15. ROMMEL

ARCO DEI FILENI, LIBYA
NOVEMBER 26, 1942

I t was one more Roman ruin, a grand archway that stood now on the boundary between the two halves of Libya, the dividing line between Cyrenaica and Tripolitania. They were simply names on a map, and Rommel had grown weary of maps.

He had plotted the best course for his men to follow, the best ground where the stand could still be made. The line ran from the seacoast to the north, across good rolling ground, to the great salt and sand marshes inland, a narrow passageway where even a battered army could make a strong defensive show. The line had originally been plotted by the French, a network of dugouts and blockhouses, making good use of tumbling, rocky terrain. The German engineers had told Rommel that improvements were needed, the French works too feeble to hold back modern artillery, and so Rommel had made the plan, knew that once his army could be pulled into position there, Montgomery would grow cautious once more, would scout and probe, would learn that armor could not flank the position, that the soft sands and marshes were an effective wall, just as the Qattara Depression had been at El Alamein. If Montgomery was to accomplish anything at the Mareth line, it would require weeks of planning, weeks of delay that could be the salvation of the Panzerarmee.

For now, Rommel still held fast at Mersa el Brega, followed the orders handed him by Kesselring, a sad echo of the wishes of armchair generals in Rome. A majority of his infantry was Italian now, so many of his foot soldiers following the commands of men like Bastico. The Germans had left too much of themselves at El Alamein, had lost more on the march westward. For two days, Rommel had waited for some hint that his plans had pierced the absurd optimism that Kesselring had poured over the Italians. The dream had exhausted Rommel, a useless fantasy that good strategy would somehow find an ear among men who found far more pleasure toasting imaginary victories in their grand villas in Rome.

He stared up at the arch, knew little of the history, only the name, the Arco dei Fileni. It was yet another symbol of a glorious empire that had collapsed into the dust of this desolate place. What armies have you seen? he thought. How many generals have passed beneath you, expecting their accomplishments to stand like this, a monument to history? How many of them considered destroying you, replacing you with their own archway, their own trophy? And where are they now? He scanned the village, saw movement along every small alleyway, soldiers and staff officers performing some duty. The village provided him his first solid roof in months of desert fighting, a headquarters in an actual house, a bed that gave him the extraordinary luxury of a night’s sleep. It was the kind of comfort that he had hoped to find in Cairo. Now, he would settle for what he could find along the retreat, a brief rest in a place none of his officers believed they could hold for long.

He felt a pang of hunger, unusual, caught the smell of meat from somewhere in the village, a wisp of gray smoke rising behind a white block house. He moved that way, glanced toward his driver, who stood ready beside the truck. Rommel held up his hand, stay here, moved toward the smoke. He rounded the building, saw a cluster of six men, German soldiers, squatting close to a fire. They stood abruptly, at stiff attention, and he moved closer to their makeshift stove.

“What is this?”

“Gazelle, sir.”

“Which one of you shot it?”

One man raised his hand. “Sergeant Haller, sir.”

“Range?”

The man seemed surprised at the question. “Three hundred meters, sir. I stepped it off.”

Rommel nodded, still stared at the meat, small bubbles of grease oozing, crackling into the fire, flies darting through the heat.

“Fine shooting, Sergeant. I have hunted the gazelle here. Some time ago now. More than a year. It is a challenge…unless of course one has a machine gun. They do wander into the minefields occasionally.”

One of the others spoke, still at hard attention. “We offer this to the field marshal as our gift, sir. Would you honor us by taking our dinner for yourself?”

“No, I will not. You killed it, it belongs to you. Perhaps a small piece, though…”

The man was down quickly, a quick slice with a bayonet, the slab of steaming meat dropped onto a tin plate. The man stood stiffly again, handed the plate to Rommel.

“Thank you for sharing this, Field Marshal.”

Rommel couldn’t smile, looked at the faces, the eyes glancing at him, then away. They were hard men, thin and haggard, their uniforms ripped and worn through. Rommel made a short bow, said, “Enjoy your feast. But eat it quickly. Every insect in Libya will come to your smoke.”

He turned, moved away, held the plate in front of his face, breathed in the steam. Behind him, the sergeant said, “Heil Hitler!”

Rommel stopped, heard the others repeat the words, the familiar salute. He looked down at the slab of meat, felt the chill returning, the hole in his gut closing up. He spun slowly around, moved toward them, ignored their surprise, handed the plate to one of the men.

“Thank you. But this is yours. The Führer rewards courage…and loyalty.”

He wanted to say more, but his caution held him back. It was no time for loose talk, for any show of anger. He moved away from them again, their silence behind him, thought, no matter what this fight has done to me, these men are not defeated. It is still up to me to put them into a good fight.

He turned past the stone building, moved toward the truck, heard another truck in the distance, a cloud of dust, saw Westphal standing tall, waving toward him. Another man was riding low, the familiar hat of the Italian officers. Bastico. Rommel stepped forward slowly, said nothing, saw Bastico watching him with grim discomfort.

