Alamein

by Iain Gale

  Ringler said nothing but, exhausted as he was, got back into the car and started up the engine. And then, with Fiedler and the driver beside him, he drove on, past Adler and the others, past the old company HQ and then further on to Battalion. And all the time he kept turning round to look at the three dead men: Hancke, Monier and Bauer. The adjutant was impressed, he said. Ringler had done his duty. He had held off the advance and brought back his dead. The words hung in space as he drew back the tarpaulin and looked at the three bodies. This was as far as they were going to go. They would never feel German soil again but would stay here for ever. And in time they would fall to dust and become as one with the sand of the desert.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Midnight Trig Twenty-nine Kibby

  Bill Kibby stood at a line of white tape that had been carefully stapled into the desert sand. It marked the start line for their attack and he knew that once you had crossed that line there could be no turning back. The knot of fear he had felt earlier that day had gone now, to be replaced by a gnawing emptiness and a craving to be through this ordeal. He stared before him. Trig twenty-nine, their objective for the night, looked like a huge sand dune, a real mountain towering above the flat plain of the desert. The moon had risen high above the horizon now and the dune lay full in its light. Christ, he thought, this is going to be fun. If we can see it all lit up like that, what the hell’s Jerry going to make of us. We’ll be sitting ducks.

  The barrage had begun at 10 p.m. But it had not been for them and Kibby knew it. Away in the south another attack was going in. The Springboks of First South African were making a diversionary attack. The Australians’ battle was the real show and he hoped that they would get something similar before they went in. He did not have long to wonder. He was looking at his watch when he heard them. As it hit midnight the drone of bombers came clear on the night, right above their heads and in an instant Trig twenty-nine exploded in a blaze of flame as a squadron of RAF Wellingtons dropped their load straight on target. Bill breathed a sigh of relief. It was hard to think that anyone would be able to live through that lot. He turned to Ashby: ‘There they go, Herb. Told you we’d have support. Look at that lot, mate.’

  ‘You’re not joking. I even feel sorry for the poor bastards copping that.’

  ‘Save your pity, mate. You’ll be up there yourself in a bit. Then we’ll see how sorry you are for them.’

  A whistle blew and he heard Captain Robbins’ voice behind him: ‘Forward!’

  He took up the cry: ‘Forward the Twenty-fourth! Here we go, lads.’

  They marched forward as they had done before, at a careful seventy-five paces a minute. Ahead of them in the night sky coloured tracers fired from their rear showed the way. For a few moments it was easy going. Then it began. There was a whoosh and enemy shells came crashing into their advancing line. Kibby looked to his right and saw two men blown to pieces by a direct hit from an 88. ‘Christ,’ he called to no one in particular, ‘how the fuck did Jerry live through all that?’

  As he spoke more Spandau bullets thudded into the dust and rock around them. For a few moments Kibby lay prone, expecting at any moment to be hit.

  They walked on. Two hundred, three hundred, four hundred yards. And then like a counterpoint to the boom of the artillery came the staccato rattle of the enemy machine-guns. More men began to fall and Kibby yelled: ‘Cover! Take cover!’

  The company hit the ground and found what cover they could in shellholes and abandoned foxholes. He heard Captain Robbins shout: ‘Jerry machine-gun post dead ahead! Get down.’

  As he spoke more bullets thudded into the dust and rock around them. For a few seconds Kibby lay there, prone, expecting at any moment to be hit. He knew that there was only one way to silence that machine-gun, and it was not by lying here. He turned to Ashby who was next to him, pressing himself into the sand. ‘You’re in charge, Herb. I’ll be back in a few minutes.’

