At first it seemed he would not have long to wait. The British had followed his retreat west, sending their veteran 6th and 9th Australian Divisions in the wake of the Italians, and it looked as though they planned to fight a battle to take Benghazi. The Führer demanded the place be defended, but Rommel was not going to commit his precious German infantry there. So he ordered six Italian Infantry Divisions to dig in around the port city, where they also waited for the enemy to attack, but it never came.
The British have a head on their shoulders after all, he thought. They realize that without Malta, Benghazi is of little use to them. We can pound it day and night from the air, and besides, they have a port of equal capacity right behind them in Tobruk. So Rommel was not surprised when he saw the two Australian infantry divisions withdrawing, and posted near Tobruk instead of coming down to Mersa Brega to face off against his own troops.
They aren’t stupid, he thought. They know that they can hold the line much easier near Tobruk. Now any move I make will be seen ten days to two weeks before I can get anywhere near them, giving them ample time to prepare. And if I do move again, I must cross 500 kilometers of desert before I can even begin to contemplate battle. There is no way I can do that until I am reinforced here, and well supplied. Paulus was correct.
So he waited there, chastened and brooding at Mersa Brega, though his spirits began to rise when the first reinforcements promised him actually began to arrive. The 15th Panzer Division had joined him earlier, and now the 90th Light Motorized Division was in hand. Behind it came two more elite formations. One was the vaunted Grossdeutschland Regiment, veterans of France, the Low Countries and the men who had delivered the great prize of Gibraltar in conjunction with Kubler’s 1st Mountain Division. Rommel had been promised that entire force, but the Mountain division had not arrived, being sent to Italy for possible deployment in Syria.
Instead he received another elite formation, the Hermann Goering Brigade, handpicked men chosen by the Reichsführer and head of the Luftwaffe. They had not seen much combat yet, but they were good troops, and spoiling for a fight. The Italians had also promised to send more troops, though Rommel had little use for them, thinking they were simply more mouths to feed, a drain on his limited supply network.
Over the weeks and months since his retreat, Paulus had worked some magic for him on that account—supplies. He made sure that Rommel was getting all the food, water, fuel and munitions that could be moved to North Africa. The main German port was still Tripoli in western Libya, but they had also opened up Tunis and Bizerte, using the rail lines down to Gabes to stockpile supplies there, and then moving them by road and the new Siebel ferries along the coast to Mersa Brega. Benghazi was used exclusively by the Italians to supply their troops there.
In time, as the weeks went by, Rommel built up a considerable depot behind his entrenched infantry, and by late April of 1941, he was ready to renew operations. Only one thing harried him, those new British tanks, so he thought long and hard as to how he could operate offensively again.
Forewarned is forearmed, he thought. We were caught by surprise at Bir el Khamsa. The shock of this new tank was simply too much for my men to bear. God knows I had been pushing them hard, and there was barely enough petrol left to get us back here. So this time things will be different.
One question burned in the center of his mind: how can I kill these enemy tanks? I cannot pit my own armor against them. No. Wherever they appear I must drill my infantry with new defensive tactics. We will immediately adopt a hedgehog formation, digging in and holding in place on the best defensive ground we can find. They will be drilled in rapid minefield deployment, and the artillery will practice the mustering of quick saturation fires to be called in by the infantry positions. Then I must have a word with Goering. He’s sent me his best men, and for that I am thankful, but I would much sooner have him send me his Stukas! I want to have the closest possible coordination with my infantry strong points to launch immediate air strikes against this armor. In fact, these new enemy tanks will be the priority targets for the Luftwaffe. They may be able to survive our 88s, but by god, see how they like a 500 pound bomb! If need be we can double down on that, and the Stukas can carry even heavier ordnance.
