Alamein

by Iain Gale

  The armour might yet prove its worth. But to date at least the hard fight had been won by artillery and principally by the infantry. Their losses had been huge and he could not expunge the sense of guilt that he had not really expected. He had thought that to get armour on to the battlefield would smash Rommel but he had not succeeded and he wanted to know why.

  Tanks. Perhaps it was Lumsden who was to blame. All along he had thought him a disappointment. He was excitable, highly strung and easily prone to depression. In fact, he was not suitable for the high command at all. He was a good divisional commander but above that, out of his depth. Leese of course was quite the opposite and Freyberg quite superb.

  Now all he himself had to do was keep morale up. Part of that was being always visible to the men. Wellington to Rommel’s Napoleon. Morale was the key to pressing home the attack. It had been a clever move to put on that Australian bush hat, he knew that he had to create a distinctive persona. But with the Aussies now effectively out of the game it had been time for a change.

  So he had braved the minefields in one of the new Grant tanks and had put on the black beret of a tank commander, had even pinned on the general’s badge next to that of the RTR. In fact, he had to admit that if the truth were known, which he consoled himself it never would be, donning the black beret had not been his idea but something cooked up by two clever chaps from the press, a man called Charlton who edited Eighth Army News and Keating, that fellow who did the filming for the army. Apparently they had told John Poston that his head was unsuited to the bush hat – too big apparently. A beret, they said, would look much better. And what better than a tank corps beret? For, although the two public relations men would never know it, it was among the armour now more than anywhere else that he had had to call for the greatest sacrifice. It was to them ultimately that fell the ghastly dictum of one hundred per cent casualties.

  De Guingand had woken him shortly after 7 a.m. ‘It’s Ninth Armoured, sir. They charged in and I’m afraid they’ve been shot up rather badly. They’ve taken heavy casualties. But they are on the feature at Tel-el-Aqqaqir.’

  ‘Splendid. What else?’

  ‘Well, unfortunately, sir, almost thirty of their tanks failed to reach the front line. They, er, took the wrong turning. That slowed up the Warwicks by half an hour. By the time they were into their charge the dawn was coming up. It was only then that they realized they were silhouetted against the horizon and in front of them were some dug-in 88s.’

  Montgomery froze: ‘What losses exactly?’

  ‘Brigadier Currie lost 75 out of 94 tanks and 230 men out of 400. We could have exploited it, sir, but unfortunately General Fisher’s brigade was too slow.’

  He had said nothing. Too slow? He loathed excuses. And there was no excuse for a unit to be ‘too slow’. But he had let it pass. Now, he thought, would see the breakout. For his masterstroke, while the Germans were pinned down in the north he was throwing two entire regiments of armoured cars at the Italians in the south. The corset had lost its whalebones and was about to be ripped apart.

  De Guingand entered, smiling. It was 10.30: ‘X Corps armour have broken through, sir. It’s become a huge tank battle. They’re just blasting each other into oblivion.’

  So the tanks were fighting it out and given his superior numbers he knew that they would prevail. But this was not the way he had wanted it to be. Not at all. This was not how armour should be used. It should be integrated, exploited, not allowed to run amok. Although it did occur to him that this had been exactly what he had planned for Operation Lightfoot, the opening moves of the original battle plan, back almost twelve days ago. Although of course he would never admit that now. Everything must look as if it had been meticulously planned by him.

  De Guingand was still speaking: ‘Looks as though they’ve encountered fifteenth Panzer Division. We’ve lost fifty-four tanks. But reports are that we’ve knocked out one for one.’

  This was it. One hundred per cent casualties.

  ‘What of the infantry?’

  ‘Fifty-First Highland are gaining ground. They did it by the book but they’ve gone even further than we’d hoped. They’re actually in the rear laagers of the German tanks. The men have been running up to the panzers and dropping grenades down the turrets. It does look as if the Desert Fox is about to turn tail, sir.’

  ‘Yes, Freddie, it does. But there’s only one thing. When he does so, Rommel hasn’t enough transport to get all his men out. Who do you suppose he’s going to leave?’

