by Damien Lewis
In the plans for the Tobruk operation, a British warship was supposed to put into shore at Wadi Scegga, to the east of Tobruk, five days after the raid, to pick up any would-be escapees. With Hillman’s injury they would be cutting it fine to reach that rendezvous, but Langton used it as the talisman of hope to spur his party onwards. He had to try to instil in his companions a sense of ‘hope and determination’ which he hardly felt himself, he wrote of this difficult moment.
So began a deadly game of cat and mouse, as Langton and his men spent the next three nights dodging enemy patrols and the posts of Italian Carabinieri – armed policemen – while making painfully slow progress due to Hillman’s wounded foot. They toyed with the ‘rather desperate idea of trying to pinch a vehicle’, Langton noted, so they might drive along the coast road towards the rendezvous, but the traffic proved too sparse. They pushed ahead on foot, marching in and out of the wadis that cut through the coastline.
In spite of these challenges, Langton tried to remain optimistic. While they were weakening rapidly through lack of food and water, plus the ‘constant strain of being “hunted”’, seventy-two hours of ‘getting away with it’ was starting to strengthen his hopes that they might ‘get away with it all together’. Though they searched desperately for water, their tongues became painfully dry and by the fourth day their situation was desperate. They had consumed all their rations and had seen no sign of any Arab settlements.
Both hunger and thirst were ‘new to me, and I shan’t forget them easily’, Langton wrote. Thirst dominated hunger. It prompted in his mind fantastic visions of huge, cavernous, icy halls, filled with marble pillars and fountains, and deep pools of ‘crystal-clear water’. The more plagued by thirst he became, the more gripping and fantastical became the visions. By the time he reached the stage where his mouth was so dry as to make speaking difficult, he imagined throwing himself into a pool of cool water with his ‘mouth wide open’. Langton could only presume that if you died of thirst, in your imagination you would drown.
On the fourth night of their ordeal they witnessed RAF warplanes bombing Tobruk. As gun-blasts turned the sky a fiery orange, Langton was shocked to realise how little ground they had covered. In the harsh glare, it looked as if there was no way they would make it to the Wadi Scegga in time. Langton considered their options. They could hardly continue as they were, stumbling along, close to death from thirst and exposure. With the rendezvous slipping from their grasp, he knew he must find some other way, or they would surely die. He vowed that the following night they would try to steal a vehicle, and if that failed, they would give themselves up to the enemy.
The very thought of being captured was ‘most distasteful’, Langton recorded, and especially because he would then not know what ‘had become of the others’. He had developed a strong bond of loyalty with his fellow warriors, but with no food and water and little hope of rescue he could see no other option. The following night – the fifth of their escape ordeal – he led the way inland ‘with a heavy heart’. But even as they moved, he heard something that made him stop in his tracks: the unmistakable sound of a dog barking.
‘Could be the first of the Arab villages,’ he whispered to the others.
‘It’s probably only a jackal,’ Evans countered.
‘That was no jackal,’ Hillman averred. ‘That was a dog . . . I’m sure of it.’
Hillman – who had the most to lose if they turned themselves in – hastened towards the sound. On cresting a ridge he paused in amazement, before gesturing the others forward. The group of desperate, starving men gazed down to see, cradled in a shallow valley, a shapeless huddle of white tents shining ghostly pale in the light of a thin moon. Their first impulse was to dash down the hillside, but the dog’s barking – more sinister now – reminded them that there was no guarantee of a friendly welcome. Fortunately, Hillman was a fluent Arabic speaker, from his time spent in Palestine before the war. They decided that he should approach, while Langton followed behind at a distance with his ‘pistol ready’, providing cover, should the villagers prove hostile.
Hillman limped forwards, calling out a greeting in Arabic. He was met by a tall figure wrapped in a flowing white robe. Langton watched as the pair stood talking, alert to any signs of danger. With relief he saw them shake hands, before Hillman beckoned him and the others forward. For his actions that night Langton would go on to recommend Hillman for a Military Medal. ‘He was entirely responsible for persuading the Arabs to give us food etc,’ he would write. ‘I have no hesitation in saying that without his example and help we would have had very little chance of escaping . . .’
Hillman told Langton that these were Senussi people, whose national figurehead, Idris of Libya, had formed an alliance with the British, forming the backbone of the Libyan resistance. The Senussi villagers invited Langton and the others into one of the large tents. There they sat in a circle on woven rush carpets, as wide enamel bowls of water were set before them. They drank until their terrible thirsts were slaked, as the Senussi men ‘grinned at their obvious pleasure’. Even so, the escapees had been wise to approach with caution. As Hillman spoke Arabic with a Palestinian accent, the Senussi had believed him to be genuine. But they told of how sometimes what was seemingly a group of British escapees would appear, and the Senussi would give them what bread and water they could spare, only for the next day the same party to reappear wearing Italian uniform, to seize those who had proffered help.
The Senussi provided food that they hoped would suit the palate of their unexpected guests – British biscuits and marmalade! ‘I don’t think I shall ever forget that meal,’ Langton recalled. They set upon it ‘like animals, quite unashamedly’, and as they ate they could feel the strength returning to their bodies.
