by Iain Gale
‘Sir, I’m a little lacking in experience.’
The major looked up from his map: ‘Oh, I shouldn’t worry about that, old boy.’ Douglas winced. The major continued: ‘We don’t use maps much. No codes and all that. We just talk on the air. It’s quite simple really, you’ll soon get the hang of it, old boy.’
Douglas, Lockett and the fitter drove across to the tanks just as the newly dismissed troop commander, a corporal, was leaving. He smiled at them. Douglas quickly unloaded his kit and gave most of it to Lockett, who to their mutual regret was not to go into battle with him but to the regimental stores.
Douglas smiled at him: ‘See you after the fight.’
‘Yes, sir. Take care now. Nothing rash, you know.’
Douglas knew. He smiled again and watched as his batman departed. He supposed that he ought to meet his new tank crews and sought them out. It took him half an hour.
He was not sure about Mudie, the Glaswegian tank driver, whose temperament perfectly suited his name. He seemed profoundly discontent, but then again in Douglas’s experience that could be said for at least a third of the soldiers in this polyglot army. The gunner, Evan, was more levelheaded, although he was similarly monosyllabic. The other tank crew, of which the commander was a corporal named Browning, was rather more communicative than his own. Browning it seemed had been captured by the Germans early on in the battle and had escaped to rejoin the regiment. He smiled a lot and Douglas could not tell whether it was through relief or nerves.
‘Treated me quite well really, they did, sir. Can’t say they didn’t. Nice bunch of blokes actually, sir. Pity they was Jerries.’
This second crew were in better humour than either Mudie or Evan. Perhaps, he thought, my own crew resent me. Perhaps they would have preferred to have gone into action with their own corporal at the helm. He cursed himself for his ridiculous, schoolboyish behaviour in wanting to join the fight and for thinking that he might arrive at the front and instantly command respect. To them he must surely appear as what he was, a desk wallah with a strange death wish. Well, he wasn’t quite sure about the death wish.
Browning had kindly guided him through the controls of the tank. He was to sit on the right of the gun. He had a periscope through which he could see the battlefield as a small square of horizon. The machine-gun bullets were in a belt that ran close to where he sat and behind him was the wireless. He noticed too the various incongruous items: boiled sweets, Penguin paperback books, biscuits. Now he was lying on his bedding thumbing through a magazine, Lilliput, that he had found in the tank and listening to the thump of the artillery in the distance. A barrage he presumed for the ongoing attack of which they would soon be a part; ‘One hour’s notice’. That was what Andrew had told him they were on. One hour then, he thought, till death or glory.
He felt strangely content, if apprehensive. He had after all achieved his goal. The truck was well on its way back to HQ and he was well on his way into the battle. At last he had a sense of purpose and most importantly he had the sense that he should no longer feel ashamed of being out of the fight. He put down the magazine and pulled up his overcoat, a British warm, then looked up at the sky in which the stars above twinkled as bright as diamonds.
He was suddenly overtaken by a wave of mortality. He was going to be killed. Of that he was certain. The only doubts now in his mind were as to where, how and when.
Friday 30 October
THIRTY-THREE
7.00 p.m. Between Trig 29 and the Fig Orchard, Thompson’s Post Kibby
The sand was like an ocean, rising and falling in great waves, blinding, suffocating, all-enveloping. It had started shortly after breakfast, just after an unexpected attack by Stukas. But this was something far more deadly, far more to be feared. Kibby pulled his shirt further up over his face and tried to bury his head down into a corner of the trench. The khamsin sandstorm was not unknown to most of them but even when you had been through a few of them you still never took them for granted. The wogs said they could drive you mad and Kibby reckoned they were right. It was dusk now and the sand was just beginning to recede. It had raged a full day, burying and uncovering the dead and getting into every orifice. At least, thought Kibby, there was one good thing about it. It kept away the bloody flies.
For a short time all was silent. Kibby lay in the trench and for a while thought about home, about Adelaide and Mabel and the girls and what they would all do after the war.
