by Iain Gale
For the rest of the night they had struggled to get any further information and Ringler was beginning to despair when he saw Monier coming up to their position. He was covered in dust and his red-rimmed eyes gave away the fact that he had been up all night travelling from company to company with a number of runners.
‘Lieutenant, news from HQ. Staff has sent a message. Tommy’s broken through in the northern sector. We’re counter-attacking.’
‘What about the south?’
‘According to Staff an English armoured division’s been blocked by the Italian paras. The Folgore. They’re brave buggers, sir, for Eyeties. Almost good enough to be Germans.’
‘Perhaps they’ve been picking up tips from us.’
Monier smiled: ‘And the adjutant says to put plan C into operation, sir.’
‘Plan C. He has to be joking. “Extra alertness”? Doesn’t he think we might be alert enough after that lot Tommy threw at us last night?’
‘There were planes too, sir. Thousands of them.’
‘Yes, I heard them. You could hardly fail to.’
Weber was sick again. Ringler turned to him: ‘Hans, I told you. Find Doctor Müller and for God’s sake clean yourself up.’ He turned back to Monier: ‘Has anyone here had any breakfast yet?’
‘There don’t appear to be any rations here, sir.’
‘No rations? Where the bloody hell are all the rations?’
Monier sneered: ‘It seems that some were used at the colonel’s party last night. Seems that it was thought that the lorry would replace them this morning. Only the lorry hasn’t turned up on account of the British attack.’
‘Yes. I see. Though how they expect us to fight Montgomery’s army with empty bellies is beyond me. You and I will have to find something for the men to eat, Monier. There’s no time to lose. We’ve no idea of when the British may attack this sector. And see if you can find something extra specially good, while you’re about it. It may prove to be the last meal any of us ever have.’
EIGHT
10.40 p.m. The start line Samwell
From his position, lying flat on his stomach on the bare rock of the desert at the front of the company, Hugh Samwell had watched the line of white tape for two hours now as it fluttered in the night breeze. It marked the starting point for the attack and he knew that beyond that insignificant marker lay whatever fate had decreed for him. Life, death or something in between that had no name. A lifetime of agony and bitterness. The moon sat high in the sky and lit up the bleak expanse of sand, rock and scrub like daylight.
High above he could hear the hum of the Allied bombers as they flew towards the enemy positions. He was still watching the white tape and thinking about the content of his somewhat disappointing new book, when there was a crash as a single gun spoke and hurled a shell towards the enemy lines. A moment later it seemed to him that the very air itself had been ripped apart as hundreds more took up the refrain. The ground trembled and Samwell hugged himself closer to its heaving mass. Tentatively he raised his head and up in the night sky saw salvo after salvo of shells streaming out from behind the lines towards the enemy. Poor buggers, he thought instinctively. One infantryman thinking of another and thanking God that it was not he who was on the receiving end. Though Samwell knew their turn would come soon enough.
Away in the distance, where the shells and the carpet of bombs had struck home on their targets of minefields, defences and enemy guns, the line was lit up as if by a hundred bonfires. Samwell shuddered at the sight. He could almost feel the searing heat of the explosions and the fire and knew what it must be doing to the men. He knew too that soon they would be sharing the same fate. He did not have long to wait. Ten minutes later it began. He saw the flashes as the forward of the enemy guns opened up and then the shells came crashing in. Crump crump crump crump accompanied by the whizz overhead.
He felt curiously detached, as if he might be at a tattoo at Aldershot watching the performers as they beat out a martial tune, and men depicted in tableaux the Battle of the Alma and the defence of Hougoumont at Waterloo. The impression was amplified as the shells flew high over the infantrymen’s heads and landed, he presumed, in the artillery at the rear. He could picture the scenes of havoc, the mangled guns and the wrecked bodies of the gunners; the cries of the wounded, the shouts of stretcher parties and orders barked by officers desperate to keep their batteries firing, mingling in a cacophony. Counterbattery fire was a particularly costly and bloody affair.
