by Iain Gale
‘Sir!’
It was followed almost instantly by the crack of a rifle. Samwell turned to follow the direction of the bullet and found himself looking back into the slit trench at the body of an Italian. The man he had wounded had dragged himself to the parapet and judging from his position and the rifle in his hands had been about to shoot him when one of the men had spotted him and taken him out with the single round that had made a neat hole in his forehead and the messy exit wound that was all that was left of what had been the back of his skull.
Banishing the thought Samwell saw that the men were looking at him expectantly and pulled himself back to his remembered orders: ‘Consolidate the position for fifteen minutes then move on.’
That was the company order, but where he wondered was Company HQ or for that matter his company commander? They had agreed that he should bring up Company HQ with the reserve platoon with Samwell as second-in-command up front with the others.
‘Follow me.’ Instinctively, the men trailing behind, he turned and began to retrace his steps in search of the HQ.
Suddenly the night air was rent by a series of explosions. He counted four shells and stood still, then looked down and knew that he hadn’t been hurt. He was covered in sand. He brushed himself down and walked on. A shape appeared on the ground and for an instant he raised McCaig’s rifle which he had picked up again after his fruitless search for the revolver. But then he recognized the man, Colin Mackay, the highly-strung Company CO, who was sitting on the ground with the wireless receiver pressed to his left ear.
‘Hello. Battalion HQ. Can you read me? Say again. Come in Battalion. Copy that.’
Samwell spoke: ‘Sir. We’ve achieved the objective, taken several trenches and a good number of prisoners. Perhaps a couple of dozen. Mostly Eyeties. But we’ve taken casualties, sir.’
Mackay ignored him: ‘Hello. Battalion. Come in. Respond damn you. For Christ’s sake, will you come in. Respond, Battalion. Say again.’
Samwell tried again: ‘Sir. We’ve made the objective. We have prisoners, sir.’
At that moment Samwell was surprised to see the Battalion Commanding Officer Colonel Anderson walking towards them: ‘Hugh. Good to see you. You’ve done well. Ah, Colin.’
Instantly the major looked up and like some dog whose master, having ignored it, deigns to cast a glance, leapt up from the sand and moved towards the CO.
‘Sir. I was trying to get through to you. Thank God you’re here.’ At last Mackay saw Samwell: ‘Ah, Hugh. Good you’re here.’ He turned back to the colonel: ‘We’re doing well, sir. First objective taken and a number of prisoners. Anything to report, Hugh?’
‘Just that, sir.’ Samwell turned to the colonel: ‘Sir, give me the reserve platoon and I’m sure that I can make more ground. I’ll detail the right forward platoon to drop into reserve.’
Anderson thought for a moment: ‘Very well, Hugh. Take them and see what you can do.’ In the moonlit confusion Samwell managed to locate the reserve platoon and called them forward then together they advanced.
They were directly behind the forward platoons now, the men who had taken the brunt of the initial fighting and as Samwell looked on he saw stretcher parties weaving their hazardous way back through the advancing infantry and the wire. He wondered for an instant how he had got there and was aware as he had not been before of his legs working independently. Then he heard a noise. The other company’s piper had started to play again and he wondered what had happened to their own, Jock Macpherson.
He turned to the left and found his new runner, a boy from Greenock named White. ‘Get back to HQ and see what on earth’s happened to our piper, will you?’
The runner sped off without question, happy to be heading back. Again he was conscious of walking forward but as he went, there was a sudden whine and a terrific explosion to his right as a shell came in. Men began to shriek and he called out instinctively: ‘Stretcher-bearer!’ Another deafening sickly crump and more shells began to fall. Two more of the boys were down, White one of them, his skull bisected by a gigantic piece of shrapnel. The platoon continued to walk forward and as they did so Samwell became aware of a strange sensation. The shells which were falling around them were coming not only from the front, but also from the rear. They were advancing steadily into their own barrage. A shell landed too close for comfort, not thirty yards in front of him. At that moment the commander of the furthest left platoon of the company deployed on his right came up, a lanky lieutenant named Mitchell who two years before had been full back for Fettes’ first XV.
