The Steel Wave (40 page)

“I’ll be damned. We captured a train. Never thought they’d give it up without a fight. A half dozen cars. Let’s see what they were hauling.”

Gavin climbed up into the engine. Adams saw men moving between the cars, some climbing up on top, men gathering around one open car, antiaircraft guns, the train’s protection.

“Hey, General! There’s nothing but empty bottles!”

Adams looked toward the voice, the man tossing a glass bottle out onto the tracks, shattering it. Adams flinched at the sound, felt his legs weakening again, ignored the cheers. He moved to the steps at one end of a railcar and sat, looked at his shaking hands, his chest heavy, cold, his anger rising. He leaned out, looked into the village, no movement, saw two German bodies, gray uniforms, thought, Your unlucky day. Maybe you should have learned to run faster. He stared at them. Maybe you’re faking it, he thought. Playing dead. Why don’t one of you move…just a little? Then he saw the blood, a dark stain on a bed of small rocks. No, you’re not going anywhere.

He slapped one hand against the breech of the Thompson, slapped again, pulsing frustration, and said aloud, “Dammit!”

“What? What is it?” He was surprised to see Scofield, smiling, the smile slowly disappearing. “You okay, Sergeant?”

“Yeah, Captain, I’m fine. I guess they got away. Pisses me off.”

“They didn’t all get away, and the rest of ’em might not go too far. The bridge is up ahead, down a hill to the right. There’s nothing on the train to get excited about, one car full of some kind of ass-stink cheese. Not sure where the Krauts were going with that. A bunch of empty glass bottles too. General Gavin thinks maybe they were just hitching a ride, a couple platoons going to hit us at La Fière. We’ve got to keep moving forward. Let’s fall in.”

Scofield moved away, and the orders came now, the men lining up on either side of the train. Adams moved to the end of the row of cars, the tail of the train, saw Gavin and Ostberg, both men pointing toward the village, the men moving out quickly, staying low, close to the fat stone buildings. Adams kept his stare on the first building, but there was silence, the windows just windows, and Adams stepped into line, moved past the bodies of the Germans, hesitated, forced his finger off the trigger of the submachine gun, and thought of the train, the desperate scramble of the Germans. No targets. I didn’t get my chance. Scofield was beside him now, and Adams kept moving, stared at his boots, then up at the scattered houses, the still silent windows.

He could feel Scofield’s eyes on him, heard the captain’s words. “I missed my chance back there. Never got off a good shot. You?”

Adams shook his head. “Nope.”

“Pissed off about it, right?”

“Yep.”

“Thank God. I thought it was just me. An officer’s supposed to show some decorum, not lead the way by blasting everything in sight. But that’s sure what I wanted to do. Kill everything that moved.”

The words were strange, nothing like Scofield had ever said before, and Adams looked at him. “I think you’re full of crap, sir.”

“You’re right. Maybe it was
you
who wants to kill everything in sight. Take it easy, Sergeant. I hate the enemy just as much as you do. We’ll get our chance.”

Adams chewed on the words. “First time I’ve thought of it that way. Never felt like I hated the Krauts. It was about survival. I knew damn well that if I didn’t shoot him first, he’d shoot me. I’ve heard all that garbage about, Oh yeah, he’s just like me, or Maybe he’s got a wife and kids, all of that. You start thinking like that, you’ll hesitate, and then you’ll end up getting your own people killed.”

“You never had that problem.”

“No, sir. But it’s different here. I don’t know why. I didn’t feel this way in Sicily. I don’t like the shaking in my gut. I don’t like worrying about that damned kid back there. I’m sick of crawling on my belly and I’m sick of watching my guys get picked off. I’m tired and I’m pissed off. It doesn’t matter now if those Krauts are shooting at me or taking a crap in the bushes. Those bastards started this, and if it’ll get this over with quicker, I’ll kill every damned one of them.”

23. ROMMEL

LA ROCHE-GUYON
JUNE 6, 1944, 9:30 P.M.

