own boasts. It was the luxury of being a dictator. No matter how bombastic his pronouncements, he would suggest only those strategies he had the absolute power to carry out. That way, he could maintain an aura of flawlessness. But Rommel had soon learned that Germany’s ally was anything but flawless. Il Duce would do anything to save face, whether it made sense on the battlefield or not.
Even before Rommel had come to Africa, Hitler’s overwhelming success in northern Europe had put Mussolini in the background. It was a form of humiliation that the Italian dictator would simply not accept. And so, he would make a glorious show of his own. In late 1940, Mussolini made the astonishing decision to invade Greece, without consulting Hitler at all. It was clear to all that Il Duce was attempting his own blitzkrieg, a lightning strike to conquer an inferior foe, more to impress Hitler than to accomplish anything of strategic value. But Mussolini’s grand scheme backfired dramatically. Greece was no outclassed weakling. The Italian invaders were severely bloodied and sent reeling back. The message to the Germans was clear. Despite all of Mussolini’s rousing oratory, his army might not be as inspired as their leader had promised. It was a lesson not lost on Rommel. Mussolini’s ambitions for North Africa had little to do with the reality of what was required there, especially in confronting a British army that was constantly reinforcing and improving its equipment. Despite the exhortations from Rome, the Italian supply service did little to actually help their cause. The navy seemed far more interested in preserving their ships for posterity than risking them by hauling essential cargo across the Mediterranean. Rommel had struggled not only to secure an adequate number of troops and armor, but the food and fuel essential to maintaining his army in the field. Promises poured over him from Rome, and every day, fewer ships arrived to fulfill them. All the while, Mussolini spoke loudly of his valiant campaign to secure Africa for the new Roman Empire.
R ommel passed the burning wreckage of a British scout car, ignored the black shapes that still sat upright behind the shattered windshield. His tanks had mostly moved away, pushing northward, in rapid pursuit of a disordered British retreat. He coughed from the smoke, adjusted his goggles, shouted into the Mammoth, “Forward! Follow the dust. We must not lose contact.”
The Mammoth continued to move, picking up speed, bouncing over rocks, swerving slightly to avoid black debris. He gripped the hatchway with one gloved hand, raised the binoculars with the other, but there was nothing to see, the smoke and dust blocking any sign of the fight. He could still hear the thumps of the artillery, knew from the sound it was the good work of the eighty-eights. But there were not as many now, the artillery fire beginning to slow.
“Stop! Stop now!”
The Mammoth crawled to a stop, and he scanned the dusty horizon. Still nothing to see. He lowered the binoculars, clasped his hands tightly around them, could hear scattered fights in all directions, even behind him, something he was used to now. But the sounds were too infrequent, too spread out.
“Send word to Crüwell. I want him in the air. If his tanks aren’t firing, he’s lost contact. He must find the enemy before they escape!”
The radio operator went to work, and Rommel still scanned to the north. Yes, General, get in your airplane and find them. That’s why we do not sit in tents.
Ludwig Crüwell, the commander of the panzer divisions, was a man Rommel had come to rely on. The man had a quick mind and agreed with Rommel that leadership should not be exercised from behind. Most of the senior commanders had their own small planes, Rommel included. It was usually a Storch, a narrow two-seater that could land and take off on nearly any short stretch of flat ground, and the desert here was nothing but flat ground. Crüwell had
Even before Rommel had come to Africa, Hitler’s overwhelming success in northern Europe had put Mussolini in the background. It was a form of humiliation that the Italian dictator would simply not accept. And so, he would make a glorious show of his own. In late 1940, Mussolini made the astonishing decision to invade Greece, without consulting Hitler at all. It was clear to all that Il Duce was attempting his own blitzkrieg, a lightning strike to conquer an inferior foe, more to impress Hitler than to accomplish anything of strategic value. But Mussolini’s grand scheme backfired dramatically. Greece was no outclassed weakling. The Italian invaders were severely bloodied and sent reeling back. The message to the Germans was clear. Despite all of Mussolini’s rousing oratory, his army might not be as inspired as their leader had promised. It was a lesson not lost on Rommel. Mussolini’s ambitions for North Africa had little to do with the reality of what was required there, especially in confronting a British army that was constantly reinforcing and improving its equipment. Despite the exhortations from Rome, the Italian supply service did little to actually help their cause. The navy seemed far more interested in preserving their ships for posterity than risking them by hauling essential cargo across the Mediterranean. Rommel had struggled not only to secure an adequate number of troops and armor, but the food and fuel essential to maintaining his army in the field. Promises poured over him from Rome, and every day, fewer ships arrived to fulfill them. All the while, Mussolini spoke loudly of his valiant campaign to secure Africa for the new Roman Empire.
R ommel passed the burning wreckage of a British scout car, ignored the black shapes that still sat upright behind the shattered windshield. His tanks had mostly moved away, pushing northward, in rapid pursuit of a disordered British retreat. He coughed from the smoke, adjusted his goggles, shouted into the Mammoth, “Forward! Follow the dust. We must not lose contact.”
The Mammoth continued to move, picking up speed, bouncing over rocks, swerving slightly to avoid black debris. He gripped the hatchway with one gloved hand, raised the binoculars with the other, but there was nothing to see, the smoke and dust blocking any sign of the fight. He could still hear the thumps of the artillery, knew from the sound it was the good work of the eighty-eights. But there were not as many now, the artillery fire beginning to slow.
“Stop! Stop now!”
The Mammoth crawled to a stop, and he scanned the dusty horizon. Still nothing to see. He lowered the binoculars, clasped his hands tightly around them, could hear scattered fights in all directions, even behind him, something he was used to now. But the sounds were too infrequent, too spread out.
“Send word to Crüwell. I want him in the air. If his tanks aren’t firing, he’s lost contact. He must find the enemy before they escape!”
The radio operator went to work, and Rommel still scanned to the north. Yes, General, get in your airplane and find them. That’s why we do not sit in tents.
Ludwig Crüwell, the commander of the panzer divisions, was a man Rommel had come to rely on. The man had a quick mind and agreed with Rommel that leadership should not be exercised from behind. Most of the senior commanders had their own small planes, Rommel included. It was usually a Storch, a narrow two-seater that could land and take off on nearly any short stretch of flat ground, and the desert here was nothing but flat ground. Crüwell had
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