by Jeff Shaara
HERRLINGEN, SOUTHERN GERMANY
FEBRUARY 23, 1944
He had made a momentous decision, encouraged by his staff. He had allowed himself a brief leave, a quick visit to see Lucie, to rest his spirit.
It was very cold, and he tugged at his coat, blew out a thick breath of soft fog, studied the tracks in the snow. It had been too long since he had gone hunting, and the tracks inspired him, his mind working, estimating the size of what was surely a magnificent wild boar. The animal had betrayed himself in the deep snow, the tracks a clear trail to his hideaway, and Rommel stood up straight and stared into the trees, suddenly wishing he had a rifle. He let out another breath, felt a shiver, his feet growing wet, and thought, No, not today. There is no time for such things. But surely you can make the time. You are on leave, for God’s sake. He had heard that already from Lucie, more than once, her scolding reminders to take advantage of these precious few days. He had even secured a leave for his son, made possible only because Manfred’s father was the great Rommel.
He held Lucie’s voice in his head, saw the smile, heard the words now: You are a stubborn man. It was no insult, just her playful teasing. But she was right. He knew, too well, that his stubbornness had made him enemies. Kesselring understood me better than most of them, he thought. Just like von Rundstedt. He knew I was right, that every complaint was legitimate, and he knew I won every debate. And yet, not much had changed.
By God, it did not have to be! We were winning this war, should have won it two years ago! But we squandered away the victory, on…what? Russia? Yes, surely. One mistake among so many. Hitler surrounds himself with imbeciles, men who make him feel good because he controls them so completely.
He kicked through the snow, moved away from the animal tracks, saw smoke above the trees, the fireplace warming his home. He pushed hard at the thoughts, the doubts, the cracks in his armor. If we had crushed the Russians, truly crushed them, what would we have won? No, that cannot be a question for soldiers, not for this soldier, anyway. I have one job to do, and if I am stubborn about it—well, perhaps I will get the job completed.
He had a flash of light in his brain and thought of the fields in the bocage, the hedgerow country, where aircraft barriers had been installed. He smiled, enjoying the description from the troops: Rommel’s asparagus. Fine, if that inspires you, make all the jokes you want. But his mind would not rest. Even here, in the soft snow above his home, he could not escape the vision of those fields. Aerial reconnaissance over England had revealed the existence of gliders, and the clarity of that information had energized him even more. Rommel had begun to consider how to confront an airborne assault. Ideas blossomed in his mind as to how the poles could be made more effective. Of course, I should have thought of this in the beginning. The posts should be tied together, cable perhaps, steel wire. Every open field could become a spiderweb, destroying any craft that tries to land there. Deadly for paratroopers too. And install mines on those posts, or small artillery shells, detonating on impact, just like the beach obstacles. Tie the whole thing together, one giant bomb…
He forced his mind to quiet. Yes, another request, send me thousands of artillery shells, so that I may attach them to fence posts in open fields. One more reason for them to dismiss my concerns. I cannot get them to send me artillery pieces, why should I expect them to send shells? He had already suffered the infuriating bafflement from Berlin about the beach barriers, all the variety of methods he had devised to disrupt an invasion. Even von Rundstedt didn’t understand. The old man had questioned him why others before him had not suggested such plans, constructing barricades in the sand, mined poles, steel hedgehogs. Von Rundstedt had answered his own question with an observation that perhaps it was because, before Rommel, no one had ever thought of doing this before. The idea seemed to amuse von Rundstedt, but to Rommel it was only one more frustration and produced yet another question in his own mind. Why? Why had no one ever thought to protect the beaches, to prevent a landing instead of responding to one?
He was walking quickly, energized by the idea, lists of materials forming in his mind, numbers he would add to the pile of notes on his desk. He stepped down through the snowy trees, breathing hard, saw the house in front of him—and in front there was a car, unfamiliar. He kept moving, shook his head; he had no patience for visitors now. Damn. Can they not leave me alone? He studied the car, long and black, civilian. He tried to recall his schedule. Have I forgotten about some appointment? Well, we shall see.
