The Rising Tide

  Westphal had climbed the hill behind him, said, “Sir! We have received word. Both the Twenty-first and the Fifteenth are taking heavy losses. The Afrika Korps has fewer than forty effective tanks, sir. Colonel Greiss reports that the enemy is massing two hundred tanks to his front. Colonel Fassel confirms this.”

  Von Thoma climbed the hill again, said, “What would you have me do, sir?”

  Rommel avoided the man’s sad gaze, raised the binoculars again, stared out toward the fight. The smoke had spread far below him, a surge of activity pushing west. He could feel von Thoma’s energy, thought, no need to say anything, General. I see it. Another breakthrough. Closer in front of him there were flashes of light, a carpet of explosions, the sound reaching him in a few seconds. Now he saw the men, a ragged line, moving toward him, followed by more, troops pouring out of the smoke behind them, a slow tide, surging toward the coast road. He watched them for a moment, could see they were running, thought, the Italians. They cannot hold the line. We have nothing to give them.

  Above him, the familiar sounds returned, and he looked to the sky, more specks, like flocks of geese in perfect V formation. The flocks began to break up, the planes swooping low, flickers of light dancing on the wings. The bombs came now, blasts among the running men, burying the Italians under clouds of dust and fire. Rommel lowered the binoculars, knew what was happening, what would happen to anyone so exposed. The roads to the west had already begun to fill with vehicles, ambulances, and small trucks, but mostly just men, the infantry, many of the shattered Italian units swarming into the roads, seeking safety away from the steel tracks of the enemy. To the south, he had already ordered the helpless infantry to pull back, would not just sacrifice men for no good reason. But the planes will find them as well, he thought. Rommel felt a hand on his shoulder, Westphal, the man’s voice urgent.

  “Sir! We must leave here!”

  Rommel lowered the glasses. “Yes, Colonel. It is time to leave. It is time for all of us to leave.”

  He looked at von Thoma, saw the man nod slowly. He understands, of course.

  “General, order your armor to pull back. We cannot fight on this ground.”

  Westphal said, “Sir! Retreat?”

  Rommel looked at him, felt the stirring, the fire growing inside of him.

  “It is time, Colonel. We are a mobile army, and if we are to survive, we must be mobile again. Order the infantry commanders to withdraw in good order, if possible. The artillery should withdraw as rapidly as possible. They are our best line of defense. Everyone should attempt to reach the line we have established below Fuka.”

  Westphal stared at him, said nothing.

  Von Thoma said, “Sir, if we withdraw the artillery, the enemy will be able to maintain close pursuit. We must put up a rear-guard screen. If not…it could be a slaughter, sir.”

  “Obey my orders, General. Send word to every senior commander. Do you understand?”

  Von Thoma saluted him, moved away down the hill, toward the command vehicles, toward the radios.

  Rommel looked at Westphal, said, “Montgomery will not pursue. There is surprise in retreat as well as attack. When he realizes we have disengaged, he will assess and analyze. That is still our great advantage.”

  NEAR EL DABA, EGYPT—NOVEMBER 3, 1942

  The battle at El Alamein had been lost. But the Panzerarmee could survive, and there was still a strong defense to be made, if somehow the flow of ammunition and fuel could continue. There were good places for defensive fighting all across Libya, the obstacles that Rommel had once breached against Wavell and Auchinleck, strong positions that would hold Montgomery at bay until some decision was made in Berlin, a decision about what Rommel was expected to do next. Salvaging what remained of the Panzerarmee was Rommel’s priority, and if Hitler agreed, the tanks and heavy equipment could be withdrawn to the seaports. There, the Luftwaffe could make a strong showing, protecting the ships that could pull Rommel’s forces out of Africa altogether, forces that would still be able to make a good fight where the Führer might need them. Once Montgomery realized how complete his victory had been, he would come again. The only question was, when?

  R ommel had made his way westward, along roadways choked with a desperate wave of humanity. Throughout the day, the British had held fast to their new breakthrough, no signs yet of a major pursuit. Rommel had to believe that Montgomery was simply reveling in the victory, or even better, the British commander was completely unaware the victory had been handed to him.

