scare him worse than any damned destroyer.”
5. ROMMEL
NEAR TEL EL AQQAQIR, EGYPT
AUGUST 1942
Dearest Lu,
The situation is changing daily to my advantage….
He hated lying to her.
He set the paper aside, had no energy to complete the letter. What do I tell her? She knows that what she hears from the propaganda ministry is just that: propaganda. Should I simply add to that?
Westphal was outside the tent, restocking the Mammoth. Rommel stood, stretched, probed the dull ache in his side, felt the slight dizziness, the same sensation now every time he stood up. He tried to ignore it, was suddenly hungry, unusual, called out, “Colonel. Have you a tin of sardines there?”
Westphal appeared at the tent. “Certainly, sir. Just one? We have a whole crate of them.”
“Just one.”
Westphal disappeared, and Rommel went to the low, hard cot, sat, his knees groaning. He probed the pain again, too familiar now, draining his energy, the pain that usually took his appetite away. This is not good, he thought. Not good at all. What is it about this place that requires so much of a man’s body? The war alone is not sufficient to break down an army. This desert must take its toll as well.
He looked at the short legs of the cot, each one immersed in a small can of oily water. The cans were a barrier, a trap for the astounding variety of wingless pests that would attack a man while he slept. He stared at the variety of drowned insects, thought, my own personal minefield. And just as ineffective. Now…this. He stretched his side, could not escape the ache. What other beast has invaded me?
He had suffered from jaundice the year before, something the doctors blamed on the food, a diet so inappropriate for the heat and dryness of the desert. He thought of the doctor, Horster, the man’s gloomy diagnosis, the harsh recommendation that Rommel should return to Germany, recover from the jaundice. He knew that Horster had sent that same recommendation to Germany, the strong hint that Rommel might not be fit to command. Kesselring had come again, was in camp frequently now. Yes, he’s watching me, they are all watching me. Stay here awhile, all of you. Find out for yourself what the desert does to a man. There are plagues out here no man can stand up to, caused by…what? Just look at the creatures that are spawned here. He struggled to take a deep breath, looked again at the odd mix of bugs in the water cans. If not you, then what? He had no idea what kind of creature caused the diseases that were attacking his army, whether it was a creature at all. No man seemed immune, the torture of sun and dust and dryness ripping sores in the skin, and then, when a man’s outsides were weakened, the insides would be attacked, all manner of ailments spreading to the gut, or worse, like the jaundice that had swelled Rommel’s liver. I’ve been nineteen months in the desert, he thought. Horster claims no officer over forty has equaled that record, like I should be given some Olympic medal. It is no accomplishment, Doctor, it is duty.
His batman, Gunther, was there now, holding the tin of sardines and a small fork.
“Sir. Colonel Westphal instructed me to bring this.”
Rommel took the sardines, the smell of the oil turning his stomach. He shook his head, handed the tin back to Gunther, said, “Not now, Herbert. I’ve changed my mind. Eat them yourself. Don’t waste them.”
“You certain, sir? I can fix you something else.”
“No. I should take the Storch aloft. Search out the British defenses. With a new man at the top, there will be uncertainty, new planning, this man Montgomery anxious to put his own stamp on his army. I should see what they’re up to. You care to join me?”
It was a standing joke between them, as much as Rommel would joke with anyone.
“Is that an order, sir?”
Gunther’s expression never changed, a testament to his loyalty, but Rommel knew the young man was terrified of the tiny airplane.
Rommel
5. ROMMEL
NEAR TEL EL AQQAQIR, EGYPT
AUGUST 1942
Dearest Lu,
The situation is changing daily to my advantage….
He hated lying to her.
He set the paper aside, had no energy to complete the letter. What do I tell her? She knows that what she hears from the propaganda ministry is just that: propaganda. Should I simply add to that?
Westphal was outside the tent, restocking the Mammoth. Rommel stood, stretched, probed the dull ache in his side, felt the slight dizziness, the same sensation now every time he stood up. He tried to ignore it, was suddenly hungry, unusual, called out, “Colonel. Have you a tin of sardines there?”
Westphal appeared at the tent. “Certainly, sir. Just one? We have a whole crate of them.”
“Just one.”
Westphal disappeared, and Rommel went to the low, hard cot, sat, his knees groaning. He probed the pain again, too familiar now, draining his energy, the pain that usually took his appetite away. This is not good, he thought. Not good at all. What is it about this place that requires so much of a man’s body? The war alone is not sufficient to break down an army. This desert must take its toll as well.
He looked at the short legs of the cot, each one immersed in a small can of oily water. The cans were a barrier, a trap for the astounding variety of wingless pests that would attack a man while he slept. He stared at the variety of drowned insects, thought, my own personal minefield. And just as ineffective. Now…this. He stretched his side, could not escape the ache. What other beast has invaded me?
He had suffered from jaundice the year before, something the doctors blamed on the food, a diet so inappropriate for the heat and dryness of the desert. He thought of the doctor, Horster, the man’s gloomy diagnosis, the harsh recommendation that Rommel should return to Germany, recover from the jaundice. He knew that Horster had sent that same recommendation to Germany, the strong hint that Rommel might not be fit to command. Kesselring had come again, was in camp frequently now. Yes, he’s watching me, they are all watching me. Stay here awhile, all of you. Find out for yourself what the desert does to a man. There are plagues out here no man can stand up to, caused by…what? Just look at the creatures that are spawned here. He struggled to take a deep breath, looked again at the odd mix of bugs in the water cans. If not you, then what? He had no idea what kind of creature caused the diseases that were attacking his army, whether it was a creature at all. No man seemed immune, the torture of sun and dust and dryness ripping sores in the skin, and then, when a man’s outsides were weakened, the insides would be attacked, all manner of ailments spreading to the gut, or worse, like the jaundice that had swelled Rommel’s liver. I’ve been nineteen months in the desert, he thought. Horster claims no officer over forty has equaled that record, like I should be given some Olympic medal. It is no accomplishment, Doctor, it is duty.
His batman, Gunther, was there now, holding the tin of sardines and a small fork.
“Sir. Colonel Westphal instructed me to bring this.”
Rommel took the sardines, the smell of the oil turning his stomach. He shook his head, handed the tin back to Gunther, said, “Not now, Herbert. I’ve changed my mind. Eat them yourself. Don’t waste them.”
“You certain, sir? I can fix you something else.”
“No. I should take the Storch aloft. Search out the British defenses. With a new man at the top, there will be uncertainty, new planning, this man Montgomery anxious to put his own stamp on his army. I should see what they’re up to. You care to join me?”
It was a standing joke between them, as much as Rommel would joke with anyone.
“Is that an order, sir?”
Gunther’s expression never changed, a testament to his loyalty, but Rommel knew the young man was terrified of the tiny airplane.
Rommel
Similar Books
