The Steel Wave

by Jeff Shaara

  “Sir, are you all right? Forgive me, but you concern me. If you wish to be alone, we can go through these numbers later. Perhaps you should take a walk. The rain is not so bad. I can summon the bodyguards.”

  Rommel focused, pleased by Speidel’s concern.

  “You are…how old?”

  “Forty-seven, sir.”

  “Yes, that’s right. Plenty of time for you. Make good use of it, Hans.”

  “You as well, sir. We are not so different in age.”

  Rommel stood again, moved toward the window. “We shall see. I’m not certain there would be a place for me…in that world.”

  Speidel said nothing, and Rommel stared outside, a loud voice in his brain. What is wrong with you? Get control of yourself. There is no room for this kind of self-pity, for moaning about your future. There is no past either, no usefulness in pondering what used to be. What there is…is now. He took a long breath, looked at Speidel, ignored the schoolmaster’s glasses.

  “We have work to do. When is Guderian coming?”

  “He should arrive early this evening. General Geyr will accompany him, of course.”

  “Of course. Geyr would not miss any opportunity to drive his inane strategies down anyone’s throat, even Guderian’s.”

  Rommel put his hands up, felt the cool of the window glass. “I have no choice, do I? I must plead my case one more time. Heinz Guderian is a good man, one of the best in the army at understanding tactics. He invented the blitzkrieg, for God’s sake. Every success of our panzers belongs to his ingenuity. I should not have to convince him that I am right.”

  “It will not be like that, sir. Surely.”

  “Why not? And tell me, Hans, why is it that General Guderian, this brilliant man, no longer sits on Hitler’s knee?”

  “It is not for me to say, sir.”

  “Because he did not win in Russia. He suffered defeat and disappointed the Führer. And so his career stagnates. I outrank him, you outrank him, half the generals in this army outrank him. Instead of leading his panzers on the battlefield, one of our finest generals has become an errand boy, a minion of the High Command.”

  “He is still influential, sir. That’s why they are sending him here. The High Command knows there are conflicts of opinion among Field Marshal von Rundstedt’s generals. He is a good man to sort through all that, make the best decisions. You should trust General Guderian, sir.”

  He studied Speidel again and stifled a small laugh. The only man I trust around here might be you.

  General Baron Leo Geyr von Schweppenburg seemed to Rommel to personify the annoying Prussian aristocrat. Geyr was five years Rommel’s senior, ruggedly handsome, wore the self-satisfied expression of a man utterly sure of himself. Like so many of the Prussians, he had come up first through the cavalry, the expected posting for Germany’s most elite young officers. Geyr had served as a subordinate to Heinz Guderian during the blitzkrieg that crushed Poland and shared in the accolades that Guderian earned. Eventually, Geyr followed Guderian to Russia, performing as well as any panzer commander could be expected to. Yet, despite his many accomplishments, Geyr, like Guderian, was mildly distrusted by Hitler. It was something Rommel shared with the Führer. Neither man liked Prussians. Like Rommel, Geyr answered to von Rundstedt, but Geyr paid very little attention to anything von Rundstedt had to say. And he cared even less for Rommel.

  Geyr held up a rolled map. “I will not compromise the fate of my panzers. We must maintain a strong mobile reserve far back of the coastline. Mobile reserve! No matter where or when the attack comes, from the sea or from the skies, we can move our strongest forces into line quickly and surround the problem. I cannot put all my concerns on the coastline. What of the enemy’s paratroopers? Surely, Herr Rommel, that was a lesson we all learned from the disaster in Sicily. My armor must be prepared to confront a sizable force of paratroopers, and if they come it will be inland, away from the beaches. How many times must I paint this portrait?” He turned to Guderian. “What must I do? The proper strategy is brutally simple! Herr Rommel has a basic lack of understanding of the principles of armored tactics!”

  Rommel raised his eyes, met Geyr’s, stared hard, Rommel speaking to Geyr in his head: You, sir, are an idiot. He fought the urge to stand and spoke slowly and precisely.