  The command car rolled out into the desert, passing a crippled truck, its crew abandoning the vehicle, making their way on foot, joining the vast throng of retreating soldiers. The car lurched and bounced, Rommel holding tightly to the side, could see an oasis, a cluster of palm trees. He knew the landmark, knew they were only a few miles from the line where the army could make its next stand. It would be a temporary defense, putting the remaining eighty-eights and the heavy tanks in position to screen the rest of the army as it made its escape. If Montgomery followed at all, he would first have to absorb a horrific pounding from Rommel’s guns. Rommel guessed that the British soldiers were as exhausted as the Germans and the Italians. Confronting Rommel’s defensive screen might give Montgomery’s troops the excuse to stop.

  He knew from the maps and landmarks that he was still ten miles east of the village of El Daba. There were ridges here, dry wadis where the eighty-eights had begun to dig in. The car rolled down through a trail in the wadi, then up the other side, and he saw another cluster of palms, pointed, the driver obeying. They reached the oasis, and the car rolled to a stop. Rommel saw tents being raised, officers shouting instructions to work crews, who were shirtless and sweating. He stepped out of the car, moved toward them, and they saw him now, the work stopping, the men giving him a cheer.

  He held up a hand, a silent gesture, thank you, pointed to the worn canvas, said, “Do not stop work. This is the new headquarters, at least for now.”

  More cars stopped, and he watched as his staff officers scrambled to work, men with radios, moving quickly to string an antenna into one of the palms. More trucks were gathering, and beyond, he could see the makeshift airstrip, a row of cargo planes, blessed fuel, a meager supply that had somehow found him. He saw staff officers carrying bundles of maps from the car. Good, very good, he thought. We’ll be in operation here very quickly.

  “Sir!” Westphal was coming toward him now, held a paper in his hand. “A wireless message, from Berlin, sir!”

  Rommel took the paper, began to read, felt a cold tumble in his stomach.

  …In the situation in which you find yourself, there can be no other thought but to stand fast, yield not a yard of ground, and throw every gun and every man into the battle…. As to your troops, you can show them no other road than that to victory or death.

  Adolf Hitler

  The paper fell away from his hand, settled to the hot ground at his feet. He stared toward the roadway, his eyes not focusing on the parade of exhausted, beaten men.

  Westphal said, “Is it new orders, sir?”

  Rommel could not look at him, turned away, stared out toward the vast, empty desert. He had ignored the sickness for as long as he could, the pains in his side, the tightness in his throat. He had drawn strength from the power of his army, a power that even now, beaten and bloodied, could still make the good fight, if they were only given the time, precious time to gather and refit and resupply. He felt himself drained of strength, as drained as his army, could see only the face of Hitler, the man’s utter detachment, his inability to see an unpleasant truth. And now, you would order us to fight and die and sacrifice this army, sacrifice the men who are devoted to you…for what?

  “Sir? What does it mean?”

  “It means, Colonel…” He stopped, held on to the words inside him, could not betray what he had held on to for so long. But it is there, he thought, lying at my feet, the simple order on a piece of paper, the order from a man who lives only in his dreams, wh
o believes only in the fantastic and the glorious, and ignores the truth. No, that is not right. He does not ignore. He simply does not hear at all. To Hitler, none of this is…real.

  “It means, Colonel, that the Führer is insane.”

  NOVEMBER 4, 1942

  He had sent Lieutenant Berndt in the first available plane to report to Hitler’s high command, to explain exactly what was happening to the Panzerarmee. Rommel had not been polite, had stopped worrying about the boisterous Gestapo officer. It had always been known that Berndt had Hitler’s ear, and so, Berndt would go directly to the Führer, would be told exactly what Rommel needed him to know. The report would be brief and direct: if the Panzerarmee stands its ground, in no more than a few days it will be exterminated.

