by Jeff Shaara
Bradley shrugged. “Sure. I have no problem with that. The men seem to like the attention. I know Monty does.”
Eisenhower felt cautious. Don’t say too much about Monty. Things like that have a way of biting you in the ass. But dammit, he should have stayed in the Mediterranean. His troops are down there, and he’s up here making headlines.
Bradley shifted in his chair. “I have no problem with Monty, Ike. I really don’t.”
“Dammit, Brad, you’re not supposed to read my mind. You know I wanted Alexander, definitely thought he’d be the best man for the job. Churchill thought so too. But Brooke pushed hard for Monty. I understand that, I suppose. Morale is crucial to this operation, and the Brits need a hero, someone who looks good in the newspapers. Right now Monty’s the best one they have. After all, he’s the man who whipped Rommel. It doesn’t matter much who else was in that fight, or that Rommel might have whipped himself. Like you say, Monty likes the attention, and he’s done a hell of a job promoting his own legend. Even our people cheer for him. That can’t hurt a damned thing.”
He paused, the caution slipping away.
“If Churchill hadn’t been so sick, we’d probably have gotten Alexander anyway. It was pretty scary for a while, that damned pneumonia he caught in Africa or wherever the hell it was. If Churchill keeled over, it would cost us a hell of a lot more than a little chaos in the British government. It would be a disaster of morale for everyone involved. But I have to hand it to Brooke. I have no idea why he’s such a fan of Monty, but he picked a good time to push him down Churchill’s throat.”
“Monty will be fine, Ike. He’s a leader. We get along.”
Eisenhower couldn’t stifle a laugh. “You’ll be the first. Patton would just as soon shoot him.”
Bradley didn’t smile. “Patton might want to shoot me before this is over,” he said. “Don’t worry about George.”
Eisenhower was still smiling. “You amaze me, Brad. You’re the calmest man in this army.”
Bradley shrugged again. “I’m nervous as all hell, Ike. Can’t think about that. Got a job to do.”
“I hope it’s that simple. Just…do the job. I thought Clark would do the job in Italy, and listen to the bitching. That damn AP reporter, Wes Gallagher, is making himself a real pain in the ass about Anzio. Gallagher’s a good guy, always liked him, been around the HQ since North Africa, but now he’s raising hell: I should still be down there; I should have taken command instead of Wilson; Alexander and Clark aren’t up to the job. Makes good press, I suppose. But it’s too easy to bellyache about things you don’t understand, especially when you have an audience who eats up anything you tell them from the front lines. The Germans aren’t just pushovers, and I told Gallagher that. Reminded him we got our butts kicked in Tunisia before things turned around. We have nothing to apologize for in Italy.” He squinted at Bradley, stared again through the man’s glasses, saw he had Bradley’s full attention. “We’re all scared as hell, Brad. But I need you to keep it locked up. Deal with Monty, handle Patton. Do the damned job.”
“Count on it, Ike. June fifth, you think?”
“That’s the plan right now, but it could change. Weather makes all the difference. The maps are still being drawn, and those will change too. The air boys might be right. Who the hell knows what’s going to happen?”
Bradley felt his jacket pocket. “Oh, I forgot. Something to show you.” He pulled out a small glass vial, uncorked it, and poured the contents on Eisenhower’s desk.
“What the hell is that, sand?”
“Not just sand. The engineers have a fancier name for it, silicate something-or-other. Came from Omaha Beach.”
“So? There’s fancy sand on Omaha Beach?”
“There’s good sand on Omaha Beach. The engineers say it means we can land tanks there, heavy equipment, no bogging down. I was sweating this one, Ike. Could have caused us some serious problems.”
Eisenhower sat back, staring at the small pile of sand, and suddenly recalled the quote—Ben Franklin—and thought, Good God, this is a perfect example. For want of a nail… For want of good hard sand.
“Chief?” The voice was Butcher’s. Eisenhower looked past Bradley. “What is it, Harry?”
“We just got a note from the European Advisory Council.”
“Who?”
