by Iain Gale
‘Weren’t you listening at that big briefing meeting? Lieutenant Edwards told us, Prof? We go through British minefields. Then there’s a gap where there’s no mines. Then we hit the German minefields. Simple.’
‘I missed the meeting. I had an appointment with the MO. A running sore on my leg.’
Miller spoke: ‘Listen, we just go where we’re told. Keep a good lookout, Prof, will you. We’re on a marked track but we’re still crossing a minefield.’
It was half an hour before they reached the other side of what had been no-man’s-land and a few minutes later Miller was aware that once again they were passing slit trenches. There were dark forms in many of them and he knew that they would be the bodies of Italian and German dead. And more than a few Kiwis.
McGinty spoke: ‘Where are we now, Josh?’
‘German minefield. See the signs?’
McGinty saw them. Stakes with wooden crossboards bearing a black skull and crossbones and the legend Achtung Minen.
‘As long as I follow the lieutenant’s car we’ll be fine.’
‘And if he gets it?’
‘If he gets it I slam on the brakes and pray I’m not too late.’
They were climbing a hill now, and Miller felt the engine labouring slightly. He trusted that they would make it: ‘They’re on the other side of this minefield. Only a few yards more and we’re clear. If they can do it then so can we…’
He was cut short by the spectacle which greeted them as the moon revealed the full extent of the task ahead. The ridge before them climbed up steeply. And it was covered in men. The pale waxy white light of the moon lit the scene like some theatrical tableau through the haze of dust. Miller looked around and took in the minutiae of the extraordinary image. He could hear but as yet could not actually see the fighting. What he could see though on his side of the ridge were long lines of the new American-built Sherman tanks crossing the lower slopes of the hill and directly ahead of them, pitifully small in the vastness, dozens of two-man teams of sappers armed with the new mine detectors, patiently clearing a path as if they were out for a Sunday stroll.
McGinty saw them too: ‘Now those are really brave guys, Miller. Wouldn’t you say? I mean, how brave d’you have to be to do that?’
‘Pretty damn brave I guess.’
Bigelow spoke: ‘Very difficult I should imagine, burying a mine in this desert. You know the sand is not at all easy. Very unyielding. You’d need to cut through rock to do it.’
‘Thanks, Prof. I know geology’s your bag. I’m sure that’ll be some consolation to the guys out there. How many mines do they reckon Rommel has?’
Miller answered: ‘Somewhere about 500,000. But it could be more.’
McGinty whistled: ‘Whoo! These guys have got a real job ahead of them. Rather them than me. Let’s get through here, Miller. I could do with a…’
His words were cut short by a huge explosion and all three men stared in horror at all that was left of one of the sapper teams which had been clearing the minefield.
Miller stood on the brakes, instinctively, and stared towards where the men had been and saw nothing. Then as the smoke cleared his gaze met pools of dark gore and a few body parts which were all that were left of one of the team. The other dead man lay a little way off, but he had been kneeling over the mine with his bayonet when it had gone off and Miller could see that the body was headless. He turned back and shifted gear.
‘There’s nothing we can do for them now. Let’s get up on the ridge. I guess they need us up there.’
Quickly and without waiting to consider the consequences, he drove on through the last few yards of the minefield, acutely aware that at any moment they might be blown to kingdom come. The others said nothing. But within a few minutes they had reached the wire which marked its limits. They were climbing steadily now, passing yet more abandoned gun pits which marked the enemy’s original position. Bodies lay slumped in various skewed and unnatural postures across the sandbags. Small-arms fire resounded along the far side of the ridge, punctuated by the distinctive rat-a-tat-tat of German Spandau machine-guns.
McGinty spoke: ‘The Krauts are well dug-in over there by the sound of it.’
They had almost reached the crest of the ridge by now. There were British infantrymen everywhere, all of them carrying rifles and in varying states of activity and torpor. So this is what a battle really looks like, thought Miller. No glory of course. He had not expected any. But neither had he expected the bewilderment he now witnessed. While some men were kneeling, firing into the moonlit darkness, others, clearly overcome by the experience, were merely standing there, directionless or confused. He saw one man with his head on one side staring vacantly at a German corpse.
