The Steel Wave - Jeff Shaara [51]
Rommel leaned back in his chair. There was little else he could say. He struggled through the plans and the maps in his own brain and said softly, “If we allow the enemy to make his landings in France, we will never dislodge him.”
Geyr began to speak but Guderian held up a hand. “The Führer has been very clear about my purpose here. I am to analyze the various viewpoints and make recommendations on the best manner in which to meet and destroy what he understands to be the inevitable invasion of France. I believe we have the proper troop strength in position, though of course I will suggest we move up as many reserves as can safely be drawn from other sectors of the fighting. Field Marshal von Rundstedt insists that we divide the main panzer forces, so that they are dispersed both north and south of Paris, and he is most clear that he believes they must be held back, away from the coastline. I am not completely in agreement with dividing the armor in that way, but it is a compromise I feel we must all accept. Field Marshal von Rundstedt agrees with me—and with you, General Geyr—that once the enemy makes his intentions clear, a swift first action, an immediate counterattack, should be our highest priority. I admire you, Herr Rommel, but in this instance I believe you are wrong. Mobility and power are our two most valuable assets. We will prevail.”
CHÂTEAU, LA ROCHE-GUYON
APRIL 23, 1944
The rains had stopped, and Rommel watched the groundskeepers, the men with muddy boots, shovels and rakes working the soft brown earth. The others had gone, Geyr returning to his headquarters, Guderian to Paris to visit von Rundstedt. Rommel’s breakfast lay untouched on his desk. He stood for a long moment, hearing noises in the corridor, low voices; they were being quiet and would not disturb him until he gave permission. He turned and looked toward the grand doorway.
“You may enter!”
The door opened silently. It was Ruge, Speidel behind him. Rommel smiled, always smiled when he saw Ruge.
“Good morning, Admiral. Please, sit.”
Ruge was not smiling. He moved slowly into the room, Speidel lagging behind. Rommel nodded toward his chief of staff.
“Come in, Hans. The two of you might enjoy sharing what remains of my breakfast.”
It was a weak attempt at lightheartedness, but Ruge seemed lost in thought.
“Is there a problem, Admiral?”
Ruge sat and looked at him, one hand now rubbing his jaw as though nursing a toothache. “I have spoken to Admiral Krancke. He does not share your concerns that we should deploy minefields in strength along the coastline. He has refused my requests to deploy the mine-laying ships at all. He is concerned they will come under enemy attack. Therefore, he does not wish to risk the loss of what he refers to as his limited resources.”
Rommel moved to the chair, sat heavily. “He does not wish to take a risk? Can you go past Krancke and contact Admiral Dönitz directly? This is an essential part of our coastal defenses.”
“Admiral Krancke has already conferred with Admiral Dönitz regarding this request. Admiral Dönitz has placed his full confidence in the wisdom of Admiral Krancke. The matter has been decided.”
“The navy has determined that they cannot be a part of our defensive strategies, because it might involve engaging the enemy? What in God’s name do they think a navy is for?”
Ruge took a long breath. “I am sorry, Erwin. I made every effort, every argument—”
“Stop. I am already too familiar with the kind of wisdom that infects our generals. Admirals, it now seems, are not immune.”
There was a soft knock at the open door; it was a staff officer, an envelope in his hand.
“Yes, Colonel, what is it?”
The man entered