23. ROMMEL
NEAR GAFSA,
TUNISIA
FEBRUARY 17, 1943
T hey cheered him, a sound he had not heard in many weeks. He rode tall in the small truck, allowed himself a smile, waved at them as he passed, tank drivers and artillerymen feeling the same joy he felt. It was Gazala again, and Tobruk, Mersa Matruh, and Sollum, glorious memories of the great conquests coming back to life inside him, erasing the sickness, the weakness. For the first time since before Alamein, there was a victorious spirit in his army again, a shattered enemy fleeing his guns. He passed by the wire fences, makeshift prison camps filling with dirty, beaten men, men who stared downward in shock and shame. He rarely spoke to prisoners, but these men were different, new faces, an army he had not seen before. They were Americans. There was no time for casual talk, and so he saluted them in his own way, a quiet stare, thought, now you understand what it means to stand up to Rommel. Now you know what a war truly is.
He had never accepted the racial disregard Hitler had for the Americans, what the Führer had called a nation of mongrels. Rommel dismissed the Americans now for other reasons, for what they had shown him on the battlefield, their carelessness, poor planning, bad execution, being unprepared and underequipped, daring to stand face-to-face with the finest soldiers in the world. And now, many of them were dead and wounded, and many more stood in disgraced silence behind barbed wire.
Out in front of him, the fighting had grown quiet, his men mopping up, gathering the prisoners, cleaning out pockets of resistance. He had been surprised by the evacuation at Gafsa, the town a valuable gateway to the crucial Allied air and supply bases at Tébessa. But Gafsa had fallen without a fight, the Americans pulling away quickly, and the Arabs there had come out with cheers of their own, surprising him again, saluting the Germans, saluting the Führer. As he paused to speak to his officers, he learned why. The Americans had left in great haste, had done the expedient thing by destroying their ammunition dump there. But their haste had been costly and stupid, no warning given to anyone close by, and so, more than thirty Arabs had died in their own homes, buried by the rubble from the massive explosions.
He had no feelings of hate or even hostility for the Americans, thought of them simply as the enemy, like the British. But there was a difference. He respected the British fighting man, who seemed to know the value of his own history. Even the lowliest private seemed to carry some piece of his king’s empire, some awareness that he was a part of something that had once been grand and glorious. But the Americans came with swagger and arrogance, and Rommel had seen nothing to justify it. He felt no respect for that, had enjoyed the shocked stares from the prisoners for that reason alone. Where is your arrogance now? How is it to have your perfect confidence crushed beneath the steel of my armor? You are not much higher in God’s eyes than the Arabs. Well, no, that is not quite fair.
The Arabs had filled the roadways around Gafsa, and he had passed long lines of men hauling wagons of loot, what they had scrounged from the abandoned American camps. He knew that many of his officers traded with the Arab merchants, found a way to buy eggs and meat. But he had no respect for scavengers, saw the Arabs as the worst kind of soldiers, if they were soldiers at all. Wounded men from all sides had often been stripped bare, their clothes and boots stolen even while they died. It was better to have the Arabs as an ally certainly, mainly for intelligence, eyes that saw everything, allegiance that could be bought. He despised what the Arabs seemed to represent, thought of them as people who only took, vultures who waited on the fringes of the war to grab what they could, as though without the great armies the Arabs would have no way to survive at all. It was not logical, and he knew it. Despite how it appeared, these strange, dirty people had survived wars and kings and foreign settlers for thousands of years, and, he thought, they will certainly survive this. And a thousand years from now, they will still be grappling for scraps of booty, abandoned knapsacks and someone else’s broken war machines.
“W e must push on. Hard and fast! I will not hear of delay!”
The staff officers scattered, each man carrying Rommel’s orders, each one on his way toward the front. He looked up, the thick, misty rain washing his face, and he felt the cool for a long moment, felt for the pains in his side, his throat, thought, good, very good. Thank you. I am blessed with good health at the important time. I must push on as well.
He had been furious with Heinz Ziegler, who’d directed the Twenty-first Panzer Division’s operations at Sidi Bou Zid. Ziegler had let the momentum slip away, had seemed content to report victory, allowing his men to pursue small pockets of American infantry, scattered tanks and guns that were still making a fight. The delay had allowed the Americans to pull back toward Sbeïtla, protecting the valuable Kasserine Pass, one route that would lead directly to the major American base at Tébessa.
