by Iain Gale
‘No, sir, he’s one of yours. British tank crew.’
The major shook his head: ‘Believe me, if there was one chance in a million that he’d live I’d operate. But he’d never come out. There are scores of others who do have a chance and they need us now. I’m truly sorry.’
Miller looked into the major’s eyes. They held a warmth and a sparkle and also now a terrible sadness and he knew instantly the worst part of being a soldier – of being an officer. Having to make decisions about life and death, who to save and who to leave.
Wilson shook his hand and smiled and then, with the captain, turned and walked towards the tent that was used as an operating theatre. Miller turned back to the soldier: ‘What are you trying to say to me? Try again.’
Fighting against his natural repugnance, he placed his ear close against the gaping hole in the man’s head that had been his mouth. Suddenly the soldier’s right hand swung up and grabbed at Miller’s tunic. He pulled him ever closer. There was an awful noise. A gulping for air and a heaving deep in the man’s body. And then some words.
‘Tell, tell Nancy…’
‘You want me to tell Nancy?’
The hand tightened around Miller’s jacket. He had been right. Those had been the words.
‘Tell me again, soldier. Was it Nancy?’
But no words came now, nor even air and the hand fell away from Miller’s jacket as suddenly as it had come. He drew back and looked at the man. The glassy eyes told him all he needed to know. He examined the dog tags around the dead man’s neck and took a pad and pencil from his pocket and wrote: ‘452679 MacTaggart, Scots Greys, KIA El Alamein station, 25 October.’
He whispered to the corpse: ‘OK Mac. I’ll tell her.’ But as he walked back to the doorway and out into the searing sunshine, he knew that if he ever did find Nancy, whoever and wherever she was, he could never truly tell her what had happened to her husband, her lover, her friend. He would give her another version of his death. Of how Trooper MacTaggart had died instantly and with glory, a fine, cavalryman’s death. Clean, quick and good, as death never was out here. He would not tell her of the ghastly ruin on that bed of the man who had once been her world. And he thought of how people who had never seen a battle knew little of the reality of war, of its true obscenity and random, merciless inhumanity. He suddenly felt like weeping. Or rather, like shouting out loud for the madness to stop. But just then he caught sight of Turk standing at the doors of the ambulance, waiting for him to help with the four other stretcher cases and he knew that all that would have to wait for another day, another place, another time.
PART TWO
The Dog Fight
Sunday 25 October
FIFTEEN
2.30 a.m. Burgh-el-Arab, near El Alamein Montgomery
He awoke; or rather he was awoken. Montgomery looked up, rubbed at his eyes and found himself peering into the gap-toothed, mustachioed face of his chief of staff, Freddie de Guingand. He did not need to ask why he was there. The young man’s expression said it all. ‘Sorry to wake you, sir. You did say, if there was good reason.’
‘I know perfectly well what I said, Freddie. So what exactly is the matter?’
‘Well. We’ve had some “J” reports, sir. The fight at Miteiriya Ridge. I’m afraid it’s not at all good, sir. One of our columns has been hit by the Luftwaffe. Eighth Armoured Brigade, Ten Corps, General Gatehouse.’
Montgomery raised himself up. He was clothed in the battledress he habitually wore. He lifted off the single blanket under which he had been sleeping and swung his legs over the edge of the narrow wooden bed that stood against one wall of the wooden caravan that was his headquarters.
‘Bad?’
Guingand nodded solemnly.
‘Heavy losses?’
Guingand nodded again. ‘Pretty much, sir. Near as dammit out of action. Seems that they were just forming up before advancing when the raid came in. Stukas mostly. Took out all the soft-skinned transports, ammunition trucks, petrol too. Worst thing is that apparently the whole shooting match went up like a torch and lit up the entire area and then Jerry really zeroed in with his big guns.’
Montgomery levered himself from the bed and stepped on to the floor of the caravan. Guingand continued as the general laced up his desert boots.
‘I’ve taken the liberty of getting the corps commanders together, sir. They’ll be here by three-thirty.’
