Hellfire (2011)

by James Holland

  Now, though, it seemed a very different proposition. Taking even half a dozen men, as he had originally envisaged, was fraught with risk, but experience had shown that such operations were possible. Brigadier Davy had been talking about something much larger, and that was quite another matter. Neither were his fears allayed when he met up with David Stirling at GHQ. Stirling had been issued with Operation Instruction Numbers 139 and 104, for the attacks on Tobruk (Operation AGREEMENT) and Benghazi (Operation BIGAMY), both of which he had shown to Vaughan at the MO4 offices.

  ‘Have a look at these, Alex,’ he said to Vaughan. The orders were to block the main harbour, sink all shipping and lighters there, and destroy all oil facilities and pumping plants. That alone was more than Vaughan had ever reckoned possible, and to achieve it, Davy and his planning team were proposing a considerable force – or, rather, series of forces. For Benghazi, there would be attacks from the land side by the SAS, reinforced with the LRDG, and simultaneously an assault from the sea by a combination of SBS and naval forces and two Stuart light tanks. The SAS would not be directly involved in the attack on Tobruk. That would be left to another combined attack from three separate forces, including one that would be dropped along the coast from the town and would attack from the landward side, while naval forces attacked from the sea. Vaughan’s role was to be part of Force C, which would include a number of recently arrived Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders, detached from 51st Division. This was to be their first combat operation since most of the division had been destroyed in France two years before. They would be delivered to the headland at the harbour’s entrance by MTB. And that was not all. While Force X, led by Stirling and including his SAS with a patrol of the LRDG, were attacking Benghazi, another column, Force Z, made up of a battalion of the Sudanese Defence Force, would march from British-held Kufra, an oasis deep in the southern desert, to Jalo, another desert fort but held by the Italians. With this captured, Stirling’s X Force would make good their escape from Benghazi and head straight to Jalo, whence they would carry out further attacks on Benghazi and Darce, the other port in the Cyrenaica bulge.

  Vaughan felt giddy just reading these elaborate orders. ‘You don’t think this is a little ambitious?’ he asked Stirling.

  ‘Just a bit, yes,’ he said. ‘They’re madness – far too many people involved. The Benghazi plan is bad enough but the one for Tobruk … Look, I’m hungry. Let’s go and get some lunch.’

  They went to the Gezira Sporting Club – in Stirling’s jeep, into which he managed to fit his six-foot-six frame with remarkable dexterity. But on the journey there and as they sat down for drinks in the bar, they talked little about the proposed raids. Vaughan liked Stirling and had known him for years – they’d been at school together, had joined the army, gone through Sandhurst together and later joined the Commandos. Vaughan remembered Stirling had slept most of the way out to the Middle East. He’d been nicknamed ‘the Great Sloth’. And while Vaughan had always taken his military career seriously and had immediately been posted to Crete, Stirling had done nothing to improve his reputation. He was a hopeless case, a party boy, not to be relied upon. His appearance hadn’t helped: soldiers were not supposed to be six-foot-plus giants. And there was the slight stammer. Vaughan remembered Stirling once saying, ‘Actually, i-i-it’s rather fashionable.’

  Out of the blue, he had channelled all his undoubted intelligence and charisma with his seemingly dormant willpower into creating L Detachment, the SAS. No more was he the Great Sloth. Now he was the ‘Phantom Major’, the commander of some of the most daring and outrageous operations of the desert war. He was a half-colonel and one of the most celebrated soldiers in the British Army.

  After they had finished lunch and Stirling had ordered whisky and cigars in the drawing room, they discussed the operations to come.

  ‘No point in spoiling a good lunch getting depressed,’ said Stirling, ‘but, really, Alex, these raids are a load of old cock. It’s bloody Haselden who’s behind it. He’s been bending Davy’s ear, and Davy’s fallen for it, hook, line and sinker.’

  ‘Haselden used to be with me in Middle East Commando, but I thought he’d gone native and was out in the desert with the Arabs.’

  ‘He was – but he put this scheme to Montgomery the moment Monty pitched up at Eighth Army Tac HQ. He liked the sound of it and sent Haselden to talk to Davy.’

  ‘The basic aim is right,’ said Vaughan. ‘The more of Rommel’s supplies we can get the better.’

