The Key to Rebecca - Ken Follett [60]
In the early evening, when at last the thermometer showed a fall, there were more reports and conversations. Von Mellenthin sifted the mass of detail for information relating to the counterattack predicted by Sphinx.
The Ariete Armored—the Italian division occupying the Aslagh Ridge—reported increased enemy air activity. Von Mellenthin asked them whether this was bombing or reconnaissance, and they said reconnaissance: bombing had actually ceased.
The Luftwaffe reported activity in no-man’s-land which might, or might not, have been an advance party marking out an assembly point.
There was a garbled radio intercept in a low-grade cipher in which the something Indian Brigade requested urgent clarification of the morning’s something (orders?) with particular reference to the timing of something artillery bombardment. In British tactics, von Mellenthin knew, artillery bombardment generally preceded an attack.
The evidence was building.
Von Mellenthin checked his card index for the 32nd Army Tank Brigade and discovered that they had recently been sighted at Rigel Ridge—a logical position from which to attack Sidra Ridge.
The task of an Ic was an impossible one: to forecast the enemy’s moves on the basis of inadequate information. He looked at the signs, he used his intuition and he gambled.
Von Mellenthin decided to gamble on Sphinx.
At 1830 hours he took his report to the command vehicle. Rommel was there with his chief of staff Colonel Bayerlein and Kesselring. They stood around a large camp table looking at the operations map. A lieutenant sat to one side ready to take notes.
Rommel had taken his cap off, and his large, balding head appeared too big for his small body. He looked tired and thin. He suffered recurring stomach trouble, von Mellenthin knew, and was often unable to eat for days. His normally pudgy face had lost flesh, and his ears seemed to stick out more than usual. But his slitted dark eyes were bright with enthusiasm and the hope of victory.
Von Mellenthin clicked his heels and formally handed over the report; then he explained his conclusions on the map. When he was done Kesselring said: “And all this is based on the report of a spy, you say?”
“No, Field Marshal,” von Mellenthin said firmly. “There are confirming indications.”
“You can find confirming indications for anything,” Kesselring said.
Out of the comer of his eye von Mellenthin could see that Rommel was getting cross.
Kesselring said: “We really can’t plan battles on the basis of information from some grubby little secret agent in Cairo.”
Rommel said: “I am inclined to believe this report.”
Von Mellenthin watched the two men. They were curiously balanced in terms of power—curiously, that was, for the Army, where hierarchies were normally so well defined. Kesselring was C in C South, and outranked Rommel, but Rommel did not take orders from him, by some whim of Hitler’s. Both men had patrons in Berlin—Kesselring, the Luftwaffe man, was Goering’s favorite, and Rommel produced such good publicity that Goebbels could be relied upon to support him. Kesselring was popular with the Italians, whereas Rommel always insulted them. Ultimately Kesselring was more powerful, for as a field marshal he had direct access to Hitler, while Rommel had to go through jodl; but this was a card Kesselring could not afford to play too often. So the two men quarreled; and although Rommel had the last word here in the desert, back in Europe—von Mellenthin knew—Kesselring was maneuvering to get rid of him.
Rommel turned to the map. “Let us be ready, then, for