“Hell, I don’t know, sir. A group that’s working on treaties and stuff. This just came from Ambassador Winant. They insist you be informed that they’ve come up with the list of terms for Germany’s unconditional surrender: occupation and subjugation, changes to German laws, boundaries, all that kind of stuff.”
Eisenhower blinked and looked again at Bradley, felt no energy, his strength drained away.
“Leave it to the damned civilians. They put it on paper, and I guess that means the war’s over. What the hell do they think this will accomplish? Does anyone believe the Germans are ready to agree to this stupidity?”
“That’s what Beetle said, sir. Thinks they’re counting chickens before they hatch.”
“Does Beetle have any thoughts on what we should say in response to Ambassador Winant?”
“Not really, Chief.”
Eisenhower saw a smile on Butcher’s face. Yep, he can read my mind too, he thought.
“Maybe give Patton a call. Tell him I have someone he can shoot.”
* * *
5. ROMMEL
* * *
HEADQUARTERS, ARMY GROUP WEST, SAINT-GERMAIN, NEAR PARIS
FEBRUARY 17, 1944
“I was promised that we would have two thousand tanks per month, seven thousand aircraft. I was promised all the concrete and steel I required. In the past two weeks, I have not been given enough barbed wire to encircle this château.”
Von Rundstedt looked up at him with tired eyes, shrugged his shoulders. “So the little corporal tells you everything you want to hear, and you believe him. Whose fault is that?”
Little corporal. Rommel had heard that insult before; von Rundstedt never referred to Hitler with any respect. Rommel could not help feeling uncomfortable, no matter how little regard he had for Hitler’s strategies. The man was after all still the Führer and still very much in control of his officers and his army. Since he had come home from North Africa, Rommel had tried to guard his comments, to keep his lack of respect for Hitler hidden. It was the great value of a man like Ruge, a confidant Rommel knew he could trust. But von Rundstedt seemed not to care about any of that. He was growing old, sixty-eight now, seemed to have no fear of Hitler’s dangerous tentacles, seemed not to care what might happen if word of his insulting arrogance reached the ears of any Gestapo officer.
The command structure in France and the Low Countries was a symptom, just one more hint of the great disease that had infected the army. Von Rundstedt suffered from it as much as any other officer in the Wehrmacht. No matter how much authority any senior commander was given, he still had to answer to Hitler’s whims and erratic strategies. In France, the command structure was as fractured and illogical as any theater of the war. Army Group West was von Rundstedt’s command, which included all of France, Belgium, and Holland. Rommel was his immediate subordinate, commanding Army Group B, which included the northern half of von Rundstedt’s theater of the war, from Denmark to as far south as the Loire River. Farther south, von Rundstedt also held rein over Army Group G, under the command of General Johannes Blaskowitz, who controlled all of southern France. Blaskowitz was an old friend to Rommel and had commanded an army in the Polish campaign in 1939. But he had been outspoken about the severe butchery of the Polish people, so Blaskowitz had made enemies. To Hitler’s staff, Army Group G seemed as far from the war as any German commander could find himself, far from any glory that would come from the great victory that the Propaganda Ministry continued to trumpet. Rommel knew that to many of those same detractors, his own Army Group B was not much closer.
To make matters worse, Rommel did not have authority over the troops stationed in his sphere o
f command. The SS troops were under separate authority, those more fanatical units that were thoroughly loyal to Hitler, men whose indoctrination made them feared not only by the enemy but by many in the German army as well. But the worst pill for Rommel concerned his beloved panzers, the powerful armored divisions still commanded by many of the exceptional officers Rommel had cultivated in North Africa. The panzers stationed in Rommel’s arena were now separate and autonomous. The armor was commanded by Baron Leo Geyr von Schweppenburg, a man Rommel despised. The feeling was mutual.
Though all these mixed commands fell under von Rundstedt’s umbrella, the old man himself seemed unwilling to keep a tight grip on any of his subordinates. It was a curse Rommel had suffered through in North Africa: divided authority, boundaries determined by the forces of personality and politics and ego, with little regard for sound military strategy. Rommel knew this had cost the Germans the North African campaign, and it certainly led to continuing disaster in Russia.