Bastico said, “Marshal Rommel, it is good to see you again. May we retire to your headquarters? I have orders for you.”

B astico seemed nervous, paced the room, his hands clamped behind him. Rommel pointed toward the door, the order to Westphal to leave, the young man exiting, the door pulled tightly shut.

Rommel was impatient now. “There is no need for diplomacy. What am I expected to do? Have they at least considered my plans?”

Bastico stopped, took a long breath. “I do not wish to argue this with you, Herr Rommel. The orders I carry are explicit. Il Duce himself conveys to you his most serious desire that you hold this line at Mersa el Brega at all costs. You are not to retreat unless ordered to do so. Marshal Kesselring will be contacting you on a separate matter, to discuss sending some of your forces westward to strengthen our fortifications at Tripoli.”

Rommel sat down, rested his arms on the wooden table, tapped firmly with his fingertips. His mind raced with replies, the urge to laugh in this man’s face, or better, to throw a bayonet into the man’s chest. Yes, you know how idiotic this is too. You just don’t have the courage to say so.

“I suppose Il Duce also desires that I plan a renewed attack against the British.”

Bastico looked at him wide-eyed, seemed relieved that Rommel had said the words first. “Yes! That is correct! I have been assured that the Luftwaffe will add considerable air support to any plan you propose.”

Rommel sat back in the chair. “Have you not heard those promises before?”

Bastico stiffened again. “I do not question the orders from Comando Supremo.”

“No, I am quite certain you do not. Am I being promised any more support? A division of fresh troops? Tiger tanks? Or is all that being preserved for our great fortress in Tunisia?”

“I do not respect your attitude toward our superiors, Herr Rommel. There is one more order that I must convey to you. Marshal Cavallero has decreed that should this position become untenable, should the Mersa el Brega line be overrun by an overwhelming attack by our enemies, no one is authorized to issue any order to retreat…except me. That authority is mine alone, and I assure you, Herr Rommel, I do not intend to exercise that authority.”

“Then I assume I will find you on the front lines, so that you may decide for yourself when the enemy is overwhelming us. Excuse me, Marshal Bastico.”

He moved past the man, pulled the door open, ignored the staff officers outside, Westphal, waiting for some instructions. The sunlight blinded him and he stared ahead at the emptiness on the horizon, the vast open lands to the south. He felt like walking, seeing the desert again, but more, taking a straight, unstoppable course through the rocky hills, then down into the great sand seas, leaving the men like Bastico behind him.

But not the army. I cannot leave the army to men like that, to officers who cannot learn anything from the butchering of so many good men. For so long, I have found a way to ignore the ridiculous orders, the deadly mistakes made by officers who are simply worthless bureaucrats, governing the war from comfortable chairs. It is those men who advise Hitler, but Hitler does not always listen, and so, when their advice displeases him, the strategies and decisions come from the Führer alone. But even the Führer cannot force the inept and incompetent to perform their duty. Even if he accepted our condition here, even if he could be made to understand what it will take to win here…no, that is a dream from which I have already awakened. I cannot even speculate how different it might have been here. My superiors issue the orders and I am to obey them. And their stupidity has cost us a magnificent army. Since El Alamein, I have understood that Hitler does not care to hear from anyone who does not simply hand him victories. But even the Führer is not infallible. And if I am to remain a soldier, I cannot disobey the Führer.

Westphal was there now, said, “Sir, Marshal Bastico has asked for his vehicle. Is there anything else you wish to discuss with him?”

Rommel looked at the younger man, put a hand on his shoulder, felt the man’s strength, the power of his loyalty.

“I have nothing further to say to Field Marshal Bastico. I want you to issue orders to the nearest airfield, to whatever officer Kesselring has placed in charge of the transport planes.”

“Are you traveling somewhere, sir?”

“Quite so, Colonel. I’m going to see the Führer.”

RASTENBURG, GERMANY—NOVEMBER 28, 1942

They met with him in a small office, devoid of maps, of any signs of the war. He knew not to waste his energy on these men, Keitel, Jodl, Schmundt, the very officers who despised him for his accomplishments. They still smiled at him, spoke in genial pleasantries. But he knew that when he left, the knives would come out, as they had always come out, the small men in oversize uniforms doing all they could to counter the image Goebbels had created for Rommel, the image that had found so much favor with the German people. Rommel understood the game now, knew that he was simply a tool, that his name and the image of his weather-beaten face, standing high on a mighty tank, were something to inspire the people. Goebbels’s broadcasts still spoke of triumph in North Africa, a poor mask for the truth that seeped across the borders to the south. And so, the men whose hands were never soiled, who never led troops, who never saw the enemy, kept to their offices and plotted the ways to bring this hero to his knees.

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 north, 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.