  “Do not dare to insult me, General Geyr. All you know of armor is what you learned in Russia, fighting a brutally stupid enemy who threw himself against your guns with blind charges. Even with tanks, you could not kill enough of them to prevent their victories. But to believe that the British and the Americans will fight the same way is a display of shameful ignorance. I am very much aware of the need for mobility, General Geyr. But what of the enemy’s air power?”

  Geyr sniffed. “The Luftwaffe has shown they are the equal of any air force they meet in the skies.”

  “What Luftwaffe?” Rommel glanced at Guderian and saw a hard frown. He flexed his fingers, trying to calm himself. “I learned in North Africa that when the enemy has dominance over the skies, mobility must be confined to the darkness. If you fail to heed that warning, the enemy’s air power will destroy you. The enemy we will face in France is already superior to us because they dominate the air. I do not care what Reichsmarschall Göring tells you! These are the facts. The enemy’s dominance of the skies will prevent us from being as mobile as we would like to be. We must not put the armor so far from the coastline. It will be a fatal mistake.”

  Guderian spoke now, rubbing his forehead. “Gentlemen, please refrain from these displays of temper. Herr Rommel, I do not agree with you. Certainly, the enemy is powerful, and his air power is not to be taken lightly, but we have always shown the ability to move our forces as required. Yes, I agree that this enemy is not to be confused with the Russians. But here, our armor is unmatched. If the enemy is strong, our best advantage is in our ability to counterattack. You learned that in North Africa, Herr Rommel.”

  Rommel leaned back in his chair. There was little else he could say. He struggled through the plans and the maps in his own brain and said softly, “If we allow the enemy to make his landings in France, we will never dislodge him.”

  Geyr began to speak but Guderian held up a hand. “The Führer has been very clear about my purpose here. I am to analyze the various viewpoints and make recommendations on the best manner in which to meet and destroy what he understands to be the inevitable invasion of France. I believe we have the proper troop strength in position, though of course I will suggest we move up as many reserves as can safely be drawn from other sectors of the fighting. Field Marshal von Rundstedt insists that we divide the main panzer forces, so that they are dispersed both north and south of Paris, and he is most clear that he believes they must be held back, away from the coastline. I am not completely in agreement with dividing the armor in that way, but it is a compromise I feel we must all accept. Field Marshal von Rundstedt agrees with me—and with you, General Geyr—that once the enemy makes his intentions clear, a swift first action, an immediate counterattack, should be our highest priority. I admire you, Herr Rommel, but in this instance I believe you are wrong. Mobility and power are our two most valuable assets. We will prevail.”

  CHTEAU, LA ROCHE-GUYON

  APRIL 23, 1944

  The rains had stopped, and Rommel watched the groundskeepers, the men with muddy boots, shovels and rakes working the soft brown earth. The others had gone, Geyr returning to his headquarters, Guderian to Paris to visit von Rundstedt. Rommel’s breakfast lay untouched on his desk. He stood for a long moment, hearing noises in the corridor, low voices; they were being quiet and would not disturb him until he gave permission. He turned and looked toward the grand doorway.

  “You may enter!”

  The door opened silently. It was Ruge, Speidel behind him. Rommel smiled, always smiled when he saw Ruge.

  “Good morning, Admiral. Please, sit.”

  Ruge was not smiling. He moved slowly into the room, Speidel lagging behind. Rommel nodded towa
rd his chief of staff.

  “Come in, Hans. The two of you might enjoy sharing what remains of my breakfast.”

  It was a weak attempt at lightheartedness, but Ruge seemed lost in thought.

  “Is there a problem, Admiral?”

  Ruge sat and looked at him, one hand now rubbing his jaw as though nursing a toothache. “I have spoken to Admiral Krancke. He does not share your concerns that we should deploy minefields in strength along the coastline. He has refused my requests to deploy the mine-laying ships at all. He is concerned they will come under enemy attack. Therefore, he does not wish to risk the loss of what he refers to as his limited resources.”

