‘I certainly haven’t seen as many enemy planes about in the past couple of weeks.’
‘I’d like to think we’ve played our part in that, but they’re also low on fuel, I reckon. The long-range blokes have been giving Tripoli and Benghazi a good going-over. There’s a whole load of Yanks flying Liberators now, you know.’
‘I had no idea.’ Tanner shook his head. ‘Jesus,’ he said, ‘when I think what it was like when we were first out here. A handful of biplanes, half a dozen knackered Hurricanes and a couple of Blenheims. The enemy seemed to rule the sky. Every time you looked up there was a bloody Messerschmitt or a Macchi. I can’t tell you what a difference it makes having air superiority.’
Flynn lit a cigarette and flapped at a fly. ‘A lot of it’s down to the AOC and his number two, Tommy Elmhirst. Mary Coningham’s a bloody excellent commander. He knows what he’s about, how to outsmart the enemy, and there’s no bullshit. And Tommy Elmhirst is second to none with the admin side of things. They’re a brilliant team. Everyone knows what they’ve got to do. As a CO, I don’t have to worry about admin any more. We’re part of a wing, each squadron at the same landing ground, and things like organizing ground crew, getting spares, new aircraft and all that bollocks has been taken off my hands and given to Wing to sort out. It means I can concentrate on flying and leading my squadron.’
That sounded like good sense to Tanner.
‘And we’ve been at full strength for over a week now. I think the fighter squadrons are still a bit short, but we’re in great shape. When I get back today or tomorrow, there’ll be another kite waiting for me. And there’s as much fuel as we need. I’ve been out here for five months, and I can tell you, the turn-around is incredible. Even over Gazala we were all pretty confident.’
‘You blokes saved us,’ said Tanner. ‘If it wasn’t for the Desert Air Force, I reckon we’d have lost the Middle East by now.’ He took off his helmet and ran his hands through his hair. ‘It’s leadership we’ve been lacking out here. We’ve been flailing around, gad-arsing about the desert, making a bloody awful hash of things – and all because our commanders haven’t really known what we needed to do. I just hope this new team’s better. It feels like it is already.’ He looked out towards the fog of dust that engulfed the enemy formations to the north. ‘And now Rommel’s strike force is lining up directly under our guns and armour. We ought to bloody murder them.’
‘And there’s still our blokes,’ said Flynn, as Sykes passed him a mug of tea. ‘We’ll be back over as soon as we can.’
‘But not until this wind has quietened?’
‘No – well, look,’ he said, pointing towards the dust clouds up ahead. ‘Can’t see bugger all. We don’t want to be bombing our own blokes. Jeez,’ he added, ‘this sand’s hurting my bloody legs.’
‘It’s one reason why we never wear shorts in this company.’ Tanner grinned.
Peploe came back, his face turned away from the wind. ‘Time to go, Archie.’
Flynn took a big swig of tea, gasped, then another, and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. ‘Well, look, fellers,’ he said, ‘I can’t thank you blokes enough. And if you’re ever in a tight spot – ever in a jam where I might be able to help out – just put a call into 232 Wing. Good luck.’
‘And to you,’ said Tanner. He watched Flynn walk away with Peploe. Had they really turned a corner? He had been talking confidently since they’d got back to the front, but had never quite dared to believe that a sea-change really had occurred. Admittedly, from where they were standing now, it was hard to know what was going on, but it seemed to him that the battle was going well. The enemy had taken a hammering, and now – well, God only knew what Rommel was thinking, but Tanner knew it was much easier defending on higher ground, however slight, in dug-in positions, than it was to attack from the open. And, as Flynn had pointed out, there was also the RAF. We’ve got to have him beat this time. We’ve just got to.
It was around seven p.m. Despite the wind and the dust storm that continued to envelop the battlefield, the enemy had begun their attack against the ridges early that afternoon, just as A Company were arriving at Brigade and Divisional Headquarters. The battle had never entirely died all morning, with gunfire booming almost incessantly, but suddenly the desert had been torn apart by the noise.
The company had hastily taken on more ammunition, then, with the rest of the battalion, had joined those gun crews among the KRRC and Rifle Brigade battalions that had successfully fallen back. While the Afrika Korps had been launching an attack against Alam Halfa, the men of 7th Motor Brigade had harassed them from the east and south.