He was aware of lulls in the barrage on both sides, as if it were some strange symphony rising in crescendo and dying away again. Then something changed. Another shell passed overhead, but lower now. And then another, and a third so low that instinctively he ducked, although it must have been twenty yards above his head. He watched for the burst and saw it, perhaps two hundred yards in front. He knew what this meant. The guns had switched their targets from the enemy’s rear, the enemy batteries, to the forward positions.
He knew what it signified: prepare to advance; a prearranged signal. Suddenly his mouth became quite dry. But curiously the rest of his body was quite cool. Cold as ice in fact. He looked at his watch, flipping back the leather cover which protected it: 9.52. Three minutes to H Hour. He wondered whether the pipers really would play as they advanced. Perhaps the story was just another morale-booster. If they did play though then that would surely be the greatest boost to the mens’ morale.
He shifted on his stomach and almost without realizing what he was doing, in a semi-trance, stood up, pushing into the sand with the long ash walking stick which he had intended to leave in the rear at Company HQ. Suddenly the night sky, already made luminous by the brilliant moon, was lit up. Two searchlight beams touched the heavens, intersecting high over his head in the form of a cross; a St Andrew’s Cross, thought Samwell, the saltire of Scotland. It was a good omen. He knew that the whole Division, Fifty-First Highland, high up on the right flank of the army, must see them now. Monty had chosen the Scots for a key role. To break through the line and create a corridor for First Armoured. Samwell knew that if they should fail the tanks would be held up and the whole plan would stall.
Now, without thinking, he began to walk forward, trying to gauge the precise pace as prescribed: seventy-five yards a minute. He looked to his right and saw a line of men, stretching out until they vanished into the night. Without knowing exactly where his men were he shouted towards the rear: ‘Advance, with me. Forward!’
Then he heard it. Long, low and unmistakable. The sound of the bagpipe. It drifted at him across the night and then rose in crescendo as others joined in. Samwell’s heart began to beat faster and he suddenly seemed taller, fitter. He felt a tremendous surge of pride. Pride in the regiment. Proud of the tradition. Proud of what they were doing here and utterly invincible.
He listened to the tune. The regimental march, ‘The Campbells are coming’. His stride lengthened and he looked right and left and saw the effect the music was having on the men alongside him. The tune now was ‘Hieland Laddie’.
Another man appeared, an officer. Samwell wasn’t sure who it was, but he noticed that he had a megaphone and was shouting through it at the men: ‘Keep up there! You there on the left. That man. Straighten the line.’
Samwell turned to his left and found his batman, Baynes, who was walking alongside, just as if they might have been out for a morning’s constitutional. ‘Baynes, run down the line. Tell Sar’nt Dawson to keep his direction by marking from the right. From the right, Baynes. Got it?’
Baynes nodded and sped off. Samwell walked on and as he did, just as he might have when out walking a Highland road, led with the tip of his walking stick. He looked down at it. What the devil was he doing with that in his hand? With a chill he realized that rather than the rifle he had intended to collect from CHQ he was now advancing against the enemy armed only with a .38 revolver and a stout ash stick. He smiled to himself. Then he thought that soon someone was bound to be hit, killed or wounded and he
would be able to borrow their rifle. Who would it be he wondered? Which of the men he had come to respect and admire? Perhaps it might even be him. Well, they would know soon enough.
As if in answer, a new sound began which had a higher pitch than the whining of the shells and the explosions. It was a tighter, sharper noise yet still unmistakably that of a gun. A machine-gun; a Spandau, he guessed, or perhaps a Breda. Whatever it was, it was about to make contact with his men. As the thought left him he saw the streams of tracer bullets tearing diagonally towards them through the moonlight.
He turned to the man on his right, the pace-checker whose job it was to count the number of paces forward the company had taken from the start position. The man looked at him, his face lit up by the moonlight, and Samwell saw that he was grinning.
‘How many paces, Roberts?’
‘Dunno, sir. Lost count we’ve done that many. Good, innit? Like bleeding Bonfire Night, sir.’
