping him, Hutchinson there as well. The man seemed to compose himself, more French words, then made a deep bow, moved away into the growing celebration.

Parnell and Baxter had climbed out of the tank, Parnell sitting on the turret, and he said, “That looked like a full-out surrender to me. Damn, this is better’n anything I ever seen. All we gotta do now is find some Krauts.” He slapped Logan’s back. “Hey, Jack, give me just one chance at a shot. Just one. I’ll show you how to aim that gun. This has been a chicken shoot so far. If the
enemy
can’t do no better than this, we’ll be going home by Christmas.”

Gregg looked up at Parnell, no smile, the man staring hard at the Texan. There was no humor in his eyes. Logan wanted to say something, could feel the grim toughness in the captain, realized the stupidity of Parnell’s words. The Texan was oblivious, was calling out to the crowd of soldiers, something about kissing the girls. Logan watched as Gregg moved away, the captain returning toward his own tank. The words kept coming from Parnell, a flow of insults and jokes about the enemy, how simple this was, this victory, this glorious display of perfect might, the unstoppable power that would simply drive the Germans right out of the war.

W
ith the three primary targets of Operation Torch resting firmly in the hands of the Allies, attention turned toward the ongoing turmoil in the French high command. Regardless of whose authority carried weight with French soldiers and civilians, the absurd haggling and bickering had already caused costly delays that had kept the next phase of the plan from moving forward as quickly as Eisenhower had hoped. There was more to the French chaos than control of the ports in Algeria and Morocco. Tunisia was occupied by French troops as well, commanders who might still be loyal to Vichy, or men whose fear of the Germans might subdue their willingness to join the Allied fight. While the Americans in Casablanca and Oran celebrated their victory, in Algiers, the British were scrambling to put their men into motion, the first wave of the march eastward that would bring Tunisia into Allied hands. Whether the French in Tunisia would obey Darlan’s neutrality order, or whether they would actually fight the Allies, was another nagging question Eisenhower could not answer. But the longer it took Anderson’s troops to occupy the precious Tunisian airfields and ports, the longer the door remained open for Hitler’s generals to pour in men and equipment, adding considerable power to the garrisons and defensive positions that guarded Tunisia’s western border. Both sides understood that the ports and airfields in Tunisia were the final lifeline and the last refuge for Rommel’s army, where the supply ships and cargo planes could sustain what remained of the
Panzerarmee,
an army that was drawing closer day by day.

14. ROMMEL

TOBRUK, LIBYA
NOVEMBER 13, 1942

T
he fires blanketed the skyline, mounds of supplies and ammunition, torched by the German engineers, the final defiant gesture, a clear message to the enemy that nothing useful would be left behind. Just to the east, along the coast road, and southward, units of armored trucks, heavy machine guns, and small-bore artillery faced east, the final line in the sand. With them were more of the engineers, men skilled in the most vicious tools of war, the well-hidden mines and booby traps, deadly obstacles that could hold up a column, delay a line of British men and their machines at some perfect location for a carefully planned ambush. From the first hours of the retreat, the rear guard had been strong enough and dangerous enough to discourage the lead units of Montgomery’s advancing troops from pressing too close, the British as exhausted as the Germans, no one seeking another fight so soon after the bloodying they had both suffered at El Alamein.

Rommel had raced all through his retreating army, placing officers in key points along the roads, trying to break up the logjams in the narrow cuts and valleys, trucks and panicked drivers clogging the narrow defiles, perfect targets for British bombers. From the German and Italians who had survived to join the withdrawal, Rommel squeezed order from the panic. The chaotic retreat became an organized march, and by the time the
Panzerarmee
crossed again into Libya, over the familiar ground of so many good fights, Mersa Matruh, Sidi Barrani, Halfaya Pass, Rommel knew that no matter what Montgomery tried to throw forward, no matter how hard the British pushed, at least some part of the
Panzerarmee
had been preserved.

Rommel had kept them mostly on the good roads that ran close to the sea, away from the confusion of the massive minefields and scattered wreckage of past battles. When the British had finally begun their pursuit, Montgomery had done just what Rommel had expected. The British sent column after column deep into the desert, fast-moving armored trucks on a course parallel to Rommel’s retreat. When the British believed they were far enough beyond Rommel’s main body, they would sweep northward, driving hard to the sea coast, to cut off the German escape. Rommel himself had perfected the tactic, which relied on speed and surprise. But Rommel knew enough of Montgomery by now, knew that there would be caution and planning, and so, by the time the British accomplished their sweeping left hooks, they reached the coast road to find that the Germans had already passed, were already farther to the west, one more escape. It was Rommel’s only satisfaction, a glimpse into what had once been. Even in defeat, Rommel could anticipate and outmaneuver the superior forces that pursued him.