Montgomery looked up at him: ‘Leese and Lumsden? They’re coming here at three-thirty? Good. That’s good. Well done. I agree with you, Freddie. Quite right. I’ll be here, waiting for them. What action’s been taken?’
‘Well, firstly General Gatehouse ordered Brigadier Custance to disperse the armoured regiments to keep their casualties low. But in fact it sounds as if that only caused more confusion. Point is now they’re well behind schedule, sir. Brigadier Custance is advising that the attack be abandoned. That at least is the signal I’ve received from General Lumsden.’
This, he thought, was the beginning. And also the crisis. He knew it and he thanked God that he had followed his own dictum of withdrawing to bed early. No point in staying up into the night to go over plans with his generals. That was not the business of a commander. Better to conserve your energy for when it was truly needed.
He turned to Guingand: ‘Have you slept?’
The chief of staff smiled at his commander: ‘Not much, sir. I had a hand or two of chemin de fer with the chaps at Tac HQ. That’s where I was when the report came through.’
Montgomery frowned, but said nothing. He liked young Guingand, but he disapproved of gambling almost as much as he did of drink and sex outside wedlock. Still, if the man managed to perform his duties without sleep then why should he criticize him.
The hour passed quickly. Montgomery paced the floor of the caravan, looked again and again at the pictures he had pinned to its walls, chiefly that of the man who was at that moment, according to intelligence reports, still in Germany convalescing from an illness, but who Montgomery guessed would soon, if he had not already, fly back into the desert. Field Marshal Erwin Rommel. Montgomery studied his face and tried once again to gain some advantage by understanding the character of the man. He had read his books on the theory of warfare. What general had not? But they gave little away of this fox of the desert, this man who with quicksilver action could switch a division from one flank to the other and cut off an army. The man who had almost reached Alexandria. He looked too at the three quotations he had pinned up alongside. The first was the Prayer of Sir Francis Drake on the morning of the attack on Cadiz: ‘Oh Lord God, when thou givest to Thy servants to endeavour any great matter, grant us also to know that it is not the beginning, but the continuing of the same, until it be thoroughly finished which yieldeth the true glory.’
To the right hung Shakespeare, Henry V, Act IV Scene I: ‘O God of battles! Steel my soldiers’ hearts.’
And to the left he had placed the wise words of the Marquis of Montrose, that great Civil War commander:
‘He either fears his fate too much,
Or his deserts are small,
Who dares not put it to the touch,
To win or lose it all.’
That, he thought, was what this battle was all about. A gamble to win or lose it all. Everything hung on this one moment and Montgomery prayed silently that he might be equal to the task that fate and history had set aside for him. He sat down again and lowered his head in prayer. Quietly the familiar words came from his lips:
‘Father hear the prayer we offer,
Not for ease that prayer shall be,
But for strength that we may ever
Live our lives courageously.’
At precisely 3.30 a.m. the knock came at the door, just as he had known it would. Montgomery continued to sit in the centre of the small caravan staring fixedly at a map on the wall of the battle area. He spoke without turning.
‘Enter.’
As the three men came in he turned and flashed
a genial smile. Guingand looked serious, he thought, and his two generals, Oliver Leese and Herbert Lumsden had the air of schoolboys called to the headmaster’s study.
He spoke very quietly and calmly: ‘Gentlemen. Do come in. Sit down. I gather we have a problem. Now let me hear the full story. You first, Herbert.’
From outside came the constant staccato fire of the anti-aircraft guns and the distinctive whistle and crump of a bomb landing nearby. Montgomery paid them no attention and waited for Lumsden’s report.
‘Well, sir, General Gatehouse has sustained some casualties to his armour. Mostly from mines, sir, and he’s reluctant to continue.’ He paused. Montgomery stared into space. Lumsden summoned all his courage: ‘I have to say, sir, that I’m inclined to agree with him. Should he continue to advance on to the forward slope of Miteiriya Ridge he could be pinned down and suffer dreadfully.’
