Hellfire (2011)

by James Holland

  ‘She didn’t have a moustache, she—’

  ‘Siff, he’s taking the piss,’ said Tanner. ‘I’m sure she was gorgeous.’

  ‘Have you checked yourself, though, Siff?’ asked Brown. ‘You know, that your tackle’s still functioning.’

  ‘Course it is.’

  ‘Only I’ve heard you can catch something awful from those native bints. I mean, you wouldn’t want to get syphilis, Siff, would you?’

  They all laughed, then passed another cart, this time with a young Egyptian girl sitting on the back.

  ‘There, Siff, what about her?’ said Brown.

  ‘Nah,’ said Phyllis. ‘Not my type.’

  ‘Just because she didn’t have a ’tache, Siff,’ said Sykes.

  More laughter.

  ‘Oh, I get it,’ said Phyllis. ‘It’s take-the-piss-out-of-Siff day, is it?’

  ‘I thought that was every day,’ said Brown.

  The banter tailed off and they were silent for a few minutes. Then Hepworth said, ‘I’m even more parched now. This is getting ridiculous. Hey, Stan, couldn’t we try and brew up while we’re going along?’

  ‘I knew a bloke who tried that once.’

  ‘What happened?’ asked Phyllis.

  ‘Did you notice I used the past tense, Siff?’

  ‘Yes, but what happened?’

  ‘Well, just think about it, Siff,’ said Tanner. ‘A moving truck, full of ammo and fuel.’

  ‘So he killed himself?’

  ‘That’s a wonderfully quick brain you’ve got there, isn’t it, Siff?’ said Sykes. ‘Yes, he was brown bread. Well, actually, if you really want to know I made it all up, but no one’s brewing anything while I’m sitting here.’

  ‘Well said, Stan,’ said Tanner. ‘Sorry, lads, you’re just going to have to hold on. Anyway, look on the bright side. If we keep making good progress, the colonel might feel we deserve a little swim in the sea.’

  ‘Do you think so?’ asked Smailes.

  ‘He might,’ said Tanner. ‘I heard talk of it.’

  ‘That’d be great,’ said Smailes.

  ‘I’d love a swim in the sea,’ said Phyllis.

  ‘All that salt water would do your old fellow good, Siff,’ said Brown.

  ‘Shut up, Browner.’

  ‘I mean it. Salt water’s good for the clap, isn’t that right, sir?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know, Browner.’

  Around eleven Tanner spotted a red flag being hoisted on the lead vehicle, some way ahead but just visible as the convoy snaked along a curve in the road. ‘There you go, Hep,’ he said. ‘We’re stopping.’

  Sure enough, one by one, the vehicles ahead began pulling off to the side of the road, until at last it was their turn to halt too.

  Tanner hoisted himself out, stretched and lit a cigarette. He watched Hepworth and Mudge gather three large stones as a makeshift hob, while the others scavenged for dried leaves, sticks and bits of scrub. These were flung together between the stones and then an old four-gallon flimsy with the top sliced off was filled with water. The fire was lit, the flimsy placed on top, and Mudge carefully added a handful of leaves, sugar and condensed milk, then gave it a quick stir.

  The men now stood around, smoking and chatting. Tanner wandered down towards Peploe. It was searing hot now that they had stopped. In the sky above, kites were circling, mewing to each other in their strange plaintive cry. They reminded him of the buzzards that had drifted in the sky at home, when he’d been a boy.

  ‘We seem to be making good progress,’ said Peploe. ‘Nearly at the edge of Alexandria.’

  ‘How long are we stopping? Are we expected to have tiffin now?’

  Peploe glanced up the road. ‘I’m not sure. It’s a bit late for a tea break and a bit early for lunch. Don’t know what Vigar’s thinking, to be honest.’

  ‘I’m all for keeping going. The lads are keen to have a dip in the sea. It’d do ’em good, before we get out into the blue.’

  Peploe nodded. ‘I’ll go and see what’s what.’

  He strode off towards the head of the column and Tanner sauntered back to his men. The char was boiling, so Mudge began to pour it into the line of enamel tin mugs.

  Tanner leaned against the wooden side of the truck. The lads already looked tousled and a bit weathered. It was too hot to wear tin helmets – they avoided them as much as they could – and although Sykes and Smailes wore their field service caps, the rest were bare-headed, their hair already thick with dust.

