Several members of the group looked around for someone to speak first. Rommel finally answered his own question. “Yes. Deny them the beaches.” He looked around and saw Walters. “Go back to the bunker,” he told the others. “I will join you.”
Rommel’s naval attaché stepped forward, knowing that the fieldmarschal wanted a word with him. When the others were far down the beach, Rommel moved closer to Walters so that he would not have to shout above the wind.
Rommel’s gaze was drawn to the sea. He tapped his marshal’s baton against his shoulder, gazing into the distance. Finally, he came back to the kommodore. “Preparation, Walters,” he said, stroking the stiff collar of his greatcoat with the silver knob of his baton. “Dresser contacted me. Naturally, he was upset. Quite disturbed that work was not progressing on his boats. The new boats at Cherbourg. By my orders, he said, work had ceased.”
“Clearly a misunderstanding, Feldmarschall,” Walters said.
“Clearly,” Rommel said sharply. “For I can think of no reason that my instructions to Dresser were ignored and his orders to his men brought no response. I gave no such orders. Can you explain, Walters?”
The naval attaché’s attention was momentarily drawn to the sky. Far overhead the sun glinted off an enemy reconnaissance plane. They were a daily occurrence, lone aircraft, or aircraft in twos or threes flying safely above anti-aircraft and fighter protection, busily recording the preparations that were being made to strengthen the Atlantic Wall. Because of their overflights, there would be no surprise for the Allied troops. They were the distant eyes of the enemy.
“I can, Feldmarschall,” Walters said. “If you would grant me a few moments of your time. The Allied invasion of North Africa was a clumsy affair. But they learned much from their mistakes and were able to land on Sicily without the general confusion that marred the first invasion.”
“I need no schooling in enemy tactics,” Rommel said bitterly. “Continue.”
He had not arbitrarily dismissed Walters. It was a small victory from a man who was well known not to grant them easily. But Rommel could be mercurial and Walters knew that his reasoning had to be flawless. And quickly delivered. “Generally, their invasion fleet was constructed so.” Walters picked up a piece of driftwood and drew a few marks in the sand. The wind nibbled at the edge of the lines. “Transports,” a series of quick Xs; “bombardment vessels,” a group of crude Os; “and escort,” smaller Xs. “They will come across the Channel in lanes, each fleet assigned its place and time of travel.”
“Each fleet will have more than enough guns to protect it, Walters,” Rommel said, his tone pointing out the obvious. “The Kriegsmarine has no battleships, and the Luftwaffe has no aircraft, and that is why I have requested sea mines be so thickly scattered in the Channel that one can walk from Cherbourg to Portsmouth without getting one’s feet wet.” His voice rose and the words became sharper. “It is why that I requested of Admiral Dresser that he set his S-boats to seeding the Channel and why I was particularly disturbed to learn that you took it upon yourself to countermand my order. And for this action, you have a reason, I suppose?”
Walters answered with the fieldmarschal’s own words. “To stop the enemy at the beaches, Feldmarschall.”
Rommel’s temper exploded. “I fail to see how your little boats can achieve that. I do not appreciate officers undertaking projects that run counter to my expectations, Walters, particularly those officers in whom I have placed a great deal of trust. This is something that one of the Fuehrer’s lackeys would have done, but to have a member of my own staff do it is incomprehensible. I have not the time for such foolishness.” He wiped away the sand-diagram with the sole of his boot. “We will speak no more of this. You will do as I ordered and you will never again interfere with my commands. Understood?”
“Yes, Feldmarschall,” Walters said.
Rommel drove the baton firmly into his palm, watching as a patch of fog obscured the waves in the distance. The shouts of men dragging an antitank gun into position could be heard from just over one of the sea grass — studded dunes, and black figures waded into the surf, carrying Teller mines to the first line of obstacles. “The Fuehrer,” Rommel said in passing, “is consulting mystics and astrologers about where the Allies will land. Strategy is determined by charlatans. Von Rundstedt refuses to talk to our great leader. The only thing separating us from the greatest battle in history is a thin strip of water,” he reached down and picked up a handful of sand, letting it drift through his gray leather gloves, “a patch of earth.” He turned, studying the pillboxes and fortifications. “And what little we have been able to erect in the short time allotted us. The fate of the Fatherland, Walters.” The last of the sand slipped between his fingers.
“Feldmarschall, what if we can disrupt the invasion fleets before they reach the beaches?”
Rommel looked at Walters.
“If this can be done,” Walters continued, “it might prevent them from coordinating some important element of the invasion. Fire support, some part of the landing. Any confusion introduced into the array of ships that make up the fleet would throw off the timetable established by the enemy.”
“They will have contingency plans,” Rommel said.
“Yes, Feldmarschall,” Walters said. But once the fleets are committed they cannot easily be turned. The very size of the enemy fleet could be its own undoing.”
Rommel lapsed into thoughtful silence. There was no indication that he accepted Walters’s theory. After a moment he spoke, his mood one of interest mixed with skepticism. “The S-boats. Those pitiful little things. What can they do?”
“Shock troops, sir,” Walters said.
Rommel glanced at him and shook his head, dismissing the notion. He walked off, leaving Walters standing near the scattered remnants of his master plan. Imagination, Walters thought. One of the greatest military minds of the century has suddenly lost all imagination. There is potential here — with these few boats. I will not dismiss them so easily. He smiled at his own determination. Normally one would not run counter to a high-ranking officer. It was a practice that ended careers. But neither does one advance without taking at least a few chances. It would not be an unconsidered risk on Walters’s part; he had given the idea a great deal of thought. In the end what he saw was not the success or failure of Reubold’s boats or even the result of the enemy invasion. What he saw was Berlin and his rightful place alongside the powerful.
Chapter 13
Pilot-Sergeant Gierek sang quietly, his eyes alternately scanning the fluorescent dials of the instrument panel and the darkness ahead.
“Hej, gorale, nie bijcie sie.
Ma goralka dwa warkocze podzielicie.”
He stopped long enough to find the bright blue engine exhaust of the other Pathfinder Mosquito far ahead, and just slightly about the course that his aircraft had been flying. “You like the song?” he asked Jagello. “You like it? It’s a mountain song. It’s about a girl with two pigtails. Goralski Taniec. We used to sing it. I’ve forgotten the words so I use my own.”