‘What can you see, sir?’ said Brown, next to him.
‘Lots of dead tanks and trucks.’
‘D’you think that’s it – that we’ve got him beat?’
‘They’ll attack again later, I’m sure, but they’ve had a night of hellfire and they look pretty bloody stranded out there to me.’
Brown’s head suddenly lolled forward, then lurched upright again.
‘Keep going, Browner.’
‘Sorry, sir. I’m fine. Really.’
‘Looks like you’re falling asleep at the wheel to me.’
‘Just lost it for a moment there, but I’m all right now, sir.’
‘Boiled sweet or beadie?’ said Tanner, feeling for his pack.
‘Wouldn’t say no to both, sir.’
Tanner smiled, took out two cigarettes, lit them and passed one to Brown. ‘You can have your sweet when you’ve finished that.’
He glanced behind him. The others were all asleep, including Smailes, despite the jolting of the truck over the rough ground and desultory gunfire to the north. The lads need more than a catnap. Damn it, he needed a rest himself. He’d not had more than half an hour’s sleep for two days. Exhaustion swept over him like a dull weight. His eyes burned with fatigue but also because he’d let sand get into them the previous afternoon. He was thirsty, too, and hoarse from yelling over the din of battle. Grabbing his water bottle, he took a swig of the foul-tasting liquid, with its residue of petrol. That was one reason why they all drank so much tea: to hide the taste of the water. The old wound on his arm ached and the new cut on his other arm stung. Tanner sighed. Maybe they’d reach Brigade to be told they’d done enough. He hoped so.
However, when they got to Brigade HQ, some eight miles south-east of the Alam Halfa Ridge, they were told they had to patrol.
It was around ten a.m. when Tanner and the other A Company officers returned from their briefing with Colonel Vigar. Tanner found his men asleep, Brown with his head back and mouth open in the front of the truck, the others lying on the ground around it.
‘Wakey, wakey,’ said Tanner. Heads moved, hair thick and dirty, eyes half open. Even Sykes, normally so particular about his appearance and especially his hair, was dishevelled.
‘Are we out of the line, then?’ he asked.
‘’Fraid not. We’ve patrol work to do.’
Sykes sat up and scratched his head.
‘What kind of patrol work?’ asked Hepworth, getting stiffly to his feet.
‘I’ll tell you in a minute.’ Tanner went to the back of the truck, spread out his map and marked it with a pencil. ‘Everyone awake and got their eyes open?’ he asked. A few mumbled replies. ‘Good, then gather round me here.’ He glanced at Smailes, who was clutching the edge of the tailgate and staring into the far distance. ‘Smiler?’
Smailes turned his head and Tanner saw that he was sweating – beads of moisture along his forehead and upper lip and running down the side of his face. Bloody hell. It was hot, but the heat was dry. No one else was sweating. Not having just woken up.
‘First of all,’ he said, ‘a sitrep. And it’s pretty good, as we thought. The enemy got nowhere yesterday and the line held all the way from the Kiwis to the eastern end of Alam Halfa.’
‘Hooray,’ said Hepworth.
‘Say it like you mean it, Hep,’ said Sykes.
‘Most importantly, our armour didn’t go careering after the enemy once they pulled back. They stayed where they were.’
‘What were our losses like?’ asked Sykes.
‘Twenty-second Armoured Brigade took the brunt. We did lose a few tanks and guns yesterday but it seems the lads in the 1st Rifle Brigade did a bloody good job with their six-pounders.’
‘Good on ’em,’ said Sykes.
‘Anyway,’ Tanner continued, ‘we’ve now identified the enemy units attacking the Ridge. It was the 21st Panzer Division in the scrap with 22nd Armoured Brigade yesterday, but so far there’s been no sign of any movement from them. The intel is that they’re now very low on fuel. However, 15th Panzer are already on the move, and it looks like they’re going to try and work themselves around to the east of 22nd Armoured Brigade.’ He drew a few dashes on the map. ‘So our old friends in 8th Armoured Brigade, who have so far done nothing and have been waiting a few miles to the south-east of the ridge, are being ordered forward to hit 15th Panzer’s flank. Our job is to take over their positions and cover their arses.’ He looked up. ‘It’s a cushy one. All we do is sit back and watch.’
