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

open, the air cooling, no breeze, the daylight nearly gone. There was activity in the distance, trucks and armored cars, the first of the night patrols moving out, heading east, toward the enemy. It was a constant routine, scouting, probing, the enemy doing the same. The patrols would often confront each other, short fights that shattered the darkness with lightning streaks of tracer fire. But more often, the patrols would pass right by each other, avoiding the fight. Combat was an inconvenient distraction to the scouts, something to keep them from doing their jobs. Each was patrolling the desert with one goal, seeking information of some movement of the enemy, whether anyone was shifting position, gathering strength. Before dawn, they would scamper back through the cleared pathways in their own minefields, reporting back to their commanders whether the enemy was threatening to launch some dawn attack.
    Rommel watched them pull away, thought, there will be no attack now, not by us, and certainly not by them. We are both used up, bloodied, worn into uselessness. The men…no, the men are fine. They can rest now, gain strength. It is the machines that suffer, the power drained from this army by the loss of so much steel. He looked to the west, toward the far distant ports of Tripoli and Benghazi, old habit now. He had grown weary of sending the urgent messages for supplies, but he sent them still. The requests followed the chain of command, went usually through Kesselring, then up the mythical ladder of authority to Comando Supremo in Rome. And there, he thought, my urgent requests go into some box, shoved underneath someone’s feet, to use as a footstool.
    He heard the sound of an airplane motor, slow, nothing like the hard screams of the Messerschmitts. He saw a Storch, floating downward like a small black bird, bouncing once, slowing, rolling to a stop. Ground crews moved quickly, ropes tied to the landing gear, anchoring the plane against some sudden windstorm that would easily flip it over. The door of the plane opened, and an officer stepped down, followed by the pilot, and the ground crews saluted stiffly. It was Kesselring.
    Rommel stayed put, waited for Kesselring to approach. It was a small show, purposeful, discreet disrespect. No matter your rank, this is my ground, and my army . If you wish to see me, you will come to me. If Kesselring even noticed, he showed no hint of annoyance. There was annoyance enough in Kesselring’s visits as it was, for both of them. If he was there at all, it was usually because something bad had happened.
    “Good evening, Erwin.”
    “Field Marshal.”
    Kesselring laughed, surprising Rommel. “Oh, I stand corrected. Good evening, Field Marshal. ”
    Rommel was suddenly embarrassed, had crossed a line, even for him. “No, sir, I did not…I was not correcting you. I was referring to you. I meant it as a greeting.”
    Kesselring still laughed, put his hand on Rommel’s shoulder, a rare gesture of familiarity.
    “Humility. A rare trait in the Afrika Korps. Don’t bother yourself about it, Erwin. I made a poor joke. But, it seems you have already been informed about your promotion. I had hoped to be the first to bring the news, but then, that was not to be expected.”
    “Lieutenant Berndt has returned from Berlin. He brought word.”
    “Berndt. Yes, your public relations wizard. The man thrives on good news, does he not? And if there is no good news, he will provide his own.”
    “He does his job.”
    “Quite well too. He has the Führer’s ear, you know. That gives you an enormous advantage, should you wish to avoid my nagging and make your grievances known only to Berlin.”
    Rommel felt cautious, was disarmed by Kesselring’s high spirits.
    “I assure you, I have not done so.”
    “I know, Erwin. I have the Führer’s ear too. May we take a walk?”
    Rommel said nothing, followed, and Kesselring said, “General Bastico is concerned about your intentions. He is concerned