Now Rommel turned on him. “What I want is the choice to do what I wish,” he said sharply. “Appearances matter in war. Whether I want Cyrenaica is not the point. I must demonstrate that I can go there nonetheless. The fact that I might be able to take it if I choose is the entirety of it. O’Connor will look at my dispositions and then he will be forced to plan accordingly. We’ve gained at least a month with this battle. Now I want to make that two months. Tonight the Führer will have some more good news, just as I promised him. He will hear O’Connor was beaten, that the British are retreating, that the Afrika Korps is on the move east. For the next few days, let him enjoy the headlines.”
Now an officer came in with three messages, saluting and handing them off to Bayerlein. “Well,” he said, “scanning the pages, and looking over a photograph, which he now handed to Rommel. “This is most unusual. Something has happened at Tobruk.”
That surprised Rommel, for the port was just a backwaters outpost now, with most British supplies being routed into Benghazi. He glanced at the aerial recon photo, and the surprise deepened to real mystery. “That isn’t Tobruk,” he said. “The shape of the bay is all wrong. The pilot must have made an error.”
“It says here Tobruk was overflown at noon today and found to be completely destroyed.” Bayerlein handed Rommel the message.
“I tell you it’s wrong. If that’s Tobruk, I’ll eat my hat.”
“Then what about this?” The second message was handed over, and Rommel saw that it was coming direct from OKW. “Confirm massive detonation at the port of Tobruk. Forward latest aerial recon imaging at earliest opportunity.” Rommel looked up at the others.
“Someone at OKW wants me to have this dusty old cap for breakfast,” he said with a smile. “Very well, confirm it. Yet if that photograph is accurate, it must have been a truly massive explosion. What could cause such damage? Look at the southern edge of the bay, the sea is well inland there now, all the way to the escarpment near the airfield at Fort Marcucci. And look where the town should be. You can’t even make out the roads in this photo!” The more he looked at the image, the more he began to feel an uneasy sensation of fear.
Rommel had studied maps of that area for hours on end. He knew every landform and feature of the terrain, and how all the roads connected. He had given it a cursory glance earlier, but now he looked closer, seeing it was indeed Tobruk. There was the hill at Ras Belgamel, the Solaro Escarpment, Fort Pilastrino, some 10 kilometers from the bay. But the harbor, the town, even Fort Marcucci, were completely gone. What could have caused such tremendous devastation? Could they have had ships there, packed to the gills with ammunition and gasoline? Even that could not cause this destruction. He was deeply troubled. It didn’t seem like OKW had any clue as to what had happened. They were looking for more information from his Luftwaffe assets here. Very strange indeed.
“And here’s the last message,” said Bayerlein. “It seems we’ve finally got our hands on one of those monster tanks the British have been beating us with. They found one abandoned just beyond the cemetery at Ar Rimith.”
“Where is that?” Rommel was reaching for a map. “Here, about ten kilometers north. Let’s get moving, gentlemen. Off to your duties. As for me, I’m off to see this tank!”
He would jump into the nearest vehicle, and was off in a column of dust, with von Thoma staring stupidly after him. The British rearguards were still fighting near the cemetery when Rommel arrived a half hour later. His appearance energized the local commanders, where a mixed regimental sized force from 7th Panzer was cleaning up the remnants of light flak guns, some still firing with their 40mm Bofors. Rommel was impatient, and he looked at his watch.
“I want this area cleared in fifteen minutes!” he ordered, and that was done.
When he reached the cemetery, he passed among the dry graves, the buried bones of generations past. There were few headstones, and those that remained were now scored by bullet wounds and the flash and powder burns of shells and grenades. There, north of the cemetery on a thin desert track, he saw the tilted mass of the largest tank he had ever laid eyes on.
The German Tiger I weighed in at 54 tons, with a body length of 20 feet plus 8 inches. Gun forward it measured out to 27 feet, 9 inches. And it was just under 12 feet wide. The Challenger II was ten tons heavier, its body seven feet longer, and when gun forward it measured 44 feet with that long 120mm barrel. Only the width was about the same as the German tank. Even the later model King Tiger would not be as big as the Challenger II. Rommel could see the damaged track and wheels, the crater in the earth where the mine had gone off to hobble this vehicle. The long gun was bent and broken by an internal explosive, obviously deliberate. This spoke volumes to him.
The unit that fielded this tank was just a detachment, he thought. They had no engineering support, because our intelligence was correct. This heavy brigade was not here today, only a few vehicles. The ground around me still holds the imprint of their tank tracks, and I can read it very well. They couldn’t save it, so they stripped it and then tried to demolish it with charges.
He climbed up onto it, his hand flat against the heavy turret armor. The solidity and power that feeling gave him was something he never forgot. This was the monster that had stopped him from taking Egypt, the beast that had brought him to the shame of defeat. He had tried to explain that shame away with all his talk of strategic withdrawal and saving the army to fight another day, but the bile of defeat was still bitter taste, no matter how much honey he stirred into that tea. Peering down through the top hatch, he was struck by the roomy turret, impressed by its flat design, nearly the width of the vehicle body itself. Everything there was wrecked and blackened by fire, but he gave orders that the Division tractors be brought forward and the tank was to be hauled off; transported to Sirte at once.
“I want it on a ship bound for Toulon within two weeks,” he said. “Someone back home will be very pleased to have a look at that beast. How the British could have built it remains a mystery to me. And if they could build it, then why do they persist with that.” He pointed to the wreck of a Crusader III, which seemed a feeble excuse for a tank beside the great mass of the Challenger II.
It was a most unexpected dividend from his little victory, like the errant RPG round that had been left behind at Palmyra, and the windfall delivered by Kapitan Heinrich when he captured the Norton Sound. There had been so little time to rig the demolition, and though the electronics were totally destroyed, someone was going to get a very good look at the composition of that Chobham armor, the powerful Perkins CV-12 engine, the David Brown TN-54 transmission, the Hydropneumatic suspension. This little gift of the Magi would have a dramatic effect on the future course of the war.
Part IX
The Kirov Gap
“Satan never wasted a fiery dart on an area covered by armor.”
Chapter 25
While O’Connor was advancing into Tripolitania, the Germans achieved a dramatic breakthrough north and south of Voronezh in late September. 2nd Panzer Army had clamped the city in an enormous vise, then the infantry freed up by the Soviet withdrawals came up to relieve those troops, allowing them to continue east. A small pocket formed around Voronezh, trapping 16 Soviet divisions, including most of the 2nd Guards Army and supporting troops. The drive east saw Hoth in the north, his 3rd Panzer Armee holding the northern shoulder, and Model’s larger 2nd Panzer Armee for the main offensive. German recon elements raced ahead through the breach. Cutting rail lines to prevent the enemy from using them to bring in speedy reserves.