The Key to Rebecca - Ken Follett [20]
He stumped across the sand toward the command vehicle, with von Mellenthin in tow. “General Cruewell has been captured,” von Mellenthin said. “I had to ask Kesselring to take over. He’s spent the afternoon trying to find out where you were.”
“Worse and worse,” Rommel said sourly.
They entered the back of the command vehicle, a huge truck. The shade was welcome. Kesselring was bent over a map, brushing away flies with his left hand while tracing a line with his right. He looked up and smiled. “My dear Rommel, thank heaven you’re back,” he said silkily.
Rommel took off his cap. “I’ve been fighting a battle,” he grunted.
“So I gather. What happened?”
Rommel pointed to the map. “This is the Gazala Line.” It was a string of fortified “boxes” linked by minefields which ran from the coast at Gazala due south into the desert for fifty miles. “We made a dogleg around the southern end of the line and hit them from behind.”
“Good idea. What went wrong?”
“We ran out of gasoline and ammunition.” Rommel sat down heavily, suddenly feeling very tired. “Again,” he added. Kesselring, as commander in chief (South), was responsible for Rommel’s supplies, but the field marshal seemed not to notice the implied criticism.
An orderly came in with mugs of tea on a tray. Rommel sipped his. There was sand in it.
Kesselring spoke in a conversational tone. “I’ve had the unusual experience, this afternoon, of taking the role of one of your subordinate commanders.”
Rommel grunted. There was some piece of sarcasm coming, he could tell. He did not want to fence with Kesselring now, he wanted to think about the battle.
Kesselring went on: “I found it enormously difficult, with my hands tied by subordination to a headquarters that issued no orders and could not be reached.”
“I was at the heart of the battle, giving my orders on the spot.”
“Still, you might have stayed in touch.”
“That’s the way the British fight,” Rommel snapped. “The generals are miles behind the lines, staying in touch. But I’m winning. If I’d had my supplies, I’d be in Cairo now.”
“You’re not going to Cairo,” Kesselring said sharply. “You’re going to Tobruk. There you’ll stay until I’ve taken Malta. Such are the Fuehrer’s orders.”
“Of course.” Rommel was not going to reopen that argument; not yet. Tobruk was the immediate objective. Once that fortified port was taken, the convoys from Europe—inadequate though they were—could come directly to the front line, cutting out the long journey across the desert which used so much gasoline. “And to reach Tobruk we have to break the Gazala Line.”
“What’s your next step?”
“I’m going to fall back and regroup.” Rommel saw Kesselring raise his eyebrows: the field marshal knew how Rommel hated to retreat.
“And what will the enemy do?” Kesselring directed the question to von Mellenthin, who as Ic was responsible for detailed assessment of the enemy position.
“They will chase us, but not immediately,” said von Mellenthin. “They are always slow to press an advantage, fortunately. But sooner or later they will try a breakout.”
Rommel said: “The question is, when and where?”
“Indeed,” von Mellenthin agreed. He seemed to hesitate, then said, “There is a little item in today’s summaries which will interest you. The spy checked in.”
“The spy?” Rommel frowned. “Oh, him!” Now he remembered. He had flown to the Oasis of Gialo, deep in the Libyan desert, to brief the man finally before the spy began a long marathon walk. Wolff, that was his name. Rommel had been impressed by his courage, but pessimistic about his chances. “Where was he calling from?”
“Cairo.”
“So he got there. If he’s capable of that, he’s capable