  “T hey have never done this before. Never. There was advice and complaining, but never did anyone, not even the Führer, tell me how to move my army.”

  Kesselring nodded, rubbed his chin. He had only been on the ground for a few minutes, had seemed as surprised as Rommel by the extraordinary order from Hitler.

  “Albert, I have obeyed him. I have halted the army. We are able to stand here now only because Montgomery is confused, as I knew he would be. But he is coming, and when he comes, any of us who remain here will be swallowed up. There will be no Panzerarmee, no Afrika Korps.”

  Kesselring looked past him, toward the other officers, the men who stood silently, said slowly, “This is not an order you should obey. The Führer has made an error, does not have the proper information. You say Berndt is on his way there?”

  Rommel nodded. “He should arrive in a few hours. If he is not shot down.”

  “I will contact the Führer myself and explain the situation. He can be made to understand. He must. If this army is destroyed, all of North Africa will be lost. The Führer will understand that it cannot be so.”

  Rommel turned away, did not want to hear Kesselring’s optimism. It seemed mindless, idiotic now. He looked toward Westphal, said, “We have one chance for survival. We must move west, to the Fuka line, regroup, and then move west again. If we fight a strong retreating action, we can hold the British away. But there must be speed.”

  There was silence for a long moment, and Kesselring said, “I would have had you withdraw much sooner. You should not have made a stand at El Alamein.”

  Rommel stared at him. Are you trying to be fatherly? He felt the explosion coming, knew it should not happen, not with the others there. But the words came out in a rush, no strength left to hold them back.

  “You would tell me how to command my army? You would tell me now what I should have done? You would give me advice that no one can follow?” He was shouting, and his voice began to crack, waver. He began to shake, his throat tightening. His fists were clenched, and he pulled his arms up to his chest, pulling at himself, trying to hold the anger inside. Kesselring stepped back, and Rommel suddenly realized, he is afraid of me. Yes, damn you! You should be afraid of me! They all should.

  Westphal had moved up beside him, and Kesselring spoke softly, the words directed toward Westphal.

  “I will send word to the Führer. I will explain. It will be on my authority. Have the commanders make immediate preparation to withdraw to the positions designated to them before the halt. Speed is essential. Maintain a strong defensive rear guard. Where is General von Thoma? How many tanks are operational?”

  A voice came from behind Rommel. “Sir, General von Thoma was taken by the enemy. We do not know if he is alive.”

  Kesselring was wide-eyed, said, “My God. We must learn if he was captured.”

  Rommel forced out the words: “He will survive. He is a fighter.”

  Another voice behind Rommel said, “We have only thirty-five tanks in operation, sir.”

  “Thirty…five? That is all?”

  Rommel looked at Kesselring again, saw the face of a man who was trying to assume command, to gain control of a situation where no control could be had. Rommel straightened himself, the chill gone, and he flexed his fingers, worked air into his lungs.

  “This is still my army.”

  Kesselring looked past him, seemed to test the statement, measure the reaction of the others. Rommel did not look behind him, thought, they are loyal to me still. They will still fight for me.

  Kesselring nodded to him now, said, “Yes. I agree. I will tell the Führer that. But you must not allow the enemy to confront or ensnare you. Every piece of equipment has value. You must now fight a poor man’s war.”

  Rommel looked hard at Kesselring, weighed his words, said, “I have always fought a poor man’s war. If I could have fought any other way, we would be in Cairo now.” He felt his strength returning, the sickness releasing him. He turned, looked at the others, saw the confidence, hard faces of men who had survived the worst the enemy could give them. And we will survive now, he thought. All we need is time. And one good commander to show them the way.

  O n November 5, word came from Hitler’s headquarters. Influenced by both Berndt and Kesselring, Hitler had changed his mind, had now approved the decision that Rommel should withdraw his army. When the word reached Rommel, the Panzerarmee was already out of harm’s way. Montgomery had delayed once more, had allowed Rommel all the head start he would need.

