The Rising Tide

  H e sat quietly, staring out at gray skies and bare tree limbs.

  “Sir, the Führer wishes to see you. You will come immediately.”

  He rose slowly, pushed through the stiffness, the small pains so much a part of him now. The officer led him through another office, pulled open a door, revealing a large, square room, officers standing on either end of long map table, and between them, in a gray uniform, Adolf Hitler.

  No one spoke, Hitler staring at the map, pointing.

  “Here. Paulus should hold here. He will hold here. There will be a breakthrough along this line within a week.” Hitler looked up at Rommel, no smile, no sign of recognition. “Stalingrad will fall before the New Year.”

  Rommel stepped forward slowly, stood at attention across the map table from Hitler, waited, knew there was nothing yet he could say. Hitler studied the maps again, then stood back, raised his eyes, studied him.

  “Are you well, Field Marshal?”

  “Quite so, my Führer.”

  “So then, what are you doing here?”

  “I wish to report on conditions in North Africa, on the position of our troops, and what I believe to be the correct course of action. I believe you are not being provided with completely accurate information, and I wish to correct that, if you will allow.”

  There was silence in the room, and Hitler said, “Continue.”

  Rommel glanced down, the maps of Russia, red circles, scribbled lines. “May I ask…if there is a map of our position in Libya?”

  Hitler glanced to the side. “Retrieve the map for the field marshal.”

  Men moved quickly, rolls of paper appearing, the maps spreading out, facing Hitler. Rommel saw no red circles, no marks of any kind. He leaned close, searched for the names, the borders, his weak eyes straining. Hitler reached down, put a hand on the map, spun it around.

  “Do you require maps to give your report, Marshal Rommel? I would think you would know your own theater of activity.”

  There was ice in Hitler’s voice, and Rommel straightened. “I do not require maps, sir. It should suffice…I wish to report that I do not believe adequate supplies of men and equipment are reaching the Panzerarmee. I do not believe a defensive posture in Tunisia can survive for long if pressed by two separate Allied armies. I do not believe the shipping situation will improve, and we have already strained our supply lines past their breaking point. We can neither fuel nor equip the Panzerarmee, and both are required to restore us to fighting strength. I do not anticipate those supply situations to change. Thus, I believe that the only sound strategy is to withdraw the Panzerarmee into Tunisia, where we can hold off the enemy for sufficient time to allow…the evacuation of the remains of that army into France or Italy. We must have no illusion about what can be accomplished with the resources we can provide for. If the Panzerarmee remains in North Africa, it will be destroyed.”

  He stopped, heard no other sound, no one breathing. The words had come out in a flood of indiscreet honesty, and he braced himself, knew it was an enormous risk.

  Hitler squinted at him. “You would evacuate our stronghold in North Africa? You would surrender all that we have gained? Why? So that you might escape the unpleasantness of war?”

  Hitler’s voice was booming, and he slapped the table, leaned toward Rommel, shouted, “Cowards! You run away from an inferior enemy! You abandon your equipment and then cry that you need more! Destroyed? You were given command of the finest army in the world, and you destroyed it yourself! I am surrounded by incompetent commanders, by men who hide from duty, who find every excuse for failure! You dare to march into my sanctuary and parade yourself as a leader of your army? You should be broken down to sergeant, sent to face your enemy with a rifle in your hand! That will show you what kind of courage it takes to be a soldier!”

  Hitler seemed to tire, turned away, and Rommel glanced at the others, saw nods, every man in the room scowling toward him, repeating Hitler’s tirade in perfect silent mimicry. Rommel felt the burning in his skin, held the anger, tried to calm himself. He spoke slowly, in a soft voice.

  “I wish to report that of the fifteen thousand men of the Afrika Korps under my command, nearly two-thirds do not possess adequate weapons. The artillery we lost both during the fighting at El Alamein, and along the retreat westward—”

  Hitler spun toward him, pointed a finger toward him, shouted again. “Yes! You see? Cowards! Your men toss their weapons to the roadside in the face of the enemy! I have heard such stories! Who do you blame for this? The Luftwaffe? The Italian navy? I have instructed all of our supply departments to provide for you, and still you speak of failure and loss. I have promised you every advantage, the best artillery, the finest armor, I have given you the best fighting soldiers in the world! And you tell me that they have thrown down their weapons?”

  Rommel felt something inside him break, the caution weakened by so much sickness, so much anxiety.

  “That is not the case, my Führer. It is not possible for anyone in this room to know what our situation is in North Africa. No one here has faced the British in battle, no one has seen our planes swept from the sky. No one has witnessed a thousand artillery pieces raining fire on our positions. We survived our defeats and our withdrawal not because anyone provided us fuel and supplies, but because the courage of the German soldier held us together. I do not wish to see this valiant army swept away, wasted by the ineptness of our allies, or the unwillingness of your commanders to provide for us. Surely you do not wish it as well. There is still much to be gained in North Africa if we are given the means. But those means have never been given to us. With all respect…there is no cowardice in the Panzerarmee.”

  Hitler seemed to calm, slid the map off the table, focused again on the map of Russia.