  Rommel moved to the chair, sat heavily. “He does not wish to take a risk? Can you go past Krancke and contact Admiral Dönitz directly? This is an essential part of our coastal defenses.”

  “Admiral Krancke has already conferred with Admiral Dönitz regarding this request. Admiral Dönitz has placed his full confidence in the wisdom of Admiral Krancke. The matter has been decided.”

  “The navy has determined that they cannot be a part of our defensive strategies, because it might involve engaging the enemy? What in God’s name do they think a navy is for?”

  Ruge took a long breath. “I am sorry, Erwin. I made every effort, every argument—”

  “Stop. I am already too familiar with the kind of wisdom that infects our generals. Admirals, it now seems, are not immune.”

  There was a soft knock at the open door; it was a staff officer, an envelope in his hand.

  “Yes, Colonel, what is it?”

  The man entered quickly, placed the envelope in front of Rommel, backed away. “Sir, this just came for you. Highest priority.”

  “You are dismissed, Colonel. Thank you.”

  Rommel saw the seal, OB West, waited for the officer to leave, and said, “It seems that von Rundstedt is up early this morning. So, what do you think? Am I being relieved? Perhaps they have had enough of my nagging.” He glanced at Speidel. “Or perhaps they feel I am being a defeatist again.”

  He opened the envelope, unable to avoid an annoying stir in his stomach, and read, his eyes growing wide.

  “I may have underestimated our intelligence agents. It has been discovered that American general George Patton has established his headquarters in Kent, England, in command of the Allied First Army. It seems that our agents have confirmed beyond all doubt that the enemy is planning to launch his offensive at the Pas-de-Calais, with Patton in command.” He read the dispatch again and handed it to Ruge. “This is most impressive, but it fits with my own expectations. Calais is the closest point across the English Channel, providing the enemy with the shortest straight line into the heart of Germany. And Patton is the best man for the assignment.”

  He watched as Ruge read, then as Ruge passed the paper to Speidel.

  “This is good news, Erwin.”

  “Indeed it is. Patton is a formidable enemy, but he is predictable. He will come at us hard and he will not be deterred from making large-scale frontal assaults. That will play into our hands. Von Rundstedt wants us to play a chess game with the enemy, maneuver and outmaneuver. Patton should not only make that possible, it might be the best strategy to defeat him.”

  Rommel stood, moved to the window, felt the old energy returning, punched one fist into an open palm, stared into sunshine. He flexed his ribs—no pain—the sun warming his face. The view of the river was magnificent, a glistening pathway, leading the ever-present barges to the seaside fortifications, where his men were working still. Could it be? he thought. Could this still work? He had too many reasons to doubt Hitler’s instincts, had no confidence in von Rundstedt’s leadership, no faith that Geyr and the rest of them would perform as he needed them to perform. And yet…

  He thought of Dr. Strölin. Yes, I love my country, and yes, I know what Hitler has done to it. If there is to be any peace for Germany, we must make that peace with the West. And the only way the British and the Americans will stop and listen to us, the only way they will be compelled to offer us a just end to this war, is if we bloody them, show them we can still win.

  He could feel it swelling inside of him, a glorious feeling he had not enjoyed in a very long time: hope. He brought his thoughts back into the office and turned toward the others.

  “Yes, this is very good. Now we know who and we know where, and we may plan our movements and deploy our defensive strengths accordingly. My greatest enemy now is time. If the enemy will just allow me sufficient weeks to strengthen, even complete the fortifications, we shall await them on the beaches at Calais and throw them back into the sea.”

  * * *

  9. PATTON

  * * *

  NEAR DOVER, ENGLAND

  APRIL 23, 1944

  He stared at the rows of tents, new white canvas spread out across an open field. To one side, another field intersected, the open ground divided by a thin row of trees. He walked that way, sucked hard on the cigar, spit out the smoke, saw a half dozen black tanks, a scattering of trucks and other vehicles. The men followed close behind him, one man speaking up now, too eager.