Only as the sun began to lower did the gunfire lessen. Ten miles to the south, A Company had halted in the lee of a low ridge for some supper. The men were exhausted, their earlier elation long gone. A carrier had been destroyed, with three men killed, when they had been strafed by a flight of Italian Macchis, and two more had been wounded by enemy shelling. All were hot, filthy and sand-blasted. The dust storm had been no khamseen, but it had still made life uncomfortable. The sand got everywhere – in shoes, clothes, and particularly into ears and hair. It got into weapons too, sandpapering the metalwork and causing jams. It also found its way into food and tea, so that every sip and mouthful was accompanied by a grating of teeth. The only consolation was that the wind helped keep the flies at bay. But now, when at last they had stopped, the wind had died down. As tins were opened and supper prepared, the desert flies returned.
With Peploe and Sykes, Tanner walked to the summit of the ridge to see what was going on, glad to get away from the swarms buzzing around the food. As with most ridges in the desert, it was hardly a major incline. Rather, the horizon just appeared rather short, and suddenly they had reached the summit. Stretching away for more than ten miles they could see the shallow bowl of the gravel flats and beyond, marking the horizon, the fifty-foot rise of the Alam Halfa Ridge. The dusty pall that had hung over the desert for much of the day was now dispersing. As evening drew in, the landscape often sharpened in focus, as was the case now. Tanner sniffed. There were a number of low columns of dust several miles to the north, but it was only when he brought his binoculars to his eyes that he could see they were panzers – and not heading north towards the ridge, but south.
‘They’re falling back!’ he said. ‘They’re bloody well falling back!’
‘Hooray,’ said Peploe. ‘They’ve clearly hit a wall. Our chaps must have held their ground.’
‘What d’you think they’ll do now?’ asked Sykes. ‘Leaguer up or fall back?’
Tanner watched another formation of panzers four miles or so to the north. They appeared to be moving into a circular formation. ‘The lot I’m looking at are leaguering,’ he said. ‘Here.’ He passed the binoculars to Sykes. ‘Have a dekko.’
‘Which means their supply columns will be coming through the minefields again tonight,’ said Peploe.
‘We ought to make some mischief then, shouldn’t we?’
‘Indeed we should. That’s certainly Old Man Vigar’s intention. You think the men are up to it?’
‘It’s been hard going, that’s for sure,’ said Tanner, ‘but for the most part I think they’ll be all right.’
‘I agree, but we’re quite a few vehicles down now,’ said Sykes, ‘and one or two of the lads are done in. I’m worried about Smailes.’
‘Me too,’ said Tanner. ‘I thought he just needed a bit of time to calm down, that with a bit of grub inside him and a beadie or two he’d be all right, but I’m not so sure.’
‘We had to get Mudge on the Bren earlier,’ added Sykes.
‘Well, go easy on him, then. We’re pulling back to Mena again after this show. Another day and we’ll probably be out of the line. We can see how he is then.’
‘Each man’s only got so much courage,’ said Tanner. ‘I remember my old man telling me that about his time in the last war. A reservoir of courage, he called it. And once it’s empty, it’s empty. He s
aid each man’s reservoir was different.’
‘I’d say your dad was spot on,’ said Sykes. ‘We’ve seen people lose their nerve. They don’t mean to. It just happens.’
‘You think that’s happening to Smailes?’ said Peploe.
‘I’m not sure yet,’ said Tanner. ‘But maybe.’
The sun was setting, a huge semi-circular deep red orb, slipping beneath the western horizon. A faint drone could now be heard away to the east, rapidly getting louder. Tanner scanned the skies and spotted them: eighteen bombers, with fighter escorts above. ‘Flynn said they’d be back as soon as the dust storm cleared.’ From the west, they heard another drone: enemy fighters, swooping to intercept the bombers. He watched transfixed as a small air battle developed. Bombs were whistling down on the concentrations of enemy tanks and transports, the ground shuddering with the explosions, while machine-guns and cannons chattered and throbbed. A Boston bomber was plummeting, then another was struggling, long trails of smoke following. They watched four parachutes open and drift down as the stricken bomber disappeared to the west. A fighter was falling and then, in what seemed like no time at all, they had all vanished, the darkening skies clear once more. All that was left were columns of black smoke rising into the air.