The Senussi tent was lit by oil-burning lanterns, and in one corner four goats were tethered. It was supported by poles and while the outer canvas was white to reflect the heat of the desert sun, the inside was covered in colourful appliqué, with fantastical designs in ‘soft reds and browns’, which Langton thought had to be ‘very old’.
His hunger and thirst sated, Hillman gathered what news he could. Their hosts knew all about the Tobruk raid but could not understand how the British troops had managed to make it all the way from Kufra, the oasis deep in the desert from which they had set out. Langton swelled with quiet pride at hearing this, even though all the raiders had been killed, captured or scattered to the four corners of the desert.
Langton had some Italian money and he offered to pay the Senussi for their help. Instead, they asked for a handwritten ‘promissory note’, which they would show to Allied forces once they had liberated their lands, for they were confident that the British would reward them for their generosity and bravery. Langton readily agreed, scribbling on one of the pages of his precious notebook a personal message addressed to British and Allied troops. The bearer of this note had been of ‘the greatest help’, Langton wrote. ‘Please reward him in every possible way . . .’
With their water bottles filled, pockets stuffed with biscuits and a replacement pair of boots for Hillman, the escapees set out once more. Langton marvelled at their good fortune, for only a few hours earlier they had all been languishing in the ‘depths of depression’, making for the road and almost certain capture. They decided to make for the Wadi Scegga, for although they were overdue, they hoped that in light of the disastrous outcome of the Tobruk raid, the Royal Navy might be compelled to return several times, to check for stragglers.
They pushed east up the coastline, moving only at night and flitting ‘from one Arab encampment to another’. While the Senussi did all they could to help, the villagers had very little for themselves. While no single village had much to give, none turned Langton away, always providing a couple of eggs or a few chapattis. But it was hardly enough for seven men marching through the desert, and in addition the psychological strain was beginning to take a heavy toll.
One of the men proved particularly troublesome. ‘The real cause of it all was MacDonald . . .’ Langton noted, who ‘should never have been sent into an action of this kind . . . was totally unfitted to cope with the hardships and difficulties which we met and this, in time, caused us a great deal of unpleasantness.’ With inadequate food, dissension in the ranks and MacDonald’s attitude grating, Langton found himself under enormous pressure. The mental strain and worry over their next move ‘gnawed at me’, he noted, as they pushed on towards Wadi Scegga, and especially since MacDonald seemed to be agitating that they should give themselves up to the enemy.
On the ninth night Langton reckoned that the rendezvous point must be close. They made their way to a Senussi village, seeking directions. After the customary welcome, Hillman asked if there had been any unusual British naval activity in the area. At this one of the Senussi slipped out of the tent, returning minutes later with another man, who wore a dark-coloured djellaba – a loose-fitting outer robe – with a navy blue waistcoat over it. That figure introduced himself as Abdul Ahmed, flashing a mouthful of gold teeth as he smiled. He was evidently better off than many of the Senussi and he was considered to be something of an authority in the area.
Ahmed told them of ‘boats cruising up and down at night’, adding that he ‘thought they were British’. He described how ‘one had landed a party at night and someone had shouted “any British here?”’ Langton’s spirits soared. Perhaps they were not too late to be rescued? Ahmed offered to guide them to the Wadi Scegga, explaining that there was ‘a large Carabinieri post at the shore end . . . the strength of which had recently been doubled’. They would have to move quickly if they were to avoid discovery by those Italian paramilitaries.
Hillman tried explaining that he had an injured foot that was still very sore and that they were ‘all weak and tired’, but Ahmed seemed to pay little heed. They set out, following an elaborate route across uneven ground, at one point scaling a thirty-foot cliff to avoid the Italian sentries. The escapees struggled to keep up with Ahmed’s lightning pace, but through sheer stubborn willpower they managed to make it to the Wadi Scegga undetected.
Langton half hoped to find an MTB or submarine lying just offshore. Leaving his men hidden in the wadi, he approached the beach, moving silently between scrubby bushes and keeping low. In sight of the sea, he stopped and observed, but there was no sign of any Royal Navy vessel bobbing on the water. Instead, by the light of the moon he spied something very different – the silhouette of an Italian sentry ‘standing motionless’ at one end of the beach, a rifle across his shoulder. As Langton watched he saw another guard join the first for a hushed conversation, before they marched away in opposite directions.
Langton returned to his men feeling utterly deflated. The beach, he explained, was closely guarded by the enemy. In an effort to raise their spirits, Ahmed informed them that hiding not so far away were ‘an English and an Indian soldier’. Langton wrote a note to these two men, which he gave to Ahmed, before sinking into an exhausted sleep.
Some hours later Ahmed returned, accompanied by a familiar figure. It was Private Ronald Walter, the mechanic who had tried to help Langton start the stranded MTB, back at Tobruk. By his side was an Indian soldier, who he introduced as Corporal Chatta Singh Rowat, from the 3rd/18th Garhwal Rifles. Rowat had escaped from Tobruk earlier and had been living in the wadi for many weeks. Walter explained that after the night of the raid, he had sneaked out through the Tobruk perimeter and walked for a about a week, before linking up with Rowat. They’d set up camp in the nearby Wadi Kattara, which had a fresh water supply and was relatively ‘safe’ from the Italians. There were sandy caves to shelter in and a friendly Senussi village near by that kept them supplied with food.
