Hellfire (2011)

by James Holland

  The enemy had always returned fire, but by the time they got their aim and range, the A Company vehicles were already pulling away again, careering in a wide circle back out of danger. Just how much damage they had achieved it was hard to say: at least six vehicles and a brace of motorcycles, but maybe more. There was a further purpose, however. It would be unsettling the enemy, getting on their nerves. Wearing them down.

  The enemy columns began to halt some five miles or so south of the Alam Halfa Ridge, mustering their forces before any concentrated and co-ordinated assault; the tail of their columns was still trailing across the desert. For A Company, another halt, and a chance to draw breath.

  Tanner jumped down, his legs stiff, and hurried over to Peploe. ‘What are you thinking, sir?’ he asked.

  ‘We operate in platoons, taking it in turns to harry the enemy. The rest pull back another thousand yards and get something to eat. I don’t know about you, but I’m exhausted. I’m sure the boys are too. And I’m bloody starving. Last night’s supper seems a long time ago.’

  ‘Good idea, sir. Shopland’s two sections down so I’ll take my truck and join 1 Platoon.’

  ‘We both can.’ He wiped his brow. Flurries of sand were being whipped up by the breeze from the south-west. ‘That wind’s getting up. Do you think we’re in for a sandstorm?’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Tanner. ‘It’s still bloody hot now that we’ve stopped.’

  They heard a low drone from the east. Tanner turned, his hand shielding his eyes. They had not seen the Desert Air Force for some hours, but the enemy columns were massing once more and the news had evidently been relayed to Air HQ.

  ‘There they are,’ said Tanner, pointing. A handful of black dots, gradually gaining shape. Then they heard the faint sound of machine-guns, and a moment later a fighter was falling out of the sky in a wide arc. It disappeared from view far to the north.

  ‘Ours or theirs?’ said Peploe.

  ‘God knows. Hopefully theirs.’

  ‘Anyway,’ said Peploe, ‘let’s get going.’

  His truck moved off, pausing by each group of vehicles, which then began to pull back. Tanner moved up alongside Lieutenant Shopland’s truck as the bombers began dropping their loads.

  ‘The sixteen imperturbables,’ said Shopland. ‘Bloody marvellous sight, isn’t it?’

  ‘Too right,’ agreed Tanner.

  ‘I suppose we should hold on until they’ve done their stuff?’

  ‘Sit back and watch the show.’

  Bombs fell, whistling and exploding, the desert alive with the din of battle once more. The enemy were replying furiously, dark puffs of anti-aircraft fire bursting across the deep blue sky. On the ground, their formations once more disappeared in a fog of swirling dust and smoke. Something was on fire, flames visible through the haze – but then they saw the lead aircraft falter and the port engine catch fire, a trail of black smoke following.

  In Tanner’s truck no one said a word as they watched the plane, a Mitchell twin-engine bomber, bank in a wide arc towards them, losing height all the time. He’s trying to get behind our lines, thought Tanner. The plane was only a few hundred feet off the ground, but it had completed its turn and now seemed to be heading almost directly towards them. Tracer and small puffs of ack-ack continued to rain towards it.

  ‘The bastards,’ muttered Brown. ‘Can’t they see it’s coming down?’

  ‘I don’t suppose there’s much sympathy after the twelve hours they’ve just had,’ said Tanner.

  The Mitchell wobbled and seemed to drop another fifty feet.

  ‘Go on,’ muttered Tanner, ‘keep going.’

  ‘He won’t be able to, sir,’ said Sykes. ‘He’s going to come down slap bang between us and Jerry.’

  The Mitchell was now just fifty feet off the desert floor as small-arms fire continued to follow it. Stan’s right, thought Tanner. Where the hell is that six-pounder?

  ‘Jimmy!’ he called to Shopland. ‘Can you send one of your boys to get the six-pounder and iggery? Browner, turn the engine on ready!’

  ‘Jack!’ shouted Peploe. ‘Get ready to move!’

  ‘I’ve sent back for the six-pounder!’ Tanner yelled.

  Peploe raised his hand in acknowledgement as one of Shopland’s trucks sped off. Just over a mile away, between them and the enemy concentrations, the Mitchell dipped a wing just feet from the ground.

  Tanner glanced across to Peploe, saw the captain’s truck move off, then said, ‘Let’s go, Browner!’

