by Jeff Shaara
All across the base of the Cotentin Peninsula, Bradley’s army was continuing to grow, fresh troops landing on the beaches, a total of fourteen divisions coming into line. The plan, now labeled Operation Cobra, was aimed at punching around and through the French town of Saint-Lô, a key intersection that would allow American forces to drive out of the confines of the bocage. As Bradley’s plan evolved, Montgomery offered a plan of his own, Operation Goodwood, that would send British troops around Caen on their own surge southward, pushing well past the city into precious open country that would allow British tanks to maneuver more freely. The plan Montgomery proposed was enthusiastically supported by Eisenhower and Bradley, both men realizing that a breakthrough on the British front could force the Germans to make a general withdrawal. If the Germans chose instead to obey Hitler’s orders and hold their ground, it was possible that Rommel’s entire Seventh Army could be swallowed up and destroyed.
As both plans came into focus, there was one more ingredient to the Allied effort that had yet to make its appearance on the battlefront. On July 6, George Patton made a noisy arrival into France at an airstrip near Omaha Beach, to begin preliminary work on organizing his command, the new Third Army. That command wouldn’t become official until August 1, but Patton had suffered through his own inactivity long enough. He did not yet have an army in the field, but when the time finally came he would be ready from day one. While the Allies prepared their next best effort to break through the Germans who were holding them in place, Patton seethed at what he saw to be the woeful inefficiency of those men who were supposed to be his superiors. But, until Bradley could push open some sort of doorway through the enemy’s stranglehold on the bocage country, there was nothing for Patton to do but wait.
In England, Patton’s phantom command, the First Army Group, was still in place, and the extraordinary deception that had so baffled the Germans was still providing fodder for German intelligence. In the event that anyone noticed Patton’s sudden absence from England, stories were planted throughout the spy networks, hints that Patton had been dismissed, that his clumsy indiscretions had finally overwhelmed Eisenhower’s patience. Through every clandestine channel controlled by British intelligence, word was passed not so discreetly that Patton had been replaced by Lieutenant General Lesley McNair. McNair was one of the American army’s most respected commanders and had run the entire system of training and organization of all army ground forces in the States. To the receptive ears of German intelligence, there was perfect logic for a man as capable as McNair to replace a loose cannon as seemingly unreliable as George Patton. To Eisenhower’s astonishment, reports continued to filter through Ultra intercepts that the Germans had bought the ruse and still believed the fictitious First Army Group was a force to be feared. Even more gratifying were reports that the German High Command was vacillating again toward a belief that there could still be a second Allied invasion. Despite all visible signs to Rommel’s front, despite the mammoth buildup of Allied divisions that poured across the Normandy beaches, von Kluge and Rommel had been ordered to maintain a sizable force of Rommel’s Fifteenth Army at Calais, its sole purpose to confront another massive invasion.
SHAEF FORWARD COMMAND POST, PORTSMOUTH
JULY 11, 1944
Tedder read the report, one hand holding his pipe, the tent filling with the sweet fragrance of something Eisenhower thought to be cherries. Eisenhower lay back on the cot. “Patton’s already driving me batty. He’s scared to death the war will end before he gets his shot at sticking a knife in someone’s belly.”
Tedder chuckled. “Hitler’s, I presume.”
“George would say so. Did say so, actually, a while back. Algeria, I think. He’s caused his share of headaches since then. Damn shame. But if he hadn’t, he might be in Bradley’s shoes, and I don’t want to think about that. He would have probably knocked Monty’s teeth out by now. I hate that cowboy crap.”
“Let’s assume, dear boy, they would have fought a duel instead. Far more civilized.”
Tedder returned to his reading, the pipe rolling out more of the sweet smoke.
“Leigh-Mallory’s mad as a hornet, you know,” Eisenhower said. “Says the bomber problem at Caen was all Monty’s fault.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Ike. Leigh-Mallory has a problem with every sunrise. He bitches because no one will give his air chaps a job to do; then, when he’s needed, he bitches because he wasn’t given any time for preparation. The bombers aren’t his responsibility anyway. That’s Harris’s problem. Those air boys are every bit as much nuisance as your man Patton.”
