World War II Thriller Collection by Ken Follett Page B

The Storch, a light aircraft used by German commanders for short trips around the battlefield, came down like a fly, its wheels on the ends of long, spindly front legs. The plane stopped and Rommel jumped out.
    The heat hit him first, then the dust. It had been relatively cool, up in the sky; now he felt as if he had stepped into a furnace. He began to perspire immediately. As soon as he breathed in, a thin layer of sand coated his lips and the end of his tongue. A fly settled on his big nose, and he brushed it away.
    Von Mellenthin, Rommel’s Ic—intelligence officer—ran toward him across the sand, his high boots kicking up dusty clouds. He looked agitated. “Kesselring’s here,” he said.
    â€œAuch, das noch,” said Rommel. “That’s all I need.”
    Kesselring, the smiling field marshal, represented everything Rommel disliked in the German armed forces. He was a General Staff officer, and Rommel hated the General Staff; he was a founder of the Luftwaffe, which had let Rommel down so often in the desert war; and he was-worst of all—a snob. One of his acid comments had gotten back to Rommel. Complaining that Rommel was rude to his subordinate officers, Kesselring had said: “It might be worth speaking to him about it, were it not that he’s a Wuerttemberger.” Wuerttemberg was the provincial state where Rommel was born, and the remark epitomized the prejudice Rommel had been fighting all his career.
    He stumped across the sand toward the command vehicle, with von Mellenthin in tow. “General Cruewell has been captured,” von Mellenthin said. “I had to ask Kesselring to take over. He’s spent the afternoon trying to find out where you were.”
    â€œWorse and worse,” Rommel said sourly.
    They entered the back of the command vehicle, a huge truck. The shade was welcome. Kesselring was bent over a map, brushing away flies with his left hand while tracing a line with his right. He looked up and smiled. “My dear Rommel, thank heaven you’re back,” he said silkily.
    Rommel took off his cap. “I’ve been fighting a battle,” he grunted.
    â€œSo I gather. What happened?”
    Rommel pointed to the map. “This is the Gazala Line.” It was a string of fortified “boxes” linked by minefields which ran from the coast at Gazala due south into the desert for fifty miles. “We made a dogleg around the southern end of the line and hit them from behind.”
    â€œGood idea. What went wrong?”
    â€œWe ran out of gasoline and ammunition.” Rommel sat down heavily, suddenly feeling very tired. “Again,” he added. Kesselring, as commander in chief (South), was responsible for Rommel’s supplies, but the field marshal seemed not to notice the implied criticism.
    An orderly came in with mugs of tea on a tray. Rommel sipped his. There was sand in it.
    Kesselring spoke in a conversational tone. “I’ve had the unusual experience, this afternoon, of taking the role of one of your subordinate commanders.”
    Rommel grunted. There was some piece of sarcasm coming, he could tell. He did not want to fence with Kesselring now, he wanted to think about the battle.
    Kesselring went on: “I found it enormously difficult, with my hands tied by subordination to a headquarters that issued no orders and could not be reached.”
    â€œI was at the heart of the battle, giving my orders on the spot.”
    â€œStill, you might have stayed in touch.”
    â€œThat’s the way the British fight,” Rommel snapped. “The generals are miles behind the lines, staying in touch. But I’m winning. If I’d had my supplies, I’d be in Cairo now.”
    â€œYou’re not going to Cairo,” Kesselring said sharply. “You’re going to Tobruk. There you’ll stay until I’ve taken Malta. Such are the Fuehrer’s orders.”
    â€œOf course.”