  The Mitchell corrected itself at the last moment, seemed to hover inches from the ground, then hit the desert floor with a thunderous boom. Creaking and groaning, the bomber slid and yawed towards them, great clouds of dust and smoke from the port engine billowing in its wake, before finally coming to a halt. The Rangers sped across the desert towards it. With all the smoke and dust, it was impossible to tell whether the enemy were chasing after the aircraft as well, but Tanner knew that the smoke was protecting them as much it would the enemy. Just five hundred yards now. Ahead, the crew were clambering out of the aircraft, then huddling around the hatch. A wounded man. Four hundred yards. ‘Come on, come on,’ he muttered, grabbing his rifle from between the seats. He yelled at Smailes, ‘Get ready, Smiler!’ Three hundred yards. The crew were still huddled by the hatch, and then, through the thinning dust, he saw enemy vehicles speeding the other way – two motorcycles and sidecars with machine-guns, two half-tracks and an armoured car. Against five trucks.

  ‘Damn, damn, damn!’ Then, ‘Go wide, Browner!’ He stood up in his seat, clutching the roll-bar behind him and signalling wildly to Peploe. You get the crew, we’ll hold off the enemy. He hoped Peploe understood. Yes: Peploe was heading straight for the stricken bomber, but the other side of the captain’s truck, Shopland was pushing wider. Two hundred yards. An enemy machine-gun was firing – wildly, blindly, the tracer fizzing over their heads. Behind him, another of Shopland’s section was following. Good. Fifty yards. Now they were racing around the edge of the Mitchell’s broken wing, black smoke still pouring from the burning engine.

  Tanner glanced around and saw Sykes hold up two sticks of HE No. 2, complete with short threads of fuse and detonators. Good lad.

  ‘And I’ve got a packet of Nobel’s ready too,’ Sykes yelled. ‘If I throw it, will you be able to hit it with the Schmeisser?’

  ‘Yes!’ Tanner shouted. Behind him, Smailes opened up with the Bren, then Brown swerved violently as MG fire streamed towards them and hit the nearside wing. Smailes cursed, but Tanner brought his rifle to his shoulder and aimed at one of the motorcyclists, whose sidekick was firing towards one of the other trucks. A little bit of aim-off, squeeze the trigger. The rifle cracked, the driver fell sideways on to his comrade, the motorcycle swerved, then rolled, both men flung clear.

  ‘Good shot, sir!’ said Brown.

  Dust, bullets. It was hard to see what was what and who was who, but both sides had raced past each other and were now circling for another attack. Through the dust and smoke, Tanner saw one man being lifted from the Mitchell, while from the stationary Bedford the Bren gun was firing furiously. But magazines needed to be changed and that was the opportunity for the enemy machine-gunners. Through the haze Tanner suddenly saw one of the half-tracks pull to a halt and the machine-gunner swivel his weapon ready to fire.

  ‘Three o’clock!’ shouted Tanner. The half-track was only seventy yards away as Smailes opened fire. His aim was high but the machine-gunner had only fired a two-second burst when Smailes’s bullets knocked him backwards and the men behind him ducked for cover. Tanner looked back at Sykes and nodded.

  ‘Straight for it, Browner!’ shouted Tanner. Then, as they emerged from the dust just twenty yards from the German machine, he nodded again to Sykes, who hurled a stick of high explosive.

  ‘Veer to the left!’ Tanner called to Brown and, moments later, there was a deafening explosion followed immediately by a second. Tanner flinched, then looked back to see the half-track engulfe
d in flames.

  One down. Tanner craned his neck. Two trucks appeared to be circling widely around the other half-track. That’s right. Take it in turns to fire, then nail him when he changes his magazine. The German machine-guns were fine weapons, but he knew from experience that the barrels quickly overheated and lost all accuracy. And with the kind of mad firing that was going on, he reckoned they must be white hot already. But where the hell was the armoured car?

  ‘There’s a truck down!’ shouted Sykes. It was about seventy yards from the burning wing of the Mitchell. The men were jumping out, and taking cover behind it.

  ‘Five have got out!’ yelled Sykes, but Tanner’s attention was now on the armoured car, which had wheeled away to the right of the bomber and was firing its cannon towards it. Tanner saw two shells crash into the fuselage, but the crew were clear and running towards Peploe’s truck. He saw Braithwaite lying on the ground next to the Bedford frantically trying to change magazines. Come on, Ron. He yelled at Brown to head straight for the armoured car. Another cannon shell hit the aircraft as Peploe and the crew threw themselves flat on the ground. Now the Spandau was firing too, and Tanner’s heart sank as he saw Braithwaite’s head drop.