  ‘The Italians, I imagine.’

  ‘Quite, and we must ensure that we don’t allow him to regroup his Panzerarmee. Get me the air commodore. I want to make sure we’ve got enough planes in the air tomorrow to slow down any retreating columns. This is our chance, Freddie, and I’m not going to waste it.’

  De Guingand hurried off and Montgomery contemplated the growing possibility of total victory and the price at which it had come. The infantry had paid dearly and he hoped they would forgive him. A man’s courage, he had realized, was totally dependent upon his loyalty to his commander and it was the duty of any good commander not to abuse that loyalty simply to save shells.

  He wrote in his diary: ‘There are indications that the enemy is about to withdraw. He has reached breaking point and is trying to get his army away. We have the chance of putting the whole Panzerarmee in the bag and we will do so. He is almost finished.’

  Tuesday 3 November

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  1.00 p.m. HQ Panzerarmee Afrika, the mosque, Sidi Abdl el Rahman Rommel

  He sipped at the revolting ersatz coffee and managed a slight smile. ‘Tell me, Bayerlein, you have no interest in collecting stamps?’

  ‘No, Herr Generalfeldmarschall. Sadly not.’

  ‘Pity. I had hoped we might have common ground there.’

  It was true. He had hoped that he might share his interest. Might talk about anything other than the tragedy currently unfolding before him. Anything but defeat.

  ‘I myself have a most magnificent collection. The fruit of thirty years. But you ski, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Downhill and cross-country. Since I was a boy.’

  Rommel brightened: ‘Good. Yes, of course and it is the best of sports, is it not?’

  There was a knock on the door of the command vehicle.

  ‘Enter.’

  It was Müller, Rommel’s personal clerk. ‘Sir, the reconnaissance reports on the Fuka position.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Come in.’

  Müller handed the papers to Bayerlein before leaving. Rommel put down the mug of coffee and moved to the large map spread out on the table before him. It was covered in blue pencil marks, arrows where the Allies had broken through the lines and others showing the possible means of escape for the Afrika Korps.

  ‘So what have we, Bayerlein?’

  ‘It seems, Herr Generalfeldmarschall, that in the southernmost positions the ground is quite impassable by tank. We could hold out there.’

  Rommel nodded and ran his forefinger round the position. ‘Yes, we’ll stand in the position to the east of El Daba.’

  He suddenly felt a twinge of pain in his stomach. Probably indigestion from his hurried lunch. But he wondered whether it might not be his recent trouble returned again. He reached for the coffee.

  Bayerlein had noticed the spasm.

  ‘Are you feeling all right, sir?’

  ‘Yes, yes. I’ll be fine. Just indigestion. This damn coffee. What other news?’

  ‘Nothing good, sir. Twenty-First Panzer is dug in to the north and Fifteenth in the south. The Kampfstaffel have been wiped out and General von Thoma will not be persuaded to leave the front line. It looks like the British tanks are about to overrun Tel el Mampsra. The British armour have taken the Italian right flank. The Italians are fighting well but the British just have bigger and better machines.’

  ‘They’re American tanks, Bayerlein. Remember that.’ He himself had seen forty of his own tanks knocked o
ut two days ago. He knew the worst.

  The army was exhausted. Ten days of endless fighting had worn them down. There was nothing they could do now to stop a breakout. Indeed it had already begun. If he did not move now and fast then they were in danger of encirclement. He knew that an orderly withdrawal of all units was impossible. They simply lacked the necessary motor transport. And so his army would be destroyed, piecemeal. It was the end of a dream.

  He looked at Bayerlein who was standing solemnly at the edge of the map, looking at the arrows. ‘Do you remember, Bayerlein, how it was when we came to Libya. How we marched through the streets of Tripoli?’

  Bayerlein smiled. ‘Oh yes, sir. That was a day to remember. A glorious day.’ ‘You remember what they were singing?’

  ‘“Heia Safari”. “Das Deutsches Volk in Afrika”.’ He hummed the tune.

  Not far away someone else was singing. A different song though no less familiar. A plaintive song of hoping for the impossible, a song more suited to the moment.

