Crescendo of Doom

Chapter 10

While Troyak and Fedorov were watching the advance of the German 7th Machinegun Battalion at Raqqah, and Karpov and Volkov were vectoring in their forces at Ilanskiy, another warrior was about to rise from the ashes of his own making. Erwin Rommel had been a chastened and brooding general at Mersa Brega, sullen as he watched his mobile troops from the 5th Light Division digging in to hard defensive positions. Memories of the last war haunted him when he saw the men stringing wire and sewing fields of mines. It was a war of trenches, and great thundering artillery, dreadful moments in the space between barbed lines of death, and then came the gas, choking, asphyxiating, maddening.

Rommel had fought with the Württemberg Mountain Battalion of the elite Alpenkorps, where he quickly showed the genius for tactics and quick thinking on the battlefield that was to be his hallmark. His audacious infiltration tactics behind enemy lines had produced astounding results at times, where in one instance he had captured 1500 Italians with a single squad of five men. Then, leading a company of just 100 men, he had unhinged the defense of an Italian strong point garrisoned by 7000 troops! The Iron Cross and the coveted Blue Max that he so cherished were just some of the fruits of that labor. But the war was not all dash and medals. It was dreadful.

It was the tank that had broken the awful, grinding stalemate of the Western Front. The first cumbersome charge of the unwieldy metal land forts was a dismal failure for the British, as shocking as it was to the German soldiers who initially faced those growling behemoths. The tanks were unreliable, slow, ponderous in the mud of the rain sodden fields. They broke down, slipped tracks, found their guns jamming in the heat of battle, and too often caught fire. But the devious minds that had conceived them persisted, and eventually they tried again, and broke through.

Within months the sledgehammer charge of armor was used to batter the deeply entrenched lines of the enemy, breaking through for the infantry to cross that deadly space that came to be called no man’s land, and win the hour. In the years between the wars, the Germans had mastered the art of armored warfare, developing tactics and methods that would prove equally shocking to the British and French when their blitzkrieg was let loose in 1940. Rommel had been one of the grand masters of the panzer divisions, the leader of the fabled 7th Panzers, the Ghost Division. It had advanced farther and faster than any other division in the campaign against France, and Rommel’s exploits, and the favor they gained with Hitler, had led him to this privileged position as commander of the newly formed German Afrika Korps.

He remembered his promises to the Fuhrer all too well, yet now, as he stared at his motorized infantry digging in, his shoulders slumped with unwanted resignation. Before him lay a vast desert which was the perfect open field for his fast moving shock columns of tanks, armored cars and infantry. Yet the very same weapon that had led him to fame and the heights of command here, had also been his undoing—the tank.

This time it was an enemy tank, one so awesome in its power and capabilities that it rendered his entire armored force obsolete in a single stroke. He had advanced with breakneck speed and characteristic dash in the first Libyan offensive, sending the British reeling and then driving right past their last strongpoint of Tobruk and across the Egyptian frontier. Then, at an insignificant hamlet named Bir el Khamsa, and just as he was to deliver the final blow that might lead to a breakthrough to the Nile, something came out of the deep deserts to the south that stunned his veteran troops and sent them staggering back in a headlong retreat.

Tanks, massive new heavy tanks fielded by the British that were truly awesome to behold. They were twice the size of the older Matildas, a tank that had a tough skin and was already difficult to kill with the light guns on his armor, ranging from 20mm to 50mm. Rommel had adapted by taking the superb 88mm flak gun and deploying it as an anti-tank weapon, and with remarkable results—until now. This new British tank was so heavily armored that it shrugged off hits from a 50mm gun as if they were pebbles, and was even impervious to the dread flak 88!

Look at me now, he said to himself. I told the Führer I would deliver him Libya in two weeks time, and that I did, but I could not hold it long enough to have any sense of the victory. He asked me to stop O’Connor, and that I did, but the reversal and shame of defeat has dogged me ever thereafter. These new enemy tanks are so powerful that our only recourse is to stand on defense, dig in behind wire and mines, and register every gun we have to saturate the field with artillery. It is the first great war all over again, and it is maddening to sit here like this, simply waiting for the enemy to choose the moment he will strike.

At first it seemed he would not have long to wait. The British had followed his retreat west, sending their veteran 6th and 9th Australian Divisions in the wake of the Italians, and it looked as though they planned to fight a battle to take Benghazi. The Führer demanded the place be defended, but Rommel was not going to commit his precious German infantry there. So he ordered six Italian Infantry Divisions to dig in around the port city, where they also waited for the enemy to attack, but it never came.

The British have a head on their shoulders after all, he thought. They realize that without Malta, Benghazi is of little use to them. We can pound it day and night from the air, and besides, they have a port of equal capacity right behind them in Tobruk. So Rommel was not surprised when he saw the two Australian infantry divisions withdrawing, and posted near Tobruk instead of coming down to Mersa Brega to face off against his own troops.