Miller stopped the Dodge and jumped out. Thomas had halted directly in front of them and looked puzzled. ‘Josh. Have you noticed anything? Where the hell are all their officers?’
As if in answer a young captain appeared through the dust. Thomas saluted in his typically relaxed way, awaiting the usual rebuke, but the officer was too tired even to respond. For a moment the young man just stared at them. Thomas tried to make himself heard above the sounds of battle coming from the other side of the ridge.
‘Sir. Captain. We’re American, AFS. Ambulance drivers, sir. We’d be glad to evacuate as many of your wounded as we can carry in our ambulances.’
The man stared at him for a moment more before finally speaking. ‘Ambulances? Ambulances. Ah, yes. Well I’m afraid we haven’t had time to collect the wounded yet. You see we’ve been a bit tied up. Could you see to it? I’m sorry. Captain Horrell, Twenty-Sixth New Zealand Battalion. Would you mind? I can send you over a guide. You’d better hurry up though and get those ambulances away from here. You’ll be hit, you know. There’s a bit of a battle going on over the ridge.’
Miller stared at his face and saw the classic signs of extreme fatigue. He sounded like a man who had just run a hard race and was desperately trying to reacquaint himself with his surroundings. It was the first time he had seen real battle fatigue and it told its own story.
Thomas turned to Miller: ‘OK, let’s move it. Come on, Josh, get Turk and the others. Looks like we’re going to have to do this ourselves. See if you can find any of the Kiwi stretcher-bearers. Perhaps they could help.’
Miller began to look around the ridge. Every few paces or so he could see a hump on the landscape, no more in fact than a pile of dead or wounded men. Slowly he and Turk began to investigate them, moving from body to body, checking for signs of life.
Amid the dead and wounded two men were sitting on the sand. They were two of the battalion’s stretcher-bearers. They sat at opposite ends of their stretcher and stared blankly at the man lying on it. Half a man really. Miller wondered how on earth they had managed to get his mangled body on there in the first place. A piece of shrapnel had cut him from the right shoulder downwards, taking off his arm and penetrating his left side. He was quite dead. Both men were covered in blood, evidently not their own.
Miller spoke gently to one of them: ‘Could you give us a hand, Buddy? We’re trying to get some of your guys into our trucks.’
Neither man replied. It was as if they hadn’t noticed him. Then one of them suddenly seemed to snap out of his trance of exhaustion. ‘Sure, mate. C’mon, Jim, you heard the Yank. The lieutenant here’s a gonner anyway.’
Miller looked at the corpse and noticed the single pip on its right shoulder. He was no more than a boy, he thought, perhaps the same age as him. In death he wore a fixed smile, as if surprised at what had taken him away. The two stretcher-bearers carefully rolled their stretcher on to its side so that the body fell gracefully on to the sand. One of them laid a tin hat over the boy’s face then he picked up the bloody stretcher and followed Miller and the others. Together the four of them went across to one of the lumps. The man was still alive and as he saw them he smiled: ‘Oh, thank God, mate. I thought I’d be left here with the others.’
Miller saw th
at he was a private. He had been shot in the leg. There was a small entry wound and a large gaping exit. He reached into his haversack and pulled out a field dressing. Carefully he straightened the injured limb and wrapped the gauze around it.
‘You’re gonna be OK now, chum. It’s not so bad.’
The man looked at him: ‘American?’
Miller nodded.
‘Thank God you guys are here.’
‘Oh, there’s more of us coming. Lots more. An army. That’s what we’ve heard.’
The man laughed: ‘Great. But just don’t you beat us to Tripoli. Two bloody years we’ve taken to get there. You’re not going to steal our glory now. Did that before, in the last war. My old man told me that. Came in at the end and took all the bloody glory. No offence, mate. You see, once Monty’s won this scrap, we’ll chase Rommel right up the coast. Take your time, Yank. Just make sure we’re first through the gate.’
Miller laughed and finished securing the bandage. Then together he and Turk laid the man on the stretcher. Bending down to take the strain, the two New Zealanders lifted it up and began to walk slowly down the ridge towards the waiting Dodges. Turk spoke: ‘One down, how many more d’you reckon we can take?’ He paused, then said, ‘I tell you something, Josh, this is weird. I’ve never seen soldiers behaving like that. Not wanting to help out. Ones I’ve met have always been ready to help their mates.’
