The Rising Tide

by Jeff Shaara

  T ime and again, Kenneth Anderson’s efforts to drive the Germans back toward the Tunisian coast had been thwarted, first by the Germans themselves, and then by the dismal weather and the inability to push supplies and manpower forward quickly enough. The Germans continued to hold fast to their stout defensive positions on the good ground, continued to harass and poke holes in the vulnerable French positions, continued to build their forces in the north. In the south, the reinforcements continued to strengthen Rommel, his deep lines at Mareth, causing Montgomery to pause once more. Eisenhower had no choice but to call off any plans of attack that might expose vulnerable points in the Allied position. There was simply no point in driving men into the teeth of the German defenses until the Allied forces were strong enough to make a difference.

  Though Eisenhower’s chain of command now technically included Montgomery, there was little chance that Eisenhower or anyone else was going to affect the way Montgomery pursued his foe. With Montgomery content to gather his troops in strong lines opposite Rommel’s defenses, Rommel was once again being given the extraordinary gift of time, enough time to realize that the Germans might have an opportunity no one had seriously considered, an opportunity to punch a devastating hole in the Allied plans for Tunisia.

  19. ROMMEL

  NEAR BEN GARDANE, TUNISIA

  FEBRUARY 3, 1943

  W estphal was hesitating, and Rommel kept the smile to himself, knew the young man was fighting to hold back the embarrassment of emotion.

  “You should go, Colonel. Your men are waiting for you.”

  Westphal stiffened, gathered himself. “Yes, sir. I have delayed long enough. There is work to be done.”

  Rommel let the smile out, held out a hand. Westphal seemed surprised, took it, and Rommel felt the roughness, the hard grip of a man so much like himself, stubborn and tired. But Westphal had the energy of youth, and in an army where so many were gone, where senior commanders had fallen away, captured, wounded, or just used up by the desert, the Panzerarmee needed every good commander it could find. Westphal was set to command the 164th Division, infantry and light armor, and for the first time in many months, Rommel’s headquarters would not be graced by the young man’s tireless efficiency.

  Rommel released the hand. “You will have an advantage now, Siegfried. Your enemies will only be in front of you. I must still deal with those who defeat us from behind.”

  Westphal stood back, snapped his boots together, made a crisp salute, then held his arm out, the palm flat to the ground. “Heil Hitler.”

  Rommel nodded, said nothing, and Westphal turned, moved to his truck, climbed aboard, and was gone. Rommel turned, saw the other staff officers keeping their distance, motioned to the short man, Bayerlein, the senior officer in the group. The command was silent, expected, and Rommel moved toward the tents, thought of the maps. Bayerlein followed, was close behind him, and Rommel thought, yes, Westphal is correct. There is work to do.

  Fritz Bayerlein had been in Africa almost as long as Rommel, had served Rommel in several important roles. Not much older than Westphal, he was a short, stocky bulldog, whose experience already included command in the field. Bayerlein had taken over the Afrika Korps after Ritter von Thoma had been captured at El Alamein. For some time now, he had been Rommel’s acting chief of staff, his senior aide, more experienced than Westphal certainly, a better soldier perhaps. But Rommel knew that no one else in the army would ever be as loyal.

  T hey drove west, through a narrow pass, making their way through German artillery positions, formations of heavy armor perched beside the road like so many fat, sleeping beasts. Rommel felt the energy now, the strength, the first time in months he felt stronger than his enemy. There was strength in his army as well, but not just in the machines. It had never really been in the tanks and guns. It came from the men, and those men drew their strength from him. He could feel it as they saluted him, surprised cheers as the truck rolled by them. Many of these men were veterans, had made the fourteen-hundred mile retreat. Now they were rested, had rebuilt and resupplied through a mostly quiet January, had dug in at the dilapidated French line at Mareth, his frustrated engineers working feverishly to improve what the French had left behind, works that were no match at all for the modern tools of war. But Montgomery had done what Rommel expected him to do. The British had made that long march as well, were farther now from their supply base, had worn out their machines and their soldiers, and so, Montgomery would not attack, not for a while, not until he was ready. And every day Rommel’s army grew stronger.