They aren’t stupid, he thought. They know that they can hold the line much easier near Tobruk. Now any move I make will be seen ten days to two weeks before I can get anywhere near them, giving them ample time to prepare. And if I do move again, I must cross 500 kilometers of desert before I can even begin to contemplate battle. There is no way I can do that until I am reinforced here, and well supplied. Paulus was correct.

So he waited there, chastened and brooding at Mersa Brega, though his spirits began to rise when the first reinforcements promised him actually began to arrive. The 15th Panzer Division had joined him earlier, and now the 90th Light Motorized Division was in hand. Behind it came two more elite formations. One was the vaunted Grossdeutschland Regiment, veterans of France, the Low Countries and the men who had delivered the great prize of Gibraltar in conjunction with Kubler’s 1st Mountain Division. Rommel had been promised that entire force, but the Mountain division had not arrived, being sent to Italy for possible deployment in Syria.

Instead he received another elite formation, the Hermann Goering Brigade, handpicked men chosen by the Reichsführer and head of the Luftwaffe. They had not seen much combat yet, but they were good troops, and spoiling for a fight. The Italians had also promised to send more troops, though Rommel had little use for them, thinking they were simply more mouths to feed, a drain on his limited supply network.

Over the weeks and months since his retreat, Paulus had worked some magic for him on that account—supplies. He made sure that Rommel was getting all the food, water, fuel and munitions that could be moved to North Africa. The main German port was still Tripoli in western Libya, but they had also opened up Tunis and Bizerte, using the rail lines down to Gabes to stockpile supplies there, and then moving them by road and the new Siebel ferries along the coast to Mersa Brega. Benghazi was used exclusively by the Italians to supply their troops there.

In time, as the weeks went by, Rommel built up a considerable depot behind his entrenched infantry, and by late April of 1941, he was ready to renew operations. Only one thing harried him, those new British tanks, so he thought long and hard as to how he could operate offensively again.

Forewarned is forearmed, he thought. We were caught by surprise at Bir el Khamsa. The shock of this new tank was simply too much for my men to bear. God knows I had been pushing them hard, and there was barely enough petrol left to get us back here. So this time things will be different.

One question burned in the center of his mind: how can I kill these enemy tanks? I cannot pit my own armor against them. No. Wherever they appear I must drill my infantry with new defensive tactics. We will immediately adopt a hedgehog formation, digging in and holding in place on the best defensive ground we can find. They will be drilled in rapid minefield deployment, and the artillery will practice the mustering of quick saturation fires to be called in by the infantry positions. Then I must have a word with Goering. He’s sent me his best men, and for that I am thankful, but I would much sooner have him send me his Stukas! I want to have the closest possible coordination with my infantry strong points to launch immediate air strikes against this armor. In fact, these new enemy tanks will be the priority targets for the Luftwaffe. They may be able to survive our 88s, but by god, see how they like a 500 pound bomb! If need be we can double down on that, and the Stukas can carry even heavier ordnance.

As for my own armor, it will not support the infantry. Wherever the British heavy armor appears, my own lighter tanks will maneuver elsewhere. These tanks cannot be everywhere, and the desert is a very big place. So we will use maneuver against this implacable enemy rock. From all accounts, they do not have many of these fearsome new tanks, so perhaps we can flow around them like water… As long as I can still keep my forward elements supplied. I will need to secure a good place for a forward depot, and this time I will also need to take Tobruk. I bypassed it before, but I cannot allow the British to sit there as a thorn in my backside if I plan to push into Egypt again.

In the meantime, this campaign in Syria has already drained resources that were supposed to come to me. I have already lost the 1st Mountain Division. In fact Kubler’s entire mountain Korps was sent to Syria, along with some very good mobile divisions. Now it is their turn to face these enemy tanks. Yes, the British must have used the rail lines through Alexandria to move reinforcements to their Syrian operation. They have committed their heavy tanks there, and by god, they stopped 9th Panzer Division in its tracks. Even the 5th SS Wiking Division was forced to do exactly what I have done here—deploy on defense. Yet this may have weakened the enemy strength on my front. Perhaps now is the time to make my move. While the cat is away…

The orders he soon had in hand put the wind in his spirits for the first time since Bir el Khamsa. ‘Given the imminent opening of our final campaign in Russia, it is imperative that we now do all things possible to unhinge the British defense in the Middle East. In light of the determined British attack into Syria, you will now plan and execute an immediate offensive operation aimed at again threatening the British position in Egypt, with the initial aim of capturing Tobruk.’

Good enough, thought Rommel, but capturing Tobruk may not be as easy to do in the field as it might be to order on paper. Those two Australian divisions will fall back on Tobruk when I renew my advance, so I must assemble a shock force capable of punching through to take the place. But what if the British deploy those monster tanks there? They know the value of Tobruk, and will fight like demons to hold it. If my attack there is to have any chance of success, then I must also mount a compelling threat to Alexandria, aimed at diluting the defense of Tobruk and compelling the enemy to deploy his best armor to stop my panzers. They will want to use those tanks to smash my own armor again, so I must be very cagey. My panzers will be the cape of the matador, flashing and luring with their speed and mobility.

Time to dance.