Miller nodded: ‘Yeah. I was thinking the same thing and I reckon I know what it is. We’ve come here too soon. They’re still in shock. They’re fired up. They’ve just taken their objective and they’re all punch-drunk. Bomb-happy. Call it what you like. Look at them.’
It was true. Both men looked around. Everywhere on this side of the ridge men were standing staring or crouching down, or doubled over in sheer exhaustion. Several were in tears.
They were still staring when they heard Thomas’s voice yelling: ‘Miller, Turk! Move your asses over here and give me a hand.’
They found Thomas leaning over a wounded corporal lying on a stretcher. Another boy, thought Miller. Younger even. The man’s left arm had been all but blown off and was hanging by the thinnest strips of flesh. His face was deathly white. Thomas knelt down close to the boy’s head: ‘Say again, son.’
‘We’ve taken the second objective, sir, haven’t we?’
‘Yeah, Buddy. You’ve done well. You took the hill. The Krauts are running. And you don’t have to call me sir. I’m a volunteer. A Yank.’
The boy looked confused: ‘But your pips, sir. Your hat.’
‘I told you, son. I’m just a Yank. Now try to relax while we lift you. OK?’ He turned to Turk and Miller: ‘OK guys, let’s get him in the truck.’
They were about to lift the stretcher when shells began to scream over their heads. Miller looked up: ‘Christ, sir. Those are Jerry shells. They’re incoming.’
‘Get down. Hit the deck.’
Instinctively, they fell over the corporal, conscious that their bodies might shield him. Another salvo flew overhead and then they heard nothing save the crump of the mortars and the rattle of the machine-guns and rifles further down the far side of the ridge.
Miller raised his head and looked down the slope. The Dodges appeared to be intact, but all around them was evidence of shellbursts; craters and plumes of black smoke. Fires had broken out too and bodies were scattered around the foot of the slope.
A New Zealand sergeant appeared through the smoke. ‘Who the hell are you?’ Then, seeing Thomas: ‘Oh sorry, sir, didn’t see you. Have you seen anyone from B Company? Captain Horrell wants them to extend to the flank. Seems the Twenty-Sixth haven’t crossed the ridge and the flank’s left wide open. Jerry could come up any time.’
Thomas shook his head: ‘I’m sorry, Sergeant. We’re just ambulance men. Yanks. And I’ve no idea where your B Company is.’
For the first time in his life Miller felt absolutely powerless and sensed an unexpected urge to do something positive. He actually wanted to be able to take some men and defend the exposed flank, to help win this battle against the Germans. For a moment he felt elated, then deeply shamed. This was not at all what he had expected. He had come here because of his sworn intent not to kill anyone. He was a pacifist, he wanted to help save lives. So why then did he now feel the urge to pick up a rifle and help the New Zealanders? It might have something to do with everything that he had seen in the past few hours. It might have something to do too with the young man lying on the stretcher before him, waiting to be put inside the Dodge and driven back to safety. It occurred to him that in order to save lives it might sometimes just be necessary to take lives and the thought sickened him.
TEN
2.30 a.m. Between Haret-el-Himeimat and Deir-el-Munassib Ruspoli
The machine-gun bullets came tearing into the forward trench, ripping their way through wood and canvas and anything else that stood in their way. They found their first human target in a young private from Brescia who had foolishly not remembered his commandante’s advice to keep low, and there and then put an end to his family’s dreams of their son’s promising future career in medicine. Ruspoli saw the young man die and cursed the British as the rounds flew in around him, ignoring the danger he was in.
Mautino put a hand on his shoulder: ‘Colonel, please. Please follow your own advice. Take cover. The men can hold them off. We still have the anti-tank battery.’
‘Of course, Carlo. I am well aware of that. But how many more good men do we have to lose? We should have been sent more weapons, more ammunition. How many rounds do we have now? Do you know? Does anyone?’
Mautino shrugged: ‘Perhaps two thousand rounds maximum. We keep trying to get through to Division, sir, but the radio’s kaput. It’s hopeless.’
