Alamein

by Iain Gale

  ‘Oh, come on, Bill. Those guys know what they’re doing. If they didn’t then how would we have got this far?’

  ‘I’ll tell you how we got this far, mate. We got this far using our own bloody sense. That’s what Aussie soldiers always do. We say “yes sir” to the officers and then go and fight the battle our own way. And you can bet that’s what we’re going to have to do tonight. If we ever get into action, that is.’

  They left at 19.30 hours, moving into lorries which took them closer to Trig 29. For once the platoons were silent. It took an hour to get them into position. Finally, at 22.00 Kibby reckoned they were ready to go. Half anhour later the tanks of the 46th RTR arrived. The plan was that the leading infantry, the boys of the 2/23rd, would be loaded up on the tanks and taken through the minefield. What intrigued Kibby was that the tanks had been specially converted, with flailing steel chains at the front which were intended to explode any mines they might encounter before the tanks ran over them. It was a great theory and had been proven to work, but he was sceptical. From their position he watched the 2/23rd mount up and move off, the blue pennants waving on the turrets of the Grants. Within a few minutes however there was a series of massive explosions. A soldier came running back into the position. ‘That’s torn it. It’s a fuckin’ mess out there. Two of the tanks have brewed up on mines and two more have just stopped dead. No one’s going anywhere.’

  It was the stuff of Kibby’s nightmare, a delay that would push them all into daylight. They watched and waited. From their position to the rear of the forward troops they could see the whole tableau being played out and it was not a pretty sight. One after one the tanks were going up and Kibby watched the faces of his men as they looked on. He wondered whether the blokes in command ever considered this. The fact that at the front line it was what you saw that made you a good soldier or a bad one. The simple fact that if you make men wait to fight they will inevitably become not only lacking in edge and adrenalin but also just plain shit-scared.

  Kibby found Herb Ashby. ‘What d’you reckon then? We going to get shafted or what?’

  Ashby laughed. ‘Dunno, Bill. But I reckon those poor buggers wish they’d never seen those tanks.’

  One of the men began to play a mouth organ. Inevitably the tune was ‘Waltzing Matilda’. Almost immediately some of the platoon joined in. Kibby smiled: ‘Well, at least its not “Lili Marlene” again, I’ve got that song on the brain. It’s good for morale. Come on, Herb.’ And he joined in the song. Another of the men kept time on his billy-can and soon every man in the two platoons was singing. No sooner had they finished than some wag struck up with ‘Why are we waiting?’. Of course they all joined in and were in full voice when Captain Robbins walked up. Kibby raised his hand: ‘All right, boys. Officer present.’

  Robbins smiled. ‘You’ve probably realized that 2/23rd are in a spot of bother. The brass hats can’t decide what to do so we’re just going to have to sit here and wait. Try to make your men as comfortable as possible. And try to keep them happy.’

  ‘Happy, sir?’

  ‘Well, all right. But you know what I mean, Kibby. Don’t let them get too jumpy.’

  He walked off.

  ‘And I thought he was one of us.’

  ‘Never can tell with officers, mate.’

  ‘Come on, let’s have another song. Give us a tune, Leaney.’

  The man with the mouth organ began to play ‘Lili Marlene’. Kibby shook his head: ‘Here we go.’

  But no amount of singing could divert them from the tragedy being played out before them. Gradually, as things became worse, casualties from the 2/23rd were brought back and the only way was past their lines.

  The singing had stopped at midnight. Now it was 4 a.m. Kibby collared a corporal who had taken a flesh wound in the upper arm. ‘Hey, mate. How’s it going.’

  ‘Not good, mate. Reckon we’ve taken at least two hundred casualties. There’s only a half dozen tanks left and they’re moving back.’

  Robbins appeared again and took Kibby aside. ‘Right, Sergeant. That’s it. The show’s off. We’re pulling back to Tel el Eisa.’

  ‘I can’t say I’m disappointed, sir. Never seemed a good idea to me.’

  ‘Ours not to reason why, Kibby, eh?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  They reached their bivouac just before dawn and Kibby settled down in his makeshift sangar. He was just drifting off to sleep when Ashby appeared.