  Kibby got to his feet and ran madly in the direction of the machine-gun. He reasoned that if the gunners were firing on a fixed point, which they probably were, then they would be reluctant to move their angle of fire even if they saw him coming. He had a slim to average chance of getting through and if it was a chance that would save lives and shorten this bloody war then it was worth taking. He ran on, his tommy gun grasped hard in his sweating hands. The machine-gun was louder now. A Spandau, he was sure of that. So they were Germans up ahead, not Italians. Then he was on them. He saw them at the same time that they caught sight of him, a screaming madman in a bush hat running at them out of the darkness. Desperately they tried to turn the gun, but Kibby was there already, spraying them with his weapon. He caught the loader straight in the face and another man in the chest, killing them both. Two others were hit in the arm. The remaining two men put their hands above their heads and muttered something in German. Kibby kept the gun pointed at them and motioned them out of the trench before herding them back to the company. He saw Robbins: ‘Found this lot sitting in a funk hole, sir. Path’s clear again.’ Robbins smiled at him and nodded. As one of the corporals led the prisoners to the rear, Kibby rejoined his platoon and found Ashby grinning.

  ‘You bloody fool. I thought you’d gone nuts.’

  ‘Well someone had to do it. Come on, we’ll be late for the party.’

  Together they trudged on towards Trig 29 but after only a few more yards bullets began to fill the air. Again they hit the ground. Kibby looked towards the direction of the fire. He could see the trench quite clearly in the moonlight this time. Three flashes. Three riflemen. A fourth. He knew what to do. He began to inch his way forward as the bullets hit the sand all round him. There was a cry from behind him as one of the men was hit. Kibby kept going until he was about thirty yards from the trench. Then, oblivious to the fire, he reached down to his belt and unhooked a Mills bomb. In a matter of seconds he had pulled out the pin and holding the trigger down counted to five then hurled the grenade. It landed in the trench and for a dreadful instant he watched as the Germans panicked and tried to get out. But it was too late. The explosion killed two of them and wounded the others. Kibby and his platoon got to their feet and rushed forward, firing from the hip. This time there were no prisoners. As they advanced past the trench however, he saw a dozen Germans with their hands on their heads being escorted in by Eighteen Platoon. Kibby called to a rifleman: ‘Your mob doin’ all right?’

  ‘Bonza, mate. We’ve taken a few prisoners. But there’s loads of men hit. Lieutenant Johnston’s bought it too.’

  ‘Bloody shame. He was a real dinkum bloke.’

  Kibby meant it too. Johnston had always been one of the finest officers in the company. Fair, easy-going and not averse to putting himself in danger. Presumably now he had done that once too often.

  He walked on and found himself at a trench line recently vacated by the Germans. Captain Robbins was directly behind him: ‘Good to see you, Kibby. This is the Jerry front line. That’s our first objective taken.’ He turned to his runner: ‘Send the signal back to HQ. Captain Isaakson will want to know that he can bring his carriers through. Oh, and then run and tell them we’ve taken thirty-eight prisoners. That’ll make up for the other news.’

  ‘Other news?’

  ‘Didn’t you hear? We lost Johnston and Perry.’

  ‘Both of them, sir?’ Kibby shook his head. ‘Then you’re the only officer left in the company.’

  ‘Yes, doesn’t feel too good, that. Platoon sergeants have taken over.’

  The runner fired the Verey pistol he kept for the purpose and the flare lit the sky above them, the signal for initial success which would launch stage two of the attack. Kibby knew that this meant Isaakson’s Bren carriers, now laden with C Company, dashing hell for leather at the Jerry front line. Moments later the artillery behind their lines started up again, plastering the position with shells. Sure enough within a few minutes he heard the familiar roar of the V8 engines and the Bren carriers roared towards them from the rear, six men to a
vehicle moving at fifteen miles an hour. Kibby watched them go and waited. Eight minutes later the summit of Trig 29 resounded with the noises of a fierce firefight. Captain Robbins shouted to the company, ‘Forward boys. We’re needed up there,’ and they began to advance again on the right of the line directly towards Trig 29 with A Company on their left. They had gone a mere five or six yards however when all hell was let loose. Two machine-guns opened up on them and at the same moment Kibby heard the dreaded crump of a field mortar: ‘Incoming. Mortars. Get down!’