  Though the British had won a decisive victory at El Alamein, Montgomery could not complete the task, could not deliver the final blow. The fight with Rommel had taken an enormous toll on the fighting strength of the British troops and their machines. When Montgomery finally gave chase, the men who pushed across the desert knew that by allowing Rommel to escape, it only meant that there would yet be another fight, that no matter how many tanks they had, how superior the British were in numbers, they would still have to risk another costly and dangerous duel with the Panzerarmee, and the man who led them.

  9. EISENHOWER

  GIBRALTAR

  NOVEMBER 5, 1942

  F ive planes were in the formation, each one carrying ten officers or aides, dividing the headquarters staff so that if any one plane was shot down, someone might survive who could still command the operation. There had been fog, a blessing of course, since no German fighter was likely to find the heavy bombers, and despite the nervous fingers of the gunners who stared into the gray darkness, the trip had been as uneventful as anyone could hope. Eisenhower flew in the Red Gremlin, the same plane that had carried Clark to Gibraltar, the first leg of Clark’s secret mission to Africa. The pilot was the same as well, Major Paul Tibbets. The decision to leave London, to make the flight despite the inclement weather, had been Eisenhower’s. The decision about just how to get there safely belonged to Tibbets, who now had a reputation as one of the finest pilots in the U.S. air force.

  After a steep descent, they landed abruptly, and Eisenhower could see now why the airfield was such a challenge. The runway was surprisingly short and was flanked by dense rows of British Spitfires. The fighters had been assembled for one purpose, would serve as the screen for the invasion fleets, hoping to hold back the enemy planes that would certainly try to interfere in the landings along the North African coast. Whether those planes would be German or French, even Eisenhower had no idea.

  Eisenhower was met by the royal governor, General Sir Frank Mason-MacFarlane, and the staff would be housed in MacFarlane’s home, a gracious gesture from their British host. But there was little time for social pleasantries, something the governor seemed to recognize. Immediately, Eisenhower was escorted to his new headquarters, down a corridor nearly a half mile deep into solid rock. It was a formidable fortress, a place that had for centuries guarded British interests in the Mediterranean, but Eisenhower could see now that this extraordinary landmark was far more than a great lump of rock. The British staffers led him down long, damp corridors that had been carved right into the rock. The Rock of Gibraltar was in fact an enormous office building.

  T he room, lit by one bare lightbulb, was barely eight feet square. There were two desks, two chairs, and Eisenhower sat
in one, watched as the piles of folders, maps, and documents were hauled in by the aides. Clark had the other desk and stood by the narrow door, directing the flow, the aides unloading their haul, then moving quickly out. Clark shifted a box behind his desk, laughed, said, “Well, this is cozy. I’ll do you the favor of taking a bath once in a while.”

  Eisenhower tried to smile, felt the chair hard against his back, the tightness in his chest gripping him, stiff and uncomfortable. It had been this way for nearly a week now, the same feeling of anxious helplessness that had engulfed him once the final orders had been given. It was all in motion, 120,000 men, planes, tanks, artillery, all of it rolling across the seas, two great arms extending slowly toward Africa. He imagined it as some beast, claws extended, one arm to the west, Patton, in the open ocean, driving slowly toward Casablanca. The other was shorter, sliding through the Strait of Gibraltar, and once there, opening into two fists, each one punching its target, like a boxer unleashing a hard left hook. But the punches were three days away, and the targets themselves were hidden in doubt, obscured by the absurd political fog of the French. Through it all Eisenhower could only wait, sitting in a tiny office, deep inside a wet, cold rock.

  “Ike?”

  He looked up at Clark, the tall, thin man leaning across his desk, focused. “What?”

  “I thought you’d want to get word back to England. The courier says there’re some pretty jumpy folks in London, wondering if we got here okay.”

  Eisenhower realized there was another man in the room, short, standing behind Clark. “The Brits didn’t send word?”

  Clark shook his head. “Apparently not. I understand the prime minister is doing a dance all over the walls of Ten Downing Street. We should let them know we landed.”

  “Yes, of course. Send word. Send it twice. We’re giving them enough to worry about already.”