The Steel Wave - Jeff Shaara [31]
Rommel felt the words roll around inside him and stifled his arguments. Too many arguments. He knew there would be nothing to gain, not now, not while there was so much still to do. If his generals would cooperate, he would continue the inspections, continue to lecture them, continue to prod and energize and inspire them. Though they might not agree, sooner or later they might actually obey his orders to put some power behind that ridiculous Atlantic Wall.
The inspection tours had continued, endless days of visits to officers who dreaded his arrival. The progress along the beaches was painfully slow, but after so many weeks, there was progress, and many of the line officers and their superiors had begun to accept Rommel’s vision, had responded to his criticism by pushing their men a bit harder. There was energy in his words, and the men were always inspired by his presence. He was, after all, still Rommel.
Since his first days in command of the French coastline, Rommel had hoped to hear something specific from German intelligence. He had to believe that, sooner or later, one good spy would send some definitive word on where and when the attack would come. But so far the German intelligence network had been nearly useless in determining anything, no reports had any solid reliability.
Rumors ran rampant, but his own instincts were failing him, his gut feeling for the mind of the enemy, an innate sense that had served him so well in North Africa. There were many options for the Allies, and Rommel was not helped by the resistance and foot-dragging of those officers who, amazingly, didn’t believe an invasion would come at all. It was maddening to him, this blind faith in the ongoing propaganda from Berlin, how Germany’s power was unflagging and no army, no matter how powerful, could shatter Hitler’s Fortress Europe—a fortress that Rommel was trying desperately to construct. But his old ailments were returning, the hard reality that he could no longer drive himself without a breath. The suffering inflicted on him by the African deserts had mostly faded away, but with the work had come new sickness, mostly from exhaustion. Maybe, with so much work now going on all along his coastline, he would make time to see his home, to walk in the Swabian hills, to nest in his wife’s softness, to find a little peace.
HERRLINGEN, SOUTHERN GERMANY
FEBRUARY 23, 1944
He had made a momentous decision, encouraged by his staff. He had allowed himself a brief leave, a quick visit to see Lucie, to rest his spirit.
It was very cold, and he tugged at his coat, blew out a thick breath of soft fog, studied the tracks in the snow. It had been too long since he had gone hunting, and the tracks inspired him, his mind working, estimating the size of what was surely a magnificent wild boar. The animal had betrayed himself in the deep snow, the tracks a clear trail to his hideaway, and Rommel stood up straight and stared into the trees, suddenly wishing he had a rifle. He let out another breath, felt a shiver, his feet growing wet, and thought, No, not today. There is no time for such things. But surely you can make the time. You are on leave, for God’s sake. He had heard that already from Lucie, more than once, her scolding reminders to take advantage of these precious few days. He had even secured a leave for his son, made possible only because Manfred’s father was the great Rommel.
He held Lucie’s voice in his head, saw the smile, heard the words now: You are a stubborn man. It was no insult, just her playful teasing. But she was right. He knew, too well, that his stubbornness had made him enemies. Kesselring understood me better