Tigers East

Chapter 10

Rommel was exhausted. It had been another sleepless night, and the news from the front was frustrating. The Italians were finally finished at Benghazi. The deployment of a third enemy infantry division to that sector had finally put an end to the garrison there.

“Our Italian friends, and would be masters, are not happy about their situation,” said Rommel. “Yet Hitler demanded that Benghazi be held, and most of those units had little in the way of transport. Losing the port hardly matters. Most everything we need comes through Tripoli—and then takes weeks to get here. We use a third of the gasoline just transporting the rest to this position. If I had my way, I would move back to Tripoli at once.”

He was speaking to one of his new Corps Commanders, Generalleutnant Wilhelm Ritter von Thoma. Rommel had finally requested a replacement for General Crüwell, finding him too abrasive and disobedient to work with any longer. Crüwell was then shipped off to Russia, which is where von Thoma had just come from after commanding first the 17th Panzer Division, and then the 20th. He was a tall, aristocratic looking man who had a dubious reputation in Fedorov’s history. Some believed he had deliberately surrendered to the British to get out of the war after El Alamein, and then, while in captivity with General Crüwell, he let slip vital details of the German rocket program, giving the R.A.F. a choice new target.

Crüwell would escape his fate as a captive this time around, and now it remained to be seen whether or not von Thoma would become a reliable replacement.

“Useless mouths to feed,” he said to Rommel. “The Italians are good hard workers, but they do not like to fight. It’s simply too noisy on the battlefield to suit them.”

“Well it has been entirely too quiet of late,” said Rommel. “Finally they start with the morning artillery barrages again, which could be a sign that something is in the offing. I got a most unusual message the other day, delivered to me in that secure diplomatic pouch you brought me. Did you know about it?”

“Me? No, I do not read the mail I deliver, Herr General. What was it, if you don’t mind my asking—a message from the Führer? It must be nice to have such a cozy relationship like that.”

“Don’t think it is easy,” said Rommel. “Yes, I am fortunate to have the trust and confidence of the Führer, but the man can be… trying. As to this message, it was not from Hitler. It was a note from Himmler.”

“Himmler? What would the SS Chief want to convey to you? Is he sending one of his precious divisions?”

“Not exactly,” said Rommel. “Yet he mentioned a brigade he has formed, and stated he was holding it in readiness for deployment to Spain.”

“Spain? Why there?”

“He believes an invasion is imminent.”

“The British?”

“And their new friends, the Americans.”

“Invade Spain? That will not be as easy as it might sound. Cadiz is the only place they could look at, and even that is so close to Gibraltar that our Stukas would pound them to dust.”

“Oh?” Rommel smiled. “General, you are new here, but you will soon learn that our Stukas pound very little these days. Unless we can give them air superiority with our fighters, they are useless. That wasn’t so difficult last year, but now, the Americans are delivering scores of new aircraft to this theater, and the balance has tipped in favor of the enemy. If the Allies do launch such an attack, you can believe that they will be sure to bring along a few hundred fighters. Things look different on a battlefield when you are under constant attack from above. Goering clucks and boasts a good deal, and he has deigned to deliver his personal armored brigade into my hands, but if he would deliver a few more Bf-109s, I would be happier.”

“An invasion of Spain….” Von Thoma had a thoughtful look on his face. “You know I fought with the Condor Legion there—hard fighting. That’s where we first got our hands on those Bf-109s, and worked out all the problems until they were the finest fighter in the world. And we had the 88s there as well. I suggested several improvements.”

“I am glad for that,” said Rommel. “I was putting them to very good use, until the British rolled up a tank that even that gun cannot handle.”

“I have heard the rumors. Haven’t you captured one by now?”

Rommel flashed him a dark look. “Almost… In this instance, it was indeed a Stuka that got our first kill on one of them. It was disabled on the battlefield, and one of our recon platoons was approaching it when a monster appeared that froze their blood—some kind of massive engineering tank that looked like a demon from hell. It hauled off the enemy tank before we could get our hands on it.”

“But surely there were other kills.”

“No General, only one. This tank is completely invulnerable to any weapon we have—yes, even the new upgraded 88s. In fact, it is the reason I am sitting here instead of Alexandria. From what we have seen, there are not many of them, perhaps only a single brigade, but they move with incredible speed, and have a main gun that can outrange any weapon we have except the 88. Our tanks are hit before we can even see the enemy coming. I’ve tried everything, and all it resulted in was one wrecked panzer division after another. Crüwell was largely responsible. He would rush in, thinking he was up against those old British cruiser tanks. Then these monsters appeared.”

“Only a brigade you say? Where is it now? Surely you have intelligence.”

“We believe it is at Jalo, well south. If we dare make a move east, then it will be right on our flank as before.”

Why not simply block it with infantry, then swarm it with anti-tank teams carrying the new Panzerfausts?”