  He turned in his seat to Sykes. ‘Got that jelly?’

  Sykes held up the pack of Nobel’s.

  Tanner’s heart was hammering. They were fifty, forty, thirty yards from the armoured car, but at any moment it would see them and turn its cannon and machine-gun on them – at point-blank range. They would all be dead. Tanner knew the same would be true if he took his time to hit Sykes’s gelignite. And how easy would it be to hit it from a truck moving at twenty-five miles an hour? Not at all, and yet he knew he had to hit it immediately. Only one thing for it.

  Twenty-five yards. ‘Now!’ he shouted to Sykes, who hurled the packet towards the armoured car. At the same time, Tanner threw himself from the truck. He yelled in pain as he landed hard on the gravelly ground, but clenching his teeth and gasping for breath he rolled over, brought his MP40 to his shoulder, and spotted the Nobel’s just a yard from the side of the armoured car. He opened fire, a two-second burst. The gelignite exploded, the blast knocking the enemy vehicle off its wheels and hurling the turret from the chassis high into the air. Tanner flung himself flat, his hands over his helmet, as stones and metal shards hurtled over him.

  Angry flames engulfed the remains of the armoured car, as Tanner stiffly got to his feet. There was blood on his right shoulder and he cursed to himself, then saw the Bedford speeding towards him. Brown braked hard, the truck ground to a halt, and Sykes yelled, ‘Get in quick! Look!’ Tanner followed his outstretched arm and saw more enemy vehicles hurrying towards them.

  ‘Christ alive,’ muttered Tanner, barely in his seat before Brown was gunning the throttle and the truck was lurching forward. Frantically Tanner glanced towards the Mitchell, but there was no one there. The truck, the crew, Peploe – they had all gone. Then Tanner saw the dust trail of several trucks up ahead. Behind them machine-gun fire was chasing them, lines of tracer fizzing over their heads. Brown swerved, then righted himself as more tracer hissed wide. Ahead, a muzzle flash and Tanner felt a brief stab of panic.

  ‘It’s the six-pounder, sir!’ shouted Sykes, behind him.

  Tanner exhaled. ‘Good on them,’ he said. Another muzzle flash and the boom of the gun’s report, then ten seconds later, yet another. They were firing well, those lads, Tanner thought. He leaned out of the truck and looked behind him to see that the dust cloud caused by the pursuing enemy had not come any closer. In fact, it had lessened. He grinned. The bastards had given up the chase.

  ‘Are you all right, sir?’ Brown asked, as they sped south-east across the desert. ‘Your arm’s bleeding.’

  ‘Must have scraped it as I landed.’ Actually, it hurt like hell, but he was sure it was nothing serious. Some hefty bruising maybe, but he could live with that. He was just grateful he’d not broken anything.

  ‘That was mad, sir, what you did back there. Bloody brave, but mad.’

  Following Peploe and the others, they soon reached the rest of the company. Tanner got out of the truck stiffly and walked round to the back. ‘Everyone all right?’ he asked.

  Phyllis and Mudge were talking animatedly. ‘Did you see that armoured car?’ said Phyllis, eyes wide. ‘Whoosh!’ He made an expansive movement with his arms.

  ‘I just can’t believe we got out of there in one piece,’ grinned Mudge.

  Hepworth jumped down. ‘I always knew you were a mad bastard, sir,’ he said.

  ‘He saved our necks,’ said Sykes, grinning and slapping Tanner on the back, then turned to Smailes. ‘Come on, Smiler.’

  Smailes had remained sitting in the body of the truck, the Bren between his legs, his head bowed. ‘Yeah,’ he said.

  ‘Are you all right, Smiler?’ said Tanner.

  Smailes sighed. ‘I’ll be fine. I just …’ He trailed off. Slowly, he climbed down. Spent casings littered the floor. ‘Sorry, sirs,’ he said. ‘I didn’t think we’d get out of that one.’

  Sykes put an arm around his shoulders. ‘Listen, mate, have a brew and a fag and you’ll be all right.’

  Smailes nodded and wandered away from the truck.