  ‘Blimey, mate. I’ve just seen Robbins. He was talking about you.’

  Kibby sat up. ‘What? What did he say? What have I done?’

  ‘It’s not what you’ve done, mate. Least, nothing bad. He told me he wants to recommend you for a bloody DCM. That’s all. He told me in case anything happens to him. You know what he’s like.’

  Kibby said nothing. A DCM? A medal of any sort, let alone a Distinguished Conduct Medal was not something he’d ever thought he could possibly be awarded. He was just a common soldier, a bloke doing his job. Why should he get a medal and none of the others?

  ‘You must have gone doolally, mate. Or he has. A DCM, me? Don’t be daft.’

  ‘That’s what he said, Bill. He’s going to put you up for it. For being an exemplary platoon leader and a tower of strength to the men. Those were his exact words, I swear. Soon as we get back. And I’ll tell you something else. The 2/23rd’s still dug in up there. They’re down to sixty men. The whole battalion. Sixty men left out of five hundred. Still holding on and Robbins reckons Monty’s going to need to keep it that way. And that’s where we come in.’

  ‘A DCM. Strewth. They’ll never bloody believe me.’

  Thursday 29 October

  THIRTY-ONE

  11.50 a.m. HQ Eighth Army Montgomery

  The Australians had done well. Of that there was no doubt. But they had suffered for it. Their casualties had been high, almost intolerably high and their supporting tanks had been decimated. But they had got stuck in the minefields and they had not reached the railway. Montgomery had decided that he would wait for a day, allow them time to rest and reorganize and then on the thirtieth begin again. Then they would reach the sea.

  On the thirty-first they would launch the major offensive: ‘Operation Supercharge’, he had christened it. He had said as much during that morning’s meeting with the commander-in-chief, General Alexander and the minister of state, Casey. And they had seemed to approve.

  Freddie de Guingand knocked and entered the caravan. ‘Sir. A signal just through from London. We can expect another visit tomorrow from Duncan Sandys MP. And there’s a telegram from the prime minister.’

  De Guingand handed a paper to Montgomery who read it. ‘Re imminent Allied landing in Tunisia. Expect French to assist. Events may therefore move more quickly than had been planned.’

  Montgomery put it down on the table. Politics. Always politics interfering with the job of an army commander. So Churchill was telling him to move more quickly. To break through Rommel well before the Tunisian landing date of 8 November. And he was sending his own son-in-law Duncan Sandys out to check up on him. He frowned.

  De Guingand spoke: ‘Sir. General McCreery, General Richardson and Mister Casey were of the opinion that it might be best to make the attack in the south, where Rommel is obviously weaker. Intelligence confirms…’

  Montgomery bristled and cut in: ‘Nonsense. The Australians have made terrific headway in the north and that is where we should attack. I intend to pull Rommel’s panzers into the salient and anywhere else we make gains and meet them on terms hugely in our favour. There is absolutely no question of moving the attack. I won’t have it.’

  De Guingand left and Montgomery looked at the map. How dare they have the temerity to suggest that he should change his plan. It was a master plan, and only a master could write it.

  Of course if de Guingand was right and the intelligence was correct, that was another matter, that might persuade him to change. But not the suggestions of his own commanders. He sat down and wrot
e in the Army Commander’s Directive for Supercharge: ‘This operation, if successful, will result in the complete disintegration of the enemy. Determined leadership will be vital; complete faith in the plan will be vital; risks must be accepted freely; there must be no “belly-aching”.’

  A few moments later de Guingand entered again, carrying another piece of paper. ‘Latest intelligence report, sir. Enigma decrypt. Seems that the enemy has moved the Ninetieth Light Division north. Due to the Australians’ success, I imagine.’

  He waited for Montgomery to respond. The General said nothing at first, and then: ‘Yes, no doubt.’

  Montgomery thought fast. So Rommel had strengthened the north. Now almost all the German units were massed up there, leaving merely the Italians in the south. This would change everything. Again. And the change would come from him, not from his generals or a politico. Rommel’s attacks were failing. The Desert Fox was starting to dance to his tune, just as he had predicted he would.