The man stood, a hat in one hand, and to one side Manfred was standing too, the boy’s uniform starched, his back straight. Rommel knew the civilian well.
“Dr. Strölin! I did not expect—”
The man held up his hands. “I apologize deeply, Field Marshal. I have a matter of some importance to discuss with you, and I only learned yesterday that you had come home. I hope you do not mind; I have been conversing with your son. He is already quite the soldier, I hear.”
Rommel was distracted for a moment. “Yes, Luftwaffe Auxiliary. He was inducted only a few months ago.”
“Yes, yes, so he tells me. Fine lad. They are teaching him to shoot down enemy planes! Quite amazing for one so young.”
Rommel saw a proud smile on his boy’s face, but the news that Manfred had been summoned to service had left Rommel with very mixed feelings. He was only fourteen.
Rommel had served with Strölin in the Great War and knew him to be a dignified and honorable man, a man who would waste no one’s time. Concerned about the brutality of the Gestapo, Strölin had visited Rommel months before, with deeply disturbing reports that the relocation of the Jews and other minorities had in fact become mass exterminations. Rommel had heard rumors of such things, even Lucie had brought him suspicions that the Jews were not simply being moved to new settlements. But he was deeply skeptical that there was so much blood on the hands of the Gestapo, on SS officers who were said to have performed unspeakable atrocities. In North Africa, Rommel was far removed from such talk, but now the rumors had been given substance, details Rommel still found hard to believe. To a soldier’s mind, such things had nothing to do with duty.
Manfred spoke now, holding himself at attention. “Father, did you know that Dr. Strölin is the mayor of Stuttgart?”
Rommel tried to smile. “Yes, I am aware of that. We are honored to have such a visitor. And such an old friend.”
There was silence now, awkward. “Is there something I can do for you, Doctor?”
Strölin glanced at Manfred. “May we speak in your office, Field Marshal?”
Strölin was strangely formal, and Rommel felt suddenly cautious. “No, we may speak here. In this house we do not have secrets.”
Strölin nodded and pointed toward a chair. “Very well. May I sit?”
“I will join you. Manfred, sit there.”
The boy moved silently, obedient. Strölin sat gingerly, seeming to pause, seeking the right opening.
“There are a great many men of influence and substance in Germany who have become distressed by what we see as the destruction of our country.”
“The war hurts everyone, Doctor.”
“I am not talking about the war. Not entirely. I came to you a while ago, with the purpose of revealing things…events I knew you might not be aware of. I took a great risk that I might anger you, that our friendship would be destroyed. But I had to know that you are still the decent man that I knew you to be before…before all of this. The tragedies are ongoing and cannot be washed away. Our Führer has shown himself to be no friend of Germany. Indeed, there is a growing concern across this land that he is our enemy.”
Rommel stood now, forced himself to be angry. “I will not have you slander our Führer’s name in front of my son.”
He saw pain in Strölin’s face, unexpected. “Then please allow me to speak to you alone. I did not come here to promote rumor or to slander anyone. Please. It is most important.”
Rommel looked at Manfred, saw disappointm
ent. Yes, you understand, don’t you? “Let us retire to my office, Doctor. Manfred, I will speak to you later. You may check the rifles; be sure they are clean. There is a large boar roaming the hill up above us here. Perhaps we should pursue him later this afternoon.”
Manfred seemed to perk up, could not hide his enthusiasm. “Yes, Father!”
The two men moved to the office. Rommel waited for Strölin to sit, then he closed the door. “Now, Doctor, you may speak to me about anything you wish. But I cannot promise I will agree with you. Or even listen.”
“Do you no longer call me Karl? All right, I understand your caution. And I understand a soldier’s duty. That is part of my dilemma. I must not anger you by what I have to say. I do not speak to you today for myself alone. I am but one voice among many hundreds…thousands, perhaps. It is well known that your—um, enthusiasm for the Führer is not what it once was.” Rommel started to object, and Strölin held up a hand. “Please, Erwin. Let me speak. There need be no pretense here. I have come here to reveal to you things for which I could be imprisoned. But I cannot be intimidated by that. As I said, I am only one voice of many. And despite what you may believe, I am still your friend.”