  The truck moved into a flat plain, a high, rocky ridge behind them, the road winding slightly, a dull gray snake in the low brush, leading them to another ridge, where more German guns protected the pass. He stared out to the north, more ridges, tall rocks, difficult ground, good only for infantry, or artillery observers. The rocks seemed empty, and Rommel leaned forward, said to Bayerlein, “We must have people up there! Take advantage of the heights. The enemy puts any artillery observers up there, it could be a problem.”

  “I’ll see to it, sir.”

  “Who is in command here?”

  “General Belowius, sir.”

  Rommel nodded, thought, the engineer. Another general pulled from where he is wanted to where he is needed. “Yes, good. He will know how to use the ground.”

  They began to climb, the road rising into another narrow pass, tanks blocking the way. Rommel stood, said to the driver, “Shut it down. I will walk.”

  The men stood beside their tanks, some eating, cooking over small fires in the dirt. They stood upright as they saw him, surprise, young faces Rommel had never seen. Replacements, he thought. Untested. Or, they come from Russia, used up by the winter and a fight we cannot win. Here…they may still find the way.

  He saw a rocky trail, stepped carefully, made his way higher, up to the crest of the sharp ridge. Bayerlein followed, and another man, carrying a machine gun, two more, men with maps and field glasses. He pushed himself over a sharp rock, dropped down, felt a sharp punch in his side, made a sound, his eyes blurring, light-headed, dizzy, his hand reaching for the rock…

  “Sir!”

  “Get some water up here! Now!”

  He stared up into faces, focused on Bayerlein, another man with a small tin cup, water spilling onto Rommel’s face.

  Bayerlein said, “Give me that! Back away, all of you! Where’s that medic?”

  The water was warm, and Rommel fought the urge to gulp it, felt himself choking. Bayerlein removed the cup, said quietly, “Slow. Just a little.”

  He could feel the rocks under his back now, sharp, stabbing pain in his side, still felt dizzy. “What happened?”

  Bayerlein leaned low, whispered, “You fainted again, sir. Don’t worry, the medic will bring you something.”

  Rommel put his elbows on the ground, pushed himself up. “Bring me what? There is no cure for this!”

  He pulled his legs in, curled his knees under him, tried to stand, Bayerlein holding him by the arm, a strong grip.

  “Easy, sir. No hurry.”

  “I’m all right! Just slipped on the rocks. Let’s move up a little higher. I want to see those passes across this valley.” He pulled his arm away from Bayerlein’s grip, said in a low voice, “I slipped on the rocks. Isn’t that what you saw?”

  Bayerlein looked down. “Yes.”

  “Thank you, Fritz.”

  He tested the ground beneath him, his legs strong again, the pain in his side still a dull ache. He moved up the trail, steadied himself against the big rocks, thought, how much more…how many times? Where will I get the strength?

  D espite the wisdom and the strategic necessity of abandoning Libya, loud voices in Italy had called for a scapegoat, and Rommel knew that his name was at the top. When word came finally from Comando Supremo, it came not as an order, but as a suggestion that because of the continuing problems with his health, Rommel should be replaced by an Italian commander, General Giovanni Messe. It was one more
pretense the Italians embraced, the reorganization of the Tunisian armies under Italian command, the army now to be titled the German-Italian Panzer Army. But Rome would not press Rommel on a deadline for relinquishing his command, and Rommel was in no hurry to do so. Berndt had gone to see Hitler yet again, had returned with word of the Führer’s unqualified support for Rommel’s position, a surprise to no one but Rommel himself. It was one more act in a strange drama in Berlin, the Führer’s behavior turning with the wind, moods governed by inaccurate reports, either good or bad, whatever bits of information those around Hitler dared to pass along.