There were other delays as well, the uncertainty and hesitation of untested field commanders who had risen through the ranks, elevated too quickly to positions of authority by the loss of so many men at the hands of the British, men who were dead or captured. The new commanders had not seen Rommel in action, or if they had, they had not understood the need for driving the spear deep into the wounded prey. His frustration was made worse by the control exercised by von Arnim. Ziegler had been Rommel’s man, his subordinate, but at Sidi Bou Zid, Rommel had no authority. That assault had belonged to von Arnim.
The initial attacks against the American position had not been under Rommel’s command at all, despite Kesselring’s assurances that this was Rommel’s operation. It was the single knife blade that cut into Rommel’s spirit, the vagueness of Kesselring’s orders, the man’s infuriating need to keep everyone happy. Rommel knew that von Arnim had come to Tunisia carrying the Führer’s promise that he would soon be in overall command, and that everyone, especially the Italians, believed Rommel’s days in North Africa were numbered. The relationship between Rommel and von Arnim was no more now than an insipid rivalry, made worse by Kesselring’s unbridled enthusiasm for Rommel’s plan of attack, a plan that von Arnim was forced to cooperate with, a plan that, should it succeed, von Arnim could claim no credit for. Rommel had grown accustomed to the temperamental fragility of rival commanders, had endured two years of that with the Italians. In every case, Rommel had responded by simply doing his job, a job that had, usually, resulted in success. It was the most gratifying response he could make to those men who jockeyed for accolades, who sought the favor of Rome, and now, Berlin. It had been his silent lecture to each of them: Do you expect glory? Then, you will have to perform and you will have to achieve results. And so far, even with the loss at El Alamein, no one in North Africa had performed as well as Rommel.
But Rommel had come to understand the political machinery that had risen against him. There were simply too many voices in Hitler’s ear, too much grumbling in Italy about the losses no one in Rome accepted as their own responsibility. He had in fact already been replaced on paper, his Italian successor, Messe, organizing the defenses at Mareth against the gathering threat from Montgomery. And yet, Rommel was still in Africa, still creating plans of attack, plans that were being carried out by men who still worshipped his name, attacks carried out against an enemy that still feared him.
He was certain that the army’s victory at Sidi Bou Zid had given him another chance to lay out more of his strategies to a superior officer who was willing to listen. But Kesselring’s enthusiasm had made Rommel uncomfortable, signs that Kesselring harbored a strange new fantasy. The man had responded with giddy optimism that Rommel’s strategy would prevail, but then there was more, Kesselring confiding to Rommel privately that overall command of the Tunisian theater would soon fall on Rommel himself. As much as Rommel depended on Kesselring’s support, he knew it was either delusion or double-talk and duplicity, a backslapping piece of sentimentality. Kesselring seemed caught up in some kind of nostalgia for what used to be, and what, in his mind anyway, should be again. Even Rommel didn’t believe the fantastic dream that he would rise from the ashes of El Alamein to reconquer North Africa. There was already too much talk in Berlin, too many wheels spinning past him, too much acceptance of von Arnim’s authority.
Once Rommel’s plan had been approved, and the wheels of the great attack had gone into motion, Kesselring had returned to Rome, and Rommel learned immediately that von Arnim knew nothing of Kesselring’s fantasy and didn’t have any intention of handing Rommel any of his own authority. Though it was a piece of Rommel’s old Afrika Korps who had driven through the pass at Faïd, who had crushed the Americans around Sidi Bou Zid, those men answered now to von Arnim. It was quickly apparent that von Arnim would push his troops only so far in any fight that would cause Rommel’s star to rise in Berlin. And so, with the Americans in a chaotic, scrambling retreat, von Arnim had ignored Rommel’s pleas to press forward the attack.
NEAR FERIANA, TUNISIA—FEBRUARY 18, 1943
“General von Arnim is most insistent, sir. He does not consider an attack against Tébessa to be as valuable as a thrust northward, toward Le Kef. He feels his panzer units should be kept united to ward off the inevitable counterattack by the British.”
Rommel studied the aide, the man stoic, unflinching. “Does General von Arnim have some evidence that the British are preparing for an attack?”
“The observation planes have mostly been grounded by the weather, Field Marshal.”
“Then how does he know the British are planning anything? Have you not heard the reports that British reinforcements are moving southward to assist the Americans?”
