The Steel Wave - Jeff Shaara [16]
They stepped from the staff car, and Rommel saw the salutes, the troops quickly aware of his presence. He began to move, stopped on instinct, heard a low hum, the men close to him staring up, searching the sky. The sounds grew, a low steady drone, very high and far away, the sound of bombers. It was commonplace now, American B-17s making their daylight raids far behind Rommel’s Atlantic Wall, into Germany itself. All throughout Germany the raids had grown more numerous and more intense, the bombers seeking industrial and military targets around every major city. It had become well known that the Americans came only in daylight and the British at night, a peculiar division of labor Rommel had never understood. He avoided the skyward stares of the troops—there was nothing to see and certainly no danger here, so close to the coastline. Behind him, Ruge emerged from the car, a second car rolling to a halt, discharging more staff officers.
Along the edge of a wide field, tents were scattered, a field headquarters, sheltered by sheets of camouflaged netting. The officers were emerging now, word reaching them that Rommel had arrived.
“Welcome, sir!”
Rommel recognized the face, a young captain, Sasser’s aide. “Where is Colonel Sasser?”
The man stood at attention, saluted, then pointed.
“He is to be found on the bluff, sir, at the sea. They are constructing a large artillery emplacement, largest one in this sector, sir.”
“Yes, I know, Captain. You may lead the way.”
“I am honored, Field Marshal.”
Rommel glanced at Ruge, saw a smile. The young captain did not hesitate but moved away along a wide graveled trail. Ruge, now beside Rommel, said, “I never received any reception like this, not on any ship in my command. It’s true, all that talk I’ve been hearing. You are nothing less than their hero.”
“Silence that, please. I am their worst terror, and they know it. Until they hear the enemy shooting at them, they know they have nothing more to fear than me. I shall continue to accommodate them.”
They followed the young officer, climbing a short rise, a cold stiff wind in Rommel’s face, the ground falling away to the open sea. Below, along the beach, a swarm of men were hauling and digging, more pieces of the same barricades Rommel had ordered all along the coast. To one side of him, the ground rose to a fat knob, made fatter by a vast wall of concrete. Above, a crane holding a large spiderweb of reinforcing steel began to lower it into place, one more piece of the great wall, shirtless men shoveling wet concrete into a vast pit below. Rommel heard shouts, commands, a half dozen men responding, moving in one motion toward the descending web of steel, hands going up, turning, guiding, as the steel settled into the waiting concrete. Rommel clamped the baton under one arm, clenched his fists. Yes, by God, that is strength! That is what this ridiculous Atlantic Wall is supposed to be.
“Sir! Field Marshal! Forgive me!”
Rommel saw him now, the short man scampering up the bluff. Sasser’s shirt was open, a gray smear across his white undershirt. He drew himself up, saluted, said, “Welcome, sir! I did not know when you would arrive.”
“And you never will, Colonel. You may compose yourself.”
The man seemed aware of his uniform now, a slight panic, buttoned his shirt, tugged at his jacket, the image of the officer replacing the manual laborer.
“Please forgive me, Field Marshal. I have found that our productivity increases—the men respond better to orders if I show them