‘And hope the Luftwaffe don’t come at us,’ said Hepworth.
‘You don’t think, Hep, that they might have more pressing targets than us?’ said Tanner. He turned to Smailes. ‘Smiler, how are you feeling?’
‘Fine,’ said Smailes.
‘You don’t look it.’
‘He needs to go to the MO, sir,’ said Sykes.
‘No,’ said Smailes, angrily. ‘I’m fine. I told you.’
Tanner put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Listen, Smiler. You’re not going to help the lads if they get your fever. So go to the MO and sit this one out, all right?’
Tanner could see Smailes’s eyes filling with tears. ‘It’s all right, mate,’ he said. ‘You’re a bloody good soldier. One of the best.’ He gripped his shoulder. ‘Now go to the MO, all right?’
Smailes nodded, tears running down his cheeks. ‘Christ,’ he said. ‘This fucking war.’
They soon found 8th Armoured Brigade’s former positions from the debris left strewn about the desert. On the map it was at trig point 87; on the ground, it was a patch of stony sand and desert vetch littered with shell fossils, discarded fuel cans, food tins and ammunition boxes.
From their new vantage-point they could see the full scale of the carnage that had unfolded over the previous two days and nights. The desert was littered with wrecks, and, Tanner now saw through his binoculars, the dead. Both sides understood the importance of burying the dead right away, but there had been no time. The flies were having a feast, buzzing around the bodies, landing on arms and faces.
It was now around eleven in the morning as they watched the four tank regiments of the 8th Armoured Brigade push forwards. Four miles ahead, heavy tank and artillery fire was booming. One enemy tank was already on fire, thick black smoke pitching into the sky. Tanner now watched the two British tank regiments closest to them, the Rutland Yeomanry and the Sherwood Rangers. They were still at least two thousand yards away. A bit further – between a thousand and fifteen hundred yards. That would be about right, he reckoned. Then they needed to find a few dips in the desert, get themselves into half-decent hull-down positions, and pound the enemy flanks.
Suddenly the British tanks opened fire, a mixture of American Grants, with a short 75mm gun, and Crusaders with a mere two-pounder. They would hit nothing from that range. ‘No!’ said Tanner.
‘What’s the matter, sir?’ asked Sykes, standing up in the truck.
‘It’s those bloody new boys,’ said Tanner. ‘Opening fire at two thousand yards. Don’t they teach them anything?’ He passed his binoculars. ‘Have a dekko.’
‘Well, the enemy’s not replying,’ said Sykes.
Another salvo boomed but the tanks were now surging forward, trails of dust following.
‘That should do it,’ said Sykes, handing back the binoculars.
Tanner put them to his eyes once more. The tanks were still surging forward. ‘Jesus,’ he muttered. ‘Bloody look at them. They’re still going.’
‘Huzzah, chaps!’ said Sykes. ‘Sabres forward!’
‘You’re not wrong, Stan,’ said Tanner. ‘They think it’s a bloody cavalry charge.’ They watched in silence as the Yeomanry tanks continued to surge towards the enemy. ‘Damn it all,’ muttered Tanner, ‘when the hell are they going to stop?’ Through the binoculars, it looked as though the British armour was now almost on top of the enemy.
Then they heard anti-tank fire, followed by several flashes of orange, visible through the smoke and dust.<
br />
‘Oh, Jesus,’ said Tanner. ‘The stupid bloody idiots. Christ, Stan, how many times have we seen that?’
‘Like insects to a light bulb,’ said Sykes, ‘so our tanks to Jerry’s anti-tank screen.’
‘What’s happening, sir?’ said Phyllis, now standing in the back of the truck next to Sykes.
‘Our friends in the Yeomanry are getting torn to shreds, Siff, that’s what.’ More flashes of explosions. Through the haze Tanner counted at least eight tanks burning. Black smoke pitched into the air.
‘I’ve seen enough,’ he said, passing the binoculars back to Sykes, and sitting down. He took out a cigarette. ‘Can someone make a brew? Mudge?’
‘They’re pulling back by the look of things,’ said Sykes.
‘What about Jerry? Is he pursuing?’
‘Can’t really tell. Don’t think so.’
