The Rising Tide: A Novel of World War II by Jeff Shaara

Minister, if I may illustrate. I was authorized to remove those officers who could not seem to break with our poor traditions here. General Renton, of the Seventh Armor, a good man, certainly. But this week, when I first met with him, his sole question was whether I would let him loose at Rommel. What he no doubt believed was enthusiasm for the good fight was precisely the tactic that Rommel would hope to see: British tanks, leading the fray, charging headlong into Rommel’s guns. That is precisely why Renton is no longer in command.”
    Churchill looked at him now, said, “Wingy Renton? You replaced him?”
    “Sir, I am quite sure Rommel would delight in Wingy Renton charging his tanks straight into the barrels of those damned eighty-eights. I would much prefer that Rommel grind himself into our lines. Let him come to us . We are in a bottleneck here, and there is only one likely course for Rommel to follow. He will not assault us head-on, and he cannot make an effective assault here, against the sea. We are far too strong, and he certainly knows that. If he comes, it will be to the south, the one place where he would feel we are vulnerable. Only…we are not vulnerable at all. We are waiting for him.”
    Montgomery was truly angry now, had not thought his decisions would be held up to such doubt. He saw concern on Alexander’s face, but he could not stop the words.
    “And the artillery. Until now, we have scattered our big guns in every part of the field, using them in small, useless packets. No longer. I have massed them into one body, to focus on one primary point of attack. The armor should be used the same way, with emphasis not just on their mobility, but on their firepower. A tank is a mobile cannon, but it is still a cannon. I have no intention of throwing tanks away piecemeal, like we have done so many times before.”
    Churchill turned slowly, the short stub of the cigar clamped in his mouth, his eyes peering at Montgomery from under the brim of the ridiculous hat.
    “I know.”
    Montgomery was confused. “Sir?”
    Alexander laughed now, and Churchill smiled.
    “I said, I know. I saw it all today, Monty. Just wanted to hear you say it. Napoléon wanted generals who were lucky. I would rather have generals who were prepared, who understood their enemy. Claude Auchinleck was a good man, no matter how you feel about him. He failed because he put the wrong people in the wrong place. Whether he was unlucky or not, I don’t know. But he wasn’t prepared for what Rommel gave him. It broke my heart to remove him, but I had no choice. He had played his last card.”
    Montgomery said nothing, had never considered luck to play any part in what he did.
    Churchill stared out to sea again, said, “Gentlemen, failure is more expensive in London than it is here. I must answer to the parliament and to the people, people who don’t know beans about war. But they know humiliation, and we’ve had quite enough of that.” Churchill tossed the spent cigar into the water. “I was in Washington, in a meeting with Roosevelt, when word came that we had lost Tobruk. Nothing like being humiliated right in front of your most critical ally. It was as bad as Singapore, hearing how the Japanese kicked us straight in the privates. Defeat I can take. But not disgrace. England won’t stand for it. I won’t stand for it. We need a victory, Monty. You have far more armor than the Eighth Army has had before. That should inspire you to take a chance here and there.”
    Montgomery said, “There is no gamble here, sir. This is not some bloody game of politics, where the loudest voice, the hottest rhetoric, wins the day. I have the tanks and the artillery and I bloody well have the ground. If Rommel does not attack us, then in six weeks’ time, I am prepared to attack him.”
    Churchill looked toward Alexander, said, “Six weeks? It will require six weeks? I had hoped…sooner.”
    Alexander said nothing, and Montgomery said, “We must