  ‘That’s not like Smiler,’ muttered Sykes.

  ‘Leave him be for a bit,’ said Tanner. ‘It was pretty warm out there and he was the bloke on top cover with bullets flying everywhere. It gets to us all at times.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right.’ He gave a wry grin. ‘It was a bit bleedin’ hairy out there, Jack.’

  Tanner took out his cigarettes, offered one to Sykes, then put one in his mouth and lit it. ‘To be honest, I didn’t think Jerry would bother with a downed bomber crew – not in the middle of a battle like that. When I saw those half-tracks and the armoured car coming towards us I did wonder for a moment how the hell we were going to play it.’

  ‘They were probably thinking the same.’

  Peploe hailed them and walked over with the pilot, whom Tanner recognized immediately.

  ‘Jack, you remember Squadron Leader Archie Flynn?’

  ‘Of course, good to see you again, sir,’ he said, holding out his hand.

  ‘I can’t thank you enough,’ said Flynn, as he shook it. ‘That was some shooting.’

  ‘I saw what you did with the armoured car, Jack,’ added Peploe, ‘you and Sykes. Well done.’ He looked at the bloodstain on Tanner’s sleeve. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘A scratch. I’m fine. How’s Braithwaite? Who did we lose?’

  ‘We’re patching him up. Shoulder wound – clean through. He should be all right if we can get him out of here. Otherwise we’re just one truck and two men down. Parsons and Hooper, the 2 Section driver.’

  ‘Dead?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Flynn. He had taken off his flying helmet, but still wore his Mae West lifejacket. His legs were bare – even his socks were rolled down. He was a big, broad-shouldered man and, Tanner guessed, in his mid-twenties, with long, dark hair, matted with sweat, swept back across his head. Like everyone else’s, his skin was deeply tanned.

  The wind stiffened and a blast of sand whipped across them.

  ‘Jesus!’ said Flynn. ‘Where the hell did that come from?’

  ‘It’s been threatening all morning,’ said Tanner. ‘With all the dust that’s been kicked up, we might have a bit of a sand storm brewing.’

  ‘Not good news for us,’ said Flynn. ‘Can’t bomb what you can’t see.’

  ‘And how’s your crew, sir?’ asked Sykes.

  ‘I’ve got two wounded, one badly, but thanks to you blokes, we all got out of there. I’m sorry you lost good men in saving our arses, though.’

  Tanner turned to Peploe. ‘What now, sir? Have we got contact with Battalion?’

  ‘They’re about ten miles to the north-east. B Company’s turned up too. They’re missing a few vehicles, but confident they’re temporarily rather than permane
ntly lost.’

  ‘The desert is certainly a hell of a lot bigger on the ground than it is from several thousand feet,’ said Flynn.

  ‘Old Man Vigar’s told us to hold fire for the moment, but to be ready to move back to Divisional HQ, which has also fallen back about five miles, incidentally.’

  ‘Good. I don’t know about everyone else, but we could do with a resupply before long. We’re low on ammo.’

  ‘I know. They just want to see how things develop in the next hour or so, which is why we’re to stay put for the time being.’

  ‘And the wounded? Do you need me to arrange transport?’

  ‘It’s in hand. I’m sending a couple of trucks from 4 Platoon. They’re going to take Squadron Leader Flynn and the other two from his crew as well.’

  ‘There’s time for a quick brew, though, isn’t there, sir?’ said Sykes, rubbing his hands together.

  ‘A quick brew, Stan,’ said Peploe.

  ‘So, were you flying last night?’ Tanner asked Flynn.

  ‘We did a sortie at about four a.m., just before dawn. It was the Wimpeys of 205 Group that got the show going. Strictly speaking, they’re not DAF, but under our command.’

  ‘It was quite something. We’ve never had that kind of support before. It’s like having an entire extra arm of firepower. I reckon those Jerries and Eyeties must have had the shock of their lives.’

  ‘The Desert Air Force is a pretty slick outfit, these days. We’ve been watching the panzers massing for days.’

  ‘Really? Christ, and there we were risking our backsides trying to capture prisoners every night.’

  ‘Sorry, Cobber,’ said Flynn. ‘No, we’ve been trying to soften up Rommel for the past ten days or so. We must have hit Tobruk and Mersa half a dozen times and we’ve also been giving their landing grounds a fair pasting too.’