“A good idea, if I could get enough Panzerfausts to matter. The only vulnerable spot on that tank might be the tracks or wheels, but they move so damn fast that hitting one on the run is very difficult. And these tanks do not fight without infantry support—armored troops in a very fast vehicle with a 20 or 30mm gun, or so we believe. This brigade is a perfect combined arms kampfgruppe—infantry, armor, excellent heavy artillery support. I’ve tried everything, and when you get out to the front you will see the only solution I have come to—WWI.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Wire, trenches, mines, saturation kill zones for our artillery, and every 88 we have is dug in deep at hard points along the line. The infantry dug in as well, just like the first war. If we attempt to fight with our new tactics using the panzers, that brigade will trump any maneuver we make, and smash our Schwerpunkt. Then the rest of the British armored force comes in and it becomes a matter of simple attrition. We start a battle with 350 tanks, and end up with 70 or 80 when it is over. I got as far east as Mersa Matruh last year, but no farther. That was when we first encountered this new enemy formation. It came out of the south, and hit us on the flank at Bir el Khamsa. Believe me, that was quite a shock. Looking back on it now, I can see it was the beginning of the end for us here.”

“I see….” Von Thoma seemed concerned now, hearing a vacant, empty tone in Rommel’s voice. “If the British have such tanks, then why do they not attack?”

“Oh, they did attack. That’s what pushed us off our Gazala line. It was the same old story, Montgomery with the infantry pushing up the coast; O’Connor with the armor trying to swing south around our flank. I had all three of my panzer divisions lined up to smash him at his turning point. Then Crüwell ran off halfcocked and started a premature engagement. He got into trouble, called for Bayerlein, and by the time I got there it was a complete mess. I sent in my last division to try and win the day—then these monster tanks appeared again, and that was that. Well, Herr General, rest assured, the British are not done with us yet. That was what Himmler was whispering in that message you delivered—another big offensive. He believes the Allies are planning to open a second front.”

“In Spain?”

“There, and possibly in French North Africa. If it happens, then you can bet that it will put an end to my supplies and replacements. Himmler even suggested that I stand ready to detach units west if the need arises. Perhaps I will join them. The flies here are very bad in the summer. I’ve had my fill of Mersa Brega and El Agheila.”

Rommel’s Afrika Korps had reached the Mersa Brega line months ago, settling in behind well-established positions protected by wire, anti-tank ditches and minefields. The defeat at Gazala and the long retreat across Cyrenaica had taken some toll, but the enemy seemed in no better shape, and the pursuit was not pressed with any fervor. He had come over 250 miles in short order, but his major supply port at Tripoli was still another 450 miles to the west. Something was in the air, as Himmler’s message warned, and he would soon learn that the intelligence was very sound—the Allied landings at Lisbon and Casablanca were already underway as he spoke with von Thoma.

In the months while he waited on defense, eager to receive new tanks, infantry, vehicles and guns, he felt the buildup was far too slow, and chafed that he could never hope to entertain offensive operations again if OKW did not get serious about reinforcing and rearming his troops. That was a fantasy now, he knew, as there could be no advance while that heavy British armor stood watch. Yet why didn’t the enemy attack? That was von Thoma’s question, and now Rommel came to believe that they were building up for something very big.

In that he was quite correct, for the British had been completely rebuilding their own forces in the 8th Army over the last several months. O’Connor was waiting for fresh armor, particularly the new infantry tank dubbed the Churchill that had been promised, along with an influx of American Grants and Shermans. He had two Armored divisions to flesh out, the 7th and 1st, and was told he would get two more. This was later paired down to one, the 8th, as the 10th Armored was held in the UK pending the decision on the timing of Operation Torch.

The 4th Indian would return to relieve the 5th Indian, and the two South African Divisions were sent to invest Benghazi. The veteran Australian 9th Infantry was being called home, and Churchill continued to wrangle for at least the 2nd New Zealand Division to remain in theater. O’Connor was told he could use it to secure Benghazi, but after that, the division would embark from that port and head home. This left only the 50th Northumbrian in hand for offensive operations, and so O’Connor waited to receive additional forces from Britain. These eventually came in the 51st Highland Division, and the 44th Home Counties Division, giving him a solid British Infantry Corps to back his three armored divisions.

All these changes took 60 days, and in the meantime, supplies and fuel were trucked up from Alexandria, new forward depots established, airfields occupied in Cyrenaica, and squadrons built up with an influx of American planes. The plan was to build up sufficient strength to allow the 8th Army to resume full scale offensive operations without having to rely on Kinlan’s Brigade.

It was late July until hostilities resumed with artillery duels at Agedabia, Rommel’s easternmost line of defense. Then, in recent days, the Italians reported the movement of the 4th Indian Division and 2nd New Zealand to reinforce the South Africans around Benghazi. O’Connor wanted to take that port as a secure base and leave no “Tobruk” behind him if he advanced west. The first two weeks of August were therefore devoted to doing exactly that, while Rommel brooded to the south on his Mersa Brega line, unable or simply unwilling to do anything to aid the Italians at Benghazi.