He stood up, the day fine and clear, with the heat still not too oppressive as May began. 5th Light, 15th Panzers, 90th Light, Grossdeutschland Regiment, the Hermann Goering Brigade… Now I finally have a force to be reckoned with, and the supplies to operate for an extended period. Now I get my zweiten kommen, my second coming. Now I rise from the defeat I suffered at Bir el Khamsa, and avenge my losses. It will not be for the medals this time, but for the men I lost there. I owe them that much, and more. I owe them victory.

Dear Lu, he thought, his loving wife in mind again. It is said that destiny calls three times in a man’s life. My first calling was in the Great War when I won this Blue Max and the other medals on my chest. My second call was in France with the 7th Panzers. Now I get my greatest chance. Destiny is calling me out again, and I must not fail to answer, or meet the challenge before me.

Who will I be up against this time? Will the British send O’Connor out to challenge me as before? He is good, perhaps the one man they have who knows how to use those new tanks of theirs. His offensive against Graziani was nothing short of masterful. In the end, I was able to come here and push him back only because of the very same reasons my own offensive failed—lack of supply. By the time he cut off Cyrenaica, and drove to Agheila, his armored divisions had practically melted away to nothing.

I must not allow that to happen to my boys this time around. I will not drive them with the whip as I did before. No. This time the advance will be well planned, methodical. Flank security will be paramount, adequate fuel, water and supplies essential. When we get within striking distance of Tobruk, I want my men fresh and ready for the fight. For something tells me the entire campaign here hinges on that battle. I must have Tobruk, but cannot allow that necessity to stop my advance east.

Even as he thought this, he knew the outcome of this new offensive was far from certain. The British will have taken the time to also reinforce their own armored formations. Abwehr spies in Cairo and Alexandria have been watching arrivals from the Suez very carefully. The British have been moving heavy equipment at night by rail, or so they tell me, but mainly east into Palestine to support their Syrian offensive. So what have they left for me here?

Something tells me they do not have the strength to conduct any meaningful offensive against me now. No. They have chosen to stand on defense here while they try to win through in Syria. So now they get another battle. I move tomorrow morning, and let us see what comes out to answer the challenge. Will O’Connor lead in those fearsome new tanks and dare me to advance?

We shall see…

Chapter 11

“Not there, damn your eyes man. That’s no place for a shore battery. Mount it there, on those headlands!” The wiry man, somewhat scrawny in appearance, was at it yet again, much to the chagrin of the officers and lorry men he was bothering. He seemed to be everywhere now, sticking that thin nose of his into every bunker and building on the home island. As much as the men rued his coming, they knew better than to say anything about it that might be overheard by the man. General Bernard Montgomery was no one to fool with.

The man had been shot clean through the right lung by a German sniper in the First Great War, but returned to fight at Arras and Passchendaele again. He caught Wavell’s eye in Palestine when he commanded the 8th Infantry Division, then went home to take over the 3rd Division in time to see action in France. Under his taught rein of command, Montgomery brought the Iron Division home from Dunkirk largely intact. Once he got home, however, his meddlesome ways and frank, biting criticism of the way the army was led in France, earned him few friends.

Rising to command the V Corps at home, his ascorbic temperament, and penchant for meticulous attention to every detail of his command, soon saw him locking horns with General Auchinlek. He pushed his men hard, with rigorous training and fitness drilling. No one knew just why he was summarily sent back to Palestine. Some said it may have been to simply rid the home islands of the man, but a few knew the real reason—Churchill.

The exploits and exhortations of Montgomery had come to the attention of the Prime Minister, though no one knew the real reason for Montgomery’s sudden new orders. It was, in fact, that quiet chat with the young Russian Captain in the desert oasis of Siwa that led to the call, destiny tapping the shoulder of another man as the war began to heat to the boiling point.

“Tell me,” Churchill had asked quietly, being careful not to step on the toes of General Wavell, who also attended that meeting and was acting as Churchill’s translator in the discussion with Fedorov. “You have let on that we end up winning this war, and for that light at the end of the tunnel I am most grateful. I know there are a thousand details, and perhaps a thousand battles to be fought before we prevail, and I have heeded your warning that the history isn’t quite cooperating this time around. A bit like coming home to the wife and finding she’s gained thirty pounds overnight!” Churchill smiled, sipping his brandy by the fire.

“Well,” he continued. “Battles are fought by men, and led by good generals. I’ve one with me here, and I have every confidence in General Wavell as overall commander in the Middle East. O’Connor is also a good man at the head of 8th Army, and likely to be better now when Tiger Convoy gets round the cape with 500 new tanks for his 7th Armored Division. But we’ll need every good man we can find to lend a hand. I was considering Auchinlek, or perhaps even General Alexander to come in and lend a hand and take some of the burden off Wavell’s shoulders. It’s clear that two fronts are forming up here, one in Syria and the second in Libya. If your warning proves true, the situation in Syria might grow to a point we never expected. Jumbo Wilson is a good man, but he could use a hand there as well. Any suggestions?”