  ‘Yes, but Davy’s talking about two hundred and forty men, forty supply trucks and another forty jeeps just for Benghazi – and that doesn’t include the seaborne attack. Surprise is everything with these operations, but with that many men and vehicles, we haven’t a hope of achieving it. And while we’re blowing up Benghazi, Haselden wants the Sudanese Defence Force to take Jalo.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m all for daring operations and ambitious schemes, but one force, one plan, one commander. Keep things simple.’

  ‘I agree. And I think these ops require small numbers of highly trained, experienced men. For the Tobruk raid the only ones with any experience of this sort of thing are the LRDG patrol and myself and, hopefully, the men I’m intending to recruit into C Detachment.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have anyone in the SAS unless they’ve been through rigorous training first. I have no idea why the A and S are involved. They’ve only just reached theatre and are green as peas.’

  ‘They’ve never even been to Tobruk. And Davy’s proposing to land them at night.’

  Stirling blew out a cloud of cigar smoke. ‘I didn’t like the sound of it when I was called back from the desert, and I like it even less now. There’re lots of young chaps in MO4 who are very keen to make Rommel’s life as difficult as possible, and good for them, but this is not the way. So what are we going to do, Alex?’

  ‘Present a united front. I’m the new boy at the DMO’s office, but I know Haselden. We should suggest a smaller operation – you leading your boys at Benghazi at a time of your choosing.’

  ‘Hear, hear. The success we’ve had so far has largely depended on striking when the opportunity has presented itself. It doesn’t work sticking to a prearranged schedule. In fact, the whole b-bloody plan goes against every principle on which the SAS was founded.’

  ‘And against every principle I put forward for C Detachment,’ said Vaughan. ‘But, David, we’ve still got a chance to fight our corner. Davy’s got a planning conference on the twenty-third of August. Are you going to be there?’

  ‘Yes – as are Guy Prendergast and another of his LRDG chaps.’

  ‘Right. Let’s work out a good alternative plan and present it together. We’ve got a few days.’

  Stirling took another puff on his cigar. ‘Some of the other chaps are back this week, so come over to the flat and meet some of them on Friday. We’re having a little party.’

  ‘That would be fun. Thank you.’

  ‘And do bring a friend.’

  ‘I will.’

  Stirling raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘Does she have a name?’

  ‘Tanja Zanowski. She’s Polish.’

  ‘Très exotique.’

  ‘She is rather.’

  Stirling took another sip of his whisky. ‘Alex, it’s a shame you never joined my little enterprise. The door will always be open, though.’

  ‘Well, I rather felt I ought to do a stint with the regiment, and then I went and ruined it all by getting myself wounded.’

  ‘And now you’re a spy hunter, I hear.’

  ‘A bit of intelligence work, that’s all.’ How the hell does he know?

  ‘A bit more than that, I gathered. An Axis spy ring operating here in Cairo, or so I’ve been told.’

  ‘Well, there was one rather hopeless spy, but we caught him and his radio operator last month.’

  ‘Of course you can’t say. Wrong of me to fish. But I hope you get him – or her.’

  Vaughan said nothing, but he was disturbed that David Sti
rling knew so much. Perhaps the new clampdown would make a difference.

  Walking back to his flat, he was filled with disquiet. He wished he could forget about Mustafa, the mole and the incomprehensible cipher messages, and throw all his energy into C Detachment, but he was convinced the proposed raids on Tobruk and Benghazi were ill-conceived. If he and Stirling could not persuade Davy and Haselden to change the plan, disaster loomed. And there was Tanja. He was in love with her, yet there was that seed of doubt – and only one way to get rid of it. Somehow he would have to find out the truth.

  * * *

  The battalion moved out at 1930 hours, as the sun was sinking on the horizon. After a day of unending blue, the Rangers were treated to a sky of magical beauty as they rumbled forward in open formation across the southern end of the line. Suddenly cloud lined the horizon and hung suspended, like strips of mercury, across a sphere of deepening red, with islands of gold and silver. The desert was changing too, from the dun shade of biscuit that was its daytime hue, to pink. Ahead, marking the southern end of the line, stood the weird Himeimat Feature, tall and jagged.

