The Rising Tide

by Jeff Shaara

  Eisenhower turned, saw a young lieutenant emerging from the radio room.

  “Excuse me, sirs. Sorry to interrupt. General Fredenhall, a call has come in from General McQuillen, passed through General Ward. All indications are that the armored positions have completely given way. There is a general retreat still in progress, much of it unorganized. There continues to be no word from Colonel Waters or Colonel Drake. General Ward expresses his optimism, sir, but it is believed that Colonel Waters has been either killed or captured.”

  Fredenhall slammed his fist against the map, began to shout, empty curses. Eisenhower turned away, ignored the show, felt uncomfortable, thought, get control of yourself, General. Your men need to see their commander in command. He looked again toward the aide, who stood stoically, enduring Fredenhall’s tirade. Eisenhower thought of Drake. Colonel Tom Drake. It had been only days before, Eisenhower’s first visit to the front lines here, one pleasant task among many tedious ones. Eisenhower had pinned a medal on Drake’s chest, the Distinguished Service Cross. God help you, Colonel. He thought of the other man, the second name, Waters. The aide glanced at him now, a silent frown, and Eisenhower turned away again, thought, you know, of course. You all know. It’s the only reason you would bring that news while I’m still here. No one should pass that along but me. He shook his head. Yep, you’ll have to hear it directly from me, George.

  Lieutenant Colonel John Waters was George Patton’s son-in-law.

  He looked again at Fredenhall, the man staring at the map, silent now, his useless display of anger exhausted.

  “Lloyd, do you understand what will happen if Rommel pushes past the Western Dorsale? He’ll have an open shot at our primary supply bases, our airstrips. We’ll have no choice but to pull back into Algeria.” Fredenhall turned to him, and Eisenhower looked hard at the man, searched for the fire, some sign that he was up to the task. “We’re in trouble here, Lloyd. But I don’t want to hear bitching about it. If we fail here, all our plans stop. It could take years before we’re ready to put our people in Europe. Do you understand that? If we can’t stop the Germans here, if we show Hitler we’re too weak to drive him out of Africa, who knows what he might try to do?”

  Eisenhower pulled himself away from the thoughts, the images, couldn’t accept that the planning, the grand strategies, might all dissolve in this dismal stretch of scrub and rocky hills in central Tunisia.

  “If we don’t stop them here, Lloyd, we may not stop them at all.”

  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 Ke
sselring’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.”