The Prime Minister was fishing again, Fedorov knew. He had baited his line some time ago, and cast well out into the years ahead, hoping to land a big fish that would feed his hunger for knowledge of the days yet to come in this war. Fedorov knew he had to be very careful here. He might reveal things that would result in decisions that were never made in the history he knew, and could not foresee the outcome. Yet, even as he thought that, he realized that the mirror of history was so badly shattered here now that he could barely predict what might happen. And the thought that Ivan Volkov was whispering advice in Hitler’s ear was most disturbing. Could that be the reason the Germans took Gibraltar and Malta, and now this intervention in Syria? Was Volkov behind it all?

So when it came to the question, he did not hesitate for very long. He knew how the war here played out, the pieces of the puzzle that would eventually lead to an Allied victory on both these fronts. But the Prime Minister was correct. It wasn’t just a matter of strategy and tactics now. Someone had to lead the effort on every battlefield, and Churchill was fishing for the names of men who would give him the one thing he dearly needed now—victories.

“I agree that General O’Connor is a most capable man. He was captured, and out of the fight here in the history I know. When I heard his plane was down, I mounted that special rescue mission largely because I believed he could be a vital force for victory here—and that led to some rather unexpected dividends with the coming of Brigadier Kinlan and his troops.”

“Yes,” said Churchill. “One day we must have a long talk about how it happened, but for now, having met the man and seen his troops first hand, I shall accept the testimony of my own eyes and warmly embrace him, no matter what rabbit trick sent him to us in this grave hour.”

“To answer your question, sir,” Fedorov continued, both Auchinlek and Alexander would serve you well, in any capacity you employ them, but there is one man that you would be likely to overlook now, and he was responsible for perhaps the single most important victory of the war in this theater.”

“Do go on, Captain. Who might this man be?”

“Sir Bernard Law Montgomery.”

“Sir Bernard? Well yes, I suppose he was admitted to the Order of the Bath last July, wasn’t he. But the man is in England now, fussing about with the shore batteries and ruffling the skirts of more officers than I would care to mention. A Tee totaling know it all, or so I have heard him called. And I might say that I’ve heard far worse.”

“Yet he wins, sir. Here you have a great General in O’Connor, fire. Well I must tell you that Monty is quite his opposite—ice.”

“Monty?”

“That is what history calls him. He wins here, and goes on to lead the entire Allied Army in the field for the eventual invasion of France. An American General has overall command, Eisenhower, but Monty leads on the ground. Yet he doesn’t do things as O’Connor might. He’s a careful planner, meticulous, tireless, and won’t really move until he knows he has what he needs to win—but he wins. Fire and ice, sir. O’Connor and Montgomery are as different as two men might be, but together they just might make a winning team for you here.”

“If they don’t end up killing one another first,” Wavell put in with a smile.

Some months later, Churchill met with Brooke and decided to send Montgomery back to Palestine. He knew it would eventually mean bringing yet another man into the small circle of British officers that knew the full truth about Kinlan and Kirov, but he wanted winners, and if Monty was the man who gave them victories, he would get him started at it as soon as possible.

So it was that Sir Bernard Law Montgomery was promoted to full general and sent on his way again, remarking that sadly, the war had been easy for a time, but now it was about to get very difficult. When a close associate tried to cheer him up after hearing that, Monty clarified himself with a pointed remark: “Oh, I’m not talking about me, I’m talking about Rommel!” Three hours later Monty was on a plane bound for the Middle East to meet with Wavell and O’Connor.

Destiny had called, perhaps in arranging that meeting between Churchill and Fedorov, and soon the two men, Rommel and Montgomery, would face one another with the wide sands of Libya between them, and the fate of British interests in the Middle East in the balance.

“New tanks?” Montgomery raised a thin eyebrow beneath the Australian hat he wore. Standing no more than five feet and seven inches, Monty did not present the trim, statuesque deportment of men like Alexander or Auchinlek, or even Wavell’s rugged aspect, worn as he was by so many years in Egypt. Instead he dressed in simple garb, a uniform he pieced together himself with baggy corduroy pants, a loose fitting field jacket, and any hat that suited him.

His features were lean and bird like, with penetrating smoky eyes over a prominent beak of a nose with the wisp of a mustache beneath it, and his personality could also be hawk-like, swooping in to prey upon the ills he perceived as detrimental to a proper fighting army. He was a stickler for drilling his men to keep them fit, with a hands on attitude to every detail of command. And he was never shy about voicing an opinion, be it positive or negative, and did so with an inner confidence that verged on arrogance in the eyes of many who came to dislike the man.

An outsider in every respect, Montgomery was not one of the genteel landed ‘British Gentlemen’ officers who populated the upper ranks. He was as black a sheep as they came in that flock, and in many ways prided himself on his disdain for the ’good old boys’ attitude of so many British officers, and the posh life style they cultivated. But one thing was true of the man—he got things done, in an acerbic and feather ruffling way, never afraid to upset the reigning order of things and reset the pieces on any chess board when it suited him.