‘Samwell. Don’t you think we’re going too fast? Those are our shells aren’t they?’
‘You’re right. We should stop.’
‘Yes. I’ll go and warn Major Murray.’
The boy ran off back to the right and Samwell watched as he spoke to the major who shook his head, evidently disapproving of their suggestion. They continued to advance and now their own shells were falling closer still. Samwell walked across to the company commander and looked at him in despair. Samwell spoke above the noise of battle: ‘Sir, we really should stop or at least slow down. Those are our shells.’
As he spoke more shells whizzed over their heads and landed not more than ten yards ahead of them. All three men cowered to protect themselves from the blast but it caught them nevertheless. They straightened up and the major nodded: ‘Yes, Lieutenant. I think we should stop.’
Samwell hurried back to the left to his own platoon and found Sergeant Dawson. ‘We’ll halt here. Those are our shells. Pull the men back a few yards and get out of danger.’
The man nodded: ‘Sir.’
‘And Sar’nt, get word back to Major Mackay will you? Ask him to come up closer. Within the fifty yards.’
Samwell wondered where Company HQ had gone to. It seemed to have lost itself beyond the statutory fifty-yard gap between forward platoons.
Within minutes Dawson reappeared. ‘Sir, can’t find Major Mackay, sir, or the HQ. Reserve platoon’s gone AWOL too, sir.’
Samwell cursed to himself. Had he taken a wrong turning in this damned desert? His mind was addled and he looked across to the right to C Company only to see that they had begun to advance again and were now some fifty yards ahead. He realized that their own barrage had lifted. The men were disappearing into the night and he wondered why Mackay and the young lieutenant had not troubled to warn him that they were about to restart the advance. Now he and his depleted platoon were left alone out in the ‘blue’, as the old desert hands called it. Just him and forty men in the middle of nowhere. He turned to Dawson: ‘Stay here. I’m going to see what’s happening on the left.’
His company had been placed on the farthest left of the Argyll’s line of advance and darting between the wire and the bodies, Samwell ran low across to the left where another regiment, Seventh Black Watch, was advancing. But of them there was no sign. Not a man, save the dead and a party of stretcher-bearers. Christ almighty, he thought, we’re completely isolated. He ran back to the sergeant: ‘We’re on our own. The forty-second have buggered off somewhere and C Company’s gone ahead.’
‘Right, sir. What are your orders?’
For a moment or two he was unable to speak. An unexpected and novel wave of terror swept through him, nauseating and paralysing. He was alone. The company commander and HQ had gone along with the wireless and the ‘pilot’ officer. Slowly he began to try to calm down. His palms were sweating. Instinct told him that he had simply gone over too far to the left. He realized that they had continued to advance while he had been deliberating and quickly started to swing to the right. ‘Sar’nt Dawson. Wheel towards the right.’
Again fear overtook him. Not the fear of being blown to atoms by one of the shells, which were coming in hard now from the enemy guns, but a fear of being left alone here, cut off from the battalion. Ahead of him another strongpoint loomed up in the moonlight, illuminated by the flash of the constant explosions. Samwell yelled across to Dawson: ‘Sar’nt,
secure that position. Take those men prisoner.’
‘They’re getting away to the left flank, sir, along the trenches.’
Samwell had to make a decision. Pursue the Italians left along the trench across a battalion front, or continue on to his objective. There was no choice: ‘Leave them, Sar’nt. We’ll mop up later. Better to get on.’
They began to advance again and Samwell was beginning to wonder if they would ever find the other platoons when there was a shout from his rear: ‘Hoi there, Lieutenant!’ He turned to see the battalion adjutant, the second-in-command, Jamie Maclachlan. He called again: ‘Samwell! Hugh! What the devil are you doing here? Where’s C Company? And where are the Black Watch?’
Samwell saw that with Maclachlan were the men of his own Company HQ. A surge of relief replaced the fear. ‘Sir. Good to see you. Wondered where you’d all got to.’
‘Don’t ask. Just after you began to advance your Company HQ took a direct hit. Major Mackay was hit. Quite bad and the signals have copped it. You’d best carry on here. Looks as if you’ve done well.’ And with that he was gone.