Enemy tanks and vehicles burning.
17
Vaughan and Tanja had been finishing dinner at the Mohammed Ali Club when David Stirling had ambled over and invited them to his flat in Kasr El Doubara for drinks. There was a small crowd heading there now, he had told them. Why not join us?
Vaughan had initially demurred – the following day he was heading to Kabrit for the rest of the week – but Tanja had insisted. ‘I want to meet the famous Phantom Major,’ she had told him. ‘Anyway, I have barely met any of your friends.’ They had walked – it was only a short distance from the club and, other than first thing in the morning, it was the one time of day when the temperature dropped to a bearable level.
The flat was almost directly opposite the British Embassy, near the river. Here, the hubbub of central Cairo had melted away to the European grandeur of the government quarter, and they could hear the music coming from the flat long before they reached the front door.
Outside several jeeps and other cars were haphazardly parked. The door was open so they went in, following the music and the increasingly loud chatter. Outside, an officer in ragged desert uniform was dancing with a girl. Vaughan and Tanja squeezed past them into the hall. Letters were strewn across the long table, while a half-empty bottle of whisky stood beside a discarded Tommy gun.
‘Alex! Come on in!’ said David Stirling, walking towards them down the hall with a glass and a cigarette in one hand, a bottle in the other. ‘And Tanja. Delightful.’ They followed him into the sitting room, where there were at least twenty people, men and women, many of whom Vaughan knew, including Johnny Farrer.
‘What can I get you?’ Stirling asked. ‘Scotch? Beer? Wine?’ He raised an eyebrow and grinned. ‘Champagne?’
‘Champagne, please.’ Tanja smiled.
‘Scotch for me,’ said Vaughan.
‘Coming right up,’ said Stirling, and disappeared into the kitchen.
It was a high-ceilinged room. Couples smooched on the shabby, stained sofas, the curtains were torn and the walls bare, save for pictures of the King and Queen, which had evidently been cut from a magazine.
‘Tanja!’ called a voice.
They turned to see Sophie Tarnowska weaving her way towards them, cigarette in hand and a long arc of ash about to fall – which it did as she kissed Tanja. ‘And you must be Alex,’ she said, to Vaughan. ‘I’ve heard so much about you.’
‘Hello, Billy,’ said Vaughan, turning to her companion, a good-looking, dark-haired man in uniform. ‘I heard you were in town.’
Stirling returned with the drinks. ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘I forgot you all know each other.’
‘Doesn’t everyone?’ said Vaughan.
‘Tell me,’ Tanja said, ‘why have you stuck pictures of the King and Queen to the wall?’
‘Because we’re so patriotic. We love King George and his wonderful wife, Queen Elizabeth.’
‘Don’t listen to a word of it, Tanja,’ said Vaughan. ‘It’s because he and Peter were doing pistol practice at the wall and the landlord decided to come around. They stuck those up to cover the bullet holes.’
Stirling put up his hands. ‘Guilty, I’m afraid. But I’m a great patriot too.’
‘So am I,’ said Tanja.
‘Of Poland or Britain? If you marry Alex, you’ll be a British citizen, you know.’
Tanja felt her cheeks redden.
‘Pay no attention to him, Tanja,’ Vaughan said, laughing. ‘He’s a rude bugger who takes a peculiar pleasure from talking out of turn.’
The record finished and Stirling yelled, ‘Lizzie!’ at a man in a white suit with long hair that was falling over his eyes. He glanced up, cigarette between his lips. ‘Put another record on!’
‘Who’s that?’ Tanja asked.
‘Lizzie Lezard. He used to be a barrister, but then became a gambler. He’s a very funny man. I think he’s living here at the moment.’ They watched Lezard shuffle through a loose pile of records, grin to himself, then put one on the gramophone and wind it up. Noël Coward’s reedy, clipped voice rang out. Lezard was singing along, and several others joined in:
The natives grieve when the white men leave their huts
Because they’re obviously, absolutely nuts.
Mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the midday sun.
A tall man in a pale suit walked in.
‘Peter!’ called Stirling. ‘Where’ve you been?’
‘Working. Some of us have to,’ he said, in a slow, rather decadent voice. ‘I need a drink. Got any champagne open?’
‘Of course.’ Stirling turned to Vaughan and Tanja. ‘You’ve met my brother before, Alex, but, Tanja, you haven’t.’
‘Hello,’ said Peter, one eyebrow raised. ‘Charmed, I’m sure.’ He turned to Vaughan. ‘I’m assuming he’s thrown this party to celebrate our success in the desert?’
Vaughan smiled. ‘Perhaps. I heard about last night. Have you any more news?’
‘I’ve just come from the embassy where everyone’s in a very cheery frame of mind. It seems Rommel’s strike force has been battering against a brick wall all afternoon. They were seen pulling back for the night and now the RAF is blasting them to buggery. Apparently they’ve dropped so many magnesium flares the whole place is lit up like daylight and Rommel’s panzers are the proverbial sitting ducks.’
‘That’s marvellous,’ said Vaughan. He wondered how his friends in the Yorks Rangers were faring.
‘Yes,’ said Peter. ‘It seems we’ve turned a corner. All that fuss a month or so ago – incredible, really. There we were, thinking Armageddon was upon us – quite a turn-around.’
‘We won’t be beaten now. Not in North Africa,’ said Vaughan. ‘We’ve just got to make sure that when we go on the offensive, we do the job properly.’
‘Absolutely. But I think we will this time. Alexander and Monty are cut from a different cloth. Alexander was staying at the embassy when he first got out here, you know, and he exuded calm. No wonder he’s become Winston’s go-to man in a crisis. Absolutely imperturbable – he’s just what Middle East Command needs.’ He turned to Tanja. ‘Now, let me guess,’ he said, finger to his lips. ‘That accent. Not Balkan. No – northern European. Polish?’
‘Bravo,’ said Tanja. ‘Yes, I am Polish.’
‘It must be hard for you,’ he said, ‘with the Nazis on one side, the Soviets on the other. Does it worry you that the Russians are our allies?’
‘I don’t know who is worse – Hitler or Stalin.’
‘I’ll take that as a “yes” then.’
She looked him in the eye. ‘I just want the war to be over and for Poland to be free again,’ she said.
‘Amen to that.’
The party showed no sign of br
eaking up with the onset of the curfew, but Tanja whispered, ‘Can we go to your flat now?’ She and Vaughan thanked the Stirling brothers and headed out into the quiet streets, walking quickly, hoping not to be spotted by the MPs or the Egyptian police. It wasn’t far – five minutes or so – and the policeman they did see tapped his watch but otherwise left them alone. Vaughan talked most of the way. Rommel had been stopped. Now they could really start taking the fight to the enemy. They were on the path to victory.
Tanja half listened, clinging to his arm, her mind swimming with other thoughts. With the news from the front, and Alex going away, it was time to act. For two days she had racked her brain about how to do it, but now she knew. You have to, she told herself. You have to.
Tuesday, 1 September. At first light, the men of A Company were heading back eastwards along the southern edge of the battlefield towards Brigade Headquarters, driving slowly so as not to attract too much attention. Tanner, with his binoculars to his eyes, scanned the gravel flats to their left. A thin pall hung in the shallow bowl, but through the haze, Tanner could see the desert was littered with wrecks, some still burning, columns of black smoke rising into the sky. A sharp, acrid stench filled the air: smoke, cordite, and death – a familiar sickly sweet odour. Christ, the flies are going to be even worse than usual.
It had been a long night. They had sniped as much as they could, but the RAF had been relentless. Wave after wave of bombers had come over, dropping an endless supply of flares so that it had barely seemed like night at all. And while they kept up the bombardment, the artillery had continued to rain down shells. The Afrika Korps, apparently stuck where they were, seemed helpless. Supply columns had tried to get through but had been bombed as well. A Company had had a prolonged fight with a convoy a few miles east of Himeimat. They had suffered another half-dozen casualties, with one more truck and carrier down, and eventually Peploe had decided they had done enough. That had been more than an hour ago.
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