T
he trip back to France from Württenburg had been miserable, made worse by his infuriating ignorance of what was actually happening along the coast. The first call had come to his home at six that morning: Speidel, his chief of staff, more agitated than urgent. Speidel relayed the reports that had begun just after midnight, enemy paratroopers suddenly appearing in scattered sectors behind the Normandy beaches. Speidel was dismissive. Most of the German commanders had seen this kind of activity before, airdrops aimed at linkups with the French underground, spies coming and going, annoying pinpricks around the edges of German control. But Speidel had heard too many reports by dawn and there had been too much furious shouting by German field commanders. Orders from von Rundstedt had finally begun to flow outward: the panzer units placed on highest alert, the infantry mobilized for a move to the threatened sectors. And then the reports began to come in from the beaches. Despite his skepticism that the commanders were overreacting, and despite the insistence from von Rundstedt himself that the need for concern was greatly overblown, Speidel realized it was time to phone Rommel.

Rommel had not begun the drive back to his headquarters until after ten in the morning, had spent precious hours gathering as much information as he could. The journey from his home to his headquarters took Rommel eleven hours to complete, and along the way he continued his efforts to find out exactly what was happening, seeking answers no one seemed able to provide. There was rampant skepticism, so many of the senior commanders holding tight to the theory that this so-called invasion was in fact a ruse, that the Allies were staging a powerful demonstration designed to draw German attention toward Normandy. In Germany, the High Command remained entrenched in their belief that the full-scale assault was still to come at Calais. But throughout the morning, the seas off Calais remained empty, and despite increasing speculation that the genuine thrust had not yet begun, the observers along that coastline had said nothing about enemy activity.

“
W
here is the navy?”

Speidel shook his head, and Rommel turned toward Admiral Ruge. “Do
you
know? Do we even
have
a navy these days? A thousand ships land on our doorstep and no one knows they are coming. Is no one patrolling the tiny ocean that sits between us and the enemy?”

Ruge leaned forward in the chair, his hands folded under his chin. “All I have heard is that the weather kept our normal patrols in port. Conditions at sea have been treacherous, at least as far as the meteorologists could tell. Most of our weather observation posts have been bombed in recent days, so we have had something of a gap in our forecasts.”

“The enemy bombed weather stations. Why would they waste their resources on such mundane targets? Is it possible they did not wish us to know what the weather was likely to be? Is it possible they wished to keep us in the dark about conditions at sea?”

Ruge stroked his chin. “I had not thought of that. Someone should have seen the significance of those bombings, yes.”

Rommel paced, dug his boots into the soft rug, spun around, crossed the room in long hard strides. “
Someone.
Paratroopers landed hours before dawn, and
someone
decided it was not necessary to mobilize the armor.”

Speidel said, “That is not quite correct, sir. The Twenty-first Panzer was put on alert, and orders were issued for them to prepare to advance to the affected area near Caen.”

“They
prepared
to advance? Did they actually advance?”

“Um…no, sir. General Feuchtinger could not be located for some time. His chief of staff told me what we already knew, that the general occasionally seeks…warmer company. No one at his headquarters would issue any commands to the armored units until he was found. And as you know, sir, General Dollmann was on his way to war games at Rennes when word came. It took several hours for his staff to return to Seventh Army headquarters.”

“War games.” Rommel stopped pacing and looked up at the high ceiling, intense pain now throbbing through his skull. “We were playing war games.”

“Yes, sir, the maneuvers had been scheduled for some time. There were expectations that the enemy would remain idle while the weather was so uncertain. You must recall that, sir.”

Rommel closed his eyes, put a hand on the back of his neck, rubbed hard at the twisting tightness in his neck. “Do not tell me what I should recall. I also recall our weather experts telling us there could be no attack. I also recall how so many agreed with me about the impossibility of the enemy coming ashore at low tide. I also recall my own flagrant stupidity at believing those beach obstacles would hold the enemy offshore, that our magnificent artillery would pulverize their ships, that our fine fighting forces would annihilate them from behind the perfect strength of our concrete wall!” He spun toward Speidel, pointing a shaking finger toward the man’s widening eyes. “And when the reports arrived here, when the enemy made his landings, you did nothing! Did you require extra sleep? A little too much wine last evening?” Speidel stiffened, and Rommel was surprised to see defiance. “You have something to say, General. Have I slighted you? Insulted your integrity?”