On hearing this, Langton noted once more that whenever he had reached his lowest ebb, ‘fortune smiled on us again’. Of Walter he concluded that he was decidedly ‘plucky’ and would make a fine fellow escapee. Walter and Rowat led Langton and his men to Wadi Kattara. There, Rowat invited Langton – as the senior officer – to share his cave, while the other men bedded down with Walter in a larger cavern. To Langton’s surprise, Rowat produced not only a warm blanket but a sheet and pillow. Thus furnished, Langton dug a hole in the sandy floor of the cave to accommodate his prone form and ‘slept like a child’ for the first time in days.
When he awoke, he and his men took stock of their situation. Despite thirteen days’ travel, they were barely seventy miles from Tobruk. It was three times that distance between their present position and that of the Eighth Army, at El Alamein. They had been warned there were no more Senussi settlements heading east, so there would be little chance of finding any food or water. Langton concluded they had no real option but to lie up in the wadi and try to recover their strength.
Wadi Kattara had steep rocky sides some two hundred feet high, ending in a sheer cliff face. At one point a freshwater stream bubbled out of the rocks, providing enough water to sustain a small grove of fig trees, which were tended by the Senussi in the nearby village. At the other end, where the wadi met the sea, it broadened into a sandy beach. This terrain would become Langton’s stalking-ground for several weeks.
Each evening the men took turns to accompany Rowat to the Senussi’s clifftop settlement, to join the villagers in an evening meal and collect food. ‘We were . . . fed by the Arabs as best they could,’ Langton reported, for every family gave something each day. As a point of respect Langton insisted that whoever was going must have shaved, for in addition to his blanket and pillows, Rowat also had a shaving kit complete with soap and mirror.
When it was Langton’s turn to accompany Rowat, he ate heartily, before listening to ‘the rhythmic lilt of the Arabic language’ and ‘the cheerful laughs’ of the men, mixed in with ‘the bleating of goats’. Suddenly he sat bolt upright, for a young man dressed in the uniform of a carabiniere had just entered. The villagers roared with laughter at Langton’s evident alarm. Rowat explained that this Senussi man was paid by the Italians to inform on his own people but was in fact a staunchly anti-Fascist double-agent. In part, it was his presence in the village that safeguarded the wadi below, for he could give a warning if ever the Italians were planning to search it.
Secure enough in their Wadi Kattara base, Langton ordered Hillman to rest, giving his injured foot time to heal. As the ravine was well obscured from outside view, there was little need to hide, even during daylight hours. He and his men took to bathing in the sea each morning, then dividing their time between beachcombing and fishing. Langton described their catch as being similar to garfish – long and silver with sharp, pointed noses. They scored ‘great success’ stunning the fish with German stick grenades. Their ‘biggest catch was 30’, caught with one explosion. They cooked them on the open beach, flavoured with a tin of onion powder that had drifted in on the tide.
Some two weeks after their arrival at Wadi Kattara, the troublesome Private MacDonald went missing. He’d rarely stopped talking about how life in a POW camp had to be better than this and, having checked that he’d not fallen over a cliff, they concluded that he must have given himself up. Langton was not sorry to lose MacDonald, but there was another member of their group who was causing him concern. Sergeant Evans, usually such a strong and steadfast presence, seemed to be becoming increasingly weak. It became clear that he was suffering from dysentery, an infection of the intestines that caused ab
dominal pain, fever and diarrhoea.
Langton tried desperately to think of a way to get his friend back to friendly lines, before he succumbed to the disease, which can kill. As if by way of answer, a large can of diesel washed up on the shoreline. An experienced naval signaller, Langton devised a way to attract the attention of the RAF warplanes which flew over the wadi almost every night, en route to bomb Tobruk. Using the diesel, they would light fires in the form of a triangle. That had been the aircraft recognition signal for the Tobruk raid, and Langton hoped that if a pilot caught sight of it, headquarters might send a boat to rescue them. In the circumstances, it was the best plan they had.
For four nights they tried it without luck, but on the fifth a low-flying RAF bomber circled around for a second look. The men jumped and waved excitedly. Langton, standing at the water’s edge, flashed a frantic ‘SOS’ in Morse code with his torch. As if in answer the warplane dropped a white flare that lit up the entire beach, followed by a second and a third. Langton was jubilant as he saw the aircraft dive towards them, but his joy turned to horror when an ear-splitting ‘whistling, screeching sound’ filled the air and the reality of the situation hit him.
‘Bombs!’ he yelled. ‘Dive flat!’
The beach erupted in explosions, as Langton threw himself inside the relative protection of the wadi mouth, along with the others. They stared at each other, panting hard. Miraculously they had suffered no injuries. They began to laugh hysterically at the utter absurdity of their situation, while Rowat stared at the mad Englishmen in disbelief.