Rommel felt his head spinning, the room growing warmer. He gripped the sides of his tall chair. “I do not wish to talk about politics, Doctor. What do you want?”
“There is great energy behind a plan to remove Hitler from power.”
Rommel leaned forward, felt the words cutting into him, cold in his gut. “Whose great energy?”
“Men you know, Erwin. Names you know. There is no specific plan, not yet. There is fear that if Hitler is simply…captured, forcibly removed, it could ignite a conflict within Germany that is more costly than the war. Our country might never recover. If there is suddenly a vacuum at the top, those most loyal to him…the Gestapo, certainly…well, everything could be destroyed.”
“How could you possibly believe this kind of plan could succeed?”
Strölin smiled, and Rommel suddenly realized why. “Thank you, Erwin. You have just revealed what I had to know. You are at least sympathetic enough to listen to what we have to say. I admit, I was not completely certain.”
Rommel felt sweat in his clothes. “I should probably have you arrested.”
“Probably. But you won’t. Because you know we are on the right path. You know we have lost this war. No matter what happens now, Germany has been too weakened by too many disasters of leadership to prevail over either the Russians or the Americans. You know that, don’t you?”
Rommel did not answer, felt his breathing quick and sharp in his chest.
“We believe that if Hitler is removed from power, the British—and the Americans in particular—will open their arms to us and accept our calls for an armistice and for assistance inside of Germany. No one wants to see the Russians marching into Berlin. No civilized German wants to see Bolsheviks determining our future. So we must make a powerful overture to the West, to show them that Germany still has a meaningful national identity, that we are—well, that we are worth saving. That is why I came to see you.”
Rommel was puzzled now. “You want me to…what? Surrender? You cannot be serious.”
Strölin shook his head. “No, not surrender. Not yet, anyway. First things first. If Hitler is removed, there must be a single voice to replace him, someone whose influence will carry weight not only with our enemies but with the German people. We need a strong man to step into the void and assume command. It will be a delicate situation, to say the least. But we believe that man is—”
“Me? You want me to become the leader of Germany?” He realized he had shouted the words and glanced toward the door, his stomach locked in a twisting turmoil.
“You are the one man who can draw the respect of both the West and our own people. There simply is no one else. You are a Hero of the Fatherland and the finest general in our army.”
“Stop! I have heard enough! You are committing treason, Doctor!”
“Listen to yourself! Treason against what? A madman who slaughters his own people? A madman who is so diabolical he will only leave this world if he takes our entire nation with him? The war is lost, but he will never surrender, you know that. If Hitler remains in power, Germany will be carved up from outside like a side of meat. You know I’m right, Field Marshal! You know what our future must be. You know what action we must take!”
Strölin was sweating, red-faced; he wiped at his brow with a white handkerchief. Rommel tried to calm himself, felt sick, tried to stand, could not. Strölin leaned forward, calmer now.
“Think about what I am saying, Erwin. Think hard. I speak truth, a truth you know only too well. Your son is on a path to join the Luftwaffe…to serve under that monster Hermann Göring! Is that what you want for your son? For Germany’s sons?”
Rommel stared at the desk in front of him, the pile of paper, his notes, troop counts, and the tonnage of supplies, construction materials, and tools of war that didn’t exist. He let out a long breath, closed his eyes, then blinked hard, sat in silence for a long moment, Strölin’s words blistering inside of him, one word—truth. He said slowly, a low voice, “I am proud of my son, and I was proud when I heard he had been called up for service. Then, I realized: They are drafting fourteen-year-olds. On the Western Front, I command thousands of men who can’t even speak German. I can’t make myself call them soldiers. Even von Rundstedt labels them what they are: refugees. They are already defeated men, and now they stand side by side with what is left of the German army. It is an illusion and it is my job to believe that illusion, and to make it work.” He took a breath, looked at Strölin. “If they had allowed me to do my job, we would have defeated the enemy in North Africa. I would be in Cairo now, or Baghdad or Stalingrad, commanding a victorious army where the strength of Germany was the strength that inspired the entire world. Power and dignity for all of mankind, prosperity—”
“Was that ever real? Now it is you who are creating the illusion! Hitler has slaughtered hundreds of thousands of people in concentration camps all over this land. Civilians, many of them German citizens! I know you are skeptical of that, of the numbers, of the reasons. But how many soldiers have died, some in your own command, killed in a hopeless fight, killed because of insane orders you had to obey? Is your fight not hopeless now? In the east, the Russians have every advantage. Don’t ask me how I know. It is a fact. It is only a matter of time before they cross the Polish frontier and their forces reach our own borders. That was unthinkable four years ago—three years—but it is truth now. Can you keep the Americans and the British out of France? Can your friend Kesselring prevail in Italy? How many enemies can we fight at one time, on how many battlefields? How many wars?”
