Read Online The Rising Tide: A Novel of World War II by Jeff Shaara - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jeff Shaara
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their enemy had done. From their low perches, the concealed eighty-eights continued to launch deadly fire at the disintegrating British battalion. Rommel looked down into the faces watching him, waiting for his order.
“Send them in! Straight forward, and flank to the right! All speed!”
From behind him came a new sound, the German tanks returning, plunging into the wadi, then up, moving quickly toward the dense fog of black smoke. The panzers were moving into attack formations, some sweeping toward the right flank of the British line, others driving straight into the dust and smoke. With their own machines blocking their line of fire, the gun crews in the wadi began to gather up, the trucks moving to attach their guns. The fight roared all across the open ground in front of them, German and British tanks engulfed in deadly chaos. But the shock was complete, the enemy routed. Rommel knew it without seeing what was happening in front of him. He sat down, shouted the order to advance, and the big machine kicked into motion, drove up and over the soft riverbank. Behind him, the eighty-eights were moving as well, the gunners preparing to follow their tanks. No, we do not rush straight into your guns. We invite you instead to rush straight into ours.
The maneuver had been perfected all across North Africa, the tanks baiting and drawing the enemy forward, while the big guns lay in wait. The eighty-eights would do their work and the tanks would surge forward again, mopping up. They would repeat the tactic over and over, Rommel’s simple game of leapfrog.
T he names of the villages and oases were like so many of those spread all over this part of the massive continent: Sidi Muftah, Bir el Hamat, Acroma, El Adem. Often villages weren’t villages at all, but a hut or some ragged tents perched around a deep hole in the dirt, a place where blessed water could be found, sometimes a cluster of trees separating the precious well from the desolation that surrounded it. It had been the same all across Libya, meaningless names, barely visible landmarks a tank driver would ignore as he rolled past. There was no stopping to fill canteens, no marveling at the odd bits of ancient architecture, the occasional Roman ruin. This land was now only a battleground, a stage for hundreds of tanks and troop carriers, mobile machine guns and half-tracks. The infantry was here too, swarms of men suffering through the fog of dust that was their only protection, seeking an enemy who was mobile, or armored, or simply dug into slit trenches in the hard ground.
In the north Rommel had placed the Italians, infantry and mobile troop carriers, armored cars and their outdated tanks, pushing eastward along the coastal road, to pressure the British flank, drawing precious British strength from the fight in the center. There, and in the south, Kesselring, Rommel, and the German armor pressed and prodded, taking every advantage of the indecisive tactics of the British. But it was not a one-sided fight, no simple victory. For days, the British held tightly to what they called the Gazala Line, a stout defensive position that ran from the sea in the north, far down along a string of minefields, outposts, and fortified “boxes.” From the first day of the attack, Rommel had pierced and flanked the line, but still, the British held to their strong points, and so, as days passed, both sides were used up, the sea of dust and rock littered with growing numbers of machines, and the bodies of the men who drove them.
In the center of the line, the fight came from every direction, perfect confusion, large battles and small duels, tanks fighting tanks, infantry caught in between. The place would soon appear on the British maps. They would call it The Cauldron. After a long desperate week, both sides were losing energy and equipment, but Rommel’s tenacity prevailed. The British positions began to collapse, and gradually the machines that could still move pushed eastward
“Send them in! Straight forward, and flank to the right! All speed!”
From behind him came a new sound, the German tanks returning, plunging into the wadi, then up, moving quickly toward the dense fog of black smoke. The panzers were moving into attack formations, some sweeping toward the right flank of the British line, others driving straight into the dust and smoke. With their own machines blocking their line of fire, the gun crews in the wadi began to gather up, the trucks moving to attach their guns. The fight roared all across the open ground in front of them, German and British tanks engulfed in deadly chaos. But the shock was complete, the enemy routed. Rommel knew it without seeing what was happening in front of him. He sat down, shouted the order to advance, and the big machine kicked into motion, drove up and over the soft riverbank. Behind him, the eighty-eights were moving as well, the gunners preparing to follow their tanks. No, we do not rush straight into your guns. We invite you instead to rush straight into ours.
The maneuver had been perfected all across North Africa, the tanks baiting and drawing the enemy forward, while the big guns lay in wait. The eighty-eights would do their work and the tanks would surge forward again, mopping up. They would repeat the tactic over and over, Rommel’s simple game of leapfrog.
T he names of the villages and oases were like so many of those spread all over this part of the massive continent: Sidi Muftah, Bir el Hamat, Acroma, El Adem. Often villages weren’t villages at all, but a hut or some ragged tents perched around a deep hole in the dirt, a place where blessed water could be found, sometimes a cluster of trees separating the precious well from the desolation that surrounded it. It had been the same all across Libya, meaningless names, barely visible landmarks a tank driver would ignore as he rolled past. There was no stopping to fill canteens, no marveling at the odd bits of ancient architecture, the occasional Roman ruin. This land was now only a battleground, a stage for hundreds of tanks and troop carriers, mobile machine guns and half-tracks. The infantry was here too, swarms of men suffering through the fog of dust that was their only protection, seeking an enemy who was mobile, or armored, or simply dug into slit trenches in the hard ground.
In the north Rommel had placed the Italians, infantry and mobile troop carriers, armored cars and their outdated tanks, pushing eastward along the coastal road, to pressure the British flank, drawing precious British strength from the fight in the center. There, and in the south, Kesselring, Rommel, and the German armor pressed and prodded, taking every advantage of the indecisive tactics of the British. But it was not a one-sided fight, no simple victory. For days, the British held tightly to what they called the Gazala Line, a stout defensive position that ran from the sea in the north, far down along a string of minefields, outposts, and fortified “boxes.” From the first day of the attack, Rommel had pierced and flanked the line, but still, the British held to their strong points, and so, as days passed, both sides were used up, the sea of dust and rock littered with growing numbers of machines, and the bodies of the men who drove them.
In the center of the line, the fight came from every direction, perfect confusion, large battles and small duels, tanks fighting tanks, infantry caught in between. The place would soon appear on the British maps. They would call it The Cauldron. After a long desperate week, both sides were losing energy and equipment, but Rommel’s tenacity prevailed. The British positions began to collapse, and gradually the machines that could still move pushed eastward
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