Alamein

by Iain Gale

  It was a crucifix. Silver and on a chain. Bowie must have ripped it off his own neck in desperation at the very moment that he had sat up there, terrified on the hillside. He wrapped his hand tightly around the cross until it cut into the flesh and then put it carefully in his breast pocket.

  It just didn’t figure. Where was the justice in it all? Of what sort of divine plan was this a part? His head buzzed with a terrible guilt and dozens of unanswered questions, and he had no answers for them. One thing he did know though. He could never be the same again.

  TWELVE

  7.00 a.m. HQ Eighth Army De Guingand

  Freddie de Guingand read over the situation report that he had just finished writing. Montgomery preferred his reports to be delivered verbally and Freddie liked to make sure that his were not only succinct but as revealing as possible.

  Northern sector: XXX Corps attacked last night under the barrage across a ten-mile front. The Australians on the furthermost north flank managed to reach the objective line ‘Oxalic’ but met strong resistance.

  In the centre Fifty-First Highland Division moved forward in two brigades, each of which advanced with one battalion forward and two in reserve. Unfortunately, by dawn the division had still not breached the main enemy line. It sustained heavy casualties.

  To the left of the Highlanders, Second New Zealand Division attacked the western end of Miteiriya Ridge. They have taken heavy casualties. At dawn the first of the tanks from Ninth Armoured Brigade arrived on the ridge but have since been beaten back by anti-tank fire.

  To the left of the New Zealanders First South African Division advanced and managed to penetrate the minefields at the eastern end of Miteiriya Ridge. It has now dug in along the ridge. Southern sector: General Horrocks’ XIII Corps put in its attack with some success and managed to get through the first enemy minefield.

  Seventh Armoured Division met with strong resistance and had difficulty penetrating minefields. In general: The attack appears to have achieved complete surprise. We have created a bridgehead. Most importantly we have a presence on Miteiriya Ridge.

  That would please the army commander, he thought. On the whole they had started well. Surprise, he knew, was what Monty had been after at all costs and it had come at a price. The news of heavy casualties would not be welcome.

  THIRTEEN

  Noon Near Bab Al Quattara Ringler

  The dreadful night was long past and for that at least he was glad. He had known of course that the Allied attack must come soon but he had not supposed that it would be so ferocious or sustained. But with the day had come new worries, new dangers. Ringler crawled from strongpoint to strongpoint across the parched sand and everywhere the story was the same. Pallid, exhausted faces stared at their officer, harrying him with questions that were impossible to answer. ‘How had they managed that terrible bombardment? How many of them were there? Would they continue the barrage again tonight? If so, how could we survive it?’

  Ringler had done the best he could, fending off the questions with a mixture of bravado and guesswork. But he knew in his heart that few of them had believed him. They had seen too much in the last twelve hours to ever entirely believe him again. All save a few stalwarts, Monier among them. The worst part of the day had been when he had tried to get the men some food. There was nothing left and after the excesses of the previous night Ringler boiled with the injustice of it all. Sometime in the night a carrier arrived with a canvas container. Ringler yelled to the nearest foxhole: ‘Food. They’ve sent food, boys.’

  But when they opened it they found inside not the hoped-for cans of fruit and meat but merely ten hermetically sealed packets of Afrika Bread. Ringler buried his head in his hands. Monier appeared at his side: ‘Don’t worry, Lieutenant. The men don’t mind. Really they don’t, sir. It’s just that you raised their hopes.’

  Was that all he was good for, he thought. To raise hopes only to see them dashed. It was somehow symbolic of all that had befallen them recently. They were, it seemed to him, a forgotten army. And if they couldn’t even find the resources to call up food for starving frontline troops then what chance did they have?

  He dug deeper into the canvas sack and found some tubes of processed cheese. Twenty tubes for just under a hundred men. There were a few bottles too of cold coffee, the men called it ‘negro-sweat’ and Ringler thought it was not hard to see why. Still, it was sustenance. He broke out the rations and heard the groans of protest. An eerie calm hung over the battlefield which only a few hours ago had been a vision of hell on earth.