The news that Rommel was reinforced and moving east again had galvanized him. He was sent to augment the 8th Army command structure, which was presently being led by O’Connor, but the territory spanned by the army was vast at that time, and so a dual command was to be set up, with fire and ice being in the mind of Wavell when he decided the matter. He would place the implacable Montgomery in the key anchoring position of Tobruk, and give him command of the ANZAC Corps, comprised of the three commonwealth infantry divisions, 6th and 9th Australian, and 2nd New Zealand. O’Connor had busied himself with the reorganization and refitting of the armored force, which now had a rejuvenated 7th Armored Division, and the 2nd Armored reinforced by the 22nd Guards Brigade, and would command the XIII Corps as he had in Operation Compass. Kinlan’s force was in reserve, and designated 7th Heavy Tank Battalion, under O’Connor’s command, and now it was time to brief Montgomery on the particulars surrounding this new unit, which was always a daunting moment.

“I’ve heard nothing of any new tanks, and I assure you, I would have been one to know about them back home. Don’t tell me you’ve been field modifying the new equipment we been sending. Something in the way of making them more functional for desert fighting?”

“You might say as much,” said Wavell. “There are no other tanks in the British Army anything like what I am about to show you. We’ll soon have a look and you can see them yourself. Though what I am about to disclose to you now is to be considered a state secret, with the highest possible security rating. In the whole of the British Army, there are only two men who have full knowledge of what I will now reveal to you, and they are presently sitting with you in this room. No one else of note has been briefed, not Jumbo Wilson, nor any commander here in the theatre; not Auchinlek, nor Alexander, and not even Sir Alan Brooke, Chief of the Imperial General Staff. If any of those men ever do hear what I’m about to tell you, it will be at the sole discretion of the Prime Minister, who is the only other man in the civilian government privy to this matter. Understood?”

So it began, with the forcefulness of Wavell’s authority, and the credibility of his rank and long experience in the service, to push open the gates of chaos that were now before Montgomery. Using the method Fedorov had pioneered so effectively with O’Connor, they were soon at the site of Kinlan’s Royal Scott’s Dragoons. There was the initial blank stare, the face of incredulity his first reaction, yet as the meeting progressed, and both O’Connor and Wavell kept on with absolute no-nonsense testimonials, his blue-grey eyes flashed with inner light.

“And so there it is,” Wavell concluded. “King Arthur has come back from Avalon at the 11th hour to fight for King and Country. I realize what I have just told you is as dumbfounding and preposterous as that, but it is hard reality, and now we will take this meeting to the field and you may meet Brigadier Kinlan and see his equipment first hand.”

Montgomery had all the same questions in his mind that O’Connor first had, yet seeing was believing, the most powerful advocate for the truth in the matter was the awesome sight of a modern British Challenger II tank. And there was also something at the heart of Monty’s personality, an inner belief that he was called here by destiny, even as Kinlan’s men were, and that he was meant to lead these men in battle, as if fate had prescribed it as a personal boon for him, delivering the tools he would need to win the victory he intended to deliver, even though he would not have direct command of Kinlan’s force—yet.

O’Connor was still the armored force commander, and he was also Montgomery’s nominal superior as overall commander of 8th Army. Monty had the hard defensive position, charged with holding Tobruk, with O’Connor on the southern desert flank of that bastion with all the mobile forces. Yet the moment he saw what had been delivered to Wavell’s hand, by chance, magic, fate, or sheer destiny, Montgomery insisted that it be put to the fullest possible use.

“These troops fought in Syria? So now I have the riddle solved at last, and know how we were able to stop the German 9th Panzer Division.”

“The total force available amounts to no more than a brigade,” said Wavell. “Kinlan had a tank battalion, two mechanized infantry battalions, a recon battalion and one of light infantry, though those troops are all Gurkhas, and they were the lads who punched through the enemy defense at Damascus. We had no armor to speak of in Operation Scimitar, and so we sent half this brigade there to stiffen our attack and counter the ninety odd tanks the Vichy French had. They did the job well enough, and it was this force, in its entirety, that stopped Rommel earlier and sent him packing west to Mersa Brega. But he’s had a good long while to lick his wounds, and is now heavily reinforced. Yesterday he moved two of his best new units up to Agheila from Mersa Brega. We think a new offensive is imminent.”

“As is his second defeat,” Montgomery said flatly, folding his arms, a fire in his eyes.

“He failed to take Tobruk last time out,” said Wavell. “We think he’ll be wanting to correct that this time. You are well aware that we must hold that place, and I’m giving you the infantry corps because I know you’ll be a stubborn rock in the stream there. That said, Rommel has three fully motorized divisions now, and two more brigade sized units. With that he still has six Italian Infantry divisions, and the Ariete Armored Division. So you will most likely have a tough fight on your hands. Should it come to it, we’ve laid down plans on how we might withdraw from Tobruk if need presses us to do so.”

“I won’t hear of that,” said Montgomery, his chin up and ready for a fight. “In fact if any such plans are handed to me, I’ll tear them up the instant I receive them. I intend to fight the enemy where we now stand; there will be no withdrawal and no surrender. If we cannot stay at Tobruk alive, then let us stay there dead!”

