The Steel Wave (6 page)

“Right away, sir.”

Rommel looked at Sasser again, the man still puzzled, and said, “Colonel, as you know, I have been inspecting the Führer’s impenetrable Atlantic Wall for some months now. When I arrived here, I was shocked by what I saw: the complete lack of urgency, the utter disregard for our Führer’s orders. I was given the responsibility, and the very specific instructions, that this coastline be made invulnerable to any assault the enemy could attempt. I have made every effort to carry out that order, to instill and inspire a sense of mission in these men. In
you,
Colonel.”

“Of course, sir.”

The aide had returned, handed Rommel a small accordion. Rommel held it out toward Sasser.

“You have done your duty, Colonel, and so this is for you. My gift. It is my way of showing you respect.”

Sasser took the accordion, squeezed the sides together, the sharp whine emerging. He looked at Rommel now, a broad beaming smile, then snapped himself again to attention.

“Thank you, Field Marshal! I shall treasure it always.”

“It is my hope that one day, when this war has concluded, the officers who have received these gifts might gather at some place and share their accomplishments. I would be very proud to be a part of that.”

“By all means. We shall make that happen, Field Marshal!”

Rommel paused, looked past Sasser, saw the work ongoing.

“You may return to your efforts, Colonel.” He glanced at Ruge, saw a slight smile. “I must resume my inspection.”

Rommel spun around, Ruge and the aide following, the men moving quickly along the path to the camouflaged tents. More of his staff were gathering at the cars, the rear doors of his car pulled open. In seconds, the two officers were in the car, the driver moving them back out into the countryside.

Ruge seemed energized beside him, and Rommel, knowing the man’s mood, waited for him to speak. After a short moment, Ruge said, “How many of those concertinas do you have?”

“More than enough, unfortunately.”

Ruge chuckled. “They would probably prefer medals.”

Surprised, Rommel looked at Ruge and shook his head. “I do not agree. Have you seen how many medals we are awarding now? Berlin is minting them faster than we produce artillery shells. Every officer on this front expects to receive one for his outstanding service to the Reich. Our officers have come to believe that loyalty to the Führer is the most valuable skill they can demonstrate. It is a deadly mistake. It will destroy this army.”

Ruge said nothing and stared out toward the fields, the car bouncing on the rough road. Rommel felt a familiar pain in his side, rubbed his hand inside his heavy coat, and looked at the two men in the front seat.

“Captain Lang, you are well aware that I value your discretion, is that not true?”

The man turned. “Most certainly, Field Marshal. Sergeant Daniel and I are occupied with other thoughts, always.”

Rommel smiled and tapped his driver on the shoulder. “I am not concerned about you, Sergeant.” He turned to Ruge. “The sergeant has proven himself to me on many occasions. Sometimes, I am not even certain he is capable of hearing anything at all. Are you deaf, Sergeant Daniel?”

“Yes, Field Marshal.”

Ruge laughed. “All right. My caution is unfounded. I meant no insult to your staff. But…concertinas?”

Rommel probed his side again, a nagging ailment from the misery of the African desert, never quite letting him forget.

“I promise you, Friedrich, when all of this has past, when medals and decorations hang over every fireplace in Germany, those concertinas will occupy a special place. Those men will not forget that I chose them to receive a gift so…unmilitary. They might even learn to play the thing.”

There was silence, the car breaking out into open ground, a village in the distance and, to one side, a railroad track, a line of heavy railcars. Rommel strained to see, and his driver seemed to feel the movement.

“Shall I stop, sir?”

“No. We have much ground to cover. I was just observing. Those railcars were carrying a shipment of eighty-eights. Very good. We will need enormous quantities of those along every open beach, especially the Pas-de-Calais. The enemy knows already that we have no better weapon to destroy his armor.” He glanced at Ruge again. “I have tried to explain that to von Rundstedt ever since I arrived here. I have asked that batteries of eighty-eights be interspersed among every one of the larger shore guns.”

“Will the shore guns not be enough?” Ruge said. “Heavy batteries of three-hundred-millimeter cannon will provide all the firepower we would need against enemy ships.”