  Peploe returned with the news that tiffin was to be eaten en route, and that if they continued to make good progress, they would stop near Burg El Arab for an hour, when there would be an opportunity to swim.

  ‘Sounds good to me,’ said Tanner.

  ‘I agree. Pass it on, will you?’ said Peploe.

  ‘Of course.’

  Peploe wiped his brow. ‘I’d better get back. The blue flag’s going up in about five minutes.’

  Tanner and his men finished their char, kicked out the fire and got back into the truck.

  ‘Bloody hell, it’s hot,’ muttered Brown. ‘My seat’s like a flipping hob and the steering wheel’s going to blister my hands.’

  ‘Stop whingeing, Browner,’ said Tanner, ‘and be thankful the skipper doesn’t make you wear shorts like the rest of the battalion.’

  The entire company wore trousers, rather than shorts. Tanner had always avoided the shorts that were standard issue in the Middle East. They were comfortable enough and, of course, used less cotton so were cheaper to produce, but it was all too easy to get sunburned legs, even with long socks, and bare skin was also exposed to cuts and scratches. In the desert, a minor injury could lead to infection and even gangrene. Tanner had explained this to Peploe when they’d first been issued with shorts in Crete the previous year, and since taking command of A Company, the captain had insisted all his men stick to this principle.

  Ahead, the blue flag had been raised and engines were coughing into life. Brown pushed up the ignition switch in the centre of the dashboard, then turned the knob and, after a few languid whirrs, the engine burst into life.

  ‘Off we go again,’ said Sykes, cheerily. ‘Next stop, the blue.’

  In Cairo, the heat was suffocating. Everyone had been sucking ice cubes most of the morning, and despite closing the shutters, Red Pillars had sweltered. In his office, Vaughan had found it hard to concentrate, although in truth, the heat was only partly responsible. Like Tanner, he was finding the spy case frustrating. No signal had been picked up and no sighting of Eslem Mustafa had been reported. It had been the same story for the past three days. Sansom’s FS men had searched extensively in the Islamic quarter where they had lost Moussa a few nights earlier, but had found nothing. No one had seen him. No one had heard anything. A wall of silence.

  Then there was the matter of his coastal raiding party proposal. He had hoped to hear something by now, and feared it had disappeared among a sea of other requests and demands. As each day passed with no word, the thought that he might now be stuck in Cairo, a largely desk-bound counter-intelligence officer, gnawed away at him.

  The only consolation was Tanja. Beautiful, alluring, enigmatic Tanja. He had had plenty of girlfriends in the past, but never one who had consumed him so quickly. Barely a minute passed without her crossing his mind. A week ago he’d not even met her; now, he could barely imagine life without her. It was no wonder he was finding it hard to concentrate on his work.

  Now he was on his way to meet her: a drink, a little lunch, and then back to his flat, where they would make love and sleep a while. Yesterday, he had stretched it out until half past four before heading back to Red Pillars. He shouldn’t have done – but what the hell?

  Outside, as Vaughan had stepped clear of the entrance hall, he had been hit by a blast of hot air. It burned his nostrils and his ears as he stood searching desperately for a taxi. When eventually he hailed one, he almost burned his legs on the back seat. Well over a hundred degrees, he reckoned.<
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  Not until he reached the Mohammed Ali Club, with its high ceilings and shaded rooms, was there any relief. When Tanja arrived soon after, she was fanning herself furiously. ‘Ah,’ she said, collapsing into her chair, ‘this is like a cool oasis. And always so quiet. In here I feel as though I have escaped the city.’

  They lunched, then braved the heat again to walk the short distance to his flat, which was just off the Midan El Azhar. It was small, simple and, with the shutters closed, dark. Kissing her, he led her to his bed. Her face was in shadow, close to his. A faint smile, lips parted, then her fingers were tugging at his belt, undoing his shorts, while his hands fumbled at the buttons of her shirt and tugged it from her skirt.

  Ah, yes. He no longer cared how hot it was.

  He had been back by twenty past four, but this time his late return had been noticed. Maunsell wanted to see him.

  ‘Sorry, RJ,’ Vaughan said, as he knocked at the door and walked into the colonel’s office.

  ‘There you are. Where’ve you been?’