  Vor der Kaserne, Vor dem groBen Tor, Stand eine Laterne Und steht sie noch davor, So woll’n wir uns da wieder seh’n, Bei der Laterne wollen wir steh’n Wie einst Lili Marleen. Wie einst Lili Marleen.

  Müller appeared again in the doorway. ‘Sir, we’ve had a telegram from Berlin. Just decoded.’

  Rommel looked up from the map. ‘Yes? Read it to us.’

  ‘Sir, it’s from the Führer himself.’

  Rommel reached out for the paper and began to read: ‘The entire German nation is watching your heroic defensive battle in Egypt, with well-placed confidence in your leadership qualities and in the courage of your German and Italian troops. In your present situation nothing else can be thought of but to hold on, not to yield a step, and to throw every weapon and every fighting man who can still be fed into the battle. Despite his superiority the enemy must also be at the end of his strength. It would not be the first time in history that the stronger will has triumphed over the stronger battalions of the enemy. To your troops therefore you can offer no other road than that leading to Victory or Death.’

  Rommel handed the telegram to Bayerlein and shook his head. ‘Read that.’ Had the Führer gone mad? ‘Victory or death’. Here he was trying to save as many of the Afrika Korps as he could and Hitler had sent him an order reading ‘victory or death’.

  Müller coughed: ‘And there’s another one, sir. From the Duce, Mussolini.’

  Again Rommel read: ‘Duce considers it imperative to hold present front at all costs.’ Rommel laughed and handed that in turn to the colonel. ‘Well, Bayerlein, that one’s blunt enough. “At all costs”.’

  Rommel felt deeply hurt. He did not care one iota about Mussolini’s message, had never had time for that man. The arrogant, bombastic fool. But here too was a personal message from a man whom he trusted, whom he valued as a friend and supporter. And that man now appeared to be telling him to die in battle along with every one of his men. He did not understand it. Hitler had promised him Tiger tanks, reinforcements, fuel, supplies, weapons and ammunition. Nothing had come. And now this. This ludicrous order to fight to the death. Perhaps, he thought, Kesselring was behind it. Yes, that in all probability was it. Hitler would never have done such a thing. Yet it was Hitler himself to whom he would now have to reply.

  In truth it was too late. With their front broken and the enemy streaming into their rear, superior orders could no longer count. He simply had to save whatever there was to be saved. He would retreat. In fact, a rearguard of artillery and motorized infantry was already on the move and had been for the last fifteen hours.

  He knew that the great tide of Allied men and machines was now only being held back by a thin line of armour and artillery. Barely thirty serviceable tanks. One thing was certain. He could not tell the men of the Führer’s order. He would tell the commanders, though. Just as well to do so and let them know the scheme of things.

  Nevertheless he would authorize the limited withdrawal he had planned. Fifteen kilometres back. But he would order the Ninetieth Light, what was left of them, and the Italians to stand fast and hold on to the last man. They would be his real rearguard. They would be sacrificed.

  So, von Thoma was staying with his few remaining tanks. At least that would hold back the British First Armoured Division to prevent it threatening their withdrawal. It was, he knew, as von Thoma must know, a suicide mission. Von Thoma must have seen that the end was in sight. How typical of the man to use his own death as a signal to all at GHQ that there was something very wrong with high command. Von Thoma himself would die. And then perhaps the Führer’s anger would be assuaged, thought Rommel. He could not understand it. Such deep resentment from Hitler, that brilliant man, the saviour of Germany.

  ‘Müller, send a reply: “My Führer. I fully appreciate the gravity of the situation and your command. But I beg to point out that an order to stand fast will mean that we lose a proportion of the Panzerarmee that might otherwise be saved…”’

  It was quite clear to him now that the true scale of the disaster was utterly lost on those in Berlin with their thoughts on the steppes of Russia. He turned to Bayerlein. ‘Get me a brandy, could you. Oh, and send Major Berndt to the Führer in Berlin, to explain the state of affairs. He must also ask, no he must demand, complete freedom for the Panzerarmee in Africa to take whatever action is necessary to save what remains of itself.’

