5. Down the Halfaya Pass

Halfaya Pass (Egyptian side), June 19th 1945, before midday

General Rommel was driving his truck along the dusty desert street leading down from the Halfaya Pass into Egypt, as part of a large convoy of tanks and other trucks, the latter consisting mainly of infantry transporters and supply carriers. They had been travelling for quite a time now; until a quarter of an hour ago Goebbels had driven while Rommel had after two days finally got some rest. Now the general himself had taken over the wheel, and Goebbels was sound asleep in the seat beside him. The little fellow had never received any military training, and considering this circumstance he had proven to be quite tough; he could endure hunger and sleepless nights, mine fields and artillery fire, the ever-changing heat and cold of desert day and night, sandstorms, fog, dust and the rare desert rain. In these past weeks he had become what their English comrades called a desert rat. Rommel smiled. The rat suited Goebbels quite well.

The back of the truck was filled with seven members of staff and Rommel's driver, who was also asleep after hours of continuous work, finally taking a well-earned rest. From the several officers came whispers at regular intervals, from time to time a loud word, from time to time the sound of laughter. Every once and again the wireless set crackled and reports came in, and General Westphal, one of Rommel's most faithful companions from earlier times, gave out orders over it every two hours.

Several miles were still ahead, and because the tanks couldn't go at a very high speed it would probably take them three more hours to reach the military base where they were expected, if not more.

Rommel had hoped that they would get there much sooner, yet they had been held up by a pack of Arabian guerrillas who had somehow got their hands on some fine machine guns. Well, the Arabians were now either dead or captive, and the machine guns were in their possession, but it had been a nasty bit of trouble, and General von Mellenthin, one of his members of staff, had received a wound in the arm. Goebbels, who had seen action before yesterday, had come closer to death than ever as one of the rebels had tried to drive a jeep over him, but had leaped aside just in time, jumped onto the back of the car, climbed in, given the offending Arabian one hell of a kicking before throwing him out, then scattering a fair few other rebels by driving right through their middle, and all that in a hail of bullets. Naturally their British comrades had loved him ever since.

Was he happy? At least it seemed so. Rommel knew that being rejected by the army at the outbreak of the first war had been very hard and painful indeed for Goebbels, and now the propagandist was proud to have finally achieved what he had secretly yearned for all the time.

Yet on the other hand…

It had been after their first battle – not a large one, yet enough to be called a battle. Goebbels had been rather silent after it, silent and thoughtful. And, in Rommel's opinion, it was not hard to guess why: After years and years of preaching the glorious hero's death on the field of honour, Goebbels had finally seen what it was really like, sacrificing one's life for the fatherland. And the glory had begun to fade.

He had believed so himself once, Rommel remembered. He had believed in a different kind of war, a fair fight between noble heroes. Yet soon he had learned that he had been terribly wrong, and it had been a painful experience. The very same experience Goebbels was going through now.

No, this war was not a glorious one. The mangled bodies remaining on the field, shot, ripped apart, run over by tanks, the screams of the wounded, the blood, the dirt… how quickly they taught a man otherwise!

But it was good that Goebbels learned it. It was the best thing that could happen to him. For maybe, after seeing this all, he would not speak for his Leader as readily as he had done before.

Goebbels was learning, Rommel thought, and he was learning it the hard way, so he would surely keep his lesson in mind.

The long lines of tanks, trucks and armoured cars rolled on and on over the dusty road, down into Egypt. On the back of one of those trucks, cowering in the shadow of a chest of supplies, was Harald Quandt, son of Magda Goebbels from her first marriage. The tall, blond lieutenant longed for some rest and for protection from the searing sun, and to add to it all, worries about his mother and the rest of her family were gnawing his mind. Yes, Joseph was around somewhere, Harald sometimes saw the man who he had come to regard as a mixture of father and brother, and this was at least some comfort. But to know that his mother, his five little half-sisters and his little half-brother were something like prisoners of war and valuable hostages at the same time was a thought that tormented him day and night. The letters they wrote offered a bit of relief, only to be replaced by new fear as soon as he started to imagine what might have happened to them in the meantime, while the letters had been on their way, and what might be going on right now…

He flinched as suddenly another young officer leapt up and pulled himself onto the rolling trunk to join Harald. The stranger had dark hair, but his eyes were of a light blue and wore a dreamy expression. His face, covered in sweat and sand, looked boyish and rather exhausted, yet at the same time cheerful. "Hey!" he said somewhat breathlessly. "You're Harald Quandt, aren't you?"

"Yes", Harald answered by surprise, "yes, I am. And you are…?"

The stranger beamed. "Rudolf von Ribbentrop. We both have part of our family in England, eh?"

"You mean you're the Foreign Minister's son?"

Young Ribbentrop's grin broadened. "You mean you're something like the Minister for Propaganda's son?"

For the first time since several days, Harald smiled. "Pleased to meet you, Baron von Ribbentrop."

"Call me Ribbi. Everybody does."

And somewhere else on the same road, towards the back of the long line, another young man, a private, sat on the back of a truck, perched on a chest of ammunition, together with several common soldiers. They belonged to a group responsible for supplies. The private's name was Hans Schavernoch, and he had been with Rommel for a long time now, always in the back of the force, busy with the supply goods. He greatly admired Rommel, and he enjoyed Africa. It was a good place to serve. For a short time he had been in the East as an interpreter, but he was glad that he was back now. He had never been in a battle, and he had never yet killed a man. His place was at the back of Rommel's forces, together with the others from the department of supplies. Although he had earned himself an Iron Cross, there was not much chance to show bravery here, far behind the lines. Yet still he knew that he and his comrades played a crucial part in this war, and he was proud they did.

But even though he was proud to be among the men of the Desert Fox, and even though Africa was a beautiful place, he knew that far away in a little town in Upper Danube, his young wife was waiting for him, and his two-year-old daughter, and that a second child was soon to be born. And more than for anything else, he wished this war to end… like so many others did, countless German and British soldiers who were weary of the war and yearned to go home at last.