Throughout all the frustrations of the diluted authority, Rommel still had Hitler’s ear, had been instructed to report directly to Hitler if there were concerns Rommel felt an urgent need to address. Whether von Rundstedt resented the obvious slight, he showed little concern, one more sign that the old man was merely biding his time until he finally slipped into retirement.
Rommel had always had a strange and unpredictable connection to Hitler. Despite the failures in North Africa, Hitler still seemed willing to refer to Rommel as Germany’s great warrior, and the Propaganda Ministry was well aware that the German people still regarded Rommel as a genuine hero. Since the defeat in North Africa, Rommel had been very much the outcast in Berlin and had fallen completely out of Hitler’s favor, but now the bruised relationship seemed to be healing. Rommel had seen that the Führer’s grasp of the reality of the war was shaky at best. Hitler had personally given Rommel assurances that the Atlantic Wall had become a high priority. Within a few short weeks, Rommel knew better.
“Have you completed your inspections?” von Rundstedt asked.
“I have inspected most of the entire coastline, from Copenhagen to the Pyrenees. I thought you might have read my reports.”
Von Rundstedt didn’t flinch at Rommel’s barb, but there was a silent pause. Rommel regretted the small indiscretion and glanced around the room, unable to avoid the opulent luxury, artwork and antique furniture in every corner. Von Rundstedt had planted himself in a château that bristled with finery, too close to Paris, too close to distractions that would tempt anyone to lose focus on his priorities. Rommel had always been disgusted by this spectacle, and though he found von Rundstedt to be charming and generally pleasant to be around, it was one more reason why he knew the old man was simply wrong for the job.
“So, what are your recommendations?” von Rundstedt said.
Rommel swallowed the word, had already made too many recommendations. He had notes in his pocket, brought them always to any meeting with von Rundstedt, prepared always to answer the question.
“Besides the numerous requests I have made for barbed wire, steel posts, and concrete, I have now determined that we require as many as twenty million land mines. In time I should like that number increased ten times.”
Von Rundstedt laughed. “Two hundred million land mines? Ah, yes, I understand. You request a ridiculous number, hoping you might get what you really want. But really, Erwin, twenty million? Do you expect anyone in Berlin to take you seriously?”
“I expect you to take me seriously. We must create a coastal barrier no army can cross. And we require much more. I have already begun to install aircraft barriers to the west, in the bocage country in Normandy, tall posts in a random pattern in the open fields. Any airborne units attempting to land will be broken to pieces.”
“Ah, yes. Rommelspargel, Rommel’s asparagus. I have heard talk, of course. Quite amusing, actually.”
“I do not find it amusing at all. When the Allies come, they will come with enormous strength, including quite probably airborne landings. They have learned from their failures and their successes. We must prevent a successful landing at all costs. It has been enormously frustrating to me that I cannot get the quantity of railcars promised me, that the larger artillery pieces are unfinished in their factories, that the tanks I was promised do not seem to exist. And where is the Luftwaffe? None of the airfields I have visited has any sizable number of fighters. Is Göring hoarding them somewhere?”
Von Rundstedt sat up straight now, a hard frown on his face. “Enough of your demands, and enough complaining. You are the one who speaks to the sympathies of the little corporal. Speak to him now. I can get nowhere. You have been given more than anyone else in my command, and I do not hear such complaining from the others.”
Rommel felt the old rage returning; he could never keep it hidden for long. “Perhaps it is because no one else is facing an enemy invasion.”
“How do you know that? How do you know where they will come, or when, or even if? There are no intelligence reports I am aware of that reveal any plans to attack Holland or Calais or Normandy or Brittany.”
“There are no intelligence reports because there is no intelligence.”
Von Rundstedt slapped the table. “You will stop this!”
Rommel leaned back in his chair. There were boundaries he could not cross with the old man.
“Erwin, there is considerable discontent among your subordinates. Several of your generals are critical of how hard you are working the men.”
“Salmuth.” Rommel felt his stomach tighten.
“Well, perhaps, but there are others.”
Rommel had heard the griping before, and was suddenly furious that von Salmuth had gone over his head. Hans von Salmuth commanded the Fifteenth Army. Along with the Seventh, it comprised the bulk of Rommel’s troops. Von Rundstedt continued.