As for my own armor, it will not support the infantry. Wherever the British heavy armor appears, my own lighter tanks will maneuver elsewhere. These tanks cannot be everywhere, and the desert is a very big place. So we will use maneuver against this implacable enemy rock. From all accounts, they do not have many of these fearsome new tanks, so perhaps we can flow around them like water… As long as I can still keep my forward elements supplied. I will need to secure a good place for a forward depot, and this time I will also need to take Tobruk. I bypassed it before, but I cannot allow the British to sit there as a thorn in my backside if I plan to push into Egypt again.
In the meantime, this campaign in Syria has already drained resources that were supposed to come to me. I have already lost the 1st Mountain Division. In fact Kubler’s entire mountain Korps was sent to Syria, along with some very good mobile divisions. Now it is their turn to face these enemy tanks. Yes, the British must have used the rail lines through Alexandria to move reinforcements to their Syrian operation. They have committed their heavy tanks there, and by god, they stopped 9th Panzer Division in its tracks. Even the 5th SS Wiking Division was forced to do exactly what I have done here—deploy on defense. Yet this may have weakened the enemy strength on my front. Perhaps now is the time to make my move. While the cat is away…
The orders he soon had in hand put the wind in his spirits for the first time since Bir el Khamsa. ‘Given the imminent opening of our final campaign in Russia, it is imperative that we now do all things possible to unhinge the British defense in the Middle East. In light of the determined British attack into Syria, you will now plan and execute an immediate offensive operation aimed at again threatening the British position in Egypt, with the initial aim of capturing Tobruk.’
Good enough, thought Rommel, but capturing Tobruk may not be as easy to do in the field as it might be to order on paper. Those two Australian divisions will fall back on Tobruk when I renew my advance, so I must assemble a shock force capable of punching through to take the place. But what if the British deploy those monster tanks there? They know the value of Tobruk, and will fight like demons to hold it. If my attack there is to have any chance of success, then I must also mount a compelling threat to Alexandria, aimed at diluting the defense of Tobruk and compelling the enemy to deploy his best armor to stop my panzers. They will want to use those tanks to smash my own armor again, so I must be very cagey. My panzers will be the cape of the matador, flashing and luring with their speed and mobility.
Time to dance.
He stood up, the day fine and clear, with the heat still not too oppressive as May began. 5th Light, 15th Panzers, 90th Light, Grossdeutschland Regiment, the Hermann Goering Brigade… Now I finally have a force to be reckoned with, and the supplies to operate for an extended period. Now I get my zweiten kommen, my second coming. Now I rise from the defeat I suffered at Bir el Khamsa, and avenge my losses. It will not be for the medals this time, but for the men I lost there. I owe them that much, and more. I owe them victory.
Dear Lu, he thought, his loving wife in mind again. It is said that destiny calls three times in a man’s life. My first calling was in the Great War when I won this Blue Max and the other medals on my chest. My second call was in France with the 7th Panzers. Now I get my greatest chance. Destiny is calling me out again, and I must not fail to answer, or meet the challenge before me.
Who will I be up against this time? Will the British send O’Connor out to challenge me as before? He is good, perhaps the one man they have who knows how to use those new tanks of theirs. His offensive against Graziani was nothing short of masterful. In the end, I was able to come here and push him back only because of the very same reasons my own offensive failed—lack of supply. By the time he cut off Cyrenaica,
and drove to Agheila, his armored divisions had practically melted away to nothing.
I must not allow that to happen to my boys this time around. I will not drive them with the whip as I did before. No. This time the advance will be well planned, methodical. Flank security will be paramount, adequate fuel, water and supplies essential. When we get within striking distance of Tobruk, I want my men fresh and ready for the fight. For something tells me the entire campaign here hinges on that battle. I must have Tobruk, but cannot allow that necessity to stop my advance east.
Even as he thought this, he knew the outcome of this new offensive was far from certain. The British will have taken the time to also reinforce their own armored formations. Abwehr spies in Cairo and Alexandria have been watching arrivals from the Suez very carefully. The British have been moving heavy equipment at night by rail, or so they tell me, but mainly east into Palestine to support their Syrian offensive. So what have they left for me here?
