Herr Generalfeldmarschall Rommel Takes Cyanide Poem by Lucius Furius

How distant my Swabian* youth seems now.
I made a glider which really flew, you know.*
Not far, but yes, it carried me! I soared!

Some accused me of being a showboat,
of tooting my own horn.... I learned early
that the laurels don't go to the meek or the bashful.

Yes, I was a Nazi. Those aristocrats
on the General Staff* belittled the Fuhrer-
but where had they gotten us?
I liked his enthusiasm and optimism.
We were in a hole; he led us out,
got the economy going again,
restored the Sudetenland and Danzig.
(Danzig where Lucie and I had been married!)

I thought Poland would be the end
but when we attacked in the West
I didn't shrink away.
My troops and I were the very spearhead:
strike quickly; do the unexpected.

Who was I to deny
Germany's world-wide destiny?

The African war agreed with me.
The open space gave a latitude to my strategy
lacking in hilly, forested Europe.

The victory at Tobruk is often cited
as the height of genius, military.
I, myself, prefer what preceded it:
the retreat into Tripolitania-
salvaging men and tanks, shortening supply lines,
lulling the British into complacency;
turning and stinging at Agedabia.

El Alamein: the Fuhrer and I part company.
'Victory or Death', he cabled me.
I disagreed: my men would not die senselessly.

We were desperate for gasoline.
Ship after ship was sunk trying to deliver it.
(Lax Italian security, no doubt.*)

We were outnumbered five to one.
I favored withdrawing immediately,
consolidating troops in Europe.
The Fuhrer wouldn't hear of it.

I flew to East Prussia to confront him.
He'd grown pudgier, more strident-
wouldn't give an inch.
I sensed that not just Africa
but the war as a whole would be lost.
The weight of the forces against us was crushing.
The only question'd been their willingness to fight.
That had been answered at Stalingrad.

I fought on in Italy and in France,
hoping to convince the enemy
that the price of taking Europe-
especially Germany-
would be too high.

I really thought we had a chance
to stop them on the beaches.*
But now that we've failed, our destruction's inevitable.
I've tried to make the Fuhrer see reason:
surrender to the British and Americans;
don't let our country be overrun by Russia.

He condoned murder-
ordered me to kill the French Jewish soldiers
who'd surrendered at Bir Hacheim, * for instance,
(I didn't) - and much more.... And yet,
and yet, I couldn't quite bring myself to wish him dead-
and certainly never took part in that plot-
though, yes, I knew of it... after a fashion....
Defending myself to that group would be hopeless*....
Lucie and Manfred* must be spared
the humiliation of hearing me declared a traitor.

I bestrode the plains of Africa-
Rommel, the invincible-
always with the troops where the battle was most critical.
I was crafty and brave,
dared to act when others shied away.
I was the apple of the Fuhrer's eye;
idol of the German people;
scourge of the British military.
All the world applauded me. I lost-
but only when outnumbered overwhelmingly.

Now I sit in the back of this Opel*-
an outcast, a criminal-
waiting to take a cyanide pill.

We failed to assess properly
the will of other nations to honor treaties
and preserve their freedom.
And, more basically:
Were we right to force our rule on other people?

Icarus-like, we flew too high.

We were bold and strong
but it seems, in the end,
in the end, not supermen.