The Rising Tide: A Novel of World War II (33 page)

Bayerlein nodded, oil running down his chin, reached into a pocket, retrieved a tin, opened it, more oil on his hands now. Rommel smiled, the first time in a long while, took the tin from Bayerlein’s hand. He tried not to look at the sardines, tossed the contents into his mouth, gulped down the oil and fish in one swallow. Bayerlein was watching him, returned the smile, and Rommel waited for the mass to settle, then said, “I should like someday to have a real supper, Fritz. Big fat sausages. A roast of pork. Real bread.”

“Soon, sir. I’m sure of it. This war will not last much longer. The enemy is beaten.”

Bayerlein opened another tin of sardines, held it toward Rommel, who shook his head.

“Yes, the enemy is beaten. But there can be no victory unless we convince them they are beaten. We are allowing them to escape. It is a catastrophic mistake. The Americans are badly wounded, but they are led by men who will certainly learn from their mistakes. We have made much about how untested they are. No longer. They are veterans now, and veterans learn how to survive, how to fight. And we have allowed them to regroup and lick their wounds and regain their fire. Here, one mistake follows another. Von Arnim is holding on to his armor, hoarding it like some old spinster counting her pfennigs. He allows his men to move slowly, orders them to be cautious, and there is only one reason. Success…
my
success is not in his best interests. I am quite certain that he has some show of his own he would rather pursue. His staff officer gave us the clue. The British. That would be quite a feather for him, if he drives them out of Tunisia. He can crow all over Berlin that he has avenged my defeat at El Alamein.”

“Surely, sir, he would not—”

“I don’t want to hear you defending him. You know very well what is being said about me. You know very well that there are officers in Berlin who are watching what happens here, waiting for my
mistake.
My grand finale.”

“I do not understand that, sir. Why do they want you to fail? Are we not fighting for one cause? Does not the Führer wish us to win?”

“I don’t know what the Führer wishes. My job has always been to go where he sends me and fight the enemy in front of me. I have not concerned myself with what mattered to him, with his dreams and his grand plans. We took our tanks to the French coast, trapped the English, could have destroyed an entire army at Dunkirk. When the order came for us to halt, to sit still, I kept my doubts to myself. I watched them on the beach there, watched them climb into their ridiculous boats, watched our bombs fall on them, Göring’s arrogance, that his airplanes could decide the war. We could have crushed them where they stood, but the Führer said no, and so the British escaped, and now we fight them here.” Rommel paused, glanced around for listening ears, old habit. “I did not question the Führer’s decision to invade Russia. Had I been ordered to go there, I would have fought as well as I fought in Libya. But it was another mistake, a disaster that may cost us this war. It makes no one proud to beg, Fritz, but I begged, I begged the Führer and his staff and Kesselring, I begged them all to see how valuable this campaign was, how important it was that we drive the British out of Egypt. I did not expect them to give me everything I asked for.” He paused again. “But I did not expect to be abandoned. If we had been given a tiny fraction of what was squandered in Russia, this matter would have been decided long ago. There would have been no American landing in Algeria because we would have been far away from here. We would be feasting on the spoils of Cairo or Baghdad. We would not be eating sardines in the rain in Tunisia.” He tossed the can aside, pulled his coat tighter, the chilly air driving into him. “Tell me, Fritz, what do we accomplish if we win here? What prize can we claim by driving the enemy out of Tunisia?”

“It is important to the Italians, I suppose. They are still our allies.”

Rommel smiled. “Yes, our allies. We are fighting to give our allies their summer homes on the seashore, their daily supply of almonds. We are fighting to preserve Mussolini’s fairy tale.”

Rommel saw an aide emerge from the tent, the man moving quickly toward him.

“Sir! A message has already come from Marshal Kesselring! He has approved your plan! However, Comando Supremo had not yet sanctioned his approval. You are ordered to wait for final approval from Comando Supremo.”

Bayerlein said, “That is excellent news, sir! We can begin mobilizing the forces toward Tébessa right now! They can begin the assault by morning! Shall I issue the orders, sir?”

Rommel looked at the young aide, the man as excited as Bayerlein, and digested the message. “Kesselring is protecting himself. He approves my plan, but cannot order it to proceed. So, if I am right, he can claim that he supported me. If I am wrong, he has no share of the blame. We cannot move until Comando Supremo has given us the final authority. Prepare the orders, but do not issue them to the commanders until the final sanction has been received.”

“Of course, sir.”

Bayerlein was looking at him, and Rommel waited for him to move away, saw now that Bayerlein was frowning.

“What is it, Fritz?”

“Sir, forgive me, but I have never known you to defer to Comando Supremo before you begin an operation. The staff…with all respect, sir, we have always felt pride in how you ignore all of this foolishness. If you order it, we will move right now, regardless of what Comando Supremo says.”

Rommel looked down, stared at the mud on his boots. “The world has changed, Fritz. This is not my theater any longer. It’s not my stage. We require von Arnim to advance his forces with us, and he will not move without orders from above.” He looked at Bayerlein now. “Make sure someone mans the communications at all times. We will wait until we hear from Rome.”