  Ringler watched as his men ate the meagre food and looked at their faces. He stood up and found Monier: ‘When they’ve finished Sar’nt-Major, have the men clean their weapons. Full inspection in one hour.’

  This produced more groans but Ringler knew that what they needed was for their minds to be utterly distracted from the prospect of impending death. Besides, he reasoned, they might even need those guns in a short while.

  He had just concluded his inspection and was congratulating himself on the condition of the machine-gun positions when the runner found him and virtually fell into his foxhole. In the lowering light, it was not hard to see that the callow youth, a recent arrival in the desert by the look of him, was not over-inclined to smile.

  ‘Lieutenant Ringler. You will proceed to the commander immediately.’ The boy left the pit as quickly as he had come and Ringler acted at once. He found the senior company sergeant, a Bavarian named Hoffner.

  ‘Sergeant Hoffner, send the drivers back to the vehicles and get the men ready to move.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘We’re moving out Hoffner. I’m off to see the CO.’

  Ringler moved quickly along the line, to the left where he knew the HQ had been set up. He found it, a large foxhole dug in beneath the chassis of a burnt-out truck and with it the battalion commander, Rittmeister Mitros, a callow unsmiling man with whom he had never felt any particular empathy. Ringler saluted. Mitros spoke, crisply and factually: ‘Ah, Ringler. Yes. Ten Company…Ten Company is to go through the minefield and occupy point one-one-five in no-man’s-land.’

  Ringler was not quite sure that he understood. ‘Sir?’

  ‘Point one-one-five. Clear? It is to be built up as a strongpoint and held at all costs.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Where exactly is it?’

  The captain pointed to the map which lay on the table before him. ‘Well you see, here we are three kilometres from the minefield which is about eight kilometres wide. You see? Here is point one-one-five at the exit of the minefield right in front of Tommy. We still hold it. The passageway through the field is well marked as far as we know by the iron poles. Further over there should be one of our forward observation posts with an assault gun. It reported in about an hour ago so everything seems to be all right with them. Any questions?’

  He smiled.

  Ringler smiled back. Of course there were questions. Thousands of them. Questions like why? Were they to be supported? How many do you think we shall lose? What do we do if we are attacked? May we surrender? What is an unacceptable level of casualties? And simply, like Monier, ‘Will I get home again?’ But of course he did not ask any of them. The only words that came from his mouth were: ‘No, Herr Rittmeister.’

  The man replied: ‘Do it well, Ringler. Much depends upon holding point one-one-five. Goodbye.’

  The captain looked back down to his notes and began to write. Evidently, thought Ringler, their interview was at an end. He saluted and left the tent. Well, he thought, at least it was something to do. He supposed that point one-one-five was of strategic if not just tactical importance and felt honoured at having been chosen for the task. But part of him wished that he had not been.

  By the time he had got the company mounted up into the vehicles, half-tracks which coped well with the sand, it was dark. There were fifteen transports in all plus the two 5cm anti-tank guns. It had started to rain which still seemed to Ringler, for all the time he had spent out here in
the desert, bizarre.

  Monier found him as he was going through the orders for the final time before climbing into the command vehicle. ‘Sir.’

  ‘My greatest worry, Monier, is whether I will be able to find the path going through the minefield. Once I’ve got it I’ll be happy. Then we can worry about how we actually get our way through it, eh?’

  He had told the drivers to try to keep the maximum distance possible between the vehicles, in case one of them should strike a mine. Under absolutely no circumstances, he had said, should they leave the column. He climbed into the command car, Monier seated himself by his side, and they set off. After they had gone two kilometres Ringler turned to the driver, Obergefreiter Hans Müller: ‘You can go a little slower now, Hans.’ He scoured the desert landscape for the poles which would mark the safe path through the minefield, then turned to Monier: ‘Can you see any poles? Anything?’