“General von Salmuth is one of those who believes you are asking too much of the men, that by employing so many soldiers as construction workers you will exhaust them. Should there be an invasion, the army might be too worn out to resist it. The officers are often working as hard as their men.”
Rommel stood suddenly, fighting to control his temper. Von Rundstedt seemed to know he had primed the explosion.
“I have already had this discussion with General von Salmuth. I will have it again, if necessary. I work the men too hard? Perhaps, sir, you should go out in the field yourself and look at these men. We have entire regiments made up of prisoners of war, foreigners who now fight for us so they do not have to go to a prison camp. Russians!”
“They are not prisoners, Erwin, they are refugees. They are grateful to be fighting against our shared enemies.”
“In Russia, perhaps! Any Russian soldier worth a rifle should have the opportunity to turn that rifle against the communists. But here? Who is their enemy here? What will happen when we ask them to face the guns of the Americans and die for us? How much loyalty will they show for our Führer?”
There was no answer from von Rundstedt. Rommel continued.
“The Western Front has become one enormous recuperation center. I have entire divisions that are at half strength, bled down by the fighting in the east, and so they are sent here to rest and refit, although refit with what, I do not know. Now, we must tell them to conclude their pleasant seaside vacation and prepare to fight again, this time against the Americans. How many fights do these men have left?”
“You have merely repeated the complaints of your generals, Erwin. Why must you work these men so hard?”
“Because if we do not, if our Führer’s mythical Atlantic Wall is not reinforced and strengthened and made as invincible as the German people have been led to believe, this war is over right now. We have one hope: to meet an attack with a more powerful attack of our own. Keep the enemy on the beaches and prevent him from establishing a landing.”
Von Rundstedt held up his hands. “Stop it. I have heard too much of this from you. Every other commander here believes we
can trap the Allies into a landing that will serve us perfectly. We have the mobility to move panzer divisions as quickly as they are needed. If we keep our troops prepared…and rested…they can be put into any threatened area in short order. You know as well as anyone the power of a swiftly executed counterattack. Allow the enemy to come, give him false confidence. No invasion, no matter where it comes, can be without chaos for the invader. That is our advantage. We are here, and we will be prepared. That is your job after all: Prepare us!”
Rommel felt the words roll around inside him and stifled his arguments. Too many arguments. He knew there would be nothing to gain, not now, not while there was so much still to do. If his generals would cooperate, he would continue the inspections, continue to lecture them, continue to prod and energize and inspire them. Though they might not agree, sooner or later they might actually obey his orders to put some power behind that ridiculous Atlantic Wall.
The inspection tours had continued, endless days of visits to officers who dreaded his arrival. The progress along the beaches was painfully slow, but after so many weeks, there was progress, and many of the line officers and their superiors had begun to accept Rommel’s vision, had responded to his criticism by pushing their men a bit harder. There was energy in his words, and the men were always inspired by his presence. He was, after all, still Rommel.
Since his first days in command of the French coastline, Rommel had hoped to hear something specific from German intelligence. He had to believe that, sooner or later, one good spy would send some definitive word on where and when the attack would come. But so far the German intelligence network had been nearly useless in determining anything, no reports had any solid reliability.
Rumors ran rampant, but his own instincts were failing him, his gut feeling for the mind of the enemy, an innate sense that had served him so well in North Africa. There were many options for the Allies, and Rommel was not helped by the resistance and foot-dragging of those officers who, amazingly, didn’t believe an invasion would come at all. It was maddening to him, this blind faith in the ongoing propaganda from Berlin, how Germany’s power was unflagging and no army, no matter how powerful, could shatter Hitler’s Fortress Europe—a fortress that Rommel was trying desperately to construct. But his old ailments were returning, the hard reality that he could no longer drive himself without a breath. The suffering inflicted on him by the African deserts had mostly faded away, but with the work had come new sickness, mostly from exhaustion. Maybe, with so much work now going on all along his coastline, he would make time to see his home, to walk in the Swabian hills, to nest in his wife’s softness, to find a little peace.