The Rising Tide: A Novel of World War II by Jeff Shaara Page A

adapted well to Rommel’s habit of seeing a fight from the air, though unlike Rommel, Crüwell used a pilot. Rommel had learned long ago that a pilot was one more man, one more detail to keep track of. The most efficient way of getting around in a plane was to fly yourself.
    “Sir, General Crüwell acknowledges your order. He will scout the enemy immediately.”
    Rommel stared ahead, thought, I should not have had to tell him. When your guns grow quiet, General, you have either killed all your enemy, or he has left you. I do not believe the British have allowed themselves to be obliterated.
    The dust was drifting past him still, driven by a light, hot breeze. He spat dust, pulled his scarf up over his mouth, searched for some movement, some sign of his armor. Or anyone else’s. He was feeling the familiar frustration, the blindness. Where have they gone? He turned, looked more to the east, thought of the British. You’re out there, still. You didn’t just simply run away like so many gazelles. And I am not yet finished with you.
    The air above him ripped with a high scream, the sound fading, the shell landing far to the west. He laughed, said aloud, “So, you read my mind, eh? You don’t care for my little insult?”
    Another shell streaked overhead, and he could see the thin, white line, the trail of the shell fading quickly. Big one, he thought. Shooting at nothing. A protest of their own fear. Now another shell came from behind, the streak more red, the scream passing over in the opposite direction, quickly fading away. He waited, heard a small burst of thunder to the east. He smiled now, looked up again, waited for the next one. It came seconds later, followed by two more. The shells were arcing straight over him, and he ignored the nervous voices in the Mammoth, had heard all of that before, concern that they should move, get Rommel out of harm’s way. Why? They aren’t shooting at us. We’re in the perfect place, right between them. A duel, and we’re the audience. He felt strangely excited, thought not of the guns, not of the men who worked them. He thought instead of the observers, far out in front somewhere, maybe close by, right here, around us hidden in some low pile of rocks. Here is the chess game, the fun, waiting, watching for your enemy to make some mistake, an enemy gunner carelessly revealing his position. He imagined himself deep in some thorny brush, peering over rocks. Yes, there, the flash, the brief plume of smoke. I see you, fool. He leaned back slightly, put his hands behind him, the gloves protecting him from the searing heat of the Mammoth’s rooftop, smiled. So, now you know where they are, and so, you make the call to the battery. The power is yours, guided by your hand. First one shell, to judge the range, then, adjust, nearer, farther, to one side or the other. And for the enemy there is no escape. He knows what he has done, knows that he has made a deadly error, and in seconds it will kill him, his gun, his entire crew. And the observer…he will see it happen. It is a perfect moment.
    He waited for more, a minute, then two. But the guns were silent and he looked back toward the west, to where his artillery would be, knew it was done. This one belongs to us. The final shot of the duel. Yes, good work. Whoever you are, I would shake your hand.

    T he Mammoth slowed, dust billowing from below, bathing the small sea of tents in a choking fog. Rommel was down quickly, saw officers gathering, was surprised to see Kesselring.
    “Field Marshal, I did not expect to see you. I came for General Crüwell’s report.”
    “Come, let us walk.”
    Albert Kesselring’s primary responsibility was the Luftwaffe, the German air forces that patrolled throughout the Mediterranean. He answered to Hermann Göring, who controlled all of Hitler’s air forces. But Kesselring outranked Rommel and was in nominal command of the entire southern theater of the war, and so, Rommel’s decisions were subject to