  ‘No, sir. Can’t say I can.’

  They drove on another five hundred metres and then, over on his left against the stark horizon he saw a few shapes which anywhere else might have been shell-shattered tree stumps. ‘There they are, Hans.’

  The driver turned the car and drove towards them, followed by the remainder of the company.

  As they reached them Ringler stopped the vehicle and jumped out on to the track. Behind him the other half-tracks began to pull up but to his annoyance they did not leave the prescribed distance between each other.

  He ran to the second vehicle: ‘Back up, back up. You’re too close,’ and repeated the instructions the length of the column until they had opened out. Then he called the drivers over to him. ‘Now listen. We’ve got to find the right lane through the minefield and the only way to do it is on foot. He looked at them. ‘Reichler and Barlach. You two, you take the right lane. Sergeant Monier, you come with me. Unteroffizier Schmidt, you’re in charge.’

  Slowly, he and Monier made their way along the left-hand track. The rain was heavier now and their clothes felt heavy with the weight of the water. After fifteen minutes Ringler saw something in the moonlight. Two tall posts five metres apart. That must be it. He ran across and along and saw two more poles. Sure now that he had found the path, he and Monier returned to the column but the night was dark and it took what seemed like an eternity. The stars had disappeared behind cloud and it occurred to Ringler that annoyingly he hadn’t noted their route.

  He swore at himself for his stupidity. They remounted the vehicle and started the engine. Then with great care they made their way from post to post of the markers. With every inch Ringler felt that he was going to be blown up. The vital thing now he knew was not to let the trucks be separated from one another. He climbed back up on to the radiator of the vehicle while Monier mounted himself on the gun carriage of the anti-tank gun it was pulling. Curiously he did not actually feel fear, merely a sense of unbearable tension. He kept looking back, checking to see that none of the vehicles was straying off the track and into the minefield. Once or twice he thought he spotted a slight loss of control and waved the driver back on course.

  Looking down at the ground he was able to discern the occasional vehicle track but for the most part the drifting sand had covered them. Still, he thought, if there were tracks to follow why not follow them. He could not see any burnt-out hulks on the track itself ahead. As he pondered on this the traces gave out and so did the posts.

  ‘Hans, pull up for a moment. I’m going to go ahead on foot to have a recce and find the next damn post.’

  Ringler climbed carefully down and began to walk forward to the right of the vehicle. He had gone a few paces when a shape loomed up before him. Instinctively his hand went to his holster, unbuttoned to allow him access to the Luger within. But as he drew nearer he saw it to be nothing more than the next pole. He turned and walked back to the vehicle and wondered how long it was going to take them to reach their objective. And just as they were setting off there was a dreadful howling noise from their front and a salvo of shells came screaming over and fell directly into the minefield lane. They were quite closely bunched and it occurred to Ringler that they had been spotted. This was target shooting. Another salvo came over and thirty seconds later another.

  He turned to Monier: ‘Tell the men to keep going. Do not break out. We must carry on and get through this. It won’t last for long.’

  Again, although he had given the command and sounded self-assured, he was not at all certain of his own words. The salvos were continuing with ghastly regularity every half-minute and he knew that it was a miracle that none of the vehicles had yet been hit.

  There was a radio message from Two Platoon’s commander, Lieutenant Berndt. ‘Do you think that we might be better to disperse? We’d be less of a target.’

  Ringler pressed the button on the handset: ‘On no account. Stick with me. Stay in absolute formation. Tight as it gets, Ludwig.’

  Suddenly the car stopped. Ringler looked at his driver: ‘Hans? What’s up? Are we kaput?’

  Müller looked back at him, his face a mask of fear and misery, tears streaming down his cheeks. ‘Sir, I can’t go on. I just can’t. We’re all going to be blown to hell. Christ almighty, we’re all going to die.’

  Ringler shook his head. First the rain and now this. The rest of the column was still moving. He panicked; what if a single lucky British shot should land on them?