Ruspoli shook his head and smiled: ‘Not hopeless, Carlo. Never hopeless with the Folgore, eh? Where are the 47/32s?’
‘Ponticelli has them on the rise a hundred metres over to the west. It’s the best position.’
‘And the spotters?’
‘Two in foxholes directly to their front. Another two either side.’
‘Good. That’s good. Send a runner. Tell him to wait until he’s sure he’s in range and likely to score a hit. We can’t afford to waste any ammunition.’
Ruspoli wasn’t really worried. His gunnery officer, Emilio Ponticelli, was one of the finest in the Division, perhaps in the army, with sixty kills to his personal credit.
Mautino was getting agitated: ‘Don’t you think it would be more sensible if you were to come back to HQ? There’s really nothing you can do up here, sir.’
‘Nothing I can do? I can be here, can’t I? I am this brigade, Carlo. Raggruppamento Ruspoli. It bears my name, Carlo. I can only be up here with the men. They need to see me. I am the brigade.’
For three hours now they had been under attack and Mautino could tell that it was taking its toll on his colonel’s state of mind. It had started with a barrage at 10.45, such a barrage as none of them had ever seen. The shells had been fired at positions to their rear at first and Ruspoli knew that the British were attempting to take out their supporting artillery. But then, within half an hour the barrage had crept closer and soon shells were falling thick and fast over the trenches. It had been at midnight that the enemy infantry first came forward.
Mautino had looked out over no-man’s-land, beyond the sprawling silhouette of the wire, lit up by Verey lights, flares and the continuous glow from the guns and the fires they had started. Gradually he had seen their black forms against the skyline. Ruspoli, once told, had wasted no time in going up to the frontline positions. It was plain to see where the British were attacking and that the Seventh would take the brunt of it.
More shellfire to his left and Ruspoli had known that poor Alfonso Salerno’s Nineteenth Company in particular must be having a rough time. He had sent out runners to him. There was a time to stand and fight and die and a time to run and save yourself to fight another day, and Ruspoli knew that in the opening
stages of this great battle the latter dictum would hold true. They needed every man they could keep alive. Abandon the advanced positions, regroup in the trenches and that was where they had been ever since.
Ruspoli had no real idea as to how many men they had lost in the past two hours. He knew though that it was too many. He turned to Mautino. ‘Come on, let’s see what’s happening out there.’
‘Colonel, do you think…?’
‘Carlo, I don’t think. I do. Come on.’
Together the two men entered the small embrasure in the trench and Ruspoli peered through an improvised periscope. Despite the bright night, it was hard to see properly using the two mirrors, but eventually he began to make out a swarm of infantry and with them armoured cars. ‘They’re coming round the minefield again, through the gap they blew yesterday. Carlo, go and find Gola. We need his mortars.’
Mautino looked puzzled: ‘Is he back, sir? I thought…’
Ruspoli laughed: ‘Didn’t you know, he booked himself out of hospital, said the dysentery had gone and the sores too and he came back last night. Couldn’t wait to be back with his men and his beloved mortars.’
Mautino shook his head. ‘What a man.’ He laughed: ‘I knew that silver medal wouldn’t be enough for him. He always wants more, that one.’
Captain Marco Gola had become a legend in the Folgore. A towering six-foot-six, he had won his silver medal for his work in Albania with the mountain artillery and now he commanded the Parachute Regiment’s specialist mortar company. They said that Marco Gola could hit anything…blindfold. And if there was ever a time they had needed his expertise it was now.
Mautino came hurrying back, Gola with him: ‘Colonel?’
‘Mortars, Gola. Now, over there.’
Calmly and unhurriedly, Gola and his men set up the field mortars and equally calmly sent a dozen rounds flying from the trench. The familiar crump resounded and Ruspoli again looked through the periscope. As the smoke cleared he made out the infantry again. But this time the swarm was broken up. Isolated men were taking cover in foxholes and behind dead bodies and bits of debris. Others were pulling back. There were wounded too. Ruspoli saw a young man lying out in the open, his legs severed below the knee. He was shouting or screaming something which the colonel thankfully was unable to hear. He turned to Gola: ‘Well done, Gola. Good work. Another two for comfort I think.’