  “General Montgomery was just here, sir. So very sorry you missed him. He ladled on the praise, if I do say so. We’re mighty proud of our work here.”

  Patton didn’t look at the man, couldn’t remember his name, major something. Idiot. “You’re proud of this?”

  “Oh, quite, sir. We’ve given Jerry a tough banger to chew on, that’s for certain. They can’t observe any of this and not be convinced.”

  Patton heard the familiar whine of airplane engines, a formation of four British Spitfires, coming in low over the trees. He could feel the major flinching beside him, a common instinct. Patton ignored it. “What the hell are they doing here?”

  To one side, another man moved closer, an older man, the one Patton was actually supposed to talk to. “Patrolling regularly, sir. We’re doing the same thing in Scotland. The idea is to keep the Jerries at high altitude, give their observers only a rough look. Can’t have anyone dipping in too close, so the RAF boys stay down here, making a good show of prowling low altitudes.”

  It made sense. Patton glanced at him, saw a brief smile, Patton’s own lips twitched, the man’s joviality reaching him despite his best efforts to keep it away. “Sounds like they’ve thought of just about everything, Colonel.”

  “Just about, sir.”

  The older man was Rory MacLeod, and where Patton’s fictitious command encompassed southeastern England, MacLeod held a similar ficticious post in Scotland. The deception plan had a name now, Operation Fortitude, and British intelligence officers were already aware that the details they had planted of Patton’s new “army” had become well known in Germany. To add to the legitimacy of the deception, Colonel MacLeod had been named to command the northern wing of Fortitude, one more part of the show, designed to convince the Germans that while Patton would invade France at Calais, MacLeod would deliver the massive British Fourth Army into Norway. Just like Patton’s First U.S. Army Group, MacLeod’s Fourth Army didn’t really exist.

  Patton moved toward the tanks, studied them, shook his head. “What are they, rubber? Looks like something at a county fair.”

  The major came close again. Patton could feel the man’s annoying burst of energy. “Oh, they’re quite convincing from the air, sir. Would you care to touch one up close? They’re really not much more than large balloons.”

  The word stabbed Patton. Good God, I command a field of balloons! “Inflated no doubt by a flock of your politicians.”

  “Oh, yes, jolly good, sir.”

  “Skip it, Major. Those trucks out there, they look more substantial. Can’t be steel. What are they, plywood?”

  He didn’t wait for the response but moved into the field, the others scampering to keep up with him. He walked quickly past the tanks—couldn’t bear to look at them, poor fakes of the armor he so loved. The trucks were in a short row, others beyond, scattered; when he looked down
he was surprised to see tank tracks in the soft dirt.

  The annoying major was there again. “Amazing, isn’t it, sir? They thought of everything. Tracks all across the field, the illusion of constant movement. Any Jerry flying above would see those tracks, one more reason to believe these are the genuine article.”

  Patton tried to ignore the major completely, saw motion along the far row of trees, a line of cows emerging. They ambled into the field, a ragged line working through the artificial trucks. Patton watched them coming. What would the Jerries think they were, armored cars? One cow stopped, moved away from the others, and Patton could see it was not a cow at all but a large bull. The major began to talk again, annoyingly cheerful, and Patton, still ignoring him, watched as the bull began to paw the ground. Patton put a hand on one of his pistols, thought, All right, Ferdinand, you decide you want to take a closer look at me, you better think again. The bull made an audible snort and lunged forward, the major suddenly aware.

  “Oh, my word!”

  The bull rammed into the side of a plywood truck, sheets of wood and timbers coming apart and falling all around him, the counterfeit truck now unrecognizable. Oblivious, the bull stumbled his way through the wreckage, and Patton began to laugh, high and hard, his hands resting on his pistols. “Well, now. Seems this damned army has been exposed for what it is.”

  There was only a scattering of laughter behind him.

  Patton laughed for a long moment, but the humor was sliding away, so he wiped a tear from one eye and looked toward MacLeod. “A mighty fine show, eh, Colonel? We’re in command of the most idiotic plan ever devised. Hell of a way to waste your career.”