  “There is nothing to be gained by abandoning North Africa. I will not betray our Italian allies by handing their territory to the enemy. You will hold the Mersa el Brega line, to allow time for our bridgehead in Tunisia to be complete. If there is difficulty with supplies…” Hitler looked at Rommel now, nodded. “Yes, excellent idea. You shall accompany Reichsmarschall Göring to Rome. If there is a problem with supplies, the Reichsmarschall shall carry my direct authority to solve those problems. He has been seeking such a trip. This will be pleasing to him. Come.”

  Hitler moved out from the table, put an arm across Rommel’s shoulders. They moved out of the large room, through the small office, reached the dark corridor, and Hitler stopped, turned toward him.

  “You are suffering great strain from this campaign. It is difficult, I know that. We are fighting many enemies, you and I, enemies beyond our borders, and enemies close to home. All will be well. In time every threat to the Reich will be eradicated. Even now…” Hitler stopped, patted Rommel’s back. “Tunisia shall be an impregnable fortress, and the British cannot sustain their attacks. Their people grow weary of this, they do not have the stomach for death.”

  Rommel had seen this before, the stark anger suddenly gone, replaced by this odd warmth.

  “But what of the Americans? Can Tunisia withstand pressure from two fronts? In front of my army, the British grow stronger every day. In Algeria, the Americans—”

  Hitler laughed, slapped Rommel’s arm. “The Americans are incapable of making war. I would have thought you understood that. They are a mongrel race, who whine and preen like rich babies. They make sewing machines and paper clips, while, in our factories, we make machines of war. There is no need to fear anyone, Field Marshal, certainly not the Americans. It is not our enemies who can sustain this war, who have the means and the heart for victory. It is us.”

  MUNICH, GERMANY—NOVEMBER 29, 1942

  The hotel was small, the rooms dark and cold, none of that in his thoughts. He saw only her, the smile, the sad face of a woman who has lost her husband to the war.

  “But I have returned.”

  “For a while.”

  “It is all I have right now. I’m not supposed to be here at all. The
Führer went to some lengths to remind me of that.”

  She held out her hand, and he took it, pulled her close, wrapped both arms tightly around her shoulders. She relaxed against him.

  “I did not forget our wedding anniversary. Two days ago. I wrote you a letter.” He held her away, reached into a pocket, pulled out a folded paper. “See?”

  She laughed, took the paper. “I truly look forward to your letters, Erwin. All of them. I wish you could tell me of things that were pleasant. I thought, when you first left for Tripoli…I should like to visit Africa someday.”

  The smiles were gone, and he pulled her gently by the hand, led her to the bed.

  “When this is over, I will never go back there. It has cost me too much, too many graves of men I knew. A grave for me as well.”

  She made a sound, and he looked at her, shook his head.

  “No, I didn’t mean…I have no desire…oh, damn. I have spoken too often these days, too many indiscreet words. I find myself in trouble with everyone who has any authority over me: Kesselring, the Italians, Hitler. Now…you.”

  “It is good you know who your superiors are.” She laughed. “Do we really have to travel with that horrible man?”

  “Göring? Yes, I’m afraid. That’s the only condition I could arrange for you to visit. We will travel with the Reichsmarschall as his guest. His private train is supposed to be something quite spectacular. It fits the man, I suppose. Larger-than-life. Certainly larger than this war.”

  He sat on the bed beside her and she said, “What do you mean?”

  “Hermann Göring has his eye firmly planted on the future, a world with one man at the top.”

  “Hitler.”

  He shook his head. “No. Göring. Hitler adores him, I believe, but Göring shares no one’s dreams, holds loyalty to the Führer because it suits his purposes. He sees opportunity in this war, nothing more. If I were Hitler, I would not trust him, I would notice how Göring decorates himself, the large, fat man with the large, fat medals. He has more medals than Mussolini. That train, all the opulence, and for what? Why does the head of the Luftwaffe need a train at all?”

  “I have heard things.”

  He saw a frown, leaned close. “What sort of things?”

  Lucy lowered her voice. “Göring is looting the museums, stealing artwork, rare antiques. When he comes to anyone’s town, the jewelry must be hidden. If he sees something that strikes his eye, he simply takes it. Including…women.”

  Rommel looked down, knew that Lucy’s intuitions about rumors were most always accurate.

  “I am not surprised. That would certainly explain the train, those railcars. Power and money both. That makes him more formidable than Hitler. The Führer fights for his own view of the world, for what Germany must do to protect herself. He cares little for…booty.”

  She was silent, and he thought of the train ride, Göring expected to accompany him to see Mussolini, Cavallero, the rest of them. Kesselring will be there, certainly, he thought. This could be my last chance, the final opportunity I will have to convince the Italians. If they agree with Hitler and insist on remaining in North Africa, I must be allowed to withdraw from Libya, give up Tripoli, and rebuild the army in Tunisia. If they do not agree, then for me, this war is over. Surely Berndt will help. He is persuasive, knows how to talk to the Italians. I most certainly do not.