Samwell looked around himself. Of the original men who had come with him he could find few. There was Baynes, his batman, and Dawson. And perhaps eight more men from the original platoon in his immediate vicinity. The reserve platoon commander came trotting up, a keen-faced, wide-eyed young lieutenant named McGlashan. ‘Samwell. Seems we’re still too far to the left. We’ve been ordered to wheel half-right.’
Samwell found his sergeant: ‘Turn the men half-right, we’re drifting to the left. Come on.’
Again they set off across the sand and within a few minutes a burst of automatic fire told them they had stumbled upon another enemy position. Dawson pulled the pin from a grenade and threw it into the foxhole. It exploded on target and a few moments later four Italians crawled out of the hole, their hands raised. Two of Samwell’s men took them prisoner at bayonet-point, but from the corner of his eye he saw two more Italians running away across the sand towards their left. ‘Leave them, Sar’nt. We need to stay together.’
After another three hundred yards he stopped and turned to his opposite number. ‘McGlashan, I think we should dig in.’
It was clear that they had taken the enemy’s front line of trenches. ‘This looks like it must be the objective. Can we raise Battalion on the wireless?’
The men began to entrench and the reserve company signaller gave a shout: ‘Mister Samwell, sir. I’ve got HQ.’
‘Tell them we’re in position.’
McGlashan went off to reconnoitre and a few minutes later returned. ‘Looks like the other forward company’s dug in about two hundred yards to our right. This must be the place.’
Samwell felt huge relief, almost elation that his instinct had been correct. He smiled: ‘Right, let’s get this place secure. Then I think we all deserve a rest, McGlashan, don’t you?’
Saturday 24 October
NINE
1.45 a.m. West of Alamein Station Miller
The night was a vision of hell. A moonlit wasteland in which every few seconds another explosion would crack the heavens and send an intense light across the low horizon. Ahead of them in the west a continuous line of flame marked the destructive power of the barrage. Dust flew up from their wheels as they attempted to negotiate their way through the columns of Bren carriers and trucks filled with infantry that moved constantly along the track through the minefield. Moon Track, closest of the four arteries in and out of the killing zone to the railway line, was busy tonight. Lieutenant Thomas was driving, riding as the spare for his friend their section sergeant, Brook Cuddy, another Harvard man, a writer, and Miller prayed that God would guide his hand. But right now Thomas was getting jumpy. He moved the wheel hard and shrieked.
‘Holy shit! These damn Limey tank drivers need a refresher course. I almost hit that one. Jeeze, Brook.’
Cuddy shook his head: ‘I could drive if you’d like, Evan.’
‘I volunteered to take a shift and I’ll keep my word. And Brook, please try not to call me Evan. Lieutenant or just plain sir would do nicely. Shit, who’s driving that thing?’
He swerved again to avoid an erratic Bren carrier packed with riflemen.
‘Ok…sir. But can I suggest that you keep your eyes on the road and your mind on the job. It would be a pity to kill us all before we have a chance to get those poor guys out.’
They had been called for at 1.30. A section of five Dodge ambulance cars ordered up to the 24th Battalion Regimental Aid Post or in military-speak RAP, as Miller had quickly learned to call it. Everything in the British army it seemed was abbreviated into an acronym. The diner was a NAAFI, high explosive HE, rendezvous was RV and of course killed in action KIA. They were looking for a truck; that was what the RAP would be, a single truck loaded with wounded men. Miller sat in the middle front seat of the Dodge and stared hard into the night, straining for a sign. Thomas sounded the horn and without warning dropped off the road to the left.
Cuddy yelled: ‘Christ, Evan! Not down there. That’s a damn minefield. We’ll all be blown to hell.’
Having circumnavigated a huge Sherman tank Thomas swerved back on to the road and Miller let out a sigh of relief. ‘I concur with Sergeant Cuddy, Lieutenant. Please try and get us there in one piece.’
‘Shut up, Josh, and keep looking. The damn RAP has to be here somewhere.’ As Thomas spoke Miller spotted their target. A Bedford truck with a painted red cross on the side and a tent attached: ‘There it is, sir. Just there.’