Montgomery shook his head. Still his voice retained its gentle tone: ‘The principle is that the armour must get beyond the infantry. You know that, Lumsden, as well as I do. If that should not happen then the entire attack is compromised. We must provoke the enemy, lure his tanks within range of our anti-tank guns. That is the only way. The armour must move on beyond the infantry.’
‘I understand, sir. Perfectly. And I do not intend you to think that I am challenging your order. But, I beg you to speak directly to General Gatehouse personally on the telephone.’
Montgomery said nothing but looked at the other dictum hanging on the wall: ‘Are you 100% fit? Are you 100% efficient? Do you have 100% binge?’
The last question was the all-important one; ‘Binge’. His own word meaning fighting spirit. That was the key. The men he could inspire. He could ensure they had binge. But as to some of his generals, he was not so sure.
He turned to Guingand: ‘Freddie, get me a line to General Gatehouse.’
The room fell silent save for Guingand who was speaking on the field telephone.
Montgomery looked at Lumsden: ‘You know that we have overwhelming superiority in tanks and firepower. Of course all our troops are not as highly trained as they might be. If we do anything foolish at this critical time, we could easily lose this battle. There will be no change. Do you understand me, gentlemen? No change from the plan. We must ignore enemy counter-attacks and proceed relentlessly with our own plans. We must keep the initiative. We have it now and we must never lose it. The enemy will dance to our tune.’
The caravan fell silent. Leese and Lumsden looked at de Guingand and then at the floor. Montgomery turned back to the map and pretended to ignore his generals. Warfare was a lonely business. A commander was always alone.
SIXTEEN
2.30 a.m. Semmering, near Wiener Neustadt, Austria Generalfeldmarschall Edwin Rommel
The telephone rang, waking him with a start. Generalfeldmarschall Erwin Rommel was not good at this time of night. Never had been. He rolled over and switched on the light and then lifted the receiver. A familiar voice spoke.
‘Feldmarschall Rommel.’
Rommel paused for a moment before replying: ‘Mein Führer.’
As he spoke he tumbled from the sheets and sat on the edge of the bed. Hitler continued.
‘It has begun, Rommel. Montgomery has begun the big offensive we expected. General Stumme is still missing. He is either dead or captured, we must assume. You must return at once to North Africa and resume command of the Panzerarmee.’
‘Yes, of course, mein Führer. At once.’
‘Telephone me when you actually take off. I do not want your cure interrupted if this is only a demonstration. Wait until you hear from Feldmarschall Keitel. Yes?’
‘Yes, mein Führer.’
‘And, Rommel, I want a daily report, a daily report to my HQ and if there are any developments an immediate report then also. Is that clear?’
‘Quite clear, mein Führer.’
‘Good, Rommel. Good. You know you are the very finest of our generals. You will defeat General Montgomery. I know it. I know that I can rely on you.’
He had known it would happen, had been waiting for the moment. Keitel had called him and explained everything. Well, as much as was known. The British had been attacking in strength at El Alamein since the previous evening. General Stumme was missing. Later the same evening, just after they had eaten, Hitler himself had telephoned and repeated Keitel’s report. He had politely enquired as to whether Rommel felt well enough to return to Africa. Of course he had said yes. What else?
For the best part of a month he had been here clearing up the trouble with his liver and his blood pressure, completely cut off from the outside world, save for the radio, the newspapers and the occasional letter from General Stumme and Colonel Westphal, of course, who was standing in as chief of staff for Bayerlein. But he had been restless.
The papers were full of interesting tales of the Russian front. Little progress was being made at Stalingrad or in the Caucasus. The British were bombing the Fatherland again, this time at night. At least the U-boat campaign against the Atlantic convoys seemed to be succeeding, but he wondered for how long. How long could they keep the Americans out of Europe? The Americans, he knew, were the key to this war and he had taken care to obtain figures detailing their rates of production of arms and materiel. Their manpower too was awesome.