  ‘I’m afraid I had a siesta and overslept. The heat’s somehow worse in the city than it is in the desert.’

  Maunsell smiled. ‘That’s perfectly all right, Alex. Just let someone know, eh? In case we need to get hold of you urgently.’

  The lightest of reprimands.

  ‘Anyway, you’ve been summoned. General McCreery wants to see you about your coastal raiding parties.’ He looked Vaughan in the eye. ‘Obviously thought I knew all about it.’

  Vaughan felt himself redden. ‘Mea culpa, RJ,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t trying to be furtive. There just didn’t seem any point in mentioning it if nothing came of it. And I didn’t think anything would.’

  ‘Would you like to tell me now?’

  Vaughan did so, then went on, ‘It’s what you were saying about supplies that convinced me. Stirling’s mob seem to be dealing with enemy aircraft. We could hit the fuel coming off the ships.’

  ‘And if you could get into Mersa you might be able to find out something about those messages.’

  ‘I hadn’t thought of that, but yes. Mersa Matruh is not a big place.’

  ‘It might be worth mentioning that to General McCreery.’ He leaned back and began to fill a pipe. ‘Look, Alex, I know perfectly well that you don’t want to be stuck here for the duration. Chaps like George, Rolo and Tilly are made for this sort of thing but you’re cut out for a more physical role – I appreciate that. But two things: first, what you’re doing here is of vital importance and don’t ever think otherwise. Second, I’d like to think you know me well enough now to feel you can always come and talk things through. My door is always open.’

  A second reprimand but, as ever, done with the lightest touch.

  Vaughan smiled sheepishly. ‘Yes, I know. And I’m sorry, RJ. You’re quite right.’

  Maunsell looked at his watch. ‘Well, you’d better get cracking. McCreery’s expecting you at five thirty in the Semiramis. Come and report back to me afterwards, though, will you?’

  It was not far – just a short ride up through Garden City and past the British Embassy. Vaughan took a gharry, which brought him to the Semiramis with a quarter of an hour to spare. He didn’t want to walk in with sweat on his brow and dark stains on his shirt, so he was grateful to feel a faint breeze whipping up off the Nile.

  The Semiramis Hotel was a vast white end-of-century edifice along the banks of the Nile just south of the Ismail Khedive Bridge, Cairo’s largest hotel by some margin. However, its proximity to Garden City and the embassy had ensured that it had been taken over long since as digs for the senior staff at GHQ, although it remained every bit as luxurious as it had been when tourists had flocked to it before the war.

  Having asked for Major General McCreery, Vaughan waited in the lobby, knocking his hands together and jiggling his foot impatiently. Like the Mohammed Ali Club, the Semiramis seemed to be a place of refuge: cool, calm and quiet, shielded from the hubbub of the city. Oriental jars stood beneath high, ornate columns. Occasionally someone would enter or walk out briskly, and suffragi would glide across the marble floor, their white galabhiyas not unlike the sails of boats drifting down the Nile beyond.

  A naval commander – Vaughan recognized him vaguely – trotted down the staircase and walked towards him. ‘Major Vaughan?’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ said Vaughan, standing.

  A hand was thrust towards him. ‘Bill Williamson. Have we met? I think perhaps we have. Hello, I’m General Alexander’s senior ADC but I was also General Auchinleck’s.’

  ‘I was MA to the DMI for a brief period.’

  ‘That must be it, then. Thought our paths had crossed.’ He led Vaughan up to the first floor, opened a door and walked into what had clearly once been one of the finest suites in the hotel but was now an office with desks, clerks and telephones. High french windows opened out to a balcony; beyond it, there were date palms and the Nile. The room was warm, but not overbearingly so.

  Having briefly absorbed the grandeur of the room, Vaughan saw two generals before him, one he immediately recognized as the Commander-in-Chief, and the other whom he guessed must be McCreery. Alexander stood up and offered his hand. He was a slight man, with a gentle face, laughter lines stretching from the corners of his eyes. His uniform was unembellished by rows of medal ribbons and red tabs but looked immaculate. McCreery, taller and thinner, was similarly attired.

  Alexander led him towards a circle of armchairs and held out an arm for him to sit. ‘Drink?’ he said.

  ‘Iced water, please, sir.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Alexander. ‘I’ll have the same. What about you, Dick?’ he said to McCreery.