Thomas brought the Dodge to a dusty halt and the men leaped out. Behind them the four other vehicles detailed for the mission stopped in turn and the platoon spilled out.
Thomas found the MO, a kindly-looking New Zealand major named Coswell. ‘Sir, Lieutenant Thomas AFS. We’ll take your men now.’
‘Thank God you’re here, Lieutenant. We’re filling up faster than we can get ’em out.’
Together Miller and the others carried the wounded men to the Dodges. Most seemed to have been hit in the limbs; one though had a dreadful stomach wound and another had clearly been shot through the lungs. His gurgling, gasping breath reached into Miller’s deepest terrors. He laid the man gently on one of the stretcher-carriers inside the lead vehicle and turned back for the next casualty. Within ten minutes they had the front three ambulances loaded up. Thomas turned to Miller: OK, Josh. Find Sergeant Cuddy, would you. I think we can rest here until more of these poor boys come in. Then we’ll all leave together. Safer that way.’
But Miller had not really heard the words. He was too busy looking at the man who was running towards them. He was a New Zealand army officer, clearly a padre by the dog collar on his battledress and the expression on his face spoke volumes. Miller tapped Thomas on the shoulder and pointed.
‘With respect, sir, I don’t think that’s an optio n. Look.’
As Thomas saw him the padre spoke: ‘Oh thank heavens. You AFS?’
Thomas nodded. ‘That’s us, Reverend.’
‘D’you have any room in your cars? We’ve got a lot of wounded men a few hundred yards away to the west. With the Twenty-Fifth Battalion, up on the ridge. They’ve been shot up real bad. They need your help. There’s wounded men all over the place. All over.’ Miller could see the distress, heard it in his shaking voice.
Thomas nodded: ‘OK, Padre. I hear you. We’re with you. Right, Miller, you’re the second-best driver I’ve got. You too, Turk. Get into the two rear wagons. We’re going to help.’
Remembering his training at El Tahag with the army ambulance corps, Miller double-declutched and the vehicle sprang forward. A few hundred yards to the west. What did that mean? To the west. Directly into the enemy lines. He wondered how far it really was. For a few terrifying minutes he followed Thomas’s car along the track without any problem. McGinty was riding spare and tucked in behind him was Bigelow.
Again the trucks wove their way through the advancing tanks and Bren carriers, although this time ther
e were fewer and as they went on Miller noticed that more and more were destroyed. They passed the burning hulk of a Sherman tank that had clearly taken a direct hit. Something was hanging out of the turret and it was only as they drove past that Miller realized that it was all that was left of the tank commander. It took a moment for the fact to sink in; the fact that this ghastly charred corpse had until recently been a man. Miller turned his head to stare at the cadaver, the first he had seen, then turned back to the road. He felt chilled but curiously not as shocked as he had thought he might. There was something natural about it. It was after all he reasoned what most of the thousands of men in their lines of battle stretching across the desert were here to do. They were killers and this was a place of death.
McGinty looked out of the window at the advancing infantry. ‘You’ve got to admire them, Josh. Thousands of miles away from home and they’re walking right into hell up there.’
Bigelow spoke up from the rear: ‘Has it occurred to you that we’re also thousands of miles away from home and that as we’re driving into hell rather than walking there like them, we’re highly likely to get there first?’
McGinty glared at him. Miller spoke: ‘Look, I’m trying to drive this damn thing without crashing it and it would help if you two jokers would just shut the hell up.’
McGinty spoke: ‘Aw, fuck it.’
‘What?’
‘You see that tape, Josh?’
‘Sure I do.’
‘Yeah. Like sure you do, now. Well it like marks the edge of a minefield. A British one I’m guessing. And we’ve just gone through it.’
Miller swerved back towards the road. ‘Oh shit.’
He slowed down and pulled at the steering wheel, propelling them back on to the road and directly into the path of an oncoming British tank.
‘Christ almighty, Miller!’
He turned the wheel again and ended up at an angle on the shallow bank between the track and the minefield. The tank rumbled past.
Bigelow spoke: ‘Nobody said anything about minefields.’