  Kesselring was still in command of the German forces throughout Tunisia and had made no push for Rommel to stand aside. Regardless of whom the Italians sent to replace him, Rommel still had plans for a new campaign. General Messe would just have to wait.

  If Rommel was to remain, then someone else had to absorb Mussolini’s public wrath for the failure to hold Tripoli. It was no surprise to Rommel when word came that Bastico had resigned. As much as Rommel despised “Bombastico,” he recognized that the man cared deeply for his soldiers and had fought through and survived the same kinds of difficulties that had plagued Rommel. But someone had to absorb the blame for the loss of Italian prestige, and Bastico was the clear choice. Honor had been served.

  The Germans were not immune to the absurdities that infected the Italian high command. Though Kesselring ruled in Tunisia, General von Arnim had already shown that he had no intention of merging his forces with Rommel’s, or even joining Rommel in a united strategy. Von Arnim had unbridled ambition, and Rommel had to assume that someone, perhaps even Hitler himself, had given von Arnim quiet assurances that Tunisia would ultimately be his own command, free from anyone’s interference, especially Rommel’s. Despite von Arnim’s reluctance to hear any plan Rommel proposed, Kesselring knew that the only way to success in Tunisia was for the two headstrong commanders to combine their talents, and their strengths. With Montgomery quiet in front of the Mareth line, and the Allied armies spread precariously along western Tunisia, Rommel knew he had a singular opportunity. In the north, von Arnim had already gained the better measure of the British and had bloodied the French, causing the Allies to regroup and rethink their offensive strategy. But farther south, von Arnim’s left flank faced the Americans. It took no genius to predict that the Americans might be planning a drive down into Rommel’s position at Mareth, cutting behind him, or striking his western flank. If Montgomery launched his own assault, Rommel’s army would be ground up between the two forces, with little chance of escape. Rommel knew he could not launch any kind of organized attack against Montgomery, not yet. If there was opportunity, it lay in the west, against the still-gathering Americans, whose only real test under fire had come against the vague French resistance on the North African coast. With maps in hand, Rommel examined his position, the passes and narrow gaps that cut through the mountain ranges. On the far side, the Americans had armor, but the tanks and heavy guns were spread out along various intersections, guarding too many places with too few machines. It was the mark of an uncertain commander, addressing what might be instead of what was. Rommel knew nothing of Fredenhall, knew only that beyond the American position, the roads spread in fragile spiderwebs, joined by key intersections. The air observers had made their reports, information that was no surprise to Rommel. Behind the American tanks lay precious supplies, great fuel dumps, truck parks, and ammunition stores. If the Americans could be struck hard and fast, they would break, and if they broke completely, they would be forced back behind those key intersections. With the supplies and those key places on the maps falling into Rommel’s hands, the Allies might have no choice but to withdraw from Tunisia altogether. Then, Algeria would be vulnerable, and with confusion and uncertainty in the minds of the Allied commanders, Rommel’s army could drive hard toward Algiers. It was audacious and fanciful, but it inspired Rommel, gave him a way to push aside the sickness, to feel some flicker of the old fire, a fire he could still give to his men.

  RENOUK, TUNISIA—FEBRUARY 9, 1943

  Kesselring shifted the maps on the table, seemed to move slowly for a reason. Rommel watched him, von Arnim across the table staring away. They had spoken in friendly greetings, protocol, the performance Kesselring would expect. But Rommel could clearly see that von Arnim would rather be anywhere else than here.

  Kesselring stood back from the table, said, “Before we begin…I will assume you have both heard something of Stalingrad.”

  Von Arnim said, “Unfortunate rumors.”

  “The news is certainly unfortunate, but it is not rumor. The Führer has made a public announcement to the German people. Paulus’s army has been defeated. Surviving German units are in full retreat, but many of them are not expected to escape the Russian army. No final word has been received from many of the senior field commanders, but we know that most are surrounded by Russian troops. Field Marshal Paulus is in Russian hands, as are the remnants of the Sixth Army, some ninety thousand German soldiers.”