“I do not question my superior’s orders, Field Marshal.”
“No, I suppose you do not. Well, I do. I have wired my proposed plan to Marshal Kesselring this afternoon. We shall see if your superior can be persuaded that waiting to see what the British might or might not do is not the plan I would suggest. I would rather attack a disorganized enemy who flees the ground in front of us. My plan might actually give us another victory, or is that not General von Arnim’s purpose here?”
Rommel didn’t wait for a response, moved quickly out of the tent. He stepped across the muddy road, thought, I am sick of aides, I am sick of staff officers with no authority, men who do nothing more than repeat verbatim the ranting of their superior officer. What is so superior about sitting still?
Rommel ignored the happy salutes, the men calling his name, the good soldiers who waited for new orders. They know as well as I do that the enemy is in chaos. With one great push, the Allied front in Tunisia will be swept away. He thought of Kesselring, all the others, the men in Berlin who spoke of him behind his back, who plotted to pull him from power. Damn you, he thought. Damn all of you. Every plan I have offered has been near perfect, every strategy complete and unfailing. The history of this war should be like the stories of Alexander, a tale written by Homer, or Thucydides: Do not take lightly the perils of war. We should speak to our grandchildren of great triumphs over a noble foe, brilliant generals outdueling brilliant generals. Instead, when history tells this story, it will speak of pride and vanity, politics and subterfuge. Soldiers brought to their knees by the weakness in their own command, an army left wanting because small, frightened men denied them gasoline. Now, there is opportunity once again, and once again small minds and fragile egos will thwart us.
But not yet.
FEBRUARY 18, 1943
They rode northward into Feriana, the thick, misty rain not disguising the smell of burning rubber and spent powder, black smoke rising from what remained of the American supply dumps there. Close by, the airfield at Thelepte was in German hands as well, more than two dozen American and British fighters ablaze on the tarmac.
“Could we not have prevented the destruction of the supplies?”
“It was unlikely. We gave them too much time.”
“Of course we did.”
Rommel tapped the driver on the shoulder, the truck slowing, pulling to the side of the road.
“Stop here. Set up a camp. I will need the radio.”
The driver obeyed, the truck sliding to a stop. Rommel pulled his hat low, moved toward a grove of trees, neat rows of leafless, gnarled trunks, like so many angry old men, protesting the misery of the weather.
“Almond trees. Never seen them before.”
Rommel turned toward Bayerlein. “What? How do you know?”
“The staff has been interrogating some of the local Arab officials. They asked us not to destroy their orchards. Seems they sell a lot of almonds here, ship them to Italy.”
“Yes, well, we must not disturb the flow of luxuries to Herr Mussolini. I would have thought that Il Duce’s minions would be concerned about securing a victory here. That would prevent their damned trees from getting damaged.” He looked to the far side of the orchard, saw a low rock hut. “There. Let’s get out of this damned rain.”
Guards moved out ahead of him, men with machine guns, some moving past the hut, scanning the rolling hills beyond. One man pushed the door pushed open, pointed his gun into silent darkness, then stood back, stood straight. Rommel moved past him, ducked low, the sharp musty odors commonplace now. The words skipped through his brain, filth, always filth, and he searched the darkness, nothing, no seat, no table.
“This won’t do. Pitch a damned tent. I need to find out what von Arnim is doing. I must know what is happening in front of us.”
He stood inside the low doorway of the shelter, waited while his men scrambled to build his makeshift headquarters. Bayerlein had brought small tins of sardines, and Rommel caught the smell now, pungent and fishy, his stomach turning, thought, that’s nearly as bad as whatever the Arabs stored in this hut. He saw Bayerlein scoop a gray, oily mass from the tin, said, “Did you bring one for me?”
Bayerlein nodded, oil running down his chin, reached into a pocket, retrieved a tin, opened it, more oil on his hands now. Rommel smiled, the first time in a long while, took the tin from Bayerlein’s hand. He tried not to look at the sardines, tossed the contents into his mouth, gulped down the oil and fish in one swallow. Bayerlein was watching him, returned the smile, and Rommel waited for the mass to settle, then said, “I should like someday to have a real supper, Fritz. Big fat sausages. A roast of pork. Real bread.”
“Soon, sir. I’m sure of it. This war will not last much longer. The enemy is beaten.”
Bayerlein opened another tin of sardines, held it toward Rommel, who shook his head.