Of course, the war was far from lost. The Wehrmacht was as strong as ever and the will of the people of Germany to win unsurpassable. But he knew that both Stumme and Kesselring were not so sure of that. It all rested on the Americans. He recalled how Göring had responded to his fears expressed at the last conference at the Führer’s HQ. Rommel had told the fat chief of the Luftwaffe that the British fighter-bombers were using 40mm shells, American shells to destroy his panzers. Göring had laughed: ‘The Americans only know how to make razor blades.’
Rommel had looked at him: ‘Well then, we could do with some of those razor blades ourselves, Herr Reichsmarschall.’
It had been madness to declare war on America. Not of course that the Führer was mad. But by doing so they had brought the entire American industrial potential into the service of the Allied war production. It hadn’t only been the 40mm shells in Africa that had told him and his men all about the quality of its achievements. During his stay in Europe, he had obtained some figures on American productive capacity. It was many times greater than that of Germany. The battle which was being fought in the Atlantic was deciding whether the Americans would be able to go on carrying their materiel to Europe, Russia and Africa. He knew that there would be little hope left for him and his countrymen if the Americans and British succeeded in eliminating, or reducing to tolerable proportions, the U-boat threat to their convoys. But if we could strangle their sea routes, he thought, then the entire industrial capacity of America would avail the Allies little. If only. It was much to ask and he prayed that it was not too much.
He buttoned his tunic over the shirt in which he had been sleeping and sat down again to pull on his high riding boots. Then he stood up and walking across to the mirror on the dressing table began to brush his sparse fair hair back from the temples. He looked at his face, saw the clear blue eyes of the boy soldier and knew that within that breast there still beat the same youthful heart. If only the body would be strong enough now to support it. He knew that the attack he was about to attempt to stop, the battle to which he was returning, would be one of the most momentous of his entire career.
He wondered in a way why the army was still there. He had in effect ordered them to be ready to abandon the Alamein position before he had left for sick leave in Germany. It was, without doubt, a sound enough position and well defended. The problem was however, that he had nothing substantial with which to hold it. Hitler had promised him Tiger tanks and the new Nebelwerfer multiple rocket-launcher. But neither had appeared. And now that the new American-built tanks were beginning to arrive with the British he knew that it could only be a matter of time before Montgomery launched his big push. Funny that he
should think in those terms, for this was surely exactly what Montgomery intended. Just the sort of push that they had all seen in the Great War and had come to abhor. But still the British clung tenaciously to their doctrine.
Rommel worked differently. Not for him the plodding battle of attrition. He was a thinker, a doer. The man with the lightning touch who could turn a panzer division on the circumference of a coin. Rommel the ingenious, Rommel the magician.
He had known that the British would have to try for a break-through. And he had no doubts about the suitability of the British army for such a task. Hadn’t its entire training been based on lessons learnt in the battles of materiel of the First War? And, although technical developments had left their mark on this form of warfare, they had brought about no real revolution. Although the tactical consequences of motorization and armour had been preeminently demonstrated by British military critics, by Fuller and Liddell Hart, the responsible British leaders had not taken the risk either of using this hitherto untried system as a foundation for peacetime training, or of applying it in war. But this failure, which had told so heavily against the British in the past, would not affect the issue of the approaching battle of position and break-through. His minefields, his ‘Devil’s Gardens’, would rob the British armour of its freedom of movement and operation, and would force it into the role of the infantry support tank.
This would be an infantry battle and he knew that the infantry that faced him along the defensive line at El Alamein, English, Scots, Australian, New Zealand, South African and others from the British Commonwealth, was among the best in the world. And then there were the guns. More than a thousand of them his intelligence had reported.
They had to prevent the British from breaking through the line at all costs. There was simply no way in which he could fight a mobile defensive battle. The Panzerarmee’s motorized formations would hardly suffice to cover a withdrawal of the infantry from a front some forty miles long and, in any case, the infantry themselves might by that time have become so involved in the action that disengagement would be unthinkable.
