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

Berlin?”
    Berndt stopped, made his formal salute, always the good show for the men.
    “Berlin is celebrating, Herr General. You have brightened the light in every staff room. The Führer has never been in a better mood. Your name is spoken with great respect! And, I come with a very special message.” Berndt seemed to prepare himself, puffing out his chest a bit more than usual. “General Rommel, it is my honor to communicate to you the Führer’s personal congratulations for your magnificent victory. I have been instructed to notify you that the Führer has promoted you to the rank of field marshal. The appropriate certification will arrive shortly. Allow me to be the first, sir.”
    Berndt took a step back, saluted, said, “Field Marshal Rommel.”
    Rommel didn’t know what to say, Berndt seeming to expect a speech.
    “That is quite…wonderful. Yes, I am deeply appreciative.”
    There was an explosion out past the pier, the engineers blasting through some obstruction in the waterway. Rommel turned that way instinctively, watched as smoke drifted past the men working hard at their task. Yes, he thought, promotion is good. Lucy will be proud. I should write to her tonight, though surely she has heard of this already. In Berlin, success is not kept secret.
    Berndt was fidgeting, moved up beside him now, seemed mystified by Rommel’s lack of response.
    “Does this not call for a celebration, sir?”
    Rommel nodded slowly. “Yes, I suppose so. It will be good for the men. They should know that someone beyond this dreadful place is paying attention to us.”

    A lfred Berndt was a Gestapo officer, sent to Africa by Hitler’s propaganda master, Dr. Joseph Goebbels. Berndt was not a spy, precisely, though Rommel understood that the man’s job was to serve as a direct conduit between his command and Hitler’s inner circle. There had been nervousness by some of Rommel’s staff that Berndt must be handled discreetly. He had arrived in Libya with a bit too much noise, seemed to have an inflated notion of his own value. It was an annoyance Rommel had been quick to correct, and the man had actually fit in quite well, had become accepted by the staff as just one more man with a job to do. If there was one lingering absurdity, it was that Berndt was, technically, only a lieutenant. It was a poor attempt to hide the man’s influence, a decision made by someone in Berlin who no doubt believed Berndt would draw less scrutiny as a junior officer. Rommel was certainly not fooled, had quickly learned that the big, overbearing man did not come to Africa to be ignored. But he had come to trust Berndt’s intentions, believed that anything the man reported to Berlin would be accurate and fair. It was perfectly reasonable that Hitler and his staff would want to know precisely what was happening in Africa, and at the same time, by reporting to Goebbels, Berndt would pass along the kind of information that the propaganda ministry would find useful. Whether those news reports were accurate was not Rommel’s problem. He knew that he had no control over anything Goebbels put into the newspapers, or any control over how Rommel himself would be presented to the German people. Regardless of the discomfort Rommel had given many of Hitler’s “chairborne” officers, right now he was certainly being trumpeted throughout Germany as a great hero, the man of the hour. For the moment at least, his harshest critics would have to keep silent.
    ROMMEL’S HEADQUARTERS, NEAR TOBRUK—JUNE 22, 1942
    The celebration was hardly a party at all, a few of his staff toasting him from a single bottle of whiskey they had secured from some unspecified stash in Tobruk. Rommel had actually allowed himself to take a drink, a rare occurrence in the desert. He accompanied his glass of whiskey with a tin of South African pineapple. It was all the luxury the evening required.
    The celebration concluded, the men drifting back to their work. He moved out into the