“Yes, the enemy is beaten. But there can be no victory unless we convince them they are beaten. We are allowing them to escape. It is a catastrophic mistake. The Americans are badly wounded, but they are led by men who will certainly learn from their mistakes. We have made much about how untested they are. No longer. They are veterans now, and veterans learn how to survive, how to fight. And we have allowed them to regroup and lick their wounds and regain their fire. Here, one mistake follows another. Von Arnim is holding on to his armor, hoarding it like some old spinster counting her pfennigs. He allows his men to move slowly, orders them to be cautious, and there is only one reason. Success…my success is not in his best interests. I am quite certain that he has some show of his own he would rather pursue. His staff officer gave us the clue. The British. That would be quite a feather for him, if he drives them out of Tunisia. He can crow all over Berlin that he has avenged my defeat at El Alamein.”
“Surely, sir, he would not—”
“I don’t want to hear you defending him. You know very well what is being said about me. You know very well that there are officers in Berlin who are watching what happens here, waiting for my mistake. My grand finale.”
“I do not understand that, sir. Why do they want you to fail? Are we not fighting for one cause? Does not the Führer wish us to win?”
“I don’t know what the Führer wishes. My job has always been to go where he sends me and fight the enemy in front of me. I have not concerned myself with what mattered to him, with his dreams and his grand plans. We took our tanks to the French coast, trapped the English, could have destroyed an entire army at Dunkirk. When the order came for us to halt, to sit still, I kept my doubts to myself. I watched them on the beach there, watched them climb into their ridiculous boats, watched our bombs fall on them, Göring’s arrogance, that his airplanes could decide the war. We could have crushed them where they stood, but the Führer said no, and so the British escaped, and now we fight them here.” Rommel paused, glanced around for listening ears, old habit. “I did not question the Führer’s decision to invade Russia. Had I been ordered to go there, I would have fought as well as I fought in Libya. But it was another mistake, a disaster that may cost us this war. It makes no one proud to beg, Fritz, but I begged, I begged the Führer and his staff and Kesselring, I begged them all to see how valuable this campaign was, how important it was that we drive the British out of Egypt. I did not expect them to give me everything I asked for.” He paused again. “But I did not expect to be abandoned. If we had been given a tiny fraction of what was squandered in Russia, this matter would have been decided long ago. There would have been no American landing in Algeria because we would have been far away from here. We would be feasting on the spoils of Cairo or Baghdad. We would not be eating sardines in the rain in Tunisia.” He tossed the can aside, pulled his coat tighter, the chilly air driving into him. “Tell me, Fritz, what do we accomplish if we win here? What prize can we claim by driving the enemy out of Tunisia?”
“It is important to the Italians, I suppose. They are still our allies.”
Rommel smiled. “Yes, our allies. We are fighting to give our allies their summer homes on the seashore, their daily supply of almonds. We are fighting to preserve Mussolini’s fairy tale.”
Rommel saw an aide emerge from the tent, the man moving quickly toward him.
“Sir! A message has already come from Marshal Kesselring! He has approved your plan! However, Comando Supremo had not yet sanctioned his approval. You are ordered to wait for final approval from Comando Supremo.”
Bayerlein said, “That is excellent news, sir! We can begin mobilizing the forces toward Tébessa right now! They can begin the assault by morning! Shall I issue the orders, sir?”
Rommel looked at the young aide, the man as excited as Bayerlein, and digested the message. “Kesselring is protecting himself. He approves my plan, but cannot order it to proceed. So, if I am right, he can claim that he supported me. If I am wrong, he has no share of the blame. We cannot move until Comando Supremo has given us the final authority. Prepare the orders, but do not issue them to the commanders until the final sanction has been received.”
“Of course, sir.”
Bayerlein was looking at him, and Rommel waited for him to move away, saw now that Bayerlein was frowning.
“What is it, Fritz?”
“Sir, forgive me, but I have never known you to defer to Comando Supremo before you begin an operation. The staff…with all respect, sir, we have always felt pride in how you ignore all of this foolishness. If you order it, we will move right now, regardless of what Comando Supremo says.”
Rommel looked down, stared at the mud on his boots. “The world has changed, Fritz. This is not my theater any longer. It’s not my stage. We require von Arnim to advance his forces with us, and he will not move without orders from above.” He looked at Bayerlein now. “Make sure someone mans the communications at all times. We will wait until we hear from Rome.”