Something tells me they do not have the strength to conduct any meaningful offensive against me now. No. They have chosen to stand on defense here while they try to win through in Syria. So now they get another battle. I move tomorrow morning, and let us see what comes out to answer the challenge. Will O’Connor lead in those fearsome new tanks and dare me to advance?
We shall see…
Chapter 11
“Not there, damn your eyes man. That’s no place for a shore battery. Mount it there, on those headlands!” The wiry man, somewhat scrawny in appearance, was at it yet again, much to the chagrin of the officers and lorry men he was bothering. He seemed to be everywhere now, sticking that thin nose of his into every bunker and building on the home island. As much as the men rued his coming, they knew better than to say anything about it that might be overheard by the man. General Bernard Montgomery was no one to fool with.
The man had been shot clean through the right lung by a German sniper in the First Great War, but returned to fight at Arras and Passchendaele again. He caught Wavell’s eye in Palestine when he commanded the 8th Infantry Division, then went home to take over the 3rd Division in time to see action in France. Under his taught rein of command, Montgomery brought the Iron Division home from Dunkirk largely intact. Once he got home, however, his meddlesome ways and frank, biting criticism of the way the army was led in France, earned him few friends.
Rising to command the V Corps at home, his ascorbic temperament, and penchant for meticulous attention to every detail of his command, soon saw him locking horns with General Auchinlek. He pushed his men hard, with rigorous training and fitness drilling. No one knew just why he was summarily sent back to Palestine. Some said it may have been to simply rid the home islands of the man, but a few knew the real reason—Churchill.
The exploits and exhortations of Montgomery had come to the attention of the Prime Minister, though no one knew the real reason for Montgomery’s sudden new orders. It was, in fact, that quiet chat with the young Russian Captain in the desert oasis of Siwa that led to the call, destiny tapping the shoulder of another man as the war began to heat to the boiling point.
“Tell me,” Churchill had asked quietly, being careful not to step on the toes of General Wavell, who also attended that meeting and was acting as Churchill’s translator in the discussion with Fedorov. “You have let on that we end up winning this war, and for that light at the end of the tunnel I am most grateful. I know there are a thousand details, and perhaps a thousand battles to be fought before we prevail, and I have heeded your warning that the history isn’t quite cooperating this time around. A bit like coming home to the wife and finding she’s gained thirty pounds overnight!” Churchill smiled, sipping his brandy by the fire.
“Well,” he continued. “Battles are fought by men, and led by good generals. I’ve one with me here, and I have every confidence in General Wavell as overall commander in the Middle East. O’Connor is also a good man at the head of 8th Army, and likely to be better now when Tiger Convoy gets round the cape with 500 new tanks for his 7th Armored Division. But we’ll need every good man we can find to lend a hand. I was considering Auchinlek, or perhaps even General Alexander to come in and lend a hand and take some of the burden off Wavell’s shoulders. It’s clear that two fronts are forming up here, one in Syria and the second in Libya. If your warning proves true, the situation in Syria might grow to a point we never expected. Jumbo Wilson is a good man, but he could use a hand there as well. Any suggestions?”
The Prime Minister was fishing again, Fedorov knew. He had baited his line some time ago, and cast well out into the years ahead, hoping to land a big fish that would feed his hunger for knowledge of the days yet to come in this war. Fedorov knew he had to be very careful here. He might reveal things that would result in decisions that were never made in the history he knew, and could not foresee the outcome. Yet, even as he thought that, he realized that the mirror of history was so badly shattered here now that he could barely predict what might happen. And the thought that Ivan Volkov was whispering advice in Hitler’s ear was most disturbing. Could that be the reason the Germans took Gibraltar and Malta, and now this intervention in Syria? Was Volkov behind it all?