Captain Robbins arrived. ‘All right, Kibby. Here it is. We’re off at nightfall. We’re going to take Barrel Hill. Well, actually we expect 2/32nd to take that, we’ll follow on close behind. Phase two jump-off is from beyond the railway line and then we’re all going towards the sea. We’re taking a place called the Clover Leaf.’
‘Hope it’s lucky, sir,’ quipped Kibby.
‘Quite. So do I, Bill. Well, that’s about it. We leave at eight p.m. for the assembly area a mile north of Trig Twenty-nine. H Hour is 22.30. OK?’
‘Fine, sir.’
Kibby briefed the men, gave them a short résumé of what Robbins had told him and ended with his own words of encouragement. ‘All right. This is it, the big one. In fact it’ll probably be the biggest thing you ever do in any of your lives, boys. So make it count. And we’re heading towards the sea, so remember to bring your trunks. You might get a swim.’
As night fell he moved the platoon into the back of a truck and they set off across the mile to the start line. They were skirting the minefield to the northwest so that at least was a blessing. The start area was a mass of Aussies, four battalions of them, waiting for the off. The guns began at 22.00 and shortly afterwards a whistle blew and the 2/32nd stepped over the tape.
Half an hour later it was Kibby’s turn. They had gone about fifty yards when rifle fire opened up on both flanks. There was no time to hit the ground now, just the order to carry on and whenever an enemy rifle flashed through the darkness; to respond with a short burst from the Thompson. In this way they reached the railway line within the hour, the rear companies being left to mop up. But Kibby was far from happy.
Running in from the open ground, his platoon came up slap-bang against the rear of 2/32nd. He found a corporal: ‘What the hell’s going on, mate?’
‘It’s bloody murder, Sarge. We’ve been shot up something rotten and we’ve taken sod-all. Not the hill, not the bleedin’ railway and not the blockhouse. Nothing. There’s Jerry positions all along a ridge over there.’ He pointed northeast. ‘Mortars, MGs and tanks hull down. And they’re all pointed at the railway line. Got us zeroed good and proper.’
So, thought Kibby, we’ve lost our start line. Robbins appeared: ‘CO’s sent out the intelligence section to lay new tape to give us the clear route beyond the railway. But they’re getting badly shot up. He wants us to go in as support. You and Ashby to lead the way.’
Kibby nodded and, signalling to his platoon to follow, dashed through the moonlight for the railway line. He was instantly met by a burst of Spandau bullets and hit the sand. He could see the line dead ahead. It was in a cutting perhaps four metres deep which he hoped might afford them some cover. The Spandaus fired again and he counted slowly: one, two, three, four, five, six. Another burst. It was time enough. He yelled to the men: ‘Sixsecond gap between shells. Run for the embankment.’ Then he waited after the burst. Three, four, five, six and he was off. Kibby sprinted down the slope and ran for the railway line. As he crossed it the machine-guns began again and he landed panting on the other side. Within a few minutes all the platoon was with him. Further along he could see Ashby and his men. But it wasn’t the safe haven he had hoped. A line of Spandau bullets came in and tore into the right eye and forehead of the boy sitting next to him, spinning him round, spouting blood, stonedead. Kibby yelled down the line: ‘We’ve got to get out of here! Anyone staying here’s a dead man. Follow me.’
He moved in a crouching position away from the railway line and immediately saw ahead of him a slit trench with several heads
wearing the distinctive flat cap of the Afrika Korps.
He knew that there was only really one good way to take such a position. You ran at it, dropped your grenades right on top of the men as you passed and then turned round and just after the bomb went off ran up and fired your rifle or machine-gun down into the trench. It was effective but messy and was not for the fainthearted.
Kibby yelled at the top of his voice and his cry was taken up by the men. He ran at the trench, saw quite clearly the four flat-capped Germans it contained and their Spandau and their surprised expressions. They opened up on him but their trajectory was too low and Kibby was too quick and before they could traverse, he was over the trench dropping three Mills bombs on the occupants. He ran past and heard their screams of fear and then three explosions rent the night and he turned and ran back, shooting from the hip. Up at the trench lip Kibby almost threw up. The bombs had done their work well.