He had allowed himself a pause at Tobruk, could not simply pass by the city that had cost him so much to capture. Now, it would be abandoned, and he watched the fires along the harbor consuming what the men could not carry. Close by, on the main road, the columns moved past him in the darkness, trucks towing trucks, small armored cars packed full of anxious men, men not so afraid of the enemy to the east, but the enemy right beneath them, the truck itself, a mechanical beast grown fragile, dying perhaps, adding to the dark and silent hulks that littered the entire route of the withdrawal. The precious supplies of fuel were doled out now in liters, enough to carry the vehicles a few more miles, keep them just out of reach of the British. What fuel they had came from the Luftwaffe, the cargo planes hauling in some two hundred tons of gasoline per day, barely a fifth of what they had once received. If fuel was available, the trucks and the men they carried would try to reach the safety of new defensive positions at Mersa el Brega, the next line he had drawn on the map. If the fuel ran out, if the cargo planes did not arrive, there was nothing Rommel could do to prevent another piece of his army from falling away, foot soldiers who could only wait to be swallowed up by the advance of the enemy. He would not order them to fight to the last, would not insist on Hitler’s ridiculous command that they die rather than submit. It was an emotion in him that no armchair general could feel. The
Panzerarmee
was not simply some mindless obedient servant, a soulless machine. It was a part of Rommel himself, as much as he was a part of each of them. He felt it even for the Italians, many of those who’d stood fast against Montgomery’s overwhelming force, who’d fought back against odds they should never have had to face. Along every mile, as the trucks broke down, the fuel tanks drained, more of the men were left behind, with no other means to escape their enemy but the exhausting march. The British wave would reach them soon enough, slicing away another piece of Rommel’s army. Every day, he felt the sharp pain in his heart, knew that no one in Berlin, no one in Rome, would ever know the tragedy of it, would ever know what it felt like to lose your precious army to an enemy you should have destroyed.

He had watched the few remaining tanks and the surviving pieces of heavy artillery escape, knew that even now, as his men pulled away from Tobruk, to the west, the teeth of the
Panzerarmee
were preparing to give Montgomery another good fight. He drew energy from that, held tight to the image of the eighty-eights and the Mark IVs digging into a good defensive position, then turning their sights to the east, waiting for the British to come into range. No matter how strong Montgomery was, if there was another fight, the cost would be high, perhaps high enough to cause Montgomery to delay once more. And while the British command pondered how to confront the new position, Rommel would pull them away again, to another line on the map.

H
e sat on his command truck, Westphal beside him. They were just west of Tobruk, and he stared at the fires, the silhouettes of the wrecked buildings, tried to ignore the exhaustion, thought of Lucy, another letter, words forming in his mind.

The end will not be long…the army is in no way to blame. It has fought magnificently….

Thank God I have you, he thought. Who else will hear the truth? You might not understand, but there will be time for explanations later. We will sit in the garden and talk of this and wonder what I could have done differently, what villains I have had to confront.

The artillery thundered, flickers of light. He thought of his officers, the men who stood high with binoculars, who fired the star shells, lighting up the ground where the cautious enemy crept toward them. Do not be foolish, do not waste ammunition. They are not coming, not tonight. He thought of Montgomery again, felt no hatred, had never hated the British, never shared in the loud boasting he heard in the camps, all the talk every soldier knows. No, it is not about being a better man, more courageous, there is nothing here of our certain superiority over some mongrel race. The British are not so different from us. Out here, we are all good men, we all show courage, we all know our duty. Victory comes from the strategy, the plan, the tools we are given.

He knew little about Montgomery, had ignored the propaganda, the reports brought by Berndt that always seemed to describe enemy commanders as illiterate buffoons. There had been incompetence certainly, British commanders early in the campaign who did not understand Rommel, who were incapable of predicting surprise. So, Montgomery, how would you have fared here a year ago? No matter what your newspapers say about you, I will never know if you are any better than Wavell or Ritchie or Auchinleck. You were lucky, certainly. They handed you an enormous weapon, an experienced army, bloodied field officers who understand as much about this desert as any German. And they gave you tanks and trucks and airplanes. But it was not your planning, your perfect strategy, that drove us away. It was the tools. It was power. And now, those men you send after us, they are like hunters chasing a wounded lion. You may order them to pursue, and they will make a good show of it. But they know not to come too close. They know, even if their
great commander
does not, that we can still rip your heart out with our claws.