He stepped out into the mud, and Bayerlein knew not to follow. Rommel walked through the grove of trees, knew that the plan was sound, that if von Arnim cooperated, the Allies would be driven completely out of Tunisia. Instead, he thought, we must wait. We must delay.
The daylight was fading, and he stopped, heard the high drone of a plane motor, a distant thump of artillery. He had grown too used to the sounds, the battle always there, some fight off in the distance, attracting no one’s attention, a meaningless flicker of death under a dark and dismal sky.
FEBRUARY 19, 1943
You are to modify your plan from the proposed operation against Tébessa and deploy your attack units northward, via Kasserine and Thala, with the objective of capturing Le Kef.
Rommel stared at the aide, the paper in the young man’s hand, began to feel sick, anger draining his strength. Le Kef. He put out a hand, felt for the chair, eased down slowly, said in a low voice, “This is unbelievable. This is far worse than stupidity. It is criminal.”
Bayerlein was close beside him now, had heard the orders, motioned for the aide to move away, said in a low voice, “Sir, perhaps we should retire to your tent. You do not look well.”
“Le Kef. We shall turn our attentions toward Le Kef. So, von Arnim has had his way. We shall attack to the north, where success will mean nothing. We have an open road to Tébessa, but we will fight through the mountain passes instead.” He tried to stand, his legs weak, took a deep breath. “Von Arnim has shown us who truly has the authority. It seems that is the only success he requires.”
He felt Bayerlein’s hand on his shoulder, stood, moved toward the darkness, the night sky still dreary, cold and wet. He didn’t want to feel the rain again, stopped at the opening of the shelter, said, “What time is it? How long until daylight?”
“It’s near two o’clock, sir.”
“Two? Well, then, there is time. I believe, Fritz, I should like to get some sleep.”
KASSERINE PASS—FEBRUARY 20, 1943
The air was thick with smoke, a steady thunder in front of him, the roar of armor passing close beside him, a column of tanks moving toward the pass. He stood high on the seat of the truck, stared through the binoculars, strained to see, the fog and mist obliterating the mountainsides.
“Damn! We must get closer! Driver, advance, follow that panzer column!”
He dropped down, the truck surging forward, the air suddenly ripped by machine-gun fire, men shouting to him, Bayerlein pulling on his arm.
“Sir! We must not remain in the road! We are too easily a target!”
Rommel pulled away, turned, stared hard at his aide, shouted into the man’s face, “We are all targets, General! This is a fight! You will either ride with me, or you will walk!”
“Yes, sir! Of course, sir!”
He stared ahead now, tried to see past the hulking shadow of a large tank, the heavy Panzer IV, ignored the sharp blast to one side, smoke and rock showering the truck. He felt the old fury, wanted to push the driver faster, get the truck past the armor, but the road was narrow, a sheer drop to one side, a tight hillside rising sharply on the other. He smelled the tank’s exhaust, black smoke engulfing him, shouted again, “Go! Move! I’m right behind you!”
The hill crested, the ground falling away, a valley opening up in front of them, a vast sea of fire and smoke a half mile wide. The hills rose sharply on both sides, machine-gun fire above him, small rock slides peppering the road, the tanks still moving forward. He grabbed the driver’s shoulder, shouted, “Stop here! I must see!”
He stood, wiped the lenses of the binoculars, scanned the ground in front of him, a hundred vehicles, most of them moving, others, black lumps, smoking, some on fire. He could see his own tanks, formations circling to one side, a flanking move, more smoke, the tanks hidden. There were sharp thumps of artillery fire, the air above him ripped open, the searing screech of the shells, some passing far overhead, others impacting the road in front of him, the closest tank suddenly tossed aside, upended, a flash of fire. He looked up the hillside, infantry darting among the rocks, more machine guns, pops of rifle fire, the flow still forward, soldiers on both sides scrambling along the cuts and gashes in the rock.
The binoculars were useless now, too much smoke, much of the fight spread out right in front of him. He scanned the shattered tanks, could easily spot the American tanks, smaller, round-topped, more compact, lighter. Vulnerable. His own panzers were still pushing forward, the battle drifting away, driven by the power, the great machines, the enemy swallowed by mist and smoke and fire, and the man who would not be stopped.