“Guns that big are too visible from the air. The enemy will send their bombers to target every installation. Despite Colonel Sasser’s good work, we do not have enough concrete to protect every battery, and our
outstanding
engineering corps seems to believe that we can make do in those casements with half the thickness I have specified. In any invasion, we could lose our most effective shore batteries before the enemy even attempts to land. The eighty-eights are mobile, can be hidden from the bombers, and, should the enemy attempt to land his armor, they can be moved quickly to the greatest point of attack.”

“As usual, Field Marshal, I bow to your experience.”

Rommel saw the familiar smile, felt his own good humor fading away. “It so distresses me. For every Sasser there are ten Colonel Heckners. The British land a squad of commandos right under his feet, and the only way we find out about it is when one of them blows himself up.”

“How dangerous can they truly be? The British are scouting us, determining what kind of strength we have put into place. There was no evidence that the raid this morning had any other intent than to observe. Somewhere in London, mapmakers are drawing furiously, mapping out every meter of our coastline. You and I would do the same thing. And if they come, you know as well as I do that they will come at a place that makes the most strategic sense. If they come, you will know where and when. You are as capable of knowing the mind of the enemy as any British or American strategist.”

“But, Friedrich, I do not make the decisions. No matter what I may believe, I am subject to orders.” He paused. “You saw Colonel Sasser, the man’s hands. He
works,
he is a soldier’s soldier,
he
will do his job. Behind us, old men and sycophants hold our future in hands that are fragile and soft, hands that have never held the steel. We are losing this war because of Russia. We have drained Germany of the strength and the power that could so easily have prevailed. The Russians are savages, led by subhuman Bolsheviks. But their numbers are too many and their land is too vast, and they have bled us dry. The British and the Americans know this with complete certainty, so what will they do? It is a question any schoolchild could understand. We are weakened now, and so they will come. They will come here, somewhere on this coastline, and if we do not meet them at the point of attack, if we do not destroy them on the beaches, they will keep coming.”

“Von Rundstedt disagrees with you.”

“They all disagree with me. I know what they believe. We should allow the enemy to land: Then our mighty Luftwaffe and our mighty panzers will strike them and destroy them. Yes, yes. I have heard that too many times. It is wrong. Damn them all, it is
wrong.
If we allow the enemy to plant his feet in the sand, we will never get him out. Last autumn, we held every advantage in Italy, the Bay of Salerno.
Kesselring will destroy them on the beaches.
Yes, I heard that. Now where is Kesselring? His back is pushed north and north again.”

“Kesselring has forced a stalemate, Erwin. Let us not forget that. He has held the enemy below Rome.”

“A
stalemate
? Are we so desperate that we now believe that a stalemate is a
victory
? There can be no stalemate here, Friedrich. I have seen what the Americans bring to this war. I have seen the tanks and guns and trucks. And one day soon, how many millions of those Americans will push their way into France? Von Rundstedt insists that the most brilliant strategy is simply to allow that to happen, then, once they are ashore, we can attack them and drive them into the sea. It is fantasy. No, worse, it is suicide. And men like Colonel Sasser deserve better.”

3. EISENHOWER

HAYES LODGE, MAYFAIR, LONDON
JANUARY 26, 1944

“
T
he war could very well be over by April. In fact, should our plans continue unimpeded, I am quite certain of it.”

Eisenhower leaned back in his chair, already exhausted by Air Chief Marshal Harris’s bluster. He glanced at Smith, stroking his chin, could see that his chief of staff was itching to reply. It was Bedell Smith’s way to hold nothing back, a trait that had endeared him to no one but his boss. Eisenhower had always known that “Beetle” inspired a chorus of grumbling from the British, mostly deserved. He had a clumsiness to him; his attempts at diplomacy always fell short. But now, an indiscreet missile launched at the arrogance of this British air marshal would have been perfectly appropriate.

Harris, oblivious to the frowns, continued. “We have quite perfected the art of the massed bombing attack, you know. The Hun tried it against us, and, dare I say, it was only the stiff backbone of the British people that prevented it from working.” He paused, a professorial tilt to his head, speaking to inattentive students. “In 1940, you know. Our splendid resolve in the face of certain disaster. What we of course refer to as the Battle for Britain.” Eisenhower nodded, forced himself to hide a screaming need for sarcasm.

“Yes, I am familiar with the term. I have made it a point to study the history of the past four years.”