Overhead, another wave of bombers flew over and dropped their bombs on the mass of panzers and vehicles now dug in to the south-west of Alam Halfa.
‘They’re hitting 21st Panzer, I think,’ said Sykes.
‘And our suicidal cavalry?’ asked Tanner.
‘I can see twelve burning. The rest are still pulling back.’
Tanner shook his head. What a bloody waste.
Some time after midday, there were reports that 15th Panzer Division were pulling back and going on to the defensive, so 8th Armoured Brigade was pulled back too. At the same time, the Yorks Rangers were ordered to return to Brigade Headquarters, where they were told they were at last being withdrawn from the battle.
‘It’s over,’ said Vigar, addressing the survivors from his command car. ‘For us, at any rate. You’ve all done damned well. We can feel proud of ourselves.’ They were to head back to Mena that afternoon, he told them.
But first another brew, some tiffin and the flies.
‘Have we beaten Rommel, then?’ said Phyllis, as he wafted the flies from his mess tin.
‘Pretty much, Siff,’ said Tanner. ‘Put it this way, Rommel hasn’t beaten us, and that’s what he had to do.’
‘So what next, sir?’ asked Brown.
‘We get ready to attack him.’
‘When?’
Tanner shrugged. ‘God knows. When Monty thinks we’re strong enough, I suppose.’
‘Just like that,’ said Brown.
‘Pretty much,’ said Tanner. ‘It’s not complicated, you know.’
It was just after one when they got going again, rumbling back across the desert, heading north-east towards the coast road. They were filthy, all of them, and exhausted, but Tanner felt a strange sense of exultation. Gradually, the sound of guns faded, the air became fresher, and before long they could see the Mediterranean, twinkling iridescently to their left. The fighting was not yet over, but the battle had been won.
18
Wednesday, 2 September. It was just before seven o’clock in the evening that Tanner went up the stairs to Lucie’s flat and knocked at the door. Please be in. To his relief, he heard footsteps approaching. A moment later, the door opened, and there she was, already out of her uniform, wearing a simple cotton dress. ‘You look lovely,’ he said.
Her face lit up and she flung her arms around his neck, kissed him and held him tightly. ‘You made it back,’ she said.
‘I told you I would.’
She let go, the better to look at him, then ran a hand across his face. ‘My darling Jack,’ she laughed, ‘you smell terrible.’
Tanner sniffed at his armpits. ‘Why d’you think I’m here, Luce?’ He grinned. ‘I need a bath.’ He held up his canvas haversack. ‘Look, I’ve even brought fresh clothes.’
Holding his hand, she led him into the flat, made him sit on the bed and then went to run the bath. Tanner looked around. Everything was exactly the same. Even the copy of Tess was still on her chest of drawers, just as he had left it. It was as though the intervening fortnight had never happened.
‘You’re here sooner than I’d dared hope,’ she said, coming back into the bedroom and sitting beside him.
‘They reckoned we’d done our bit. Two nights and two days was enough, and we’ve got retraining to do. It was always the plan to bring us back.’
‘Well, I’m glad. I’ve been thinking about you, wondering where you were. Whether you were still alive. The wounded have been pouring in today. We’d been bracing ourselves. I kept hoping you wouldn’t be one of them.’
Tanner began to undress. ‘I’m fine. Barely so much as a scratch.’ He winced as he pulled his shirt over his head.
‘Apart from the one on your shoulder.’ Her brow knotted as she looked at the bloody bandage on his upper left arm. ‘I’m going to take this rag off.’ Tanner flinched. The gauze had stuck to the wound. Fresh blood trickled down his arm.
‘Who dressed this?’
‘Er, Stan. He’s not much of a medic.’
‘You can say that again. It needs a stitch or two, really. Do you want me to do that now?’
‘Best get it over and done with.’
Collecting her bag and a bowl of warm water, she cleaned the wound, tutting about the amount of sand, then gave him a local anaesthetic and neatly put in three stitches. It took less than five minutes. ‘There,’ she said. ‘You might keep your arm now.’ She kissed his shoulder.
‘Thanks, Luce.’
‘How did you do it?’
‘Fell out of a truck and landed a bit awkwardly.’
She looked at him sceptically. ‘And now for part two of the cleanup operation.’