“Sir, until dawn, every indication was that the enemy activity was…insignificant.”

Rommel put his hands on his hips. He could not stay angry at Speidel. There are fools galore in this army, he thought, but Speidel is not one of them. He moved to his chair, lowered himself heavily, sat back, closed his eyes.

“I would suggest, General, that your indications were incorrect.”

“Yes, sir.”

He opened his eyes again and looked at Ruge. “Now the enemy is on our soil and he is strengthening, and he will continue to strengthen unless we can drive him away. We had a difficult task before. Now, we may have an impossible one.” He looked at Speidel again. “What happened to von Rundstedt? Is the old man so oblivious that he also ignored the reports? Why were orders not issued for an immediate response? He is supposed to be in command out here, is he not?”

“Sir, Marshal von Rundstedt has been in contact with the High Command since early this morning. He could not authorize the advance of the panzers…you must recall that, sir.”

Rommel glared.

“I apologize, sir,” Speidel said. “But the panzer commanders would not accept Marshal von Rundstedt’s orders without confirmation from the Führer’s headquarters.”

Rommel knew what was coming, thought of Keitel, Jodl, the others, so many nervous birds dancing around Hitler.

“Marshal von Rundstedt was told that the Führer was sleeping and could not be disturbed. No one else at the High Command would order the advance of the armor without the Führer’s approval.”

“So no counterattack has been made. We respond to the enemy’s invasion by not responding. Does there seem to be a flaw in this system, General?”

“Yes, sir. It has been emphasized repeatedly that you—we do not have authority over the panzers.”

“Yes, yes, one more thing I should
recall.
We cannot move unless the Führer gives us his blessing. Perhaps had the enemy landed their paratroopers on the rooftops at Berchtesgaden, Herr Hitler might have been sufficiently troubled to address the matter.”

“Sir, despite our best efforts to convince the High Command that the enemy’s actions should be addressed in the strongest terms, General Jodl did not believe the reports. He insists that the enemy has yet to show his hand. We are to remain on highest alert for the landings that must still come at Calais.”

Rommel leaned forward, his arms resting on the desk, and stared down into dark wood. “I learned long ago that if General Jodl prescribes a plan, we must do the opposite. That is certainly the case now.” He looked up at Ruge, saw a hard frown. Yes, you know all this, he thought. “So, Friedrich, what are we to do? Our most powerful forces are scattered, and no matter how hard we push them forward, the enemy has gained a foothold.”

“It is not lost, Erwin. Surely, the enemy is in a confused state. You have always been the master of the counterattack. What worked in North Africa will work here, surely. Strike them hard, on a narrow front. Do not allow them time to organize and reinforce.”

Rommel tried to laugh but leaned back in the chair again, the headache boiling inside him. “So, Admiral, you read my book.”

“Well, yes, but I studied your campaigns as well.”

“My campaigns did not result in victory, Friedrich. I had to wage war on two fronts, against two different kinds of enemy. It is no different now. The enemies of our country sit not only on their beachheads in Normandy but high on their thrones in the Bavarian Alps. No, we are not yet lost, and the situation is not yet hopeless. I agree that the enemy is most certainly in disarray, and we must take full advantage of that.”

He tried to feel the old energy, all those things Ruge was describing. It had been glorious in Africa, crushing the enemy with devastating surprise. Before that, in France, at the beginning, Rommel had struck with lightning speed and ruthless efficiency, slicing through the French and English like a sword through butter. The result had been Dunkirk, three hundred thousand of the enemy pinned with their backs against the sea, a fat goose waiting for the slaughter. And then Hitler had ordered a halt, would not believe his own generals that complete victory was so easily in his grasp. So the moment slipped away, an entire British army rescued—carried off the beaches—to return another day.
This
day.

Rommel pulled himself out of the chair, moved to the window, stared out into fading daylight. Dark shadows filled the gardens. He struggled to clear his head, thought of Lucie and her birthday, the utter foolishness of his personal indulgence. If I had been
here,
if I had given the order, if that idiot Jodl had heard my voice on the phone instead of that feeble old man, perhaps we could have moved more quickly, hit the enemy hard before he could push us back from the beaches. But I never thought they would come at low tide. It was suicide, and yet…they have survived.