Excerpt from a letter to Reichsführer-SS Heinrich Himmler
General Field Marshal Erwin Rommel’s cold stare mirrored the bleak view of the battlefield that lay before him. He’d been handpicked a year prior by der Führer, Adolf Hitler, to lead the German Army’s defenses of the French coastline. Known as the Atlantic Wall, these defenses began at the border with Spain in Southern France and stretched the entirety of Western Europe to the top of Norway.
Rommel was nicknamed the Desert Fox for his early successes in leading his 7th Panzer Division during the 1940 invasion of France. His leadership of combined German and Italian forces in the Third Reich’s North Africa campaign earned him the reputation as one of the most capable tank commanders in history.
He was also an ardent student of war and a master strategist who enjoyed the gamesmanship that played out on the battlefield. His book, Infantry Attacks, had been a staple of every military tactician’s library, including General George S. Patton, the American equivalent of the Desert Fox.
General Patton, who first came head-to-head with Rommel in North Africa, used the famed field marshal’s tactics against him, eventually driving the Germans out of the desert. As the last of the German tanks departed for Italy, Patton famously shouted, “Rommel, you magnificent bastard, I read your book!”
Rommel’s retreat in 1943 did not deter Hitler from appointing him to the important task of defending the Atlantic Wall from an Allied invasion. For reasons outside of Rommel’s control, D-Day was a disaster for the Germans.
As early as 1942, Hitler knew a large-scale Allied invasion of France could turn the tide of the war in Europe, hence the implementation of the Atlantic Wall. But thanks to the brilliant deception campaign by the Allied intelligence apparatus as well as Hitler’s own misguided micromanagement of the war, June 6, 1944, became the turning point Nazi strategists had feared.
Abandoned German Tiger tanks were strewn about the battlefield in various stages of destruction. Smoke and fire billowed out of their turrets. Tank commanders and infantrymen lay dead around what were considered the vastly superior King Tigers. Weighing seventy tons, the monstrous German machines dwarfed their predecessors, the undersized Sherman tanks. Had the strained German manufacturing facilities had more time to produce the King Tigers, the result at Normandy might have been different.
Yet there Rommel stood alone, stinging rain pelting his face and drenching his uniform. The wind whipped the ragged flag of the 21st Panzer Division. Two battle-weary soldiers stood guard nearby at the entrance to his field headquarters, remaining stoic in the drenching rain and emotionless in the face of defeat. They imperceptibly shuffled from one foot to another in an effort to keep their feet somewhat dry. Their fingers wiggled in their rain-soaked gloves as they gripped their carbines. Neither of them wanted to be there. They just wanted to go home.
Field Marshal Erwin Rommel was no different. He entered his quarters and removed his wet outer clothing. He lit the kerosene lanterns placed throughout the space. A dim orangish light filled the room, revealing his spartan furnishings. He did not require wood-paneled walls, exquisite stolen works of art, and Persian carpets to exude his stature as a commander.
Rommel was a soldier’s soldier. He was not an elitist general of the Reich who demanded respect coupled with an appropriate level of pomp and circumstance befitting their positions. He’d earned his respect on the field of battle, and appearances were unimportant to him.
He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. His face had become ashen, and he felt his weary legs begin to buckle. He brushed past the Nazi flag next to his desk. The red flag with the black swastika on a white disc was a mandatory fixture in any commander’s field office. That, plus the obligatory portrait of der Führer standing proud in a light brown jacket, left hand on hip and wearing a red swastika-emblazoned armband. Hitler’s toothbrush mustache had been adopted by him during his World War I service in the Bavarian Infantry Division. New gas masks had been produced, and his previously full Bavarian mustache had prevented a tight fit.
Rommel rolled his eyes at the portrait as he eased himself into his chair and unlocked his desk drawer. First, he reached for his diary. Later known as The Rommel Papers, his writings and diaries of war, discovered by British intelligence officers, were later published in 1953.
He poured himself a brandy, a rare occurrence, and took a long sip. After a long sigh, he began to write in his journal.
Most battles are quickly forgotten, but not by me. I have studied the history of the Americans at war. Many of their epic accomplishments have changed the course of their nation, and the world.
George Washington’s defeat of the British army at Yorktown in 1781 allowed the Americans’ experiment in democracy to survive. Moreover, it served to inspire oppressed people everywhere.
Even in ancient days, hundreds of years before the birth of Christ, our Lord, the small armies and navies of Greece defeated the huge invading forces of the Persian Empire at Salamis and Marathon. Through their bravado, the Greeks not only saved themselves, but their own fledgling democracy together with their cultural history of art, literature, and architecture.
These are the reasons to do battle with our fellow man. These are the reasons a mighty nation like Germany must fight to win. However, I now know the course of the war has turned. We are no longer the aggressor, but rather, the hunted.
We are outmanned. We are outgunned. And most importantly, we have lost our will to fight. I firmly believe historians will view the Allied invasion on the beaches of Normandy as the first of many decisive blows leading to the end of the Reich.
Unless …
Rommel slowly closed his leather diary, showing obvious signs of wear from his many entries, and wrapped the leather string around it until it was tied with a neat bowknot. With a sigh, he placed