Hardly had the words left his lips when another note was added to the symphony of shells and bullets around them. Crump. Crump crump crump. Mortars! Christ, he thought. They’ve zeroed in on us. Bastards. Mortars. And as he thought the words the bombs began to land among them, exploding and sending their deadly shards of shrapnel in all directions at anything from head to waist height. There was a loud crash to his left and Samwell heard a moan: ‘Oh God.’
He looked across and saw one of the men tumble to the ground. The officer was shouting again through his megaphone. Samwell strained to hear his words above the din and failed. He turned to his front and in the moonlight and flashes of explosions saw a wire ahead of him. It was only a single strand and stretched out at about waist height. Without thinking he rushed towards it and jumped, as he might have once done at Glenalmond, jumping the wire and winning for the house. He rose in the air and sensed that his trailing foot had just cleared the wire. The earth came up to meet him and he managed to his own surprise to land on two feet without breaking anything. He looked behind and saw his sergeant, Perkins, negotiating the obstacle in his own way. The man was built like an ox, all muscle and no room for agility. He looked at the wire and gingerly put one leg over the top. He was just placing his weight down on the leg when Samwell suddenly realized what was going on. This wasn’t just barbed wire. A single strand: Booby trap.
He opened his mouth to shout to Perkins but at that instant the air was split by a massive explosion as the hem of the sergeant’s shorts snagged on the wire. As the explosion caught him, Samwell instinctively turned away and a huge rush of air buffeted him on the back of the neck. In the instant though he was aware briefly of the outline of a man or what at that moment had ceased to be a man, disintegrating as Sergeant Perkins was blown to atoms. As the air cleared, he turned to the men coming on behind him and yelled, all too late. ‘Booby Traps!’
He carried on walking and wondered what it had been that had driven him to jump the wire. He had not been thinking of booby traps. He was suddenly aware that all the men around him were running. For an instant he wondered why. He could not remember hearing anyone giving the order. No matter. He quickened his pace and was soon running in time with the men. His body seemed alive with the thrill of the moment, adrenalin pumping. His mind, his whole being, was curiously euphoric. Fear gone, he charged on and was aware that he was screaming at the enemy. He knew that his side would win. He grinned hugely and looked right and left as he ran on. Turning further to his left he was aware of a man, Corporal Sykes he thought it was, running alongside him, and equally caught up in the moment. The man was laughing as he fired a Bren gun from his hip and Samwell could see his mouth was wide open and he was shouting, though no words were audible. Samwell wondered if he were aiming at anything or just ‘firing into the brown’. He looked to his front towards where the Bren rounds were hitting the desert rock and sending lethal shards flying in all directions.
Then as he ran, he saw a head protruding from the ground. For a moment he thought it might have been blown off a body. But then he saw that it wore a hat, a flat peaked cap of the Afrika Korps and that its eyes were wide and blinking. Unable to slow down he ran straight past it and as he passed saw that it was attached to the shoulders of a man crouching in a shallow foxhole. By God, they had reached the enemy without even knowing it! Trying to stop, he turned halfway round and almost collided with the bayonet of the soldier running directly behind him. Samwell raised his revolver and catching sight again of the head, loosed off three rounds towards it. Then he turned back to the front and ran on.
Christ, he thought. Did I hit him? Did I kill him? The worry did not last for long as once again he was caught up in the headlong charge. He noticed that he had drawn level with Baynes once again. Where Corporal Sykes had got to God only knew. His runner, a biddable lad called Brooks had also disappeared. He continued to run and suddenly saw directly ahead a line of men standing in a slit trench. They all had their hands above their heads and were clad in an assortment of ill-fitting desert-coloured uniforms. They were dirty and ill-shaven and would have been on a charge had they been in his company. He laughed and wondered what sort of bizarre training formula had put such a thought into his head at such a moment?
They were yelling at him: ‘Mardray! Mardray!’