Eisenhower smiled. “You should know. You’re one of them.”
Tedder ignored the joke. “I knew Monty was asking for trouble. We can’t expect the heavy bomber people to rush into action every time a ground commander shouts out for air support. I’ve heard talk it was the prime minister who pressed Harris to give Monty the bombers he wanted. Now Harris’s boys are catching bloody hell for their inaccuracy. Can’t have that sort of thing, Ike. Can’t have the civilian government trying to tell us what we should be doing out here.”
“You have a plan to stop Churchill?”
Tedder sucked on the pipe. “Can’t say one’s occurred to me.”
“The best way to keep Churchill’s nose out of things is to win. He’s just doing what the rest of the civilians and politicians wish they could do; he’s putting in his two cents. The newspapers in the States are raising more hell than you can imagine. When word went out that we made it ashore on those beaches, the whole damned country thought, Well, that’s it, we’ve won. I’ve seen a hundred columns written by dyspeptic know-it-alls who think we’re dragging our feet on purpose. Someone suggested this is a conspiracy, that we’re taking our time on purpose, so Hitler will have a chance to bleed the Russians first. Where the hell do these people come up with this stuff?”
Tedder held the pipe in his hand now. “At least FDR is on your side. His point of view carries a lot of punch in your papers.”
Eisenhower thought a moment. “The president is in pretty bad shape, Arthur. It’s being kept under wraps, but he’s not doing well at all. Marshall won’t say much about it, but you can bet everyone at the War Department is watching that one pretty closely.” He sat up, slapping his hands on his thighs. “Damn it all, anyway! I don’t want to talk about politics. I’ve got enough gum up my shorts just worrying about Monty. I had to dance a jig around Churchill, wouldn’t dare let him know how pissed off I am.”
“Churchill knows jigs when he sees them, Ike. You can bet he knows what’s going on. Churchill feels just like I do, and that’s not something I can say often enough. Monty doesn’t attach enough importance to time. Summer isn’t going to last forever, and when autumn hits, the weather’s likely to be worse than it’s already been. Every British commander remembers Flanders; no one wants to march through two feet of mud. It didn’t work thirty years ago, and it won’t work now. We have to get across the Seine, and if Monty can’t be convinced of that, you need to find someone who can.”
Eisenhower put a hand on his jaw, rubbed a day’s growth of beard, looked at Tedder’s pipe.
“That thing stinks, you know. Can’t you come up with something a little more like tobacco?”
Tedder nodded, tapped the pipe into an ashtray. “Gift from Rosalinde. Carry it around even now, trying to use it up. Can’t just toss it in the bin, you know.”
Eisenhower was suddenly embarrassed, annoyed with himself. Tedder’s wife had been killed in an air crash in Egypt a year before, a horrifying event Tedder had actually witnessed. It had been one more tragedy for a man who had already lost a son to the war.
“Very sorry, Arthur.”
“Thank you, but no matter. It is pretty ghastly stuff. I’ll leave the pouch behind next time.”
Eisenhower still felt awkward.
Tedder seemed to sense it and said, “Bradley’s operation could be the tonic everyone needs. Monty’s cheering him on like he’s America
’s last great hero. He knows that if Bradley breaks through, the enemy in front of Monty will probably dissolve away. Not sure I agree with that. Rommel’s too smart to let himself get surrounded.”
“I wish I knew what Rommel was thinking. We know Hitler keeps telling everyone to hold every inch of ground. If Rommel had his way, they’d already be back behind the Seine, with enough armor in place to keep us here for years. He probably wishes Hitler would drop those damned V-1s on our troops instead of London shopkeepers.”
“I respect Rommel as much as you do, Ike. No matter what Ultra tells us, there’s a lot more going on than we’re hearing about. If Hitler has some new secret weapon, Rommel’s job might be just to hold us in place as long as he can. He’s done a pretty good job of that so far.”
Eisenhower shook his head. “No, Rommel’s job is to win. He hasn’t been able to do that, and every day we’re stronger. You’re right, there has to be more going on than we’ll ever know about. But I’m a lot more worried about our operations right here. I’m pushing Brad as hard as I’m pushing Monty, and Patton’s bouncing off the walls of his HQ, wondering how hard he can push me. The newspapers think the war should have ended yesterday, and Churchill wants it to end tomorrow. What about you? What can I do to make you happy?”