He turned, looked toward the west, black darkness, thought, so much more land, so many miles. And then, another army. Another challenge.

The news of the Allied invasion had reached him in a makeshift headquarters, brought from wireless reports that drifted out of Algeria and Tunisia. The invasion had not surprised him, rumors filtering through North Africa for many weeks, reports of ship traffic, some word that Eisenhower might be in Gibraltar. It was inevitable that the Americans would come, but they would not be confident of success, would have learned something from the foolishness of the raid at Dieppe. So, if they needed to test themselves, they would strike where there would be little chance of catastrophe. What better target than the French?

Rommel had done his fighting in France already, had pushed his tanks over and through armies that seemed powerless to stop anyone. Yes, the Americans would remember that as well. And so, they would join this fight by assaulting an inferior enemy, gain confidence against Frenchmen. It took them three days to silence the guns at Oran, three days to secure their first victory. Take pride in your success, Herr Eisenhower. But there is still a fight to be had.

MERSA EL BREGA, LIBYA—NOVEMBER 23, 1942

It had rained for nearly a week, the flat, hard ground along the roadways softening to deep mud, the wadis filling with dark water, sudden winding floods that swept away the tents and the careless men who stayed in the low cover for too long. Along the coast roads, the Germans continued their retreat, the Libyan desert behind them now. Closer to Benghazi, the land changed, the flat, hard dirt and rock giving way to the steep hills and lush green of the Djebel Akhdar. It was farm country, olive orchards and grain fields, white-walled towns where Mussolini had once sent his people to carve a new piece of Italy from land where Arabs still tended their flocks of goats. The Italians were mostly gone now, the Arabs staking their claim once more, ransacking and looting the towns and farmhouses. What the Arabs did not claim, the armies did, olive groves and orchards ripped and flattened by two years of war. Rommel did not halt the withdrawal around Benghazi, would not try to hold the hillside passes and narrow defiles. His army could not make a stand until they were strengthened, or until they reached a position where Montgomery’s caution would make them safe. Rommel moved his men southward, following the coast below Benghazi, destroying supplies and ammunition dumps as they went. South of the city, the roads turned west again, a great sweeping curve of coastline that led to Mersa el Brega and El Agheila, two anchors of a defensive line Rommel had used before, a line that would allow his army to dig in, to rest. To the west was the major port of Tripoli, and if only once the supply officers in Rome would do their jobs, could somehow push cargo ships through the British screen, Rommel’s army might again be made strong.

Rommel had sent Berndt to see Hitler once more, hoping to convince the High Command that he should be allowed to pursue a strategy that would create some benefit from his retreat. There was nothing to be gained by holding Libya now, no chance that the weakened and greatly outnumbered
Panzerarmee
could strike at the British again in the open desert. Rommel knew that even a cautious Montgomery would not stay away for long, would endure enormous pressure from London to continue to attack. The line at Mersa el Brega was stout, but it was not impenetrable, and Rommel believed that the only wise strategy was to abandon Libya altogether and pull his army into the narrow valleys and sharp mountainous defenses of Tunisia. With the Allied thrust coming from the west, Tunisia could become a German stronghold, a natural fortress that no Allied army could easily penetrate. The German High Command could either reinforce Rommel and strike hard at either wing of the Allied armies or withdraw from Tunisia and North Africa altogether, saving what remained of the
Panzerarmee
to be used another day.

“S
o, Lieutenant, how did the Führer receive my proposal? Did he have a preference for the offensive, or does he continue to see value in the destruction of this army?”

He expected a response from Berndt, some spark of outrage, knew that sarcasm was dangerous. But Berndt seemed to ignore his words, showed no reaction at all. The big man seemed uncomfortable in his chair, twisted, turned to one side.

After a quiet moment, he said, “My back is causing me difficulties. The journey was somewhat tedious.” He paused. “I must be honest with you, sir. I was not received with the Führer’s usual hospitality.”

“Did you not see him?”

“Oh, yes, and I spoke to him in detail about your plans.” Berndt paused again, seemed to struggle with the words. “The Führer was not receptive.”

Rommel waited for more, had never seen Berndt at a loss for words.

“Get to it, Lieutenant.”

Berndt sat up straight in the chair, looked at him. “He said, sir, that you should make good use of the Mersa el Brega position as the launching point for your new offensive.”