Rommel felt himself weakening, felt his strength giving way. Damn you. Damn them. I am only a soldier. He looked down for a long moment, then raised his head and stared at Strölin.
“What is your plan?”
Strölin shook his head. “It has not yet advanced to that. There are many among us who are in disagreement.”
“Whether or not you should murder him.”
“I cannot speak of that. All I ask of you is that you offer us your name, let us be encouraged by your endorsement.”
Rommel tried to sort through the thoughts in his brain, but the heat in the closed room was overwhelming him.
“I will not support any effort to assassinate the Führer. No soldier will allow that. The army would never support you. Remember that, Karl. It would be a catastrophic mistake.”
“There is no plan to kill him. That is all I can say.”
Rommel stared again at the desk, thought of von Rundstedt, his generals, the griping about his orders. I am a soldier, I will always be a soldier, and when the enemy comes, I must fight him, and if I can I will destroy him. I must destroy him. This must be the only thing that matters.
“Karl, I cannot put myself at the head of some kind of conspiracy. I love my country, and I love the
army, and I will do what I believe to be the best for Germany. I am not even certain what that might be, not now, not with all you have said. I cannot dismiss you, I cannot ignore what you say. No matter what you do now, you must use great caution. I do not want to hear anything of your movements or who you talk to. I cannot support such a plan, not now, perhaps not ever. No matter what you say, I am still a loyal officer of the Reich, and I will obey the orders I am given. And right now I have to fight a war.”
* * *
PART TWO
* * *
Gashed with honourable scars, low in glory’s lap they lie, Though they fell like stars, streaming splendor through the sky.
JAMES MONTGOMERY (1771—1854)
In war, there is no prize for runner-up.
GENERAL OMAR BRADLEY
* * *
6. ADAMS
* * *
MEMBURY, BERKSHIRE, ENGLAND
MARCH 18, 1944
He was one of the few enlisted men who stood with the officers, the reviewing stand dotted with uniforms of various colors: Sergeant Jesse Adams, on the highest row, the very back, just behind General Gavin, who in turn was behind those men who outranked him, the most senior officers placed along the front row. There was no mistaking the importance of this show, more brass gathered in one place than Adams had seen since he came to England. He had grown more comfortable around gatherings of officers, more comfortable keeping his mouth closed, knew that Gavin brought him to these assemblies for one reason: to pay attention, particularly to what the air force people had to say, especially the Brits. It had been more than four months since Gavin had come to England, to serve as senior airborne advisor to General Sir Frederick Morgan. Morgan’s COSSAC plan had become the backbone of what was now Overlord, and Gavin’s role, with Adams serving as one of his staff, had been to push forward any plan that would involve the airborne forces, the paratroopers and glider troops that Gavin and the more senior airborne commanders believed would be essential to the Normandy invasion. From the first meetings he had attended, clipboard in hand, a silent witness, Adams had seen the patronizing cloud of superiority that the air commanders had blown toward Gavin—indeed toward anyone who advocated the paratroopers’ mission. Despite their ultimate success during the Sicily invasion, many among the bomber and fighter commands placed no value in the men who jumped out of airplanes. Fortunately for the airborne divisions, Omar Bradley had been one of their primary champions.