Ah, yes. Tanner sank into the warm, soapy water and ducked his head under. And then Lucie’s hands were gently washing his back, neck and chest.
He grinned at her. ‘I’ve been dreaming of this, you know.’
It was later that she told him about seeing Vaughan and Tanja. They were lying in bed, her head on his chest, an arm wrapped around him.
‘It was last Sunday,’ she said, ‘in the bar of the Continental.’
‘What were you doing there?’
‘Meeting Susan.’
‘Susan who?’
‘Susan Travers. General König’s lover.’
‘Ah, yes – that Susan.’
‘They’re expecting to be sent up to the front soon. She’s wondering how she can go with them again. The general’s told her she’s got to stay here this time.’
‘I thought he told her that before Bir Hacheim.’
Lucie laughed. ‘I suppose he did.’
‘Will you go?’
‘No. I’m staying here now. They need me at the hospital. I feel it’s important, the work I’m doing there.’
‘Of course it is. So you saw Vaughan and Tanja?’
‘I suppose it was her. She was blonde, very striking. Beautiful, in fact.’
‘Sounds like her.’
‘I was going to say hello, but she seemed in quite a state. Not with him – he was rather tender towards her.’
‘He’s smitten. I can see why – she’s a bloody cracker.’
‘What about me?’
‘Goes without saying.’
‘You can say it, though.’
‘All right. Lucie, you’re a bloody cracker. So you haven’t been tempted by some young cavalry officer with an estate in Scotland while I’ve been away?’
‘I might have done if I’d had time.’ She kissed him. ‘No, of course not.’ They were silent for a moment, and then she said, ‘How was it out there? Was it terrible?’
‘It was if you were a Jerry or an Eyetie. Jesus, they got a bloody pasting from the RAF. We lost a few good lads – none in my truck, thank God – but it’s a hell of a lot easier getting through a battle when you’re winning. Knackering, though.’ He sighed and stretched his legs. ‘But this is bloody lovely, Luce.’
Saturday, 5 September, a little before ten a.m. An earlier than expected return to Cairo for Major Vaughan, but news had reached him that the Yorks Rangers were back at Mena Camp – reason enough for leaving Kabrit – and he had received a
wire the previous evening from Maunsell, asking for an urgent meeting with Brigadier Bowlby. It wasn’t ideal to leave the team, but Farrer was proving a more than capable deputy and the men were being kept busy by their SAS instructors. In any case, he needed Tanner and Sykes – and the support of Maunsell and Bowlby. Without them, C Detachment might prove the shortest-lived special-operations force ever created.
Operations Bigamy and Agreement were going ahead as originally planned. He had known that since before he had left for Kabrit three days earlier: Brigadier Davy was not to be budged. They had to think big and plan big, he had said, because anything less would never achieve the scale of destruction and disruption that would prove decisive. According to David Stirling, even John Haselden was now concerned that the operations had become overblown.
No matter. The raids were on, and the various forces due to hit Benghazi, Tobruk, and now the landing grounds at Barce, on the night of 13/14 September. Stirling was still in Cairo, but the rest of his men were already at Kufra Oasis, en route to Benghazi, as were Colonel Haselden and his Force B, in preparation for the landward attack on Tobruk; Stirling would be flying down to join them any day now. The naval forces were preparing in Alexandria. His own C Detachment was due to be leaving on the tenth – in just five days’ time.
But nothing Vaughan had seen or heard had made him feel any differently about it. He simply could not see how it could possibly work. The more detailed and convoluted the plans, the more sceptical he had become.
If he was right, and the raids failed, the plug would be pulled on C Detachment, the DMO would get his knuckles rapped, and Vaughan would be cut adrift. His lifeline was the SIS. He had met Brigadier Bowlby some ten days earlier, when they had discussed the possibilities of intelligence gathering on such missions, but without ever talking specifics. Now he had been summoned to another meeting – which Maunsell had said was ‘urgent’. ‘WILL BE IN CAIRO 0900 5/9/42’ Vaughan had wired Maunsell. ‘EXCELLENT. 1000 RED PILLARS’ had been the swift reply.
And now here he was, stepping out of his jeep, striding past Abdu and climbing the stairs to Maunsell’s office.
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