Wavell raised an eyebrow at that, pursing his lips. “Strong talk, General, but if we can live up to it, all the better.”

“That we can,” said Montgomery, “but that road starts with walking your talk. I intend to impart this attitude through every rank and file of the units I command, from top to bottom.”

“You’ve good men to start with,” said O’Connor. “The Aussies are perhaps the toughest troops we have in theatre, and both their divisions are veterans now.”

“Yet you’ve strung them out all over the Jebel country to the north,” said Montgomery. “I’ll want them back to Tobruk immediately.”

O’Connor folded his arms, his eyes tight. “It was our thought that we could at least hold the airfields at Al Bayda, Marawah and Dernah.”

Montgomery was quick to bat that aside.

“What for? We have fields that are more than adequate at Tobruk, El Adem and Sidi Barani. I realize you meant to keep a foot in the door in the event of some westward offensive, but under the circumstances, with Rommel coming to us, I’m bringing the Australians directly to Tobruk.”

It wasn’t a suggestion, but Montgomery’s firm decision on the matter, notwithstanding the fact that both men he was speaking to were his superior officers. O’Connor had been promoted to make that obvious, but Monty was not one to fuss over rank, except when it came to his own.

“Well,” said O’Connor, “we determined that Tobruk was the place to hold after all, and not further west with 500 kilometers of desert behind us and a long line of supply. Yet one day, if we do hold, we shall have to move west again. And, when I do move west, I shall be glad to know you will anchor our defense, General Montgomery, because I’m told you are a man who is determined to win, as I am. That much is clearly evident.”

The two men locked eyes for a moment, the sandy haired dash and fire of O’Connor, and the lean, hawk-like aspect of Montgomery—fire and ice. But neither man had time to truly take the measure of the other in that brief encounter. News came in by motorcycle currier that Rommel’s second offensive had finally begun.

Chapter 12

When Rommel moved, it was with well schooled precision. He had organized three columns, the southernmost to be led by the Grossdeutschland Regiment, followed by 15th Panzer Division. In the center he led with the 90th Light followed by the 5th Light Division, and to the north the Italian Ariete Armored Division pushed off, aiming for Mechile and followed by the Herman Goering Brigade. The columns were well fueled and supplied, and in seven days they had pushed across the desert and were approaching the British defensive positions anchored on Tobruk.

Monty’s insistence on pulling the Australians quickly back to Tobruk was sound thinking. Otherwise his infantry brigades would have faced these shock columns, forced to fight in brigade groups out of close supporting distance from one another. It was a bit of a foot race that week, for the 6th Australian Division was not fully motorized, but the Aussies managed to foot it back to the outlying fortified line of Tobruk just as the first Armored cars of the Ariete Division finally reached the coastal road at Gazala, biting off the vast peninsula of Cyrenaica.

There had been no fighting during the advance, aside from scattered air strikes on both sides. The British were also evacuating all the airfields in Cyrenaica, and trying to cart off the aviation fuel before the enemy could claim it as a prize. For their part, the Germans and Italians were quickly flying squadrons to each new field as it was captured, and setting up ground crews and supplies to support Rommel’s attack.

The Axis columns flowed east, until lead units began to encounter British positions in a line stretching from Tobruk, forward of the big airfield at El Adem, then just east of Bir Hacheim. The night of May 7th, the German columns had begun to fan out along the line of expected enemy resistance, and Rommel was moving forward in the gloaming dusk to meet with the man who would anchor his southern flank, Walter “Papa” Hörnlein, who replaced Stockhausen a few months earlier than the history Fedorov might have known. The medals on his chest were as thick as those on Rommel’s own when he found the lean faced man at his HQ billet that night. Hörnlein was a holder of the Iron Cross for valor, with wound badge in black, and the Honor Cross for his service in the First war, and before this one was over he would add many more. A man of 48 years, he had sharp, aquiline eyes above sallow cheeks, and his face could seem drawn and tired at times, those eyes seeming to see things that he and his men might yet endure, as if he was endowed with some second sight.

He was a staunch National Socialist, though he left that behind him when he was in the field with his men, with whom he cultivated a kind of father-son relationship. His first meeting with the subordinate officers was taken over dinner and drinks, in a relaxed atmosphere of comradery. Thinking his troops would be in the front lines of the imminent attack on Soviet Russia, Hörnlein was quite surprised to learn his unit was being sent to reinforce Rommel’s Afrika Korps.

“Stockhausen has set the bar high,” he told his men. “Taking Gibraltar was no small feat under his command. Now we get our chance in the desert.”

Volunteers to a man, his men and officers were ready. They had been selected from all over Germany to form an exemplary regiment, tall, physically fit, and with perfect eyesight as a requirement for service. There were no shirkers here, and this unit would continue to toughen in the cauldron of combat until it would one day earn the title of “The Führer’s Fireman,” a unit that could be rushed into broken positions on the crumbling east front to restore order and save the day, time and time again.