  He had been encouraged by reports coming through from Kidney Ridge. The Rifle Brigade and the Royal Horse Artillery appeared to be managing to keep the enemy away from First Armoured. It was clear to him now that anti-tank guns, whether the German 88s or the Rifle Brigade’s little portee-borne guns were the winners in a desert war. Now was the time, he thought, to discreetly move more armour, First Armoured and Twenty-Fourth Armoured Brigade, away from the front line and into Lumsden’s armoured reserve. As always seemed to be the case in this long battle, it would have to be the infantry who cleared the way. He would ask the Australians to carry on along the sea road. But now that would not be his direction for the decisive assault. That would now come in the Kidney Ridge area in the north, across the Rahman Track. Freyberg would do the job and through it he would pour his armoured corps and two regiments of armoured cars.

  He turned to de Guingand and pointed to the map. ‘I’ve decided to change the plan, Freddie. We’re going to punch here.’ He circled Kidney Ridge. ‘Operation Supercharge. We go on the night of 31 October. We need to have a conference, Freddie. The corps commanders here please, as soon as they can manage it.’

  He was convinced now that this would be the decisive stroke. It would be costly of course, but then he had always known that there would come a time in this great battle when he would have to put such dreadful considerations behind him. They had all spoken bluntly of fifty per cent losses. But only he accepted that it might be a hundred per cent. Of course, he had promised himself to spare his men, to minimize casualties. But not if it meant losing the battle. He had more tanks than the enemy, more guns and more infantry. If every one of them were able to take out one of the enemy before being hit themselves then he would win. And winning the battle was what counted. As far as he was concerned, that would be a success.

  He stepped outside the caravan to wait for the arrival of Leese, Lumsden and Horrocks and saw that de Guingand and others were standing close by, listening to the loudspeaker which had been tuned to the wireless ‘net’ which served the forward tanks. Montgomery paused and joined them. The voices crackled over the speaker.

  ‘Look out, Bob, a couple sneaking up on your right flank – you should see them any minute now.’

  ‘King Five, King Five, are you OK? Over.’

  ‘King Five, yes. But I can’t see much. We’re under fairly heavy fire, there seem to be guns all round this place. Over.’

  ‘King Five, have a look towards the sun. Off.’

  The radio fell silent, then crackled again into life. There was a bang and then: ‘Get out, sir, we’ve been hit.’

  ‘King Five, my horse has copped it. Wireless OK but we shan’t be able to take any further part in the show. I’ll just have a look at the damage and tell you the extent.’

  ‘King Five. That’s the second time. You MUST NOT say such things over the air.’

  ‘King Five. Sorry. Bit dizzy. Not feeling too hot. Very hot actually. Over.’

  ‘King Five. Sorry you’re dizzy. Try to get out.’

  ‘King Five. Crew gone. All save poor Collins. Not too good, sir. May have to sign off now. Getting a bit hot. Oh God. God no…’

  The wireless went dead and de Guingand and the others looked down at the ground and said nothing. Montgomery walked quietly back inside the caravan and sat down. Yes, they would take casualties. He was prepared for that. He was prepared for fifty per cent. A hundred per cent. Whatever it took to win. But please, he prayed to God, please don’t let them all die like that.

  THIRTY-TWO

  5.00 p.m. The road from Alexandria to El Alamein Lieutenant Keith Douglas

  He drove the two-tonner fast along the dust track, knowing that every yard brought him closer to the front. Unfortunately every yard also threw his two passengers and all their kit violently from side to side and the journey was punctuated with yells and oaths. For the truck had not been designed for the desert and certainly not for battle. It was an old commercial vehicle and the accelerator was far too sensitive. Douglas pressed it again and it roared in response and Douglas swore at it.

  His batman, Lockett, a former hunt servant, turned to him and smiled. ‘I like you, sir. You’ve got real style. You’re shit or bust, you are.’