  He pushed Müller to the side along the bench seat of the vehicle: ‘Get out of the way, man. You’ll kill us all.’

  Müller sobbed: ‘No no no’ and, all pride sacrificed to fear, curled up in his seat into a tight ball of sobbing humanity. Ringler grabbed the wheel and came down on the clutch and the gear lever at the same time. The truck roared into life. But it had begun to rain again now and visibility was zero. Another salvo came whining in. Müller sobbed louder. Monier cursed. There was a whoosh and a blinding flash as a shell landed some distance behind them between two of the following vehicles. Ringler pulled up, jumped out of the half-track and still being careful to stick to the marked path, ran back towards the rest of the company.

  He saw the damage immediately. A truck was slewed across the road. The driver had left his vehicle and was clutching his right arm which was soaked in blood. Ringler ran towards him: ‘Horst, are you all right?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I think so. Lieutenant Berndt’s dead though, and Corporal Muntz.’

  Ringler ran past him and found the next vehicle behind the damaged half-track. He shouted to the driver and signalled to him to work around the wreckage, still sticking to the marked track. Not waiting for the others he ran back to his truck and climbed into the driver’s seat. Müller was still a useless sobbing ball.

  Ringler turned to Monier: ‘You had better go to the next truck. Make sure the same doesn’t happen there.’

  Monier nodded, jumped down and climbed aboard the truck towing the gun. Ringler kicked the machine into life and they started off.

  It must have been the best part of two hours later and they were still driving through the minefield. English shells were still landing perilously close. Ringler turned to Müller. The man was raving: ‘Why? Why, sir? Why do we have to die? Oh God, I don’t want to die. I don’t, sir, Please don’t let me die.’ He began to sob.

  Ringler shook his head: ‘For fuck’s sake, Müller.’ He gave him a sharp dig in the ribs with his right elbow and the petrified soldier shut up.

  Another British shell screamed past the offside of their vehicle, the force of its passage causing it to shake. Müller began to scream like some wounded animal and as he did so there was a terrible shock which threw the vehicle round and ripped Ringler’s hands away from their grip on the steering wheel. At first he thought they had been hit, then as the truck came to a standstill and he realized that no one had been wounded, he pushed down hard on the brakes and took stock of the situation and looked out. At the same moment it became clear that although they had been spared a shell had hit the track immediately behind them. A single thought struck him
: Monier! Jumping down from the cab he ran back towards where the shell had landed.

  The truck towing the anti-tank gun was undamaged and its driver sat unhurt on the ground some metres away. Ringler called to him: ‘What happened? Where is Unteroffizier Monier?’

  The man stared at him and said nothing, but pointed to his ears whose drums had been perforated by the blast. Ringler looked around and then he caught sight of it. A dark patch on the road near to one of the marker poles. He ran across and found Monier lying in a pool of his own blood. His torso had been almost severed from his legs by the blast. Ringler bent down close to his head and gazed into the man’s eyes. He was still alive. But only just. He spoke: ‘Sir. I knew it would happen. Today. I knew.’

  Ringler smiled at him and held his hand tight. Monier spoke again: ‘Please, sir…my wife…’

  Ringler nodded and as he did the grip on his hand slackened and he found himself staring down at Monier’s lifeless body. He stood up and began to walk back towards his vehicle. The driver of the stricken truck had stood up and was hitting his head with the palm of his hand trying in vain to restore his hearing. Ringler signalled him to get his vehicle back on the road and keep moving, then climbed back into his cab. He felt curiously detached, as if in a trance. Like an automaton he started up the engine and they rolled off. He looked at Müller who stared back at him with wild eyes, but could not now be bothered to chide him. He turned back to the road ahead and instantly was met by a terrifying sight coming fast towards him out of the half-light. A tank. It was impossible in the dimness to tell whether it might be English or German or Italian. Ringler decided there was only one course of action to be taken. He stopped the truck and jumped down, then ran across to the advancing metal colossus, yelling all the time, ‘Naples! Naples! Naples!’