K asserine Pass was the left flank of the German assault, the other wing pushing through along the road that led to Sbiba, the more northerly route that would lead to Le Kef. The attack had been slow in starting, the Germans attempting to drive straight through Kasserine Pass in a frontal assault that had simply collapsed. The Americans had put men with mortars and antitank guns in the hills high above the half-mile-wide pass, had a clear line of fire on anything that stayed on the low ground beneath them. The roadway through the pass had been mined as well, American and British engineers putting everything they had into a barrier that would slow the Germans down, to allow the Allied artillery to pound their targets. As Rommel made his way forward, he had altered the plan of attack, ordering a halt to the absurd frontal assaults, ordering German infantry to climb the hills, sweeping around the Americans. The plan had worked, American units caught by surprise on the hills, surrounded and cut off from retreat. Those who could make their escape westward found that the defensive positions west of the pass had already begun to collapse, the German armor overpowering, a wave of steel and fire that could not be stopped.
KASSERINE, TUNISIA—FEBRUARY 20, 1943
It was early, just after seven, the fights resuming all across the western side of the mountains. But the Germans had most of the higher ground, the pass itself, were gathering strength, reorganizing, assessing their losses, preparing to continue Rommel’s surge along the roads beyond. In the town, Arabs offered him baskets of food, a hasty breakfast prepared by local civilians, men with toothy smiles and dirty hands. He had been polite, but had no interest in breakfast, and no patience for diplomacy. He had come to Afrika Korps headquarters to speak to Heinz Ziegler, yet another commander of an army that had too many new faces.
“What is happening at Sbiba, General?”
Ziegler ignored the maps, and Rommel thought, refreshing, a man who holds the facts in his head.
“The Twenty-first has been slowed by a stout defense, sir. The British have been meticulous with their mines and are making a strong fight. We made mistakes, sir. I have done all I can to correct them.”
“I know, General. I wanted to hear that from you. I wanted to know you understood your error. We are no longer in the desert. These hills…we might as well be fighting in the Alps. You don’t just march into the pass, you must send your men up the mountains as well.”
Ziegler seemed to energize. “Yes, sir. And we have been successful, sir.”
Rommel thought a moment, could not avoid the maps, moved that way, a young lieutenant stepping aside, the man who moved the pins.
“Are these the latest positions?”
“Yes, sir.”
Rommel stepped closer, tried to focus on the lines, his eyes betraying him. He had suffered from poor vision for some time now, yet one more ailment, one more plague he had to endure. He stepped back, tried to hide the frustration, thought of the plan, the troop positions locked in his memory. He had held the Tenth Panzer Division in reserve, the men who had answered directly to von Arnim. But the opportunity was clear now, the way open to driving the enemy completely away. With Kasserine Pass in German hands, the route was open to Tébessa. Damn them, he thought. They do not see it. Von Arnim has no interest in success. But I will not ignore the opportunity. He can have his prize of Le Kef. I am taking Tébessa.
“General Ziegler, I believe Kasserine is our best opportunity. The Twenty-first surely has matters in hand at Sbiba, so we shall make our greatest effort right here. I will summon the Tenth to Kasserine.”
“Yes, sir, I quite agree.”
Rommel looked back at Ziegler, a young man who had already made his share of mistakes.
“I don’t need you to agree with me, General. Just accomplish your task.”
H e had driven all along the frontline positions, then back toward the reserves, had watched as the Tenth Panzer Division responded to his orders. Despite the power that rolled past him, Rommel knew that something was wrong, the numbers too low. There was another noticeable absence as well, not just in numbers but in strength. The Tenth held the army’s vastly critical supply of Tiger tanks, and Rommel searched for them, growing more angry along every kilometer. Von Arnim’s promise to send thirty Tigers southward had never been fulfilled. But now, with the Tenth coming forward, all the Tigers should have been there, adding even more to the power of Rommel’s attack. Rommel was furious, ordered his driver toward Afrika Korps headquarters again, knowing the Tenth’s commander, Fritz von Broich, would already be there.
H e burst through the door, saw Ziegler again, the man jumping to his feet, surprised.
“Where is von Broich?”
“Here, sir.”
Rommel stared at him, von Broich emotionless, sure of himself.
“Where is the rest of your division, General?”
Von Broich did not respond, and Rommel closed the gap between them, put a finger close to the man’s chest.
“Where is the rest of your division, General?”
Von Broich tried to stand tall, a display of bravado, the man quietly aware that he answered only to von Arnim.