With that port finally cleared on August 18th, O’Connor brought up the last of his armored reserves, the 8th Division. It was his initial intention to combine all three mobile divisions into one Corps, but he then came to think this formation would be too unwieldy. Seeing that the new 8th Division was heavy on the infantry tanks, he decided to parcel out its heavy brigades to bolster his other divisions. He therefore restructured his army with 1st and 7th Armored in X Corps, the three British divisions and 23rd Armored Brigade in XXX Corps, and then 2 New Zealand, 4th Indian and 1st South African forming XIII Corps. 2nd South African was to be held in reserve at Benghazi. He had many of the same cards as Montgomery had at El Alamein, but he had shuffled them about to produce these three balanced corps formations.

While 8th Army grew stronger week by week, Rommel would soon find his own Afrika Korps picked apart to help build an entire new army to defend in the west, the fallout from that unexpected message from Himmler. As a pinning attack, meant to hold German forces in place after the Torch landings, O’Connor moved his XXX Corps infantry up against the Mersa Brega Line while he maneuvered his X corps Armor into position on the southern flank. It was a natural move, not in any way unexpected by Rommel, as that was the formula for most any attack in this long campaign, fix and press the defense on the coastal road, while enfilading the line by a wide envelopment from the south.

“This O’Connor thinks he is fooling me here,” said Rommel to von Thoma. “I know damn well what he is planning.”

It was then that a courier came in, saluting, his uniform covered in dust. He had just come in from the makeshift landing strip, arriving on a Storch, and then riding to Rommel’s HQ on a motorcycle.

“Message from General Kesselring,” he said, handing off the envelope. “There is a map enclosed.”

“Thank you, Leutnant, even though I am certain you bring me nothing but more bad news. Go and see the adjutant in the next building. He’ll see that you get some refreshment.”

“Thank you, sir. The general has requested a response, and I’m to fly off with it at your earliest convenience.”

“Must be trouble,” said Rommel, opening the envelope and moving to the table where an oil lamp illuminated the room with a dull glow in the grey dawn. He found the map, opening it and spreading it out on the table.

“My, my,” he said under his breath. “Come have a look at this, von Thoma. It seems that message you delivered was right on the money.”

Von Thoma stepped over, hands behind his back, head inclined to look at the map. An eyebrow raised, the surprise evident. “Lisbon? The British violated Portuguese neutrality?”

“Oh, I have no doubt they rang the bell with flowers in hand and asked politely before they kicked in the door. And look here…. The Americans have landed at Casablanca.” Rommel raised an eyeglass, looking at the typed message now, then shook his head, a grim expression on his face. “Just as I feared,” he said, the weight of the moment heavy in his tone. “I am requested to immediately release the whole of 10th Panzer Division, and all of Goering’s troops as well. We sit here for three months rebuilding this army, and with this letter, everything I have struggled to secure goes out the door.”

The first shells of the morning artillery bombardment came rumbling ominously in the distance as he finished. Rommel looked at his watch. “Very punctual, these British. It usually lasts for twenty minutes, only this time, I think we will be lucky if it ends before noon. Welcome to Afrika, von Thoma. We are about to get very busy.”

Chapter 11

There was one more force at O’Connor’s disposal, the brigade that had been Rommel’s bane ever since he first encountered it at Bir el Khamsa. The British had used “Kinlan’s Heavies” as they were now called, to spearhead their flanking attack against Rommel’s Gazala line, but this time, with the strengthening of 8th Army, O’Connor suggested they have a go at the enemy without resorting to the use of Kinlan’s Brigade.

“You will always be available should things go wrong,” he explained. “Yet I think we can hold our own. I’ll have six infantry and two strong armor divisions, even after 2nd New Zealand leaves for home. So I propose to keep you in deep reserve. You can move up to the coast after we jump off here. Everything is set to go the first of October.”

“My man Reeves is already at Marada on a forward recon operation,” said Kinlan.

“Our 7th Armored will relieve him, and I’ll return him to you forthwith. We’ve cleared out Tobruk now that I have Benghazi. So I’ve had a good amount of fuel moved south of Tobruk and stored there for your brigade. Sorry to hog it all for my boys, but a tanker came in two days ago at Alexandria, and we’re finally supplied. Replenish those marvelous tanker trucks you use in your train vehicles. Top off your tanks. I’m afraid I can’t offer you more of those charmed rounds your big tanks use, but at least we’ve got the fuel. Once we push Rommel out of Mersa Brega. You can move your brigade there.”

“Good,” said Kinlan. “We can use that fuel. We only had enough to refuel one Sabre of my heavies. The rest are thirsty, but I suppose we can make it to the Tobruk area easily enough.”

“Right then,” said O’Connor. “I’m off to the front. Wish me luck.”