  No one said much as they began the fifteen-mile journey to the line, most deep in thought at the prospect of returning to combat. Ahead and to the north, desultory artillery fire boomed, followed by counter-battery fire, but it was landing nowhere near them. Tanner saw Brown flinch as one enemy shell crashed to their right at the foot of the Alam Halfa Ridge, but it was still some distance away. The skies were clear too. Jerry hadn’t changed that much, Tanner thought. He never did like flying in the evening.

  He was glad they had made the recce that afternoon – three trucks, with a sergeant or lieutenant from each of the company’s platoons to familiarize themselves with the lie of the land and take stock of their own dispositions in the area. The New Zealanders were covering the Alam Nayil Ridge, then the bulk of XXX Corps between and on the Alam Halfa Ridge. Tanner, driving for a change, had led them to the edge of the Munassib, where they were due to go into the line, had dodged some inaccurate and light artillery fire, and headed back towards Brigade HQ. They had spotted a flight of Italian Macchis, but as they’d dived to attack, they had been bounced by a squadron of Kittyhawks. One Italian had been shot down, the rest had scarpered. The men had cheered, and again as one of the Kittyhawks, gleaming shark teeth clearly visible under its engine cowling, had buzzed them and performed a victory roll. Tanner was glad they’d seen that. It seemed that the Desert Air Force ruled the skies at present, which boosted the men’s confidence.

  At one point they had met up with the Rutland Yeomanry, now part of 8th Armoured Brigade, out on exercise from their base to the south of Alam Halfa. Tanner had ordered the three trucks to perform a mock attack, circling the formation, then speedily withdrawing. As he had expected, the Yeomanry tank crews had risen to the bait, a squadron of Crusaders breaking off and heading towards them.

  Tanner had slowly driven up alongside and halted.

  ‘Bang, bang, you’re dead,’ said a captain from the lead Crusader.

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure, sir,’ said Tanner. ‘We were leading you into a nest of anti-tank guns, you see.’

  ‘Where?’ said the captain, looking around.

  ‘Camouflaged, sir.’ He heard the others begin to laugh.

  ‘Who the devil are you lot anyway?’ said the captain. Another Crusader inched forward, and Tanner saw Lieutenant Rhodes-Morton sticking half out of the turret, wearing a black beret, his field glasses in his hand.

  ‘They’re the Yorks Rangers, sir,’ said Rhodes-Morton.

  Tanner dabbed his fingers to his brow. A casual salute.

  ‘You know them?’ said the captain, in a tone of incredulity.

  ‘Lieutenant Tanner and I have met, sir.’

  ‘Really, Harry,’ said the captain, ‘I thought you’d keep better company.’

  ‘That’s not very friendly, sir,’ said Tanner, pulling out a cigarette. ‘I was only trying to add a bit of realism to your exercise. Jerry likes luring our cavalry out into the open.’

  ‘Look here, who the devil are you?’

  ‘Lieutenant Tanner, sir. A Company, the Yorks Rangers, and these men are some of our platoon commanders and sergeants.’

  ‘He’s from Zummerzet, sir,’ said Rhodes-Morton. ‘Promoted from the ranks.’

  ‘Good God!’ spluttered the captain. ‘Well, thank goodness the cavalry still has its standards. I’ve a good mind to report you to your commanding officer, Tanner.’

  ‘Why, sir?’ asked Tanner. More laughter from behind him.

  ‘For gross insubordination.’

  ‘I was only trying to help, sir,’ said Tanner, ‘you being new to the desert and everything.’

  ‘My squadron doesn’t need advice from the likes of you. Good day!’ He raised his arms. His Crusader crunched into gear and lurched forward.

  ‘What an arsehole,’ said Sergeant McAllister, sitting behind Tanner.

  ‘Now, now, Mac,’ said Tanner, ‘let’s not be rude.’ He grinned at the men. ‘Come on, lads, let’s get back. We know when we’re not wanted.’

  He smiled to himself now. The stuck-up prigs. But they’d learn – no doubt at the loss of a fair few lives. The cavalry were always the same and especially the Yeomanry. Part-timers and country squires used to lording it on their horses, looking down at others. The top brass might be giving infantrymen like him commissions in the field, but that didn’t mean the traditional class divisions would be broken down any time soon. But as far as Tanner was concerned, class was irrelevant. It was respect that mattered. If he respected a man, he didn’t care where that person came from.