“I was specifically ordered to advance with half my force, sir. General von Arnim is concerned that he will require the remainder along his front.”
“Where are the Tigers?”
Von Broich cleared his throat, looked down, and Rommel thought, all right, here comes the lie.
“Sir, General von Arnim has requested that I communicate to you that the Panzer VI tanks are currently undergoing repair.”
“Repair? All of them?”
Von Broich did not look at him. “I have been ordered to give you this message, sir.”
Rommel felt a tightness in his chest, his fingers curling into fists. He was breathing heavily, the curses pouring through his brain. I will kill that man.
He fought against the fire, began to feel dizzy, von Broich seeming to waver in front of him. Rommel saw a chair, moved that way, steadied himself, sat slowly, said, “So, this is how I am to be regarded. We have our orders…he has his orders, and it matters not at all.” He tried to slow his breathing, saw aides gathering, keeping a distance. “Very well. I will do what I must. We have a plan to carry out, and we shall carry it out, whether anyone beyond this headquarters cares to assist us or not.”
KASSERINE PASS—FEBRUARY 21, 1943
The fighting had moved more to the west, a hard struggle across rocky hills draped by pockets of brush, dense thickets of fir trees. Rommel had pressed his people forward, fighting the hesitation and mistakes in his own command as much as his troops fought an increasingly tenacious defense from Allied artillery and antitank positions.
The truck moved downward, and he could see the river now, the Hatab, the remnants of a wrecked bridge, replaced with one by his own engineers. Tanks were moving across, black smoke rolling upriver past the tumbled wreckage of half-tracks, one long-barreled cannon shattered into pieces, embedded in the soft mud. He ordered the driver to slow, the truck rolling past a burnt-out tank, what Rommel knew now to be a Sherman, its turret tossed aside, smoke rolling up from the bowels of the crushed machine. There were trucks, four of them, what had been part of a column caught on the road, the wrecks shoved aside by his engineers. He stared at each one, men still inside, burnt black, one man in a grotesque curl around the steering wheel. Bodies were scattered all across the mud, draped across blasted trees in the patches of wood, helmets and bits of men and uniforms and weapons in every low place, the mud barely disguising the fight that had rolled over the uneven ground. The troops had met face-to-face here, and Rommel could see it now, men from both sides, black bloody stains, bayonets on broken rifles, more trucks, a jeep, its wheels bent out, like some toy crushed under a massive foot. Along the riverbank were more bodies, a neat row, pulled out of the mud by men who could not simply pass by and do nothing. The truck rolled over the makeshift bridge and Rommel did not look down, did not care about the uniforms the men wore, did not look into the face of death. The thought skipped through his mind—which of us left the greater number of dead at this place?—but he pushed it away, thought, it makes no difference. Someone else will deal with that, will do the arithmetic, the paperwork. His attention was drawn forward, a wide clearing beyond the bridge, a vast sea of destruction, blasted tanks, half-tracks, trucks attached to artillery pieces. He saw now that much of the equipment was undamaged, some of it half-buried in mud-filled ditches, crews abandoning their vehicles to escape on foot. There were more cannon, unhitched, pointing east, ready for the fight, but the artillerymen were long gone, leaving behind stacks of boxes, unused shells. He saw trucks full of gear, boxes, ammunition of every sort, crates of magazines for small arms, and more, all the equipment necessary to build a campsite, tents, cookstoves, crates of tinned food.
There were hard blasts to one side, thunderous explosions falling in unison along the hillside behind him. His driver turned, looked back at him, and Rommel pointed forward, shook his head. We’re not turning back, not now. His truck rolled farther out through the open ground, and he stared across the field, saw more undamaged trucks, a half-track sitting by itself, the front wheels bent and shredded by a mine. He had to see more, put his hand on the driver’s shoulder, the truck slowing, stopping. He did not raise the binoculars, had nothing to observe, the heavy mist and smoke swallowing the trees in front of him, where the fight still poured over men on both sides. He stood still for a moment, felt Bayerlein beside him, knew there were questions, why they had stopped, why here. Rommel stayed silent, felt the hard weight of what he was seeing. It was unending, an ocean of American steel, every truck fueled and equipped, a silent army, missing only the men who had pulled away, who did not yet have the heart to stand and make a fight against Rommel’s powerful machine. But they will, he thought. They will learn and adapt, and they will come again. They are children with too many toys, but after this fight, they will have grown, and they will have learned, and they will bring their machines and their equipment back into the fight, new trucks and new tanks and new airplanes. He thought of Hitler’s description, mongrel race. What does that matter here?