“General, make your own luck,” said Kinlan with a wink. “And give them hell.”

The Mersa Brega line was perhaps the strongest in Libya from a standpoint of natural defense. The ground all along the coastal plain was marshy in places, and a morass of salt pans, wadis, and rocky terrain that impeded any real speed in maneuver on attack. The terrain formed a natural bottleneck, and sandy ground known as sebka, dune fields, and rocky escarpments clotted the southern flank as well. O’Connor had positioned 50th Division right on the coast road, with the 51st Highland Division on its left. A long rugged wadi separated the two divisions, running almost parallel to the coast itself, which would make communication between the two units difficult if one had to support the other. Further south, there was a narrow pass between the rocky ground near Matan Al Jafar and an east west escarpment. This was where O’Connor had posted his 1st Armored Division, which was heavy on Infantry tanks.

The Army was flush with armor now, their steel ranks swollen with new deliveries from both the Americans and the UK. In this single division he had nearly 100 of the American Grants, an odd medium tank that looked like a throwback from the first war.

It had a high profile, mounting a 37mm gun in the top turret, and then adding a bigger 75mm gun on the right forward hull in a boxy enclosure. The sloped armor plates were all assembled with rows of thick rivets along the edges, and it was a hot, noisy vehicle in the desert, an ungainly looking mechanical monster. The sponson box for the main gun put it so low that the tank could not assume a hull down position, and its high profile made it a very easy target. Compared to the newer tank designs being produced by the Germans, it was a complete anachronism. In spite of that, it had good 51mm frontal armor, and that 75mm gun packed a decent punch.

While they were not happy with the design, the British had such a need for armor that they spent every last schilling they had in US banks to order 1,250, and then insisted on a few modifications, including better frontal armor. Added to these, they also had another 86 Crusader IIIs, and nearly 100 of the new Churchills, and an equal number of Valentines in that division, commanded by General Briggs.

7th Armored was built more for speed and envelopment, and it had only 50 Grants, with all its remaining tanks being Crusader IIIs and the American M5 Stuarts, fresh from the factories. It was a scouting and reconnaissance tank, fast, agile, and with a turret mounted 37mm main gun. General Harding commanded this division, which found itself approaching the German flank with impassible dune fields on its right, preventing any contact with 1st Armored, and rugged terrain, ridges and hills to its left. It was simply terrible ground for the attacker, but O’Connor had over 750 tanks, and was counting on sheer mass to overwhelm the enemy once contact was finally made.

O’Connor was supposed to attack soon after the landings at Lisbon and Casablanca, but this difficult terrain caused him considerable delay in getting his divisions positioned “in the wine bottle,” as he called it.

“It only gets worse from here on out,” he briefed his men. “But once we push through this bottleneck, the ground is much better. My intention is to reach the Marble Arch near Merduma in three or four days. That may be a tough order if the enemy puts up a good defense here, but once we get there, then we’re the cork in the bottle, and Rommel has no way to threaten another move into Cyrenaica. In effect, gentlemen, it will remain in British hands permanently, this I can guarantee you. There will be no more falling back on Tobruk. After that, we fight for Tripolitania.”

“Sir,” an officer of the 50th Division raised his hand. “Who are we up against on that coast road?”

“Well Ben, you’ve got all the Italians in front of you. One look at you, however, and they’ll all turn tail and make a run for Tripoli. As for the 51st Division, your lot has drawn a dance with Rommel’s 164th Light.”

“What sir?” said Wimberly, commander of the 51st. “Not the Mighty Ninety Lighty?” This got another laugh, as it was the nickname the British had given to the 90th Light, the division these new troops had heard so much about from the veterans in the other divisions. “Tenacious little Bastards,” they were told. “Never underestimate them.”

“Now Jerry has been in a mad dash to get east of the Americans at Casablanca,” said O’Connor. “Kesselring wants nothing to do with Morocco, and now they’ve pulled back from Oran near the Algerian border—too close to the RAF for their liking I suppose. Everything is Willy Nilly in Spain, and Montgomery is closing in on Gibraltar. Now it’s our turn. Let’s show Rommel the door here, and move him out of the picture, baggage and all. I want to get to Tripoli before the Americans horn in on the show, They’re making a big push for Algiers as it stands. Very good then, off to your divisions!”

To say that things were ‘Willy Nilly’ in Spain was an understatement. Eisenhower and Clark had quietly put out peace feelers to Franco. In truth, his membership in the Axis Club had been marginal. He was certainly complicit in allowing the Germans to traverse Spanish territory to get at Gibraltar, and there were many who wanted to see him hanged. Considering British animosity over the loss of Gibraltar, allowing him to stay seated in power was out of the question, but allowing him to retain his head on his shoulders, and accept early retirement in a comfortable villa was much more than he might have received otherwise, and that was the offer.