Samwell wondered what the hell it meant. Mother? What did it matter. He pulled up and waved his pistol at the men in the trench. He could see now that they were Italians. He motioned to the left with his weapon indicating that they should join the group of prisoners being collected by an NCO, Sergeant McCaig of B Company. They scrambled out of the trench but one of them, clearly terrified beyond reason, began to run round in circles with his hands on his head, screaming. Samwell started to yell to a corporal to grab hold of him and then someone, Sergeant Hawkins he thought it was, shouted: ‘Watch out!’
There was a sharp blow on the toe of his boot and Samwell was aware of an object bouncing off his foot and to the rear. And then whatever it had been exploded. Dazed, he staggered backwards and instinctively placed a hand across his eyes.
For a moment he began to wobble unsteadily on his feet. Oh God, he thought, I’ve lost a leg and am being kept up by the shock. Drawing his arm away he looked down and saw nothing unusual. Both legs were still intact and unscathed. He noticed he was shaking. Instantly he wondered who had been hit and looking to where McCaig had been rounding up the Italians saw him stretched out on the ground. A big man, he was lying on his back and groaning. Samwell felt a chill run through him. He had always admired McCaig, a big tough bear of a man with leathery skin and a wide smile. But his voice now betrayed the inner child.
‘Mother, Mother. Help me, God. Help me, Mother. Mammy.’
Samwell felt sickened. A grown man reduced to an infant. The cause of his distress was all too evident: where his right leg had been was now a mess of flesh and blood and bone. Samwell knew now what had happened. One of the men in the trench had thrown a grenade as he had pretended to surrender. That had been what had bounced off his boot and on to the unlucky sergeant. He thanked God for his luck and at the same time felt guilty that McCaig should have taken the hit.
Within a second though his regret had been replaced by anger. A red rage surged over him and he ran across to the edge of the trench. Three of the Italians were still inside and without thinking he levelled his revolver and began to fire into them. Two shots hit home and they screamed and then, when he pressed the trigger again there was an empty click.
‘Bugger!’ He had forgotten to reload. Throwing his pistol away, he picked up McCaig’s rifle which had been blown to the ground, and jumped into the trench. The two men he had hit with the revolver were lying on the floor. One of them was moaning. Two other Italians lay against its sides staring wildly at him. Without thinking Samwell rushed towards them and buried the long bayonet attached to the sergeant’s rifle deep in the belly of one. He felt it go in, twisted it and stared into the eyes of the Italian. Saw his anguish and felt nothing but hate. He pulled out the blade and moved to t
he other man. He was crouching now, in the corner of the trench, his hands in the air. Samwell lunged and as he did so the man muttered something: ‘Madre Madre’. The steel shaft slipped upwards through his throat.
Then, as quickly as he had jumped in Samwell climbed out and laying McCaig’s weapon on the ground, looked for his pistol. The red mist had subsided now, but a rage still burned in his heart. Stupid to have thrown his gun down, he thought. What the hell would the quartermaster say when he turned up back at Company HQ without it? It occurred to him that he had also lost his walking stick. He cursed. He loved that stick. It reminded him of home. He remembered buying it in Glasgow three years earlier. He had taken it everywhere, even to the picture house in Stirling where he had left it under a seat after he and Klara had been to see a film. Waterloo Bridge it had been, with Robert Taylor and Vivien Leigh, a soppy story about a British officer who falls for a dancer. Klara had liked it. The two of them had had to disturb the whole row to get his stick back. She’d been furious then at the embarrassment but had forgiven him later. He thought of her again and wondered what she would be doing at that precise moment. Sleeping perhaps, or tidying the house before going to bed. Then he realized that he had still not yet found the revolver and her face faded from his mind.
He stopped searching and was aware that the advance had halted, for the moment and in this sector at least. Groups of Highland infantry were assembling around him, eager to attach themselves to an officer. He looked about and saw familiar faces and strangers from other companies. It seemed to him that he must be the only officer among perhaps eighty men. He was still looking at them when there was a shout.
