July1, 1942 Late afternoon, Operation Crusader, near Alexandria, Egypt
German Field Marshal Erwin Rommel watched Mueller cringe as yet another shell embedded itself in the desert floor. His young aide was struggling to hide his fear of the British bombardment, but it showed in his wild eyes. The field marshal smiled half-heartedly and turned back to his chief of staff, General Bayerlein, who was grinning without sympathy.
"First time under fire!" the older general had shout to be heard over the explosions. He motioned at the nervous young aristocrat.
"He's doing better than most!" Rommel called back. He pointed anxiously to the radio. "Is there any word on the 15th Panzer Division? Where they are, how they fare, what they're doing? I lost contact with the general when I last tried to reach him!"
"Last I heard, they were pushing the British back a ways outside Alexandria," Bayerlein clarified, his expression troubled. "But that was two hours ago! And these men are holding their line well enough, but the British artillery is hurting us like crazy! If this keeps going, there won't be anything left of Battle Group Kiel!"
"I know, I know, let me think!" Rommel wracked his overloaded brain for a solution, thought of his air support. Where is it, and what is Auchinleck doing? "The Luftwaffe! What have you heard from them? I ordered them to support our attack in force."
"They never responded, as far as I know, Herr Feldmarshall," Bayerlein shared his commander's fears, and pushed the panic down roughly. "Perhaps the message was intercepted."
"Hardly," came the scoffing reply. "I've sent the same message five times." Rommel was frustrated now, and was working hard to keep his temper. Another shell exploded only a few yards away and showered them all with hard rock and gritty sand. Mueller whimpered and ducked down behind the back seat of Rommel's command vehicle. The swabian felt the ground shaking, heard the terrible whine of bullets in the air. It was, truthfully, rather exhilarating. Bayerlein tugged at his sleeve, obviously not feeling the same way about it at all.
"Sir, we should move back, withdraw from this place," he pleaded. "The fire is intensifying, and I believe the enemy is drawing closer."
"They're trying to push us back," Rommel admitted slowly. He peered upwards, and sighed. "Not a cloud in the sky above all this dust, and not a plane either. It's a wonder we don't see the jabos up there yet. We will." He turned back to Bayerlein. "This attack has to break the defense soon. We can't let ourselves be stopped, General." He hastily scratched out a note on a scrap of paper and handed it to a young messenger. "21st, immediately. I want all available, unused units moved to this front, and fast!" He fixed the soldier in his steel-blue gaze.
"Sir!" The young lieutenant snapped to attention and dashed away to a waiting armored car. It roared away, dodging shells, tanks, and men as it went.
"At least remove yourself from this unnecessary danger," Bayerlein was after him again.
"Can't. An important message is being sent here, and I can't have it chasing after me. It won't be long," Rommel assured him, somewhat hesitantly. "I hope." He glanced at his watch. 4:00 p.m.
"Perchance Kesselring will see the light now and send us more divisions," Bayerlein joked. "Now he has seen what the British have, and we haven't."
"Not likely," Rommel snapped, finally losing his temper at the thought of the optimistic Kesselring. "They delude themselves about the enemy's strength, him especially. They cannot, will not see that we are outnumbered and outgunned. Remember, Germans can never be beaten," he laughed mirthlessly.
Bayerlein agreed with him. They have abandoned us, here in Africa, left us to fend off the enemy hordes alone. But we are still fighting. Fritz, you're in a tight spot now. He felt deafened by the fire raining down all around; felt the men suffering, their push forwards slowing. They were all dying, sacrificing themselves for the army's sake, for Germany. He watched Rommel and saw the tight-lipped determination. We have the Desert Fox still. If anyone can get us on top of things, he can. Rommel was more than a respected commander; he was an admired friend as well. "Sir?" Bayerlein ventured.
Rommel turned to face him and inquired, "Ja?"
"If I don't make it through this, will you see that my family is remembered and taken care of? My wife has no other means of support for herself."
"Ja, I will," his features softened for a minute. "But you will be fine General, I know it."
Bayerlein seemed to be somewhere distant as he muttered loudly, "Krieg ohne hass – war without hate – I never thought it possible. I admire those men over there, the ones coming at us. They're smart and brave, and they have a good cause." He looked at Rommel briefly and shook his head. "Our cause, what, the extermination of Jews? And yet, because of our oath to Germany, we follow that cause without complaint, fearing for our safety if we do otherwise. We follow that cause to our deaths, and what will we gain in the end?"
"Fritz," Rommel warned, but inside he knew his chief of staff was correct. "Some here would not appreciate your words."
"Why be careful? I'm too old to be careful anymore. You're younger than me; you be careful," Bayerlein grinned weakly. "Besides, I doubt the Gestapo could weather this heat." He wiped the sweat from his forehead. "Sorry Erwin, but I get philosophical when I'm scared." There was a lull in the firing, and he listened to the soldiers around him.
Rommel waited patiently for more.
"Is our cause right, Erwin?" the older man pressed.
"It is for Germany," Rommel hedged cautiously, for the benefit of any listening, but Bayerlein snorted.
"It is for the Fuhrer," he stated boldly. "And that man can be wrong, often is. Man fails, Erwin. All of us. And it is a hard place to be. Is it right to obey the government, when the government chooses wrongly? Or do we disobey? Where is the point that it should change? Where do we say, 'enough'?"
Rommel stared at him for a moment. "I don't know, Fritz. I wish I did, then so much could be cleared up." He lowered his voice. "It is wrong, what we do to the Jews, but I am sworn to the service of Germany. I gave my word. It bothers me always, that I could be so dense not to see the solution. I would give anything to have Germany back, the old Germany, before the Fuhrer." He felt like a traitor saying it. "Before all these wars."
Bayerlein gave him a sad smile. "Don't we all?"
As if in agreement, the enemy shells began to fall heavily again. Mueller squealed suddenly and clapped his hand to his left arm. A fragment had clipped him and it was bleeding freely. Rommel tossed him a clean engine rag and Mueller wrapped it around his bicep, face pale with fear.
"All right?" the field marshal asked, his eyes scanning the desert for his messenger.
"Ja, sir, ja," the young man assured him.
"I don't think that reply's coming," Bayerlein prompted from beside Rommel. "You need to get to safety."
"No, I guess it's not," he conceded. "These men are supporting the 90th's attack; they must hold firm here. We should get down to the Light Division, and see if they're breaking through yet. Can these men hold here?" He was anxious, refusing to go to safety.
Bayerlein straightened up from where he had been leaning on Rommel's 'Mammuth,' his captured British command vehicle. "Of course they'll hold them, Herr Feldmarshall. They are part of the Afrika Corps. But I do request that you hurry some boys on out to help."
"Will do. Come on, General. Let's go give General Auchinleck a run for his money." Rommel stuck out a gloved hand, helped Bayerlein over the side. The armored car roared into the blinding, choking dust of the desert war.
The war for Africa raged on, the advantage constantly swinging back and forth. Rommel pushed on recklessly, attacking and retreating, striking furiously and slipping away cunningly. He fought well against the superior forces of the British, but as the months passed, the victory was still undecided. Africa, (and the British) began taking a toll on the famed Afrika Corps. Men everywhere came down sick with jaundice, sores, wounds, and dysentery. She even wore out the Desert Fox, and would finally send him home on March 9, 1943, exhausted and disillusioned, but still a national hero and a formidable foe. The Afrika Corps, however, was fighting a losing battle; between the British and the newly arrived Americans, it didn't stand a chance. Germany lost her grip on Africa forever in 1943, to the joy of the Free world.