Eisenhower sent the message, delivered by submarine to the Spanish coast as before, and then into the British spy network that still had men in Spain. Franco looked at his situation, with half his army unreliable, the other half wavering, insurgents in the north, Germans in country and a growing British force that had already fought its way through Seville and was now closing on Gibraltar. News of the destruction in Seville gave him a preview of what would likely happen to other cities in Spain if he allowed the fighting to continue. Yet if he declared his support for the Allies, as Eisenhower urged, what would the Germans do to him?

The answer was that he would take a train to the front lines, ostensibly to buck up the morale of his army near the Portuguese border. In reality, however, he would secretly cross into Portugal, turning himself over to the British Army there, where he would be guaranteed immunity in exchange for making a national broadcast from Lisbon declaring Spain had abandoned the Axis, and exhorting his army to strike the Germans wherever they found them.

This he did, and most of his army was only too willing to join the Allied cause. While the majority simply ceased operations and refused to budge, some went home, while others took up operations against the Germans. Few dared to openly engage German military units, but rail lines, bridges, and roads could make easy, and relatively safe targets. Hube was soon informed that there was considerable unrest in Spain, and demolition attacks from these insurgents were multiplying daily.

The chaos caused by Hitler’s decision to disarm the Vichy French and occupy their territory was pronounced. After lengthy discussion with Kluge, Kietel, Jodl and Halder, Hitler threw up his hands in anger and cursed Franco.

“That man has been a headache from the very first. I knew he would be unreliable, and now he’s gone running to the British. I’ve half a mind to send fifty divisions into Spain and crush every city to bare road dust! Yet, considering the situation on the Volga, we have far bigger fish to fry.”

Of course, Hitler could not have found fifty divisions to carry out his threat, and soon Halder and Jodl convinced him that Spain was nothing more than a massive liability.

“We have only the one rail line from Marseilles to Barcelona open now,” he said. “The Spanish Army opened the frontier they were holding north of Hube’s positions and the British already pushed an armored Brigade into Madrid.”

“Why wasn’t it garrisoned?”

“It was garrisoned, my Führer, but with Spanish troops. All our divisions, and there were only three, were south near Seville and Gibraltar where the main British drive was happening. Given that the rail line back along the southwest coast of Spain is now subject to interdiction, I believe the best solution we have is to pull out of Spain entirely. The Pyrenees Mountains will prove a formidable obstacle to any Allied incursion into Southern France, but if we attempt to hold Spain, it will need far more troops than we have there now—and we both know we do not have those fifty divisions you spoke of.”

“Yet Gibraltar must be held,” said Hitler adamantly. “I designate it Festung Gibraltar, and our garrison there will fight to the last man—delay as long as possible.”

“We can give that order, and our troops there will certainly comply and stand fast, but need I remind you that we took Gibraltar with the threat of gasoline to be poured into the cave openings from above and ignited. I fear the British will not have forgotten that.”

Hitler’s hand was unsteady, yet his jaw was set and firm, his eyes smoldering with anger and resentment. “I will find out where Franco is hiding,” he said darkly, “and then I will send Obersturmbannführer Scorzeny in with his commandos and have his throat slit!”

No one said anything more, watching and waiting in the strained silence of OKW headquarters. The Werewolf was still in the throes of his tantrum, and a very dangerous beast when so transformed. Then Hitler composed himself, reached for his eyeglasses with an unsteady hand, and stared at the map.

“All of Morocco gone, and now Kesselring tells me he wishes to establish his defensive front at Algiers. What of Oran? Too far west, he says. The Allied air units in Spain will make any defense there impractical. Admiral Raeder has already taken it upon himself to move the Hindenburg and our other ships to Algiers. Why are my Generals and Admirals so eager to give the enemy ground, give them airfields, ports, and without a single shot being fired? Why?”

No one spoke.

“Very well. Spain is a nuisance. I will order Hube to withdraw his divisions through Barcelona at once, and they are to crush any impediment placed before them by the Spanish Army, swiftly and ruthlessly. For every German soldier harmed in this redeployment, I will have ten Spanish citizens rounded up in the nearest town or village and summarily executed! See that those orders go out to Himmler at once. Make provisions to watch the Spanish Frontier. As for Kesselring, he is to stand where he is at Algiers—not one backward step more! That port, and all of Algeria and Tunisia will be held. Further territorial losses in North Africa are unacceptable—no, they are forbidden. Thank God Rommel still holds the line in Libya. The British have been unable to move him for months! My other generals should take a lesson from him!”

No one present thought it wise to raise the point that Rommel had not been attacked for months either. But that was all about to change. Down on that front, a Lieutenant and Sergeant were studying the no man’s land between their position and the enemy lines. It looked to be the first war all over again, as they could clearly see the wire, and knew that the ground must be heavily mined. Then they heard an awful falling whoosh in the sky, seeing it scored by white contrails. Something came plummeting down on the ground ahead, seeming to explode into a hundred fragments. Then the ground erupted with an equal number of explosions, as if strings of fireworks, or more like sticks of dynamite were popping off one after another.