The word “elite” was not enough to describe these troops. From its early roots as the Wacheregiment Berlin and the Kommando der Wachtruppe, Grossdeutschland, or “Greater Germany” was an exemplary force on the battlefield, reliable, unyielding, and persevering in circumstances that would have broken any lesser unit. Hörnlein and the men he commanded would be asked to do the impossible many times before the war ended, and they would seldom fail in that charge. Yet now Rommel knew that they were going to face a challenge unlike any other, and he wanted to take the measure of Hörnlein and his men, and prepare them if he could.

The two men met in Hörnlein’s HQ tent, seated on simple folding canvass chairs before a shipping case that had been pressed into service as a makeshift table. It was not to be dinner and drinks that night, but serious talk about what they might be facing.

“The Korps is in fine spirits, as are my men,” said Hörnlein as they began.

“I am glad for that,” said Rommel. “But the fighting hasn’t started yet. I am more concerned with their morale after that happens than any bravado that might be displayed before a battle. Make no mistake here, Hörnlein. This will not be as easy as your service under Kleist in Fall Gelb. The desert is a hard place—no trees or rivers to cross, but dry stony wadis, salt pans, bare scrub that can hardly give a man any cover. It is an open field for battle, and one might think it perfect for maneuver with our fast moving formations, but here we must learn a different game. Every day in this desert, there will be just a little less of you and your men than the day before. You will see it in their faces in time, a lean, haggard look. My men have already fought here, and tasted both victory and defeat. Frankly I am still trying to decide which was worse.”

Hörnlein knew Rommel was trying to steel him for the combat ahead, but remained confident. “Your earlier setback was unavoidable,” he said. “I read the reports, particularly those from the Quartermasters, and the Korps was simply not adequately supplied. Frankly I am surprised you chose to attack at all given the situation you faced, and with only the 5th Light Division in hand. Yet now you have a Korps worthy of the name. There are fine troops here, well supplied this time, and I am not simply trumpeting the virtue of my own boys now.”

“Fair enough, General, but did you also note the comments concerning this new British armor?”

“Most surprising,” said Hörnlein. “A new heavy tank… How was it this tiger did not show us a whisker in France? We heard nothing of it. I am told the French had a few monster tanks, but they were more show pieces than any real asset in combat.”

“These tanks are different. The French Char 2C was a lumbering showpiece, just as you say, but not these new British tanks. They are dreadful, massive beasts, yet with a low profile and speed that would rival any tank we have. This is not a slow elephant, Hörnlein, but a dashing heavyweight. It can move like lightning, firing on the run, and from very long range. When we first encountered it, our tanks simply began to blow up before we ever knew what was hitting us. And when I saw them, even from a distance, I could simply not believe my eyes. Give me twenty of those tanks and I would be on the Suez Canal in two weeks. As it stands, however, they are fighting for the other side.”

Hörnlein nodded, accepting the warning evident in Rommel’s tone. “Yet from all accounts, there were not many,” he said. “And the few they have may still be in Syria and Lebanon.”

“Yes,” said Rommel, “the 9th Panzer Division made their acquaintance near the big aerodrome at Rayak there. The Recon battalion was out in front, and a formation of these tanks ripped it to pieces. When we faced them the armor fought as a discrete unit, but in Syria the British seem to have created combined arms kampfgruppes. They also have a new medium tank that doubles as an infantry carrier. It is equally fast, and with a gun in the range of our own 50cm gun on the Panzer IIIs. They have learned fast, Hörnlein. Believe me, this is not the British army we fought in France. At Bir el Khamsa they coordinated every element of their force to perfection, reconnaissance, artillery, armor, and fast moving infantry in this new carrier tank. It was extraordinary. They fight on the move, as I have said, stopping for nothing. It is blitzkrieg the like of which you have never seen, and we were taken completely by surprise.”

“But we have had a good long while to think about that, yes?”

“Night after night,” said Rommel. “Paulus told me I had to start thinking like a commander from the last war, and fight my infantry units as hard as my panzers, and he may be correct.”

“This is why you have had us drilling in rapid field fortification and minefield deployment?”

“Exactly. Be advised—nothing stopped these tanks,” Rommel warned. “We hit them with 88s and yet could not hurt even one. As for the lighter AT guns, do not even bother with them. They may harm this new medium tank, but not the new main battle tank they have. It is impervious to any weapon we now possess, save perhaps heavy caliber artillery, which we may soon see. This is why I requested, and thank god, received, all those 150mm and 170mm guns! As I see it now, our only chance when these tanks appear is to deploy in a hedgehog formation, use fixed positions and mines, and then saturate the point of enemy attack with artillery fire—the first damn war all over again.”

“But not with the gas,” said Hörnlein. “No, not yet. If we were to use such a tactic the British would have no choice but to use it as well, and then we get that nightmare back again. This one looks to be bad enough as it stands.”

There was a moment of silence, and the two men seemed to dwell on memories of their time in the first war, before Rommel spoke again.