  Half an hour after setting off, with the first stars twinkling above them, they reached Deir el Munassib, a strange lunar landscape beneath the Alam Nayil Ridge, full of sudden sharp escarpments, some just a few feet deep and others as much as forty. Odd islands of sandy rock sprang up, while in other parts, the desert floor was flat. The Munassib was difficult terrain for any large formation to pass across, but offered the perfect place for a battalion of motorized infantry to hole up during the day. Directly to the south, the desert levelled again into a gravelly plain, the going about as firm as any part of the line. It was through here that they would carry out their nocturnal patrolling.

  They passed through the gap in the western edge of the British minefield, then pulled up near the Guide Post, a spot marked on the maps at the edge of the Springbok Track, an old Bedouin trail roughly marked out with stones, which ran the length of the line. While Battalion Headquarters made contact with the Rifle Brigade along the front of the line, the companies settled into their lying-up positions. A Company found a hollow beneath a fifteen-foot escarpment and parked their vehicles. The men jumped out and began to brew up. Guns thundered up ahead, making the ground shudder. The front, thought Tanner. I’m back at last.

  At around 2130, after a conference at Battalion HQ, Peploe returned with orders for A Company to send out a fighting patrol right away. ‘This has been an Italian-held section of the line,’ he told them, as they gathered around the back of his truck, the tailgate down and the map spread out. He had Sykes hold his German torch over it, with the blue filter over the bulb – it threw enough light to see, but lessened its range. ‘The Littorio and Ariete Divisions, apparently. However, the 2 RB boys reckon some German troops are now there. They’ve been patrolling recently and have reportedly heard German sappers along the enemy minefields. They’ve also noticed the shelling has intensified in the past few days.’ He pointed to a more clearly defined route that ran south-west. ‘This is the Qattara Track,’ he said, ‘and it’s about twelve miles due west. The edge of the enemy minefield is halfway, so about six miles west. Our job is to identify the enemy directly in front of us.’

  ‘I’ll lead, sir,’ said Tanner.

  ‘Thank you, Jack.’

  ‘What are we talking about? A patrol of eighteen men? Three sections?’

  ‘Yes, but no more. Three trucks. This landsca
pe continues, so pass through the minefield gap, then park here.’ He pointed to a trig point on the edge of the gravel flats, five miles due west. ‘You can see from the map that’s there’s an escarpment running along there. Use that to cover your approach, then set out on foot for the last mile or so. The enemy have definitely got some forward positions up there near the edge of the minefield, so you can expect wire, mines and MGs.’

  ‘Are we to try to take some prisoners?’ asked Tanner.

  ‘Just have a dekko, Jack. If the opportunity arises, yes, but err on the side of caution. This is primarily to identify the enemy. We don’t want casualties ourselves.’

  Tanner nodded. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll take the boys in my truck, and perhaps two sections from 1 Platoon. Is that all right with you, Jimmy?’ he asked Lieutenant Shopland.

  ‘Of course,’ said Shopland. He was only twenty-two, but had been with the battalion since March and had shown some initiative and plenty of courage. He was a platoon commander Tanner rated. ‘I’ll take one section,’ he said. ‘McAllister can take the other.’

  ‘Good,’ said Peploe. ‘Get yourselves ready and then head out.’ As the officers dispersed, he gripped Tanner’s shoulder. ‘Jack – no heroics, all right? I need you back.’

  ‘Of course,’ Tanner replied. ‘Intelligence gathering, that’s all.’

  13

  They set off just after ten o’clock, moving forward slowly – quietly – in line astern, skirting the southern edge of the Munassib, then passing several Rifle Brigade anti-tank guns and driving on through the gap at the edge of the outer minefield. It was dark – only a sliver of moon – but the air was so clear, and the canopy of stars so bright, that there was light enough to navigate.

  ‘It doesn’t seem right, sir,’ said Sykes, behind him, ‘driving one after the other like this. I prefer it when we can spread out a bit.’

  ‘It’s better this way, Stan,’ Tanner replied. ‘We can keep together. Anyway, we’ll be parking soon.’