Tedder slipped the pipe into his shirt pocket and smiled. “Right now, you can take a nap. Bradley and Monty have every wheel in motion. Churchill is home. And Rommel…I’m guessing Rommel has problems enough of his own.”
* * *
38. ROMMEL
* * *
LA ROCHE-GUYON
JULY 15, 1944
Rommel waited patiently while von Kluge read his letter. To one side, Speidel watched, seeming far more nervous than Rommel himself. Von Kluge stopped reading, glanced at Speidel, and said, “You approve of this, of course.”
Speidel stiffened at the question. “Yes, Field Marshal. Most emphatically.”
“Your loyalty to Marshal Rommel is a virtue. The Führer would agree with that, whether or not he agrees with…this.”
Von Kluge continued to read, and the words echoed through Rommel’s mind, words he had written in the frustrating urgency of trying yet again to convince Hitler that the war was not the Führer’s private board game.
The situation in Normandy is growing worse every day and is now approaching a grave crisis…. Our casualties are so high that the fighting power of our divisions is rapidly diminishing.
Von Kluge looked up from the paper, eyes wide. “Are these numbers truly accurate? We have suffered ninety-seven thousand casualties, and the replacements—”
“The replacements total ten thousand, as of today, and many of those have either not yet reached the front or are not fit for combat. We have lost at least two hundred twenty-five tanks, and for those I have seen seventeen replacements.”
“My God.”
Von Kluge returned to the paper, his frown deepening.
The newly arrived infantry…are in no state to make a lengthy stand against major enemy attacks…. Supply conditions are so bad that only the barest essentials can be brought to the front. These conditions are unlikely to improve, as enemy action is steadily reducing the transport capacity available….
On the enemy’s side, fresh forces and great quantities of war matériel are flowing into his front every day. His supplies are undisturbed by our air force. In these circumstances we must expect that in the foreseeable future the enemy will succeed in breaking through our thin front…and thrusting deep into France. The unequal struggle is approaching its end. It is urgently necessary for the proper conclusion to be drawn from this situation.
Von Kluge lowered the paper. “What would you have me do?”
“Endorse my signature and allow me to send this to Hitler. Jodl and Keitel will ignore anything that comes only from me, but they cannot ignore you.”
Von Kluge began his routine; the slow pace, stared at the floor. “It could be the end for both of us.”
Rommel felt himself rising in the chair. “The end is already here! There is no exaggeration in that letter, none of what those idiots refer to as my mindless defeatism! Those numbers are real, the description of conditions here is accurate! My predictions for the outcome of this absurd drama are entirely correct!”
Von Kluge stopped, looked at the letter again. “I know that. Calm yourself.”
Rommel lowered himself into the chair again, sagged, and watched as von Kluge placed the letter on the desk. Von Kluge stepped back, seeming to weigh the obvious, and Speidel moved forward silently, already prepared with a pen.
Rommel nodded toward him, and Speidel said, “If you require a pen, sir.”
Von Kluge did not look at him, took the pen, bent close to the letter, scratched quickly. Rommel felt a brief burst of energy, a small glimmer of gratefulness. The man has some spine, he thought. Von Kluge picked up the letter and said to Speidel, “You will courier this to the Führer today. He should see both signatures.”
“Yes, sir.”
Rommel nodded again to Speidel, who took the letter and made a quick silent exit. Von Kluge moved to a chair. He did not sit but leaned one arm down on the back, supporting himself.
“Thank you,” Rommel said.
“It should not be like this. It should never have been like this. You should have been given the tools.”
“Were we ever given the tools? Did you have everything you required at Moscow?”
Von Kluge shook his head. “I will not discuss the past. Our duty now is to preserve this army and strike the enemy where it will do him the most harm.”
“He will strike us first. I am motoring out to see General Eberbach, and I will confer as well with General Dietrich. The armor is strong at Caen, and that must still be our priority.”
Von Kluge looked toward one wall, draped with a map. “You still believe we should defend the city, try to regain what they have taken from us?”