  Douglas laughed and drove on. He knew that there was every possibility that he might be charged with desertion or at the very least dereliction of duty. For he was not supposed to be here. A bright young lieutenant of twenty-two, he had been posted to the Divisional staff, in a cushy job that thousands would have paid to get, ‘Camouflage training officer’. But it was not what he wanted from the army. At Oxford he had revelled in the camaraderie of the OTC. Cavalry of course. Well, he was a superb horseman. But at heart he was a poet and perhaps, he thought, it was this that had made him commandeer the lorry and head for his regiment, the Nottinghamshire Sherwood Yeomanry, part of Eighth Armoured Brigade in General Gatehouse’s Tenth Armoured Division. He had tried to go through all the official channels to get to the front. But there was always ‘nothing doing, old boy’. How he hated being called ‘old boy’. So he had decided to run away. Of course, he had no real battle experience and if found out would, he presumed, be unwanted as well as in breach of King’s Regulations. But the devil take that, he thought. He was going to war and no one was going to stop him.

  He was driving through other vehicles now, hundreds of lorries which had once been painted khaki or desert yellow and were now the colour of the dusty sand of the tracks and which themselves kicked up dust in clouds although the surfaces of the roads, being so continuously ploughed over by tyres had turned to a white mud. There were weapons too, tanks and armoured cars and quads pulling the RA’s twenty-five-pounders rumbling slowly onwards, and in their pits the anti-aircraft guns surrounded by sandbags with their idling crews watching the skies. And everywhere were men as far as the eye could see. He had just been reading Maeterlinck and instantly his thoughts turned to the idea of ants. Thousands of ants. The men, or ants, were doing what soldiers do best when not fighting, making tea on makeshift stoves and squatting and sitting around in groups laughing and chatting. He turned to Lockett: ‘Have you any idea where the regiment might be?’

  ‘None at all, sir. Your guess is as good as mine.’

  Desperately, Douglas sought out their stencilled insignia but did not find it.

  They drove on, Douglas, Lockett and their third passenger, a gormless fitter from HQ whom he had collared with the instruction to return the truck should he be lucky enough to find the regiment. They had gone about fifteen miles when Lockett yelled: ‘Sir! Look.’

  Douglas followed his pointing finger and saw the trucks and carriers of their regimental supply column, quite unmistakable on account of the presence of their officer, one Macdonald, a made-up NCO, his towering presence unmissable even at a hundred yards.

  Douglas stopped the truck and jumped out. With Big Mac was Bill Owen, the major in charge of supply. Douglas swallowed hard and began to tell his lies.

  ‘Hello, sir. Where’s the r
egiment?’

  ‘Douglas, what are you doing here?’

  ‘The colonel sent a message back to Division, sir. Seems I’m wanted.’

  ‘Ah, so you’ve come back to us. Good. Good chap. The regiment’s a few miles up the road, waiting for the off. Any time now. Good job you’re here, Douglas. A Company’s lost almost all its officers. They plastered us with everything they had.’

  Douglas felt a frisson of danger, smiled incongruously and thanked him, then got back into the truck. They found the regiment with little trouble and the colonel with even less. James Massingham, whom Douglas had christened ‘Piccadilly Jim’ on account of his habitually perfect St James’s turn-out, smiled at him and twirled a moustache that was as perfectly groomed as the rest of him.

  ‘Keith. Most glad to see you. All A Company officers are casualties, except Andrew. I should get him to fix you up with a troop. We’re going in tomorrow morning.’

  They drove off towards the area where the colonel had indicated Andrew’s squadron might be encamped and Douglas found the major sitting on a petrol tin beside one of the tanks scribbling furiously with a chinagraph pencil on a piece of celluloid laid over a map. He was small, with fair hair and a ruddy complexion weather-beaten by the desert into a rich nut-brown. He was dressed in a grey flannel shirt, corduroy trousers and a rakish blue silk neckerchief. Douglas dismounted and saluted:

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘Douglas?’

  ‘Colonel sent me, sir. Replacement. Said that you might have a troop for me.’

  ‘Yes. Very good. You may as well take those two tanks. I’ll notify their commander.’

  He pointed across to two Crusader tanks and Douglas felt the excitement mount. It was his wish, to command a troop of tanks in battle. However his elation was quickly replaced with terror at his utter lack of training. He had never been inside a tank, let alone guided one into battle. His training in the armoured corps had been confined to theory and rudimentary weapons drill.