  “I have heard other things, Erwin.” Her words were soft, low, brought him back to the small room. “Everywhere I have been there is talk that something has happened to the Jews.”

  “The Jews? What do you mean?”

  “They are being taken away, Erwin. In the square, Mr. Wiesel, the jeweler, his entire family, suddenly gone. Mrs. Blum and her sister…I have heard too many stories, the same thing in every town, all the Jewish merchants are suddenly gone, their shops boarded up. The synagogues have been shut up as well and some of them have been burned to the ground.”

  He had heard some stories of the Jews being relocated, had paid little attention to something that seemed so far removed from the war. “Yes, I have heard something about a relocation program, that settlements are being created, moving the Jews to their own communities where they will be safe.”

  She stared at him with black eyes, a hard glare that cut off his words. “Safe? From what? Erwin, do not be naïve. I have heard talk of railcars filled with people who are being taken to concentration camps. People are talking about it everywhere. No one dares to speak out, or even to inquire, because they fear the Gestapo.”

  “Lu, that’s ridiculous. What they’re seeing are railcars filled with prisoners of war. We have captured thousands of enemy troops. If there are prison camps, it’s for the foreign soldiers. We have no enemies within our own borders.”

  “I wish I could believe you, Erwin. But there are too many others who say something very different. It is not foreigners, it is German citizens who are being taken away from their homes. People are simply disappearing.”

  He suddenly recalled the words. “The Führer did say something about…‘enemies close to home.’ But the Jews? What threat are they?”

  “I suppose, my husband, you should ask that of your Führer.”

  I n early December, Rommel accomplished his mission, finally persuading both Göring and the Italians that western Libya could no longer be held. The tip of his sword was the keen political persuasion of Lieutenant Berndt, who danced the perfect tune between German military interests and Italian pride. The ultimate plum for Mussolini was the assurance that the loss of Libya would be offset by the conquest of French-held Tunisia, land the Germans would graciously allow the Italians to claim as their own colony. For most of the discussions, Rommel remained silent, fully aware that no one valued his opinions, and that his own sharp impatience would likely alienate everyone involved.

  Rommel understood that Mussolini’s need to save honor by holding the valuable port of Tripoli had to be balanced in other ways, ways that could be digested by the increasingly unhappy Italians who gave Il Duce his power. The argument became simple. Defending Tripoli against Montgomery’s overwhelming forces would result in the near certain death or capture of Rommel’s remaining Italian infantry, some twenty-five thousand men. Preserving those men would have a far greater emotional impact on the Italian people than the flutter of an Italian flag over a port city few of them had ever seen.

  Through it all, Montgomery advanced, meticulous, cautious, until finally, in early December, he was ready to press his attack. At the first sign of the British flanking move against the line at Mersa el Brega, Rommel put his own troops in motion and began the rapid withdrawal to the defensive line of his own choosing, the stout barrier at Mareth. Once more, Montgomery could only follow.

  As Rommel secured his position in the south, in northern Tunisia, German reinforcements continued to pour in, heavy artillery and the newest armor, men and machines gathering along the steep hills, pushing outposts westward into the passes of the Atlas Mountains. Farther west, Eisenhower’s forces were on the march, British paratroopers and commandos leading the way. But the delays caused by so much confusion in the French hierarchy had been costly to the Allies. As the Allied armies moved toward their ultimate objective, gathering the strength and momentum they would need to drive the enemy out of Tunisia, that enemy was growing stronger day by day.

  Göring and Kesselring had engineered command changes in Tunisia that stripped away most of Rommel’s authority, placing a veteran of the Russian campaigns, General Hans Juergen von Arnim, in command of the overall Tunisian theater. Though Rommel had now to answer to von Arnim, he still commanded his Panzerarmee. Despite their disgust for Rommel’s insubordination and unorthodox methods, the German High Command had to agree with Rommel’s instincts, could not ignore the new opportunity that Rommel forced them to see. The only effective way to confront the Allied armies was piecemeal, one at a time. With Montgomery held at bay east of the Mareth line, Rommel turned his attentions to the north and west. To the no
rth, a strong British column under General Kenneth Anderson was advancing parallel to the sea, pressing closer to the strongholds manned by a well-prepared body of German troops and artillery. Farther to the south, the Allies advanced as well, the southern wing of Eisenhower’s army, a combination of French and American troops. The Americans marched with confidence, fresh from their overwhelming victories in Morocco and Algeria. It was a confidence Rommel was counting on.

  16. EISENHOWER

  ALGIERS

  DECEMBER 1942

  H is headquarters had been established at the St. George Hotel, what had once been a luxurious suite of three rooms. There had always been some form of luxury in Algiers, a land prized by Phoenicians and Romans, Spaniards and Barbary pirates. For more than a century, the luxury in Algiers had had a French touch, trade and recreation strengthening the city’s allure for French businessmen and wealthy vacationers. But the war had brought shortages, the energy of the city drained by Vichy uncertainty, leaving a tenuous back door to Nazi and Italian ambitions to the east. And, just as quickly, the Allies brought change again, the city suddenly bursting with American and British fighting men and all those who supported an army.