Read Online The Rising Tide: A Novel of World War II by Jeff Shaara - Free Book Online
Authors: Jeff Shaara
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front. Without fuel trucks, we will make no fight at all, and right now, it is likely that the enemy still has forces between our supply depots and where we now stand. In any event, the priority along this line is to find the enemy and engage him wherever he may be.”
Rommel climbed up, resumed his perch on top of the Mammoth, the truck slowly turning away, a cloud of dust rising, engulfing Kesselring and the men who watched him go.
T he supply trucks found their way through, helped by Rommel himself, who led the convoy to the desperately exhausted tank crews. The British had pulled farther into their defenses, and Rommel could sense the indecision, the pause, while the British command tried to organize. It had become the particular trait of this enemy that no matter how severe the crisis, they would weigh and evaluate, discuss and debate. It was a grotesquely inefficient way to run an army, especially in the middle of a fight. Regardless of fuel and supply and the number of tanks, Rommel was convinced that the mind of the British commander was his enemy’s greatest weakness.
The Mammoth dropped down into a wide, shallow riverbed, what the Arabs called a wadi. He ordered a halt, could see smoke now, rising streaks of fire. Kesselring was doing his job, on the ground, and with the Luftwaffe as well. Dive bombers were dropping out of the sky, targeting British positions with pinpoint precision. He loved the sound of the Junkers, the pure terrifying scream as the gull-wing planes dove straight at their targets. The planes had sirens mounted on the wings, someone’s delicious idea to terrorize their victims, letting them know that when they heard that awful sound, death was at hand, right now, right in your face.
He stood on the roof of the Mammoth, heard the radio chatter rising up to him, faces glancing up. He could see what they saw, out on the far side of the wadi: German tanks withdrawing, pulling back toward him. Armored trucks and half-tracks were darting among them, all moving toward the wide riverbed. Trails had been marked, the best places to cross, and the tanks began to move together, pushing down through the thick, sandy banks, across quickly, then up the near side. Rommel raised his binoculars, watched the horizon, the telltale dust rising, the pursuit from an enemy who believed the Germans were in full retreat. He smiled. Yes, he thought, come to my party.
From behind him, other vehicles moved forward, and quickly the wadi itself was filling with a river of trucks, gun carriers easing down into the dry sand, turning, positioning their cannon. Rommel loved the eighty-eights, the best weapon he had, the long barrels now placed just above the lip of the riverbank, pointing out toward the enemy, the enemy who had been baited, lured into believing that the Germans had withdrawn.
The dust cloud in front of him began to take shape, tanks appearing, more of the rapid armored cars, machine-gun carriers, spoiling for a fight, convinced the Germans were on the run. He stared, picked out the larger machines, a different shape, the short, fat cannon set to one side. They were the new Grants, the American-made tanks, said to be the equal of anything the Germans had. Well, we shall see about that. His heart was racing, and he gauged the distance, a mile perhaps, no need to wait much longer. The orders rolled through the gun crews, and the wadi erupted into bursts of fire and thunderous roars. All along the riverbank, the eighty-eights spit their deadly fire toward the enemy. Rommel stared through the binoculars, could see the first impacts, bursts of black smoke, sheets of fire. The dust of the enemy had turned to smoke, the British column coming apart, the formation dissolving, men and their machines scrambling to escape the ambush. Some began to return fire, and the ground on both sides of the wadi erupted into dirt and loose rock. But the shells had no targets, were poorly directed by British gunners who now knew what
Rommel climbed up, resumed his perch on top of the Mammoth, the truck slowly turning away, a cloud of dust rising, engulfing Kesselring and the men who watched him go.
T he supply trucks found their way through, helped by Rommel himself, who led the convoy to the desperately exhausted tank crews. The British had pulled farther into their defenses, and Rommel could sense the indecision, the pause, while the British command tried to organize. It had become the particular trait of this enemy that no matter how severe the crisis, they would weigh and evaluate, discuss and debate. It was a grotesquely inefficient way to run an army, especially in the middle of a fight. Regardless of fuel and supply and the number of tanks, Rommel was convinced that the mind of the British commander was his enemy’s greatest weakness.
The Mammoth dropped down into a wide, shallow riverbed, what the Arabs called a wadi. He ordered a halt, could see smoke now, rising streaks of fire. Kesselring was doing his job, on the ground, and with the Luftwaffe as well. Dive bombers were dropping out of the sky, targeting British positions with pinpoint precision. He loved the sound of the Junkers, the pure terrifying scream as the gull-wing planes dove straight at their targets. The planes had sirens mounted on the wings, someone’s delicious idea to terrorize their victims, letting them know that when they heard that awful sound, death was at hand, right now, right in your face.
He stood on the roof of the Mammoth, heard the radio chatter rising up to him, faces glancing up. He could see what they saw, out on the far side of the wadi: German tanks withdrawing, pulling back toward him. Armored trucks and half-tracks were darting among them, all moving toward the wide riverbed. Trails had been marked, the best places to cross, and the tanks began to move together, pushing down through the thick, sandy banks, across quickly, then up the near side. Rommel raised his binoculars, watched the horizon, the telltale dust rising, the pursuit from an enemy who believed the Germans were in full retreat. He smiled. Yes, he thought, come to my party.
From behind him, other vehicles moved forward, and quickly the wadi itself was filling with a river of trucks, gun carriers easing down into the dry sand, turning, positioning their cannon. Rommel loved the eighty-eights, the best weapon he had, the long barrels now placed just above the lip of the riverbank, pointing out toward the enemy, the enemy who had been baited, lured into believing that the Germans had withdrawn.
The dust cloud in front of him began to take shape, tanks appearing, more of the rapid armored cars, machine-gun carriers, spoiling for a fight, convinced the Germans were on the run. He stared, picked out the larger machines, a different shape, the short, fat cannon set to one side. They were the new Grants, the American-made tanks, said to be the equal of anything the Germans had. Well, we shall see about that. His heart was racing, and he gauged the distance, a mile perhaps, no need to wait much longer. The orders rolled through the gun crews, and the wadi erupted into bursts of fire and thunderous roars. All along the riverbank, the eighty-eights spit their deadly fire toward the enemy. Rommel stared through the binoculars, could see the first impacts, bursts of black smoke, sheets of fire. The dust of the enemy had turned to smoke, the British column coming apart, the formation dissolving, men and their machines scrambling to escape the ambush. Some began to return fire, and the ground on both sides of the wadi erupted into dirt and loose rock. But the shells had no targets, were poorly directed by British gunners who now knew what
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