Two of the men must have been killed at once for there was very little left of them. Both of their torsos were eviscerated and both their heads were a bloody mess. Of the others, one had had his face ripped off by shrapnel fragments and was quite dead. The other though was still moving, even though he was missing both of his legs at the thigh. Kibby fired a short burst of the Thompson gun into him and he didn’t move again. All around him men were using similar tactics against other trenches which had been laid out in a pattern of diagonals designed to criss-cross their fire. But the Australians had surprised them and before long the only Germans left alive in the position were prisoners, many of them wounded.
Kibby found a man, Gallagher, an athlete from Melbourne. ‘Run back to the CO and tell him we’ve secured the ground at Barrel Hill. Got that?’
The man nodded and sped off. Ten minutes later he returned with Robbins. ‘Well done, Kibby. Bloody good work. Get your men into that saucer-shaped dip just over the start line. We’re going to kick off with another barrage so keep your heads down.’
Kibby found the shallow dip and the men hugged the sides of the crater. Minutes later the British guns opened up. They watched as the enemy positions to the northwest were plastered with high explosive. There were more men sheltering in the saucer now. Sixteen Platoon had crawled in and with Ashby’s men as well, it was becoming a little congested. Kibby watched the shells coming over from behind their lines and noticed to his horror that their trajectory appeared to be shortening. He found Gallagher again: ‘Run and tell Captain Robbins that unless those gunners lengthen their stride we’re going to cop it from our own guns.’
He kept watching and still the distance between the shells and the saucer seemed to lessen by the second. Finally it happened. A twenty-five-pounder shell fell inside the perimeter and burst among Sixteen Platoon. The recently appointed Lieutenant Farrell was hit in the chest by shrapnel. Then a second shell came in, and a third in the centre of Ashby’s platoon. All around the crater men were burrowing into the sand. Bob Tremlett was sheltering next to Kibby as the shells screamed in. ‘Jesus, Sarge. I know the poms don’t much like us, but this is going a bit far.’
Kibby managed a smile: ‘Don’t worry, son. They’ll stop soon.’
But they didn’t, at least not before another five men had been wounded, one mortally. Then the British guns fell silent and the medics muttered as they tended the casualties who had been hit by their own side.
Kibby was stoical. There was no point in getting worked up about it. What could you do? These things happened in war. It was all a chaotic pile of crap whichever way you looked at it. And all you could do was muddle through it the best you could and try not to get yourself killed. Now, with the British artillery temporarily silent before beginning their creeping barrage in advance of the attack he knew that the Germans would be using the time to regroup and recover. He checked his ammo and inserted one of the big circular magazines into the Thompson. The minutes ticked by. He looked at his watch. Fifty-five minutes past midnight. The assault was scheduled for 1a.m.
Then it began again. The heavy guns opened up on the German positions from the rear and a whistle sounded. Kibby urged the men forward and realized almost immediately that they were advancing too far behind the barrage. ‘Move forward. Get closer,’ he yelled and by example, doubled ahead. The others followed and as they approached the German trenches under cover of the rolling barrage he could see the Jerries getting up and falling back. My God, he thought, we’re pushing them back without a shot being fired. They were in the centre of the position now with minefields on either side and their objective, Ring Contour 25, to their left about forty yards away. Then the night exploded with machine-gun fire. It came at them it seemed from all sides and Kibby saw men going down fast: Gallagher the runner, his legs a mangled mess; Morrison, his right arm chopped through by tracer and Morse, shot through the chest and abdomen and screaming in agony. Kibby had a ghastly thought. Of course, in letting the men run from the trenches they had allowed the Jerries to regroup further back and now they were paying the price. They should have killed them all as they advanced.
He hit the ground and tried to work out where principally the fire was coming from. He zeroed in on two small mounds dead ahead of them and as he did the lieutenant of Eighteen Platoon, Treloar, was hit in the leg and it occurred to him that Robbins was now their only officer. He heard the captain shout: ‘Regroup. With me.’ Kibby and his men crawled towards the voice under constant machine-gun fire. Robbins walked towards them out of the darkness and Kibby saw that he was holding his neck. Blood was pouring down his shirt. He ran forward to help him but the officer looked helplessly into his eyes before sinking to his knees and falling lifeless across a tangle of barbed wire.