So when it came to the question, he did not hesitate for very long. He knew how the war here played out, the pieces of the puzzle that would eventually lead to an Allied victory on both these fronts. But the Prime Minister was correct. It wasn’t just a matter of strategy and tactics now. Someone had to lead the effort on every battlefield, and Churchill was fishing for the names of men who would give him the one thing he dearly needed now—victories.
“I agree that General O’Connor is a most capable man. He was captured, and out of the fight here in the history I know. When I heard his plane was down, I mounted that special rescue mission largely because I believed he could be a vital force for victory here—and that led to some rather unexpected dividends with the coming of Brigadier Kinlan and his troops.”
“Yes,” said Churchill. “One day we must have a long talk about how it happened, but for now, having met the man and seen his troops first hand, I shall accept the testimony of my own eyes and warmly embrace him, no matter what rabbit trick sent him to us in this grave hour.”
“To answer your question, sir,” Fedorov continued, both Auchinlek and Alexander would serve you well, in any capacity you employ them, but there is one man that you would be likely to overlook now, and he was responsible for perhaps the single most important victory of the war in this theater.”
“Do go on, Captain. Who might this man be?”
“Sir Bernard Law Montgomery.”
“Sir Bernard? Well yes, I suppose he was admitted to the Order of the Bath last July, wasn’t he. But the man is in England now, fussing about with the shore batteries and ruffling the skirts of more officers than I would care to mention. A Tee totaling know it all, or so I have heard him called. And I might say that I’ve heard far worse.”
“Yet he wins, sir. Here you have a great General in O’Connor, fire. Well I must tell you that Monty is quite his opposite—ice.”
“Monty?”
“That is what history calls him. He wins here, and goes on to lead the entire Allied Army in the field for the eventual invasion of France. An American General has overall command, Eisenhower, but Monty leads on the ground. Yet he doesn’t do things as O’Connor might. He’s a careful planner, meticulous, tireless, and won’t really move until he knows he has what he needs to win—but he wins. Fire and ice, sir. O’Connor and Montgomery are as different as two men might be, but together they just might make a winning team for you here.”
“If they don’t end up killing one another first,” Wavell put in with a smile.
Some months later, Churchill met with Brooke and decided to send Montgomery back to Palestine. He knew it would eventually mean bringing yet another man into the small circle of British officers that knew the full truth about Kinlan and Kirov, but he wanted winners, and if Monty was the man who gave them victories, he
would get him started at it as soon as possible.
So it was that Sir Bernard Law Montgomery was promoted to full general and sent on his way again, remarking that sadly, the war had been easy for a time, but now it was about to get very difficult. When a close associate tried to cheer him up after hearing that, Monty clarified himself with a pointed remark: “Oh, I'm not talking about me, I'm talking about Rommel!” Three hours later Monty was on a plane bound for the Middle East to meet with Wavell and O’Connor.
Destiny had called, perhaps in arranging that meeting between Churchill and Fedorov, and soon the two men, Rommel and Montgomery, would face one another with the wide sands of Libya between them, and the fate of British interests in the Middle East in the balance.
* * *
“New tanks?” Montgomery raised a thin eyebrow beneath the Australian hat he wore. Standing no more than five feet and seven inches, Monty did not present the trim, statuesque deportment of men like Alexander or Auchinlek, or even Wavell’s rugged aspect, worn as he was by so many years in Egypt. Instead he dressed in simple garb, a uniform he pieced together himself with baggy corduroy pants, a loose fitting field jacket, and any hat that suited him.
His features were lean and bird like, with penetrating smoky eyes over a prominent beak of a nose with the wisp of a mustache beneath it, and his personality could also be hawk-like, swooping in to prey upon the ills he perceived as detrimental to a proper fighting army. He was a stickler for drilling his men to keep them fit, with a hands on attitude to every detail of command. And he was never shy about voicing an opinion, be it positive or negative, and did so with an inner confidence that verged on arrogance in the eyes of many who came to dislike the man.
Crescendo Of Doom (Kirov Series Book 15) Page 9