There was a thunderous roar, until the din and the explosions finally subsided, and the Sergeant looked at his officer, slack jawed. “Lord almighty,” he said. “What in bloody hell was that?” It was a peculiar mix of the divine and profane, but the Lieutenant had no answer for him.

What they had witnessed was a little gift from Kinlan’s MLRS artillery batteries, missiles that distributed hundreds of small bomblets all over the mined ground ahead of the British lines. They were the firecrackers. The dynamite were the German mines exploding that they had been sent to clear.

The men watched as the smoke and dust slowly cleared, blown off by a dry wind. Then the more familiar crack of the division 25 pounders behind them started, and both men settled in, knowing that would go on for at least thirty minutes. Yet as the heavy rounds fell, beginning in the no man’s land and then slowly walking forward towards the Italian positions, the adrenaline in their chests rose with each passing minute. It was time for the 50th Northumbrian to get back in the war, and they knew the whistles would soon be at the Captain’s mouths, and the mad rush would soon be on.

Chapter 12

Rommel had been correct. Around noon on the 1st of October, the opening barrage of the battle for Mersa Brega finally lifted, and 1st and 2nd Infantry Battalions of the 50th Northumbrian started through that blighted no man’s land. The last rounds had laid down smoke, but a cool breeze off the Gulf of Sirte was slowly blowing it inland. It still gave the infantry time to make that rush across the broken ground, the rifle teams surging forward, Bren teams behind them leaping into craters from the artillery barrage, and others setting up covering MG positions with the Vickers guns. A company of Royal Engineers would move up with each battalion, ready to get at the wire or any mines that might still bar the way.

The first enemy unit they encountered was the Recon Battalion of the Italian Littorio Division. Those troops had drawn the lot to defend the main coastal road, and on their left, beyond the parched salt pans, was the Ariete Armored Division. That unit would be assaulted by the 8th Durham Light Infantry, and the Queen Mary’s Rifles, each battalion again supported by Royal Engineers. The Littorio Division had no more than 36 M14/41 tanks in fortified positions astride the road, and when their forward screen of Fiat M13 Tanks was driven back by the Northumbrians infantry, they waited until the retreating screen had reached their lines, then the M14s began firing with their 47mm main guns.

Further south, the 2nd and 5th Seaforth Battalions of the 51st Highland Division were astride the Wadi that ran parallel to the coast. They would run up against fortified positions defended by the 8th Bersaglieri Regiment and the division AT guns. The dogged British infantry kept coming on, and after an hour, the 3rd Bersaglieri Battalion broke and began to withdraw. 3rd Nizza Armored Cars on their flank also withdrew, leaving five AB41s burning behind them, but this was the entire 8th Regiment, and the other two battalions held the line for the Blackshirts. Behind them, lined up abreast in several groups, was the full armored regiment of the newly supplied Ariete Division, 90 M14 Tanks. They were going to wait to see if the Blackshirts could hold and break this initial attack. If not, they were set to make a massive charge.

It was the opening act of Rommel’s stand at Mersa Brega. He found his army weakened by the loss of the 10th Panzer Division, and all Goring’s troops, but having had some time to resupply, receive new vehicles, and tanks, and most of all fuel, he was in much better shape than he was in Fedorov’s history after retreating there from El Alamein. His mood was sullen, but not the black despair that had prompted him to quickly abandon that defensive position in the old history. While he loved the defensive nature of the ground, it was still a very long way from his major supply base at Tripoli, and he knew how quickly a battle like this could eat up supplies, vehicles, and fuel.

If the British have enough in hand here to fight a battle of attrition, then I think I must find better ground, he thought. I won’t beat them that way, which is why I put the Italians on the coast road in the shop window, and hold my two Panzer Divisions back. My infantry will hold, but this O’Connor will come round the flank to the south in time. Then I decide whether or not to hit him in a counterattack.

And yet, isn’t that exactly what happened at Gazala? If he comes with those heavy tanks again, then all I’ll accomplish here is to wreck the last too Panzer Divisions I have, and now, with these landings behind me in Morocco and Spain, something tells me I will get fewer and fewer replacements. I am told von Arnim will take over the operational defense there from Kesselring, so Smiling Al can become the overall Theater Commander. I never liked von Arnim. He’s a stiff backed academy General, and with little imagination, and now he has my 10th Panzer Division. I had better discuss things with him soon, and tell Kesselring to get these bothersome Italian Generals off my back.

Cavallero was here again yesterday, complaining as he always does. He doesn’t like my placement of the two Italian Armored Divisions up front as I did. The fate of those infantry divisions at Benghazi still stings. The Italians think I am needlessly sacrificing their troops to save my own. He smiled as he thought that, because that was absolutely correct. Without my Afrika Korps, he mused, all those Italian Divisions would be in British prison camps in the desert by now, so Cavallero can moan and groan all he wishes. Yet he has the ear of Mussolini, who in turn will whine to Hitler, and on it goes.