  ‘Maybe some lemonade?’

  A guardsman, standing by, nodded and hurried off.

  ‘How are you finding Cairo, General?’ Vaughan asked, as they all sat down, Alexander and McCreery next to each other, Vaughan opposite. An interview, but a relaxed one.

  ‘Very interesting. Actually, I was here in June, although only briefly and busy with meetings, but I arrived nearly ten days ago and only took over on Saturday so I had a little time to myself. It’s given me a chance to look around. Get a feel for the place. It’s a wonderful city but one could be forgiven for thinking there were more servicemen here than at the front. I know that struck the Prime Minister very keenly.’

  ‘I can see how it must seem that way, sir.’

  ‘I’ve been driving around a bit in my official car, and it’s quite obvious it’s the Commander’s car, with little flags on it, and it’s also really rather smart and official-looking too. But I’ve not been saluted once.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that, sir. Men on leave are notorious for not noticing what’s going on around them.’ He told the general the story of the two Field Security officers who had dressed up as Germans and were not challenged once in two days.

  Alexander laughed. ‘Good Lord. Well, that tells me a great deal. I think, Vaughan, that we need to sharpen up, don’t you?’

  ‘Most certainly, sir.’

  ‘It’s why I’m moving my headquarters out into the desert.’ He looked around at his apartment. ‘This is all very fine, and were I here on holiday I should think it a wonderful place to bring my wife and family. But this is no place from which to conduct a campaign. There are too many distractions. One cannot concentrate properly. We’re in the process of building a small camp out at Mena. Much better to be closer to things. Of course, the great administrative services need to remain here, but not my staff, Major Vaughan. I’m hoping this will be my last night here.’

  The guardsman returned with the drinks. Alexander thanked him, then said to Vaughan, ‘Tell me, how do you think morale is? Generally, I mean.’

  ‘Honestly, sir? Most people are a bit fed up. Those of us who have been out here any length of time have been back and forth across the desert to such an extent that there’s been a loss of confidence in it ever being any different. It’s a shattering experience to fight so hard for something
, to lose so many good men in doing so, and to push forward only to lose that very same piece of ground again a couple of months later. It makes one think it’s all been for nothing.’

  Alexander crossed his legs and put a finger to his chin, as though in deep thought.

  ‘To lose Tobruk, which had held out for so long, and then to lose even Sidi Barrani, the Halfaya Pass and Mersa Matruh has been devastating, sir. I wasn’t even there this time around, but those were hard blows to take.’

  ‘I’m sorry to say, Vaughan, that you’re not the first to point this out. However, I believe that confidence and morale can be boosted. Very soon, Rommel will attack. We will stop him. I’ve already asked General Montgomery to make it absolutely clear to the men that there will be no further retreat. The Axis advance will go no further than the Alamein Line, and once we’ve secured that, we’ll prepare to take the attack to him. Fortunately, this time, we have much in our favour. Our strength is growing at a far greater rate than that of the enemy, and we now have the United States, whose material strength we’re beginning to feel to a much greater extent. I know the situation still seems very grave, but I feel genuinely confident that our fortunes are about to turn, Major.’

  At that moment, there was a light knock on the door, which was opened by one of the ADCs. In walked the director of Military Operations, Brigadier Davy.

  ‘Brigadier,’ said Alexander, getting to his feet. ‘Good of you to come.’

  He saluted, then shook hands and sat down.

  ‘Anyway, Major,’ said Alexander, turning back to Vaughan, ‘we’ve asked you here primarily to talk about your proposal, which General McCreery and I read with great interest.’

  ‘Yes,’ said McCreery. ‘Your views on Rommel’s extremely shaky supply lines mirror ours exactly.’ He glanced at Alexander. ‘Intelligence suggests he needs at least a hundred thousand tons of supplies every month. For the past three months, with Malta more or less completely out of the picture, his supplies have been reaching Tripoli and Benghazi unscathed. The problem for Rommel, of course, is that Tripoli is thirteen hundred miles away and Benghazi eight hundred, which is why Tobruk and Mersa are so important to him. These are much smaller ports, but they’re a heck of a lot closer, as you well know. Our chaps in the RAF have been doing their best, attacking all his ports, but obviously aerial bombing can only achieve so much. It’s always much more effective when it can be used hand in hand with other means of attack.’