He stepped out into the mud, and Bayerlein knew not to follow. Rommel walked through the grove of trees, knew that the plan was sound, that if von Arnim cooperated, the Allies would be driven completely out of Tunisia. Instead, he thought, we must wait. We must delay.

The daylight was fading, and he stopped, heard the high drone of a plane motor, a distant thump of artillery. He had grown too used to the sounds, the battle always there, some fight off in the distance, attracting no one’s attention, a meaningless flicker of death under a dark and dismal sky.

FEBRUARY 19, 1943

You are to modify your plan from the proposed operation against Tébessa and deploy your attack units northward, via Kasserine and Thala, with the objective of capturing Le Kef.

Rommel stared at the aide, the paper in the young man’s hand, began to feel sick, anger draining his strength. Le Kef. He put out a hand, felt for the chair, eased down slowly, said in a low voice, “This is unbelievable. This is far worse than stupidity. It is criminal.”

Bayerlein was close beside him now, had heard the orders, motioned for the aide to move away, said in a low voice, “Sir, perhaps we should retire to your tent. You do not look well.”

“Le Kef. We shall turn our attentions toward Le Kef. So, von Arnim has had his way. We shall attack to the north, where success will mean nothing. We have an open road to Tébessa, but we will fight through the mountain passes instead.” He tried to stand, his legs weak, took a deep breath. “Von Arnim has shown us who truly has the authority. It seems that is the only success he requires.”

He felt Bayerlein’s hand on his shoulder, stood, moved toward the darkness, the night sky still dreary, cold and wet. He didn’t want to feel the rain again, stopped at the opening of the shelter, said, “What time is it? How long until daylight?”

“It’s near two o’clock, sir.”

“Two? Well, then, there is time. I believe, Fritz, I should like to get some sleep.”

KASSERINE PASS—FEBRUARY 20, 1943

The air was thick with smoke, a steady thunder in front of him, the roar of armor passing close beside him, a column of tanks moving toward the pass. He stood high on the seat of the truck, stared through the binoculars, strained to see, the fog and mist obliterating the mountainsides.

“Damn! We must get closer! Driver, advance, follow that panzer column!”

He dropped down, the truck surging forward, the air suddenly ripped by machine-gun fire, men shouting to him, Bayerlein pulling on his arm.

“Sir! We must not remain in the road! We are too easily a target!”

Rommel pulled away, turned, stared hard at his aide, shouted into the man’s face, “We are all targets, General! This is a fight! You will either ride with me, or you will walk!”

“Yes, sir! Of course, sir!”

He stared ahead now, tried to see past the hulking shadow of a large tank, the heavy Panzer IV, ignored the sharp blast to one side, smoke and rock showering the truck. He felt the old fury, wanted to push the driver faster, get the truck past the armor, but the road was narrow, a sheer drop to one side, a tight hillside rising sharply on the other. He smelled the tank’s exhaust, black smoke engulfing him, shouted again, “Go! Move! I’m right behind you!”

The hill crested, the ground falling away, a valley opening up in front of them, a vast sea of fire and smoke a half mile wide. The hills rose sharply on both sides, machine-gun fire above him, small rock slides peppering the road, the tanks still moving forward. He grabbed the driver’s shoulder, shouted, “Stop here! I must see!”

He stood, wiped the lenses of the binoculars, scanned the ground in front of him, a hundred vehicles, most of them moving, others, black lumps, smoking, some on fire. He could see his own tanks, formations circling to one side, a flanking move, more smoke, the tanks hidden. There were sharp thumps of artillery fire, the air above him ripped open, the searing screech of the shells, some passing far overhead, others impacting the road in front of him, the closest tank suddenly tossed aside, upended, a flash of fire. He looked up the hillside, infantry darting among the rocks, more machine guns, pops of rifle fire, the flow still forward, soldiers on both sides scrambling along the cuts and gashes in the rock.

The binoculars were useless now, too much smoke, much of the fight spread out right in front of him. He scanned the shattered tanks, could easily spot the American tanks, smaller, round-topped, more compact, lighter.
Vulnerable
. His own panzers were still pushing forward, the battle drifting away, driven by the power, the great machines, the enemy swallowed by mist and smoke and fire, and the man who would not be stopped.

K
asserine Pass was the left flank of the German assault, the other wing pushing through along the road that led to Sbiba, the more northerly route that would lead to Le Kef. The attack had been slow in starting, the Germans attempting to drive straight through Kasserine Pass in a frontal assault that had simply collapsed. The Americans had put men with mortars and antitank guns in the hills high above the half-mile-wide pass, had a clear line of fire on anything that stayed on the low ground beneath them. The roadway through the pass had been mined as well, American and British engineers putting everything they had into a barrier that would slow the Germans down, to allow the Allied artillery to pound their targets. As Rommel made his way forward, he had altered the plan of attack, ordering a halt to the absurd frontal assaults, ordering German infantry to climb the hills, sweeping around the Americans. The plan had worked, American units caught by surprise on the hills, surrounded and cut off from retreat. Those who could make their escape westward found that the defensive positions west of the pass had already begun to collapse, the German armor overpowering, a wave of steel and fire that could not be stopped.