  He would see Berndt himself later, before he went, and would brief him to explain to Hitler that North Africa was now irrevocably lost. That there really was no more that could be done. That this was the end. The end of the dream. The end of the Afrika Korps.

  Wednesday 4 November

  THIRTY-NINE

  2.00 p.m. Camel Pass, the Quattara Depression Ruspoli

  This then, he thought, was how it ended. They had little water, food and ammunition, no anaesthetic and no motor transport. Ruspoli knew that soon his brigade would be on the point of disintegration. The order had come through at two in the morning and it had taken Ruspoli completely by surprise. Particularly as only hours before they had received an order direct from the Duce telling them to hold the line at all costs.

  They had been ordered to abandon Hill 125, the crucial defensive line between Deir Alinda and Deir-el-Munassib that they had held for the last three days.

  Instead, they were to conduct a fighting retreat to Fuka and initially to make their way to new positions between Jebel Kalakh and Qaret el Khadim. That was ten miles to the west. They had moved as quickly as they could and reached the new line just after dawn. Since then though the enemy artillery had been firing everything they had at them. They had not had time to entrench properly and the casualty rate was rising. What chance he thought did the wounded have with no medical supplies? No morphine? His men were dying all around him and there was nothing he could do. He had already lost two officers that morning: Bonini, whose luck had finally run out, and poor Piccini.

  His friends, his comrades, his family. Worse still was that he had only heard yesterday that his brother Costantino had been killed on the twenty-sixth. Ruspoli had been expecting it for some time, just as he expected his own death to come soon.

  Visconti came up. ‘Sir. We should be at Fuka by now.’

  ‘I know, Guido, I know. But where the hell are we?’

  ‘Somewhere in greater Italy.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That’s what the Duce called it. This is part of Italy.’

  Ruspoli laughed. ‘Dear Guido. What a wit.’

  ‘It’s just what they told us, sir. This is our land. We fight to defend it.’

  ‘We have only one land. Mother Italy. We were sold a lie.’

  It was approaching two in the afternoon when three British armoured cars pressed forward. An English voice sounded through a loudspeaker.

  ‘Brave Italians. You have done everything honour and your country demand. You have shown great valour. Surrender now and you will be treated as heroes. Continue to fight and you will be comple
tely annihilated.’

  Ruspoli shouted back: ‘Folgore!’ Then he turned to Mautino: ‘Fire the 47/32.’

  Mautino shouted to Ponticelli: ‘Open fire.’

  The small anti-tank gun fired and a shell hit one of the armoured cars square-on, causing it to burst into flames. Its crew jumped from the turret and ran back to hitch a ride on the other two which were now pulling back.

  The Italians gave a cheer. Ruspoli spoke quietly to Mautino. ‘We must continue to withdraw. Those are the orders. We’ve left Fourth Battalion as a rearguard. Only they may have water supplies. For us it’s only what we’re carrying. Half a litre each. That’s all we have. There is no more.’

  ‘We should take the gun, sir.’

  ‘Yes, of course. Come on.’

  He walked across to the jubilant gunners and helped them pick up the trail of the little cannon. Mautino ran to stop him. ‘Colonel, really. That is not a job for an officer. Especially for you.’

  Ruspoli smiled at him and pushed away his hand. ‘Oh, Carlo. Don’t you see? Officers, men. We’re all the same now. Look around you. What do you see? Italians. We must help each other now. Please. If my men do it then so do I.’

  He picked up the trail and with six others began to push the gun through the sand. Their initial march had been through the night. By day it was very different, under the desert sun. They moved with painful slowness, every step a new hardship. To his left a man swayed and collapsed to the ground. Ruspoli went across to him. It was Marcantonio, the wine-producer. His skin was dry and wrinkled and his mouth black. He was completely dehydrated. Though it was only the afternoon, the men, utterly exhausted, were falling asleep on their feet. Some of those who fell in the sand did not get back up. Mautino handed out amphetamines to help them stay awake. There was the sound of engines in the sky.