  Von Arnim sat up straight. “Field Marshal Paulus?”

  “Yes. The Führer promoted him just prior to the surrender.”

  Von Arnim crossed his arms in front of him, made a short grunting sound.

  Rommel said, “I assume Paulus was your friend. I regret his capture.”

  It was as much diplomacy as Rommel could muster, and von Arnim seemed surprised. “I would not say he was my friend. I served under him. He was a good commander. He should not have been assigned to such a disaster. It sickens me that he will be remembered for failure. The Führer’s staff is already spreading word of his incompetence. I know better. The army knows better. He was sacrificed for a useless dream.”

  Kesselring stood above both of them. “There will be no talk of that here. We may mourn Marshal Paulus in our own way, in private. It is not our place to criticize the strategy of the High Command. We could very well have prevailed in Russia, if not for circumstances we could not anticipate.”

  Rommel looked up at Kesselring, thought, does he believe that? What circumstances? Winter? The Russian army?

  Von Arnim said, “It is a lesson for us all. We must avoid such circumstances here. Our strategy must be sound, without recklessness.”

  Von Arnim seemed to avoid looking at him, and Rommel fought the urge to respond to the undisguised message. Rommel’s mind was beginning to boil with words. What you would call recklessness, General, I call victory. He took a long breath.

  “Our goal must be to drive deep into the American rear, either cut them off from escape or drive them back a considerable distance. In either event, the British will have to respond by withdrawing, or lose their flank.”

  Kesselring stood back, seemed content to let his commanders explain their points of view.

  Von Arnim said, “The British will not withdraw unless pressed to do so. Any attack toward the west will leave our columns vulnerable to counterattack from the north. The British will not go away quietly.”

  Rommel ran his finger along a black line on the map. “Here. If we drive the Americans straight back toward Tébessa, we will have an opportunity to capture their primary airfields, as well as their main supply depots.”

  Von Arnim leaned close. “The British will not allow that. They will attack you on the march.”

  Rommel felt rising anger again, fought to hold it in. “They will not simply ignore the forces that will remain in front of them. You can make an attack of your own, prevent them from leaving their current position. Or, join the attack, General. We can effect a pincer movement, from both your position and mine. The key to our success is speed.” Rommel looked up at Kesselring now. “Speed! The Americans must be hit before they are prepared, and if we drive them back with speed, we will put the British flank at a serious disadvantage. There will be no attack from the British because they will be isolated. Their only response will be to withdraw.”

  Von Arnim sat back now, ignored the maps. “I agree that the Ame
ricans can be driven back, but then, the plan must be for our forces to turn to the north, to hit the British before they can withdraw, before they can form their own counterattack.”

  Kesselring seemed to weigh both ideas, stared at the map. “I tend to agree with Marshal Rommel. If we drive the Americans rapidly, we can predict that the British will put emphasis on protecting their ally. Eisenhower is an American. He will not allow the British to rescue his own people. The loss of pride would cost him his command. He will first preserve his own army. They must position reserves in such a way to respond to an assault, but the Allies will launch no counterattack because Eisenhower has never faced a situation like this. He does not know what to expect.”

  Rommel had not thought of Eisenhower, had focused most of his attention on Fredenhall, the man’s inexperience, what seemed to be the poor positioning of his armor. But now, Kesselring had made his case even more strongly. Von Arnim grunted again.

  Kesselring said, “General, you will send the Tenth Armor along this path…here. Rommel will command the southern wing of the attack. Together you will strike a narrow front around this village…Sidi Bou Zid. I would anticipate that you will have few difficulties pushing past the American defenses. Marshal Rommel will be in overall command of the assault.” Kesselring looked at Rommel now. “How soon can this attack be prepared?”