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

began the kind of assault he had wanted to launch the year before. Rather than a diluted general advance all along the thirty-mile front, Rommel bluffed an attack in one sector of the line, then pounded his armor against unprepared defenses in an area where the South Africans had almost no armor. German engineers quickly opened pathways across the once treacherous antitank ditches, and using the same blitzkrieg tactics that had overwhelmed Poland and Western Europe, Rommel’s tanks went forward in tight punching blows, ripping breakthroughs in the South African defenses. Once through the gaps, the German tanks fanned out behind the enemy, surrounding and engulfing them. In twenty-four hours, it was over.
    JUNE 22, 1942
    He had briefly stayed in Tobruk, allowing himself the luxury of a bed. The staff had been scattered and busy, coordinating with the rear services for the handling of prisoners, and the cataloging and distribution of the amazing haul of goods they had captured in the city. Klopper had surrendered nearly thirty-five thousand men, and the German success had come so quickly that the South Africans had had no time to destroy their precious supplies. Besides the critical fuel, food, and ammunition, the Germans had captured nearly two thousand vehicles of all kinds, including thirty undamaged British tanks.
    Rommel had met with Klopper, a brief, formal ceremony, the South African concerned about the treatment of his men. It was never an issue with Rommel, there would be no mistreatment of prisoners, ever, but he did not spend any more time than required in the presence of the enemy commander. There was nothing to be gained by humiliation, and Klopper would certainly not reveal any British plans. Besides, Rommel knew that his own intelligence people probably knew more about British intentions than the one senior officer they had left behind in Tobruk.

    H e had decided to make a quick tour of the city, was being driven in a new command vehicle, an actual staff car, typical for senior officers, but unusual for Rommel himself. The Mammoth had been left behind for now, but the staff knew to have it prepared and ready, that this brief rest was no vacation.
    They were near the small harbor, and he ordered the car to halt, climbed out, would see what ships the British had left behind, what Kesselring’s bombs had destroyed. It was always a price for the capture of a port, enemy vessels either sunk or scuttled by their crews, always blocking the channels, making the job more difficult for the engineers to clear passage for the supply ships of the port’s new owners. He walked close to the concrete of a shattered pier, stepped over debris, could see more of the same all around him. If there had been beauty here, there was none now. The streets were hardly streets at all, narrow passages that wound past gaping bomb craters, the wreckage and destruction not just from Kesselring’s bombers, but from Rommel’s own siege the year before, long, drawn-out artillery duels that had converted most of this seaport city into complete ruin.
    He knew his army was worn-out, so many weeks of constant motion, the hard fight that had finally given them victory. The cost was high, men and tanks, the figures alarming. He was down to fewer than two hundred serviceable tanks, and even with the precious gasoline captured at Tobruk, they were dangerously low on fuel.
    He stared into the harbor, watched work crews on small barges, cranes straining to move sunken debris. We can make good use of this place, he thought. It is not so big as Tripoli, but it is one more port that is ours and not theirs. Perhaps now Rome can be persuaded to send us some supply ships.
    “Sir!”
    A second staff car pulled up alongside his own, and he recognized the big man, oversize in any vehicle he rode in. It was Berndt, the man pouring himself out of his cramped seat.
    Berndt moved toward him, all smiles, and Rommel said, “You have returned, Alfred. How was