“I am not concerned with buildings. The city is lost, but the infantry has been pulling back slowly, and we are hurting the British with every step. That is more valuable than how many street corners we control. We still hold the south bank of the river, and we must prevent Montgomery from cutting through our position there and driving farther inland. I must be certain that Eberbach knows that.”
Von Kluge nodded, looked again at Rommel. “He should know what he has to do. I knew him well in Russia. Fine officer.”
Rommel shrugged. “He was ordered to replace Geyr. I had nothing to say about that. The High Command still does not believe I am capable of exercising command over the panzer group. If you say he is a good man, I shall offer him the chance to prove it. He must keep Montgomery from breaking through.”
“He will. If he has the tools.”
“He has Dietrich and he has Meyer.”
Von Kluge pulled his jacket tight, a signal he was preparing to leave. Rommel saw age in the man’s face: Sixty, I guess, he thought. Looks older today.
Von Kluge looked at Rommel with tired blue eyes. “He also has you.”
Rommel was suddenly uncomfortable, avoided the compliment, heard weakness in von Kluge’s words. He glanced at the papers on his desk. “Our best hope is that the Americans delay. If we are fortunate, they do not know our precise weaknesses there, the thinness of our lines. That entire front is difficult ground, and it is our best advantage. But they are coming as well. It is only a matter of time.”
Von Kluge seemed preoccupied and nodded slowly. “I will travel up that way as quickly as I can, speak to Hausser. Perhaps you should do the same.”
“My first priority is Eberbach, the armor at Caen.”
Von Kluge moved absently toward the door, his mind somewhere else. He gathered himself and pulled again on the jacket, finding control, the good show for the staff outside. He looked back at Rommel, a silent stare, then said, “Go to Eberbach. Drive some steel into him. Into all of them. It is…all we can do.”
NEAR LIVAROT, SOUTHEAST OF CAEN
>
JULY 17, 1944
The defenses near the river were strong, the panzer commanders digging in south and east of Caen for the inevitable push they knew Montgomery was preparing. The generals had been upbeat, confident; new reports gathered from the claims of captured soldiers suggested that the British and Canadians who faced them were rapidly losing their will to fight. Rommel paid little attention to that kind of optimism. He had heard too much talk from enemy prisoners before, men whose war had ended with their hands in the air. It was common for prisoners on both sides to speak of the collapse of morale in their army, as though it justified their own failure to fight to the death. But Rommel knew too much of Montgomery, knew the Allied commanders were pushing their men through the streets of Caen, massing them close on the north side of the Orne River. They had one intention, and it had nothing to do with surrender.
Rommel rode in a large open-topped Mercedes, the glass windscreens fully raised around him as protection from the dust of the primitive roads. Captain Lang was in his usual perch in the front seat, with Sergeant Daniel at the wheel. There were two other aides as well, one a fierce-looking corporal named Holke, whose sole duty was to keep watch on the skies behind them for any sign of enemy aircraft. The car bounced and tossed from the miserable necessity of keeping to the farm lanes and side roads. Rommel had a firm grip on the door beside him, glancing out through the glass at thick patches of trees and the occasional encampment, artillery supply depots mostly bare of anything but empty crates and guns in need of repair.
He had not yet received any response to his letter to the Führer. The question rolled through his mind. Had the letter produced a flurry of activity around a furious Hitler, his staff officers making the hurried effort to choose a successor for Rommel’s command? They could remove von Kluge as well, he thought. But surely Hitler would see that as utter foolishness. The man was chosen to replace von Rundstedt because he was a good man for the job. Hitler knows von Kluge is capable and effective and loyal. If they replace him, it will be pure stupidity, the manic scampering of so many blind mice. And then what? Rommel knew how so many of these decisions were made. Each of Hitler’s armchair generals would have his own favorite. Jodl will suggest someone, offer Hitler that same moronic seriousness, his oh-so-very-earnest advice that this new man will not only do the job, he will not complain, not like the misfit Rommel. Who would that be? Hausser, perhaps. Papa Hausser. He’s older than von Kluge, but he might be the best man for the job. I wonder if Dollmann would have been considered, one more of Hitler’s good choices.