  The company dropped to the sand but the mortar round struck home, killing a corporal and wounding another man. Robbins’ runner came crawling up to Kibby. ‘Bill, the comms cable’s been cut. We’re cut off from HQ. D’you have anyone who can fix it?’

  ‘I could do it. Used to be a dab hand with electrics.’

  ‘I’ll tell the captain. Thanks. It’s about twenty metres to the left rear.’

  Kibby nudged Ashby: ‘Herb. I’m off back to fix the comms cable. You take them on if you can and keep low.’

  He turned and crawled back the twenty yards, then finding the broken cable, he knelt and began to strip down the wires. Carefully he spliced the individual wires together and finally joined all of them. Shells were landing all around him now. It was almost as if the German mortar team could see what he was trying to do. He dropped down again and crawled back to where he had left Ashby. The men had crawled on for around twenty yards through the constant fire and two unmoving dark shapes suggested that they had taken casualties. He got up to a squat and ran like that, hunched up, until he caught up with them. A German trench was firing at them from the left. Kibby found two of the men from Seventeen Platoon: ‘Morse, Hacket, over there. Give them a few rounds then follow up with grenades if you can.’ He found Robbins: ‘Sir. Managed to fix the cable.’

  ‘Well done, Kibby. Come on, I’m not waiting around here. Let’s get to C Company. We can’t let them have all the fun.’

  Robbins straightened up and yelled to the men around him: ‘Come on, lads. Up that bloody hill. That’s C Company up there. Those are Australians.’

  As one the rest of the company got to their feet and following Robbins’ example broke into a run. Within seconds they were all sprinting as fast as they could towards the German position. Kibby ran close to Robbins and as they reached the slit trenches, began to spray a deadly hail of bullets from the Thompson gun. By the time they reached the third line of trenches the Germans were coming out with their hands up.

  It was now 2 a.m. The flashes of explosions on the top of the great dune were closer and more intense. Kibby looked hard and saw figures pouring off the hill, streaming towards the German lines. They might be the enemy, he thought, or they might be ours. But whoever they were they were leaving the hill and that could only mean one thing. C Company had taken Trig 29. From the top of the dune a light flew vertically up in the air and then arced slowly down in an orange glow. A Verey flare – the success signal. He suddenly noticed that the machine-gun and mortar fire which up till now had been constant had stopped. He yelled: ‘We’ve got it, lads! They’ve taken it,’ and as the company began to cheer he joined in, the tears streaming down his face.

  He found that he was standing in what looked like an orchard. The ground was littered with small round shapes. He stooped to pick one up and yelled across to Ashby: ‘Hey, Herb. Figs. It’s the bloody fig garden.’

  Together they walked on through the garden, munching on the juicy fruits as they went. Here and there a German corpse lay on the ground, but apart from that and the men of the platoon who came with them there was no sign of life.

  Captain Robbins came up: ‘All right, Kibby, let’s get dug in. And make them deep, men. They’re sure to want us out of here, want the bloody figs for themselves.’

  The platoon unslung their equipment and unfolding the entrenching tools, began to dig into the rocky soil, Kibby with them. They were still digging when the night was split by an explosion that rocked the very ground. Together they turned in its direction and found themselves looking down the hill towards the rear of the battalion. It looked as if the whole desert was on fire. A wall of yellow flame straddled the track up to the strongpoint and all along it lorries were burning. As Kibby looked on he saw men leaping from the blazing vehicles, men of fire who threw themselves on to the sand and rolled desperately to put out the flames. He finally spoke.

  ‘My God, it’s our supply trucks. They’ve gone up. The poor bastards.’

  Eight trucks were on fire. Eight trucks which he knew were crammed full of ammunition supplies intended for the companies on the hill along with a quantity of mines to act as a defensive perimeter. The night was filled with the agonized screams of the burning truck drivers. Kibby watched as men tried to rescue them, only to be themselves engulfed in the inferno. One man emerged from the blaze carrying a comrade on his back only to miss his footing and fall back into the flames. One of Kibby’s men began to mutter: ‘Oh God. Oh my God. Oh my God.’

