Three Kings

Chapter 13

Rommel waited in the outer room, his mind set on the meeting he would soon have with the Fuhrer at the Chancellery, his thoughts on what he might receive-his oak leaves cluster for the Iron Cross! It was long overdue, he thought. I should have had it months ago. What do I have to do, lobby the general staff to get about the appropriate delivery of well earned laurels, just as I did in the last war?

He was a rare holder of the famous Pour leMerite, the blue cross on gold that came to be called the “Blue Max” in the last war. It was a coveted and rare honor, but one he had to ungraciously request of his superiors, believing it was his by entitlement. In spite of the blatant effrontery of his request, he got his medal, joining notable historical figures like Blucher andMoltke who received it for their past glory, and men the great ships of the navy were all now named after: Otto von Bismarck, Paul Hindenburg, Gneisenau, Scharnhorst, Tirpitz and Admiral Scheer. He also joined contemporaries like Hermann Goring, Richtofen, Von Bock, Mackensen and Schorner.

Erwin Johannes Eugen Rommel was a driven man, highly decorated from his exploits in the First World War, and flush with his recent mad dash across France, all the way to the Channel Coast. The enemy never knew what hit them. Rommel’s 7th Panzer Division moved like the lightning in the cloud of the German blitzkrieg, appearing with sudden violence on the enemy flank, smashing in to attack, and then vanishing in a column of smoke and dust only to appear somewhere else six hours later. The French came to call it the “Ghost Division,” an apparition of fire and steel that devoured one retreating column after another, leapt over every obstacle, crossing rivers as if magically transported to the other side, and always pressing forward with a steady, relentless attack.

History seldom recorded the means by which he achieved that victory, by pushing his men and tanks to the uttermost extreme, and using every means necessary to sustain his advance, even stealing the bridging equipment of other adjacent divisions to get over the river obstacles first-and then complaining that his confederate divisions were too slow, and always falling behind. That also took a lot of gall and nerve, but it was not beneath a man so driven to achievement, and the recognition that came with it, that Erwin Rommel seemed to thrive on and crave. So today he would get his oak leaves, he thought, eager to take his meeting with the Fuhrer.

After the capitulation of France that he had so ably helped to engineer, he was delighted to be selected to help create a nice memorial film of those exploits, entitled “Victory in the West,” where he was to re-enact the battles he had fought so brilliantly for the propaganda cameras. After that he had put together a meticulously prepared memoir of his campaign, complete with maps to accompany the narrative, which he sent to Hitler for his review-and the obvious reminder that he was a commander that should not be overlooked.

Well they’ve taken notice now, haven’t they? Rommel smiled, his sapphire eyes alight. My oak leaves are well in order, he thought, but he was soon to learn that he had not been summoned here to receive another medal, but to fight another battle. In spite of his disappointment in not getting his oak leaves that day, he would get something much more than he expected, his first independent command.

“You may come in,” said the staff attendant as he opened the door, and Rommel raised his chin, adjusted the fit of his hat and officer’s coat, and stepped forward. He was a proud man, and every feature spoke to that pride, the high forehead, penetrating blue eyes, prominent nose. And yet, there were lines at the corners of his mouth that betrayed the long work of many smiles. Rommel’s temperament also knew the delight of life, the fruits of love in his marriage to his dear Lucie, and his willful nature accomplished much to keep that smile there, and soften the hard features that reflected his commanding will so artfully.

“Ah, General Rommel,” said the Fuhrer as Rommel saluted. “Look here! Someone else is competing for the headlines and movie picture shows for a change.” Hitler was across the room standing at a thick wooden table, where he set down a magazine, sliding it ignominiously in Rommel’s direction as he came up. There the general saw the image of a white haired British officer, leather straps across his chest, riding crop in hand. Rommel had seen photos of this man before, and he knew he was looking at a cover of the commander of the Western Desert Force, General Richard O’Connor.

“That man is raising hell with the Italians,” said Hitler darkly, “just as Volkov said he would. He will have to be dealt with. In the last weeks he has thrown them out of Egypt, takenSidiBarani, Sollum, Bardia and now even Tobruk! This incompetent Italian General-what is his name again?”