Politically, I can see why the Italians are getting more and more nervous here. The loss of their colonies in Africa could break their morale altogether, and knock them right out of this war. Look what just happened with the French. In many ways, I thought the French to be more reliable than the Italians, but they folded like a badly set up tent when Hitler ordered our troops to take Oran and Algiers. Frankly, I do not think we have seen the last of them. They must have cut a deal with the Allies. They have not interfered with Von Arnim or Nehring, but they still sit in their colonies, and we haven’t the men or time to round up all their troops and put them under guard, let alone their equipment.

Yes, something tells me that many of those troops will join Leclerc or De Gaulle, and we will fight them sooner or later. This whole affair in Africa has been a great waste. I was never adequately supported, particularly by the Luftwaffe. And yet… I had three Panzer Divisions here, regiments from Goring and Grossdeutschland at the high tide mark. I should have boxed the ears of the British with that force and chased them all the way to Alexandria. It was only that damnable Heavy Brigade… And where is it this time around? Is it waiting to pounce the minute I give orders to 15th and 21st Panzers to stop this British attack?

Late in the day, the British Northumbrian Division stormed into Mersa Brega, but the Italians had a bone to pick with them after Benghazi, and Littorio Division decided to commit everything it had in a major counterattack. Their tanks rattled into the town again, with hot fighting from one broken building to the next. This forced back the infantry of the British 2nd Battalion, but the heavy infantry tanks if the 1st Tank Brigade were right behind them and quickly moved up to challenge the Italian armor.

There were 33 of the American Sherman tanks, a new model that had just been delivered a few weeks ago, much superior to the older Grants. They also brought up the Matilda Dozer tanks of the Royal engineers, which advanced on the Italian hard points outside the town, the enemy machinegun fire snapping off the big metal shovels up front, and the British infantry huddled behind this steel vanguard, their rifles fixed with bayonets. Behind them they suddenly heard the thunder of the Division artillery again. Fire from 48 guns was directed over the front at the road beyond the town, where it pounded columns of Italian vehicles. Meanwhile, 6th and 7th Green Howards and the 6th Yorkshire Infantry formed up to the rear of those guns, waiting to push forward when needed.

On the long wadi well south of the town, the Ariete Division was in a similar fight to the death with the 51st Highland Division. The northernmost segment of the British line was right on the wadi, the seam between the Italians and the German 164th Light Division to the south, which was well dug in to stony ground near Matan al Jafr. General Wemberly decided to make that seam his main effort, sending one reinforced regiment to lap up against the lines of the 164th in a masking attack simply intended to keep them in their positions. Then he committed the muscle of his other two regiments to fall upon the Ariete Division, which had already sent up lines of its medium tanks to hold the line.

The British armored cars of the 8th Hussars, particularly the heavy hitting AEC III with a QF 6 Pounder main gun, and armor up to 65mm thick, outclassed the Italian M14/41 tanks, which had only 30mm frontal armor and a 47mm main gun. The armored cars were also faster and more agile on the field, and better coordinated, as each had a radio, a liability the Italians had yet to correct in their armored formations. Yet coordination in this terrain simply meant filing your armored cars up the narrow passways, and along the single coast road, and it would become a grueling battle of attrition. It would take those two British divisions on the coast all of three days to push through Mersa Brega, clearing the mines, sending in the infantry, moving up the tanks of 1st Brigade in support.

No one would say the Italians did not acquit themselves well. Ariete and Littorio would fight tenaciously to hold that narrow coastal defile, while Rommel sat with his two Panzer Divisions in reserve, trying to decide whether to engage O’Connor’s armor as it attempted to wheel around his main defense over that horrid ground.

It would not be the tenacity of the front line troops that decided this battle, but news that came with the arrival of Kesselring that same morning. It was both good and bad. Hitler had issued another of his stand fast orders. Kesselring was not to yield Algiers, and Rommel was not to withdraw from his Mersa Brega line.

The good news was that Rommel was going to receive a nice new gift for his upcoming birthday, his old division from those halcyon days in France, the 7th Panzers.

“We know it was a lot to ask of you when we called for 10th Panzer and all Goring’s troops,” said Kesselring. “So you will get this division to compensate you. Perhaps it will take some of the sting out of that order from the Fuhrer.”

“The 7th Panzers?” Rommel was delighted, his mood elevated, eyes alight. This was the other phantom of those early days of the blitzkrieg, also called the “Ghost Division” when Rommel had it.

“The service troops are already busy repainting the camo schemes on the tanks with desert colors,” said Kesselring with a smile. And I met that aide you favor at the airfield when I landed, Lieutenant Berndt. He has just returned from Germany with a briefcase full of letters from your wife Lucy, and a box of those cookies you always talk about. Save a few for me!”