Harris seemed satisfied that his lesson had taken hold. “Well, yes, of course. Naturally, the Germans have no such pride, and thus, by widespread destruction of their cities, we shall achieve what Mr. Hitler could not. We shall utterly destroy the enemy’s will to fight. It is a grand spectacle, you know. One simply cannot imagine the power, the pure delight at seeing a thousand heavy bombers letting loose their loads to deliver what could only…well, I daresay the Almighty Himself would be impressed. Every one of these missions produces a rain of fire of biblical proportions. And, as I said, it will end this war. All this nonsense about land forces, amphibious invasion…such a waste.”

Eisenhower could feel Smith twisting in his chair and glanced at him again, the silent order: No, keep quiet, not now. This jackass is, after all, our ally.

Air Marshal Arthur “Bomber” Harris was a thick-chested bull of a man whose credentials included combat hours in a fighter plane in World War I. Now, he commanded the Allies’ strategic bombing campaigns. Harris had worked hard to gain approval for his strategies and was in part responsible for the plans that had nearly obliterated the German city of Cologne in 1942, a devastating attack that had impressed even Winston Churchill. Harris’s was the loudest voice among many of the air commanders, including several Americans, whose faith in the heavy bombers had convinced them that Operation Overlord was not only a waste of time but would cost far more than it would gain. It was one more argument that Eisenhower didn’t need.

“Marshal Harris, I appreciate your input. I believe your statement is a bit optimistic.”

Harris seemed wounded. “But you must understand. Even your president has stated that absolute destruction of the enemy is our most desired alternative.”

Eisenhower closed his eyes for a brief moment. He knew exactly what Harris was referring to. “What President Roosevelt said was that we should accept only unconditional surrender from the enemy. I believe now, as I believed then, that the president’s choice of words was an unfortunate error. It is not my place to correct anything the president says, but now we must all live with the consequences of that…um…policy.”

“A good policy, I assure you. In fact, the only policy we should aspire to.”

“No, Marshal Harris, it is not. What we have done is unite the German people behind the fanatical ravings of their oppressive leaders. Their propaganda ministry has made great play of this, you know. The German people are being told that our only goal is to wipe their nation off the map. Instead of taking away their will to fight, we have given them a cause to fight us even harder. Destroying their cities will only convince the German people that what the president said is accurate. That plays directly into the ranting of Hitler and his goons.” He stopped. Griping about the president was a bad idea, especially to a senior British commander. Harris wore the smirk of a man who has failed to enlighten the uneducated, but Eisenhower had endured all he could. “I must ask you to excuse us, Marshal Harris. I have many appointments still to attend to. I’m sure a man in your position understands.”

Harris seemed to ponder the message. “Yes, of course. But be assured, despite all this enthusiasm for your land invasion, if allowed the opportunity, the Allied air forces can end this war. End it absolutely, with minimal casualties. Is that not our common goal?”

“Certainly. Thank you for your reminder.”

Harris was up now, a short bow toward Eisenhower. He seemed to ignore Smith, spun around, and was quickly out the door. Eisenhower felt the air flow out of the room, a great deflating balloon. Smith put both hands on his head, smoothed back his hair.

“Good God, Ike. That man’s insufferable.”

“Yep.” Eisenhower thought a moment. “You ever do a jigsaw puzzle?”

Smith seemed caught off guard by the question. “Uh, no.”

“Pain in the ass. Ten thousand pieces, all of them the same, supposed to fit neatly together. But then, you find out they’re not cut the same: little differences, no matching parts. You spend a damned hour finding two pieces that work, and you’re no better off than you were before. That’s what this is, a big damned jigsaw puzzle. Ten thousand generals, plus a few civilians thrown in just to make it interesting. No, check that. Just to make it impossible. FDR makes one damned statement without asking anybody if it’s a good idea and changes this whole war.
Unconditional surrender.
Can you believe that? Dammit, Beetle, not one of these people who are belly-aching about Overlord have any idea what the German soldier is like. I guarantee you, every damned Kraut private has been told about Unconditional Surrender. Every damned one of them now thinks we’re out to destroy his country. And these air people, like this jackass Harris, keep insisting that if we destroy their cities, the Germans will just quit. All we’re doing is making them fight harder.”