Kibby turned to one of the men, Norm Leaney, the musician. ‘Blimey, that’s torn it. No bleedin’ officers left.’
Ashby spoke: ‘Reckon it’s down to you, Bill. You’re company commander now.’
It was true, if frankly unbelievable. Kibby turned to him: ‘Herb, get all the men together. Every platoon, over here. Quick as you can. You’re my second-in-command.’
A few minutes later he was addressing his ragged command. There were perhaps thirty men of the original eighty that had gone in. ‘Right. Here’s how it is. We’ve got to take those two mounds. Herb, you take a section and attack the left-hand one. I’ll take the other one on my own. The rest of you stay here as reserve and when you see us at the top come on in.’
Kibby knew that he worked best on his own and his logic was, if he could draw all the fire from one gun on to himself then perhaps Ashby’s section would stand a better chance of getting through.
Ashby started to protest, but Kibby waved him down. ‘Let’s go.’
He watched as Ashby set off. He would give him a head-start and then take the Jerries completely by surprise with a charge against the right-hand mound. He could see Ashby now at the head of his men, Whaite standing and firing again and again into the position and Bloffwich with his Bren gun, firing from the hip as he advanced. But as they went forward men were falling fast. It was hard to see through the dust and smoke but Kibby counted them: Diddy the sergeant from Sixteen Platoon was down and now so was Whaite, Martin fell in a hail of Spandau bullets and eventually even Bloffwich collapsed on the sand, his finger still pressing the trigger of the Bren.
Reckoning his time to have come, Kibby jumped up from the sand and charged the right-hand machine-gun post. As he went he plucked a grenade from his belt, pulled the pin with his teeth and threw it at the gunners. Before it had exploded though he was doing the same with another. The first bomb went off, on target and the Germans’ screams cut the night. The other made contact too and then he was in the position, the tommy gun doing its deadly work. And then, silence. He jumped down into the trench and kicked at a lifeless body. Then he looked across to Ashby’s objective and saw the familiar shapes of men in bush hats standing on its summit. Climbing from the trench he walked across towards them. He saw Ashby and was about to congratulate him when the familiar rattle of a ma
chine-gun interrupted him. He saw several tracer bullets hit Ashby but realized with relief they had only torn off his webbing. Kibby smiled and began again to tell him how well he had done, when he felt a terrific whack on the side of his neck. His first thought was of the sheer irritation of not being able to speak for although he opened his mouth the words would not come. A split-second later though Kibby’s world exploded in a mist of blood as the bullet that had pierced his jugular vein exited through the back of his head and took with it part of his skull and a portion of his brains. Bill Kibby’s lifeless body fell at Ashby’s feet and his blood gushed out freely, a spreading crimson flower against the moonlit sand.
Saturday 31 October
THIRTY-FOUR
6.30 a.m. Kidney Ridge Douglas
They had moved up in the early morning. He had been duty officer, and had woken the colonel at five o’clock and breakfasted, with pangs of guilt, on whisky. There was no more chocolate. It was the usual tedious grind along the dust track with the crew bunched up in the turret unable to talk above the noise of the engines.
It was growing more fully light now, but a thick mist hung about them and they seemed to be utterly alone. Andrew had told him over the radio that there was now nothing between them and the enemy and it suddenly dawned on Douglas that he appeared to have lost the rest of the squadron. The radio crackled into life. The colonel’s voice came on, angrily shouting his call sign: ‘Nuts Five, Nuts Five, you’re miles behind us. Come on. Come on. Off.’
He yelled to Mudie, ‘Give her some speed, will you,’ and the tank moved faster through the mist. Ahead of them a German tank loomed up but he quickly realized with some relief that it was a wreck. Now he knew that he was lost. They saw some Crusaders and made for them but they turned out to be from a different regiment, the Staffordshire Yeomanry.