“This is excellent news!” said Rommel. “Yet you come with both fire and ice here, Kesselring.” Rommel paused, his mind working furiously, his thoughts congealing to a sudden new point of certainty. Now he knew what he had to do.

“I was resigned to hold this position when I lost those troops earlier,” he began. “It is the only ground suitable for good defense when badly outnumbered. But don’t you see? Now that I will get another Panzer Division, I can fight again. I can maneuver. That damnable heavy brigade the British have been using as a hammer is not here. The Luftwaffe reports it has moved towards Tobruk. Without that to check my panzers, I can maneuver—fight the second war instead of the first, and adopt a much more mobile defense—or better yet, I can go on the offense! But not here, Kesselring. Not here. The terrain is suitable only for static defense. All I can do here is fight a battle of attrition, and you know that we are outnumbered. O’Connor has eight divisions.”

“Then what are you proposing?”

“That should be obvious—move west! Listen Kesselring, it is all of 400 kilometers to the Buerat Line where I have stockpiled fuel.”

“Why there? Why did you not bring it forward to El Agheila?”

“You know damn well why I left it there. Because I expected to find myself retreating to that place in due course. Now, however, the situation here has changed dramatically. I would have used 30% of that fuel just to move it here, but there was no way I had any need for it, except to fuel my retreat. I cannot attack here, not on this ground. On the other hand, I have enough fuel now to get where I need to go—not forward, back into that wasteland of Cyrenaica, but back to Buerat. The plan now is to give all that useless ground between here and Buerat to O’Connor. Let him be the one who must haul his fuel forward from Benghazi.”

“You want to withdraw? Again? In spite of the fact that you are promised this new division? In spite of the Führer’s order?”

“Of course! The Führer’s order aside for the moment, the reinforcement is the precise reason why withdrawal is called for now. I assume 7th Panzer Division will land in Tripoli. Perfect! Then I fall back to Buerat—fall back on strength as 7th Panzer comes down from Tripoli to meet me. O’Connor will think he’s won another battle, and he will huff and puff after me like a bad desert storm. I’ll throw him a few bones as I leave, and when I get to Buerat, 300 tons of gasoline will be waiting for me to top off my tanks. Not only that. A move to that line brings me 60% closer to my main supply source at Tripoli, while O’Connor burns fuel chasing me, and extends his supply lines by the same amount.”

Now Kesselring saw what Rommel was saying. The genius of his mind could see the opportunity he had with such a move. His enemy would be tired, flushed with his perceived victory, but advancing farther and farther from Benghazi. “So there you will be at Buerat,” he said, “with three Panzer Divisions and the fuel to use them.”

“Precisely! I will counterattack—but surely not here. They have enough infantry to plug that defile at Mersa Brega indefinitely, and I would simply be advancing away from my supply source again, even if I could get around that flank. What I need now is to lure O’Connor into Tripolitania. That’s where he wants to go, yes? So I’ll open the door and invite him in, but not to dinner. When he gets to Buerat and thinks to sit down at my table, he will get some very bad news.”

“What about that heavy brigade?”

“What about it? It is at Tobruk—too far away to intervene. Don’t you see? The ground means nothing. Beating the British 8th Army in the field means everything. Once I do that, I can take all this useless sand back again if I want, and make more pictures for the news reels. But that isn’t how we win here, not by holding at Mersa Brega and watching the British slowly wear down this army. No. We win by out-thinking the British, and out maneuvering them. I can do that at Buerat, but not here. You must persuade Hitler to allow me to withdraw.”

“You know that will not be easy,” said Kesselring. “He is still steaming over the fact that I gave up Morocco.”

“Of course he is, but you knew damn well that you could not hold there, or in the Canary Islands, with what little you had. You would have lost both those air mobile divisions, as well as Morocco. Every minute counted, and you knew what you had to do. You simply had to fall back on Algeria, and so now you can see the wisdom in what I now propose.”

“I do see it, but I do not think I am the man to persuade Hitler in this.”

“Then I will go myself! I’ll leave tonight.”

“What? In the middle of a battle?”

“General, my troops will know what to do when I order the withdrawal. In fact, that is what I am inclined to do—order it this moment, and present Hitler with a Fate Acompli. Then I will go to OKW and tell him why it had to be done. He will get angry, fail to understand, but if I promise him a new offensive, perhaps he will settle down again. This is strategic withdrawal, not retreat. I will find a way to get through to him.”

Kesselring shrugged. Every military bone in his body told him Rommel was correct here. This is what had to be done, just as it had been necessary for him to withdraw from Morocco. But somewhere, a line had to be held, and a battle had to be won. Could Rommel deliver on his promises? Nine months ago he was crowing about going to Alexandria. He thought, and thought again. Then smiled.

“General Rommel,” he said slipping the Führer’s order into his coat pocket. “My plane was delayed. I was never here, and you never saw the order I have just put into my pocket. But by God, Rommel. If you do this, you simply must beat O’Connor. Fail again, and things will go very bad here.”