  ‘Quiet, Wilson, there’s nothing we can do about it. Those poor sods.’

  A shell flew down over their heads and fell on the blazing trucks. As if it was not bad enough, the intense light from the blaze had attracted the attention of the German artillery. Ashby spoke: ‘Bill, have you thought what else this means? That’s our bloody ammo down there, and our bloody mines. I’ll tell you what it means, mate. It means we’re fucked.’

  And Kibby knew that he was right. For so vital was this position to the Germans that Rommel was bound to throw everything he could spare into its recapture. Kibby continued to dig and wondered just how soon the counter-attack would begin.

  Monday 26 October

  TWENTY-FIVE

  9.00 a.m. HQ Eighth Army Montgomery

  ‘Well, Freddie, what news?’

  Montgomery sat, his arms folded, at the little table inside his command caravan waiting for the morning’s report. De Guingand began to read.

  ‘In the northern sector First Armoured Division attacked in a northwesterly direction, but were unable to make headway in the face of strong resistance from anti-tank defences. They have however succeeded in beating off an enemy armoured attack but they lost thirty-four tanks.

  ‘During the night Fifty-First Highland Division took more ground towards the first-day objective on the Oxalic line and Ninth Australian Division attacked Point Twenty-nine and succeeded in taking their objective. They are now dug in. Much of the minefields reported penetrated if not entirely cleared, sir.’

  Well, so much, thought Montgomery for that part of Rommel’s ‘devil’s garden’.

  ‘Twenty-Sixth Australian Brigade made the assault along with tanks from Fortieth RTR. The RAF flew seventy-nine support missions.’

  He paused. Mongomery smiled and de Guingand continued: ‘In the southern sector Fiftieth Division has failed in its attempt to penetrate the extensive minefield to its front. Forty-Fourth Division has moved up into ground taken by Seventh Armoured Division. That’s it, sir.’

  Montgomery thought for a moment. There was no alternative, the tanks must go in. Now was their moment. He looked up at de Guingand: ‘Freddie, I think we’ll have a conference, corps commanders. Call it for one-thirty at General Morshead’s HQ.’

  ‘Very good, sir. Shall I tell them why?’

  ‘No, don’t do that. They’ll find out soon enough.’

  ‘If I might be permitted to ask, sir, what are your intentions?’

  ‘The tanks, Freddie. We must use the tanks now. Give the infantry a rest. Allow the cavalry their moment of glory.’

  He scanned the faces in the small group of his personal staff who stood with him around the map table outside his field caravan, and found John Poston.

  ‘John, would you take this down and issue it to all corps commanders. I want it to reach them shortly before I speak to them.’

  His army was being bled dry. He had calculated on 10,000 casualties over his projected twelve-day battle. Yet here they were on th
e fourth day and already his infantry had suffered 7000 men killed, wounded, missing and taken prisoner. He had to safeguard the infantry. They were the backbone of the army, how could he sacrifice them? And what he wondered would history say if he did. Would he be tarred with the same brush as the generals of the Great War? That could not be allowed to happen. Reputation was everything. Posterity. It could particularly not be allowed to happen again as he had promised so many friends from those dreadful days to avenge their suffering.

  The Australians had done well in the night and driven a wedge into the northernmost German defences. Rommel’s defences now, for intelligence had briefed him that the Desert Fox had returned yesterday evening to resume command. Now, he thought, I have a proper fight on my hands.

  ‘John, are you ready?’

  ‘Yes, sir, quite ready.’

  ‘XXX Corps will carry out no major offensive operations until further notice. It is to defend the existing bridgehead and reconsolidate ready for the next time it will be called upon. Seventh Armoured Division will henceforth conduct no offensive tasks. X Corps will go on to the offensive. It will make progress to the west and northwest from the Kidney Hill area. This will require one hundred per cent concentration and defence of the bridgehead is no longer an issue. Have you got all that?’