“General, I have placed your unit here on the southern flank for two reasons. The British will stand on the coast, as always. They are already digging in behind their bunkers at Tobruk, with three good divisions in the immediate vicinity of that fortress. It will have to be taken if we are to have any chance to move further east. So I will throw the Italians at them first, to make some use of their infantry divisions. If nothing else, they will force the enemy to expend ammunition and supplies in the defense. Eventually, however, it will take good German troops to punch through there. I’ve selected Goering’s troops for that attack, and will support them with armor.”

“And what if the British have these new heavy tanks there?”

“I do not think they will deploy them at Tobruk. No. That is their hammer, not their shield. They will use their armor to the south, perhaps in an enveloping maneuver, as I might. The open desert is endless there. You will never lack for room to maneuver in a wide sweeping envelopment. That is what they will probably expect from me, but I will not give them that fight this time. I’m leading the assault with the 90th Light, here…” Rommel unfolded a field map and pointed to a place south of Tobruk.

“El Adem,” he said. “That is their principle aerodrome here in the western desert. I’m going to lead with an infantry assault, infiltration tactics like those I used in the first war. Then we will see what they do with their armor.”

“You expect they will counterattack there?”

“No, I believe they will try to swing round my southern flank—around your flank, general Hörnlein, which is why I have placed you and your men here in this vital position. You are the flank, and you must not collapse, under any circumstances. But I plan on committing my tanks behind the 90th Light, so do not expect armor support here. I will try to keep something in reserve, but if they come with their heavy tanks, my armor will not be effective. You must fight them as I have described.”

“And if they simply swing around my infantry positions? What then?”

“That is exactly what I expect, and so we are planning a few little surprises for them.”

“Surprises? Do enlighten me, Herr General.”

“First off, the pioneer battalions from each formation are being grouped into a full regiment. I am going to select the ground carefully, and then set the men to digging out a good anti-tank ditch, mined and barbed. Behind it we will position a pakfront of 88s, all dug in well, as the enemy used artillery against us when we deployed them from the march at Bir el Khamsa. The 88s will screen our heavy artillery, including some new 150cm nebelwerfers. If they come around your flank I will wait for them to come up on that AT ditch and then saturate the ground there with heavy artillery fire. Scissors, paper, rock, Hörnlein. They have scissors too big and sharp for our own panzers to cope with now, so we must use a rock—your regiment holding firm, and then comes the artillery. I come to you here this evening because I believe you will be the men to face this enemy armor this time…” He did not need to say anything more on that account.

Hörnlein knew he was being warned, prepared for a shock that was soon to be upon him, and Rommel was sizing him up, wanting to know how he would endure, or if he could endure at all.

“Let me be frank,” he said at last. “I’m told your men are the best we have. Make me believe that to a certainty. If you can hold this flank, then I have a chance to throw three divisions right through the center of the enemy defense, here just south of el Adem.”

“This feature here,” said Hörnlein. “Is it passable?”

“That is a deep wadi. We’ve been working on ways to get over them. You’ve seen me drilling the men. Once we do, I want to punch through with my tanks, and then turn north for the coast. But to succeed, I need the enemy to send these new tanks of theirs somewhere else…”

“Against me,” said Hörnlein, knowing what Rommel was saying now. “So we are to be your sacrificial lamb.”

“Correct. But do not think I am sending you to the slaughter, Hörnlein. If I know you are the best, then the enemy will know it as well. So I’ll want you to feed that fire, and demonstrate on this flank as if we were planning a wide southern envelopment. I’ll send you a battalion of tanks to make a good show. But yes, I want the enemy armor here, against Grossdeutschland, squaring off with the best we have. I realize I’m asking a great deal of you; of your men.”

“Have no worry, General Rommel, you can rely on us. We’ll dig into any ground you choose, and by god, we’ll hold it, even if there is nothing we can do against these new enemy tanks but curse at them.”

“That is what I will need from you. Be tough, General. Be stubborn. I know you have a particular fondness for your men, and that asking them to stand there and thump their chests at the enemy is a hard thing, but this is where the British will send their best units, and so I have chosen you and your men to face them. There is one other little surprise we have for the enemy—the Stukas.”

“Good air support is always welcome.”

“Yes, well I have been promised liberal support by Goering, and three squadrons will be assigned to direct support for your regiment. If the enemy does attempt to turn your flank, then the crows will darken their skies. Just use the code word Valkyrie. This is all we can do, General, fixed positions with good men holding them, mined, Anti-tank guns, for all they are worth, liberal artillery with every gun we can spare, and then a good pounding from the air.”

“And the timing of these operations?”

“We’ve just come 500 kilometers from Agedabia, so rest now, dig in here where I have indicated on this map. In a few days time there will be some real fireworks, but you have that interval to prepare. I will keep you informed.”

Rommel stood, returning Hörnlein’s salute, and then turned to catch a glimpse of the setting sun. It was always a rising sun that I loved most, he thought, yet now we must learn to love the dusk as well, and the darkness of night. I have risen from my long sleep at Mersa Brega. The enemy knows I’m here, and is probably out there tonight in their own tents, thinking how to stop the flanking maneuver they believe I am planning here. I will hate to disappoint them, but a good commander must never be predictable. Destiny may have forgiven me for my lapse at Bir el Khamsa. This time I will be ready.