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

Kesselring’s approval. Rommel did not particularly like the man, and he suspected that the feeling was mutual, but from necessity they had formed a good working relationship. Kesselring was far more of a diplomat and so could deal far more gently and effectively with the Italians both in Rome and in North Africa, who continued to believe they were running the show. Rommel’s constant screaming for supplies had made him an unwelcome voice in Rome, and increasingly, in Berlin. Kesselring was highly regarded by Hitler and could soften the indiscreet blows made by Rommel against “chairborne” generals and inept staff officers.
    The two men walked away from the dusty tents, and Rommel, feeling impatient, said, “I don’t need to hear bad news just now. Do you not hear the fight?”
    Kesselring stopped, and Rommel knew he couldn’t prevent the man from telling him of yet another calamity in Rome, some new reason why gasoline could not be sent.
    Kesselring said, “I will inconvenience you anyway. General Crüwell has been shot down. Word was received here that his Storch took fire, and that he landed among the British. We do not know if he is dead, and certainly, there is hope he may only be captured.”
    “How long ago?”
    “Within the hour. I received word back at my headquarters and flew up here as quickly as possible. We tried…” Kesselring stopped, and Rommel knew what was coming. “We did not know where you were. Colonel Westphal said you were somewhere at the front.”
    “I am here now. Do we know the enemy’s position?”
    A low roll of thunder erupted in the east, beyond the flat ground. Both men turned, and Kesselring said, “From what I can tell, the enemy is holding on to several key positions. We have taken a heavy toll on his armor, but he is not defeated. What do you intend to do?”
    Rommel looked at the man, the genial face, the man’s bald head hidden by the distinctive white-crowned hat of the Luftwaffe. The shape of the man’s mouth made him appear to be smiling, though Kesselring was usually quite serious, was certainly serious now. Rommel pointed toward the sounds of the firing.
    “I intend to find out why we do not hear more of that.”
    He saw words forming, Kesselring preparing the same tired protest. But Kesselring let it go, stepped back, made a short bow.
    “Go. Do not let me stand in your way. This is your fight. I should notify Berlin about General Crüwell.”
    “Might it wait a moment? I need you to do something more important. Come.”
    Rommel led Kesselring toward the largest tent, Crüwell’s staff gathering. He focused on the small table, maps spread out, papers overlapping. Rommel studied one, looked out, listened, the low rumbles coming again. He looked at Kesselring, said, “With Crüwell absent, the ranking officer in this sector is Italian. I would prefer…the panzers require a German to lead them. I need you to take over this position, take command of this wing of the attack. Coordinate the tank battalions. Find where the enemy is holding strong and push the fight around those positions.”
    There was a low hum in the tent, staff officers suddenly uncomfortable with Rommel’s request. Rommel ignored them, saw surprise on Kesselring’s face.
    “Albert, this battle is yet to be decided. I cannot manage this entire affair, you have told me that yourself many times. General Crüwell’s absence puts us at a disadvantage. I require a senior officer to take command in this sector. As we speak, the enemy is either running or regrouping his armor. It is just as likely that he is severely wounded and must be extinguished.”
    Kesselring scanned the faces around them, said, “Very well, General, I am in your charge. I understand my, um…orders. May I ask where I might find you?”
    Rommel moved quickly to the Mammoth, the engine belching smoke, the crew loading up before him.
    “I shall know where I am to be when I arrive there. I must see to the supply line for this