NEAR THALA, TUNISIA—FEBRUARY 22, 1943
He had driven away from the fighting, had seen enough of it for himself, what the commanders had been relaying to him since first light. Despite the enormous success at Kasserine, the pathways to Tébessa and Le Kef were now strongly fortified, massive numbers of artillery pieces targeting any German armor that attempted to push through the Allied defense. On both fronts, the German push had been stopped, the Allied resistance growing stronger, helped by the increasing support from the north, British artillery and fighting men who added to the American barrier.
The truck rolled into the open ground in front of the block building, the headquarters for the Twenty-first Panzer, more trucks already there. Kesselring was waiting for him.
“I would like to suggest to the Führer that you be officially named army group commander for all of Africa. Your performance here has certainly silenced anyone’s criticism of you.”
Rommel let out a breath, drank from a bent tin cup, warm water cutting through the dust in his throat. Kesselring was smiling at him, and Rommel had seen that too many times, felt no warmth from the man. He glanced now at Westphal, the young man accompanying Kesselring to the meeting. He had wanted to embrace his former aide, still felt enormous affection for the young colonel, had followed the young man’s progress as a field commander. Westphal was not smiling at all, had greeted him with a scowl of concern, something Rommel also recalled.
“So, now I am to be rewarded for my efforts? I am no longer thought of as a defeatist?”
“I never thought of you that way. There has been misfortune, frustration. Regardless, you deserve this command, and I know the Führer will see it that way. Even the Italians will agree.”
Rommel stared into the dingy water, thought, so no one knows of this promotion yet, not the Führer, not the Italians.
“My apologies, Albert, but there is little left to command here.”
“Of course there is! We have earned a brilliant victory here! And even if the enemy does not withdraw completely, our bridgehead position in Tunisia is more than merely sound. It is impregnable! We need a man in command who is impregnable himself.”
Rommel set the cup aside, looked again at Westphal, thought, he doesn’t believe I am impregnable. For good reason.
“I regret that I must decline the honor of your offer. I am certain that General von Arnim has the Führer’s full confidence. The strength of our Tunisian position is a credit to his leadership.”
Kesselring moved toward a chair, sat, rubbed a hand on his chin. There was silence for a long minute, then Kesselring said, “I would hope you would reconsider. But no matter. Have you given the order to withdraw?”
“Yes. There is no purpose to be served by holding our current position either here or west of Kasserine. The enemy will continue to build his strength, and we have used up all we can put into this fight.”
Kesselring pounded a fist on his knee, looked at him, the strange ever-present smile.
“There will be more opportunities, Erwin. The Americans are not a worthy foe.”
Rommel did not have the energy for a debate with Kesselring’s fantasies. He looked again at Westphal, the young man staring down. He will say nothing, Rommel thought. But he knows, more than anyone. He wanted to say the words to Westphal, but not now, not in front of Kesselring. Whether or not we can still win this fight, I am not well enough to be in command.
FEBRUARY 23, 1943
They had disengaged the enemy defenses all along the positions west and north of Kasserine, retreating southward, away from Le Kef. He stayed close to the columns, the big armor rumbling past, men staring blankly past him, only a few cheers now from an army that understood it was moving the wrong way. He was surprised to see sunshine, the first blue sky in many days, no heavy clouds in any direction. He stared up, felt warmth on his face, a wisp of dust rolling over him, what would only grow worse as the mud dried. He waited, stared into the blue, watched the small puffs of clouds drifting past, tried to hear beyond the sound of the tanks, knew it would come, that with the good weather, the planes could fly again. He stared for a long while, and then he saw them, a V formation, very high, like so many tiny geese. He caught flickers of sunlight, the sun’s reflection off a dozen windshields, knew the bombs were coming, the deadly blasts finding his men and his tanks on the roadways, disrupting the retreat. He tapped the driver, the silent order, speed up, the truck moving east, taking him back toward Mareth, toward the enemy he still had to confront. Along the Mareth line, the German and Italian troops who had not gone to Kasserine were building and strengthening their own works, while farther to the south, the British Eighth Army was strengthening as well, Montgomery’s men pressing forward impatiently, while their commander pondered whether it was the right time to finally launch his attack.