At eight-fifteen, a machine-gunner in one of the reserve positions gave a sudden cry of alarm, pointing to the south-east. His colleagues narrowed their eyes against the sun’s glare and made out the dark silhouette of a lone air craft, speeding low over the desert towards them. Then the machine stood on a wingtip and veered sharply away behind the mound of Hill 209. The Australians clearly heard the rattle of its guns, borne on the morning air. A few seconds later it reappeared, circled, then dived out of sight again to fire at some unseen target.
Twice more the aircraft repeated the process, and now a storm of small-arms fire burst from the enemy positions as the Germans let fly at it with everything they had. The Hurricane, for such it was, waggled its wings as though in a gesture of contempt and roared away towards Tobruk’s airstrip. The Australians had watched its performance in silence; now one of them eyed the retreating fighter and spat out a dry mouthful of sand. ‘Lucky bastard,’ he grunted. Then he turned to watch the southern horizon, where fresh clouds of dust indicated more enemy movement.
In the Hurricane’s cockpit, Yeoman throttled back and lowered his undercarriage, praying fervently that any trigger-happy anti-aircraft gunners within the perimeter would recognize him as friendly. He looked ahead and picked out the airstrip without difficulty, lying on its plateau at the top of the Solaro escarpment, the saw-toothed range of hills that sloped down towards the town and harbour of Tobruk.
As he approached to land, Yeoman saw that the airstrip had been the object of a lot of attention from the Luftwaffe. There were bomb craters everywhere, with the shattered, burnt-out wrecks of aircraft scattered about the place. Not all, however, were British; he taxied in past the remains of an Italian Savoia bomber, a relic of the days when O’Connor’s forces had first captured the fortress.
An airman waved him into a sandbagged emplacement and he shut down the engine, stretching his legs gratefully as he climbed from the cockpit. He counted four more Hurricanes, all Mk IIs, in similar emplacements, but they seemed to be the only intact aircraft on the strip. Apart from that, there was the usual cluster of tents, a few vehicles and a small stone building which the airman confirmed was the operations hut. Yeoman walked over to it, eyeing the half-dozen men who had come outside into the morning sun to watch his arrival. They were, it turned out, the pilots of No. 6 Squadron, or what was left of it, and they comprised the sole air defence of Tobruk.
One of them, a young flight lieutenant, handed Yeoman a mug of tea and a corned beef sandwich. ‘Didn’t expect to see you here,’ he said. ‘We thought the rest of the world had forgotten about us. Well, we can do with a bit of extra help.’
‘Sorry to disappoint you,’ Yeoman said, ‘but I’m not a replacement. As far as I can make out, I’m to be a sort of bloody airborne mail man. There I was a couple of hours ago, having breakfast at Sidi Barrani without a care in the world, when my boss appeared and told me I was to be detached immediately to operate a fast courier service out of Tobruk. You know, dispatches and that sort of thing. It seems the Lysanders that used to do the job kept getting shot down.’
The flight lieutenant nodded. ‘You can say that again,’ he agreed. ‘They just hadn’t a chance in the end, especially when the Jerries moved a squadron of 109s up to El Adem. It took us by surprise, I can tell you. We’d been having a fair old ball with the Stukas until a few days ago, and then suddenly there were 109s everywhere. Poor old 73 Squadron really took a hammering, and had to be pulled out to Egypt. That leaves us, and we’re just about knackered.’
Yeoman grunted sympathetically and looked around him. ‘I haven’t a clue where I’m supposed to report,’ he told the flight lieutenant. ‘I’m to be attached to the Australians, though, so I suppose I’d better find their HQ and see what’s afoot. Any chance of some transport into town?’
‘Hang on a sec,’ the other said. ‘I’ll get on the blower and see what I can do.’ He vanished into the hut and returned a few minutes later, smiling. ‘It’s all right, old chap,’ he told Yeoman, ‘everything’s fixed. I’ve been on to our liaison bloke at HQ and someone’s coming to pick you up.’ He looked thoughtfully at the western sky. ‘Something tells me we’re going to cop it again today,’ he said. ‘I’d rather be mixing it with Jerry than on the receiving end in Tobruk. The place takes a real plastering every time the Stukas come over.’
Far from reassured, Yeoman settled down in the scant shade to await the arrival of his transport, which turned out to be a Standard light utility car. It was battered and pock-marked and had clearly seen better days. So, thought Yeoman, had its driver. He was a lean, sunburned Australian with a considerable growth of bristle on his face, out of which a limp cigarette end protruded. His dress consisted of a torn slouch hat, a pair of filthy shorts and boots that were scoured white by the sand. He was obviously well known to the pilots of No. 6 Squadron.
‘Morning, Bluey,’ said the flight lieutenant. ‘Got any goodies for us?’
The Australian rolled his cigarette from one side of his mouth to the other. ‘Just so happens,’ he replied, and rummaged inside the car, producing a canvas bag. He dropped it on the ground and it clattered. The flight lieutenant’s face fell. ‘Not rice pudding?’ he queried dolefully.
Bluey looked hurt. ‘Take a gander,’ he said, spitting out his cigarette end.
The flight lieutenant fished in the bag and brought out a can, inspecting it closely. ‘My God,’ he breathed, his voice filled with a tone approaching reverence, ‘beer!’ He looked at the Australian in awe. ‘Where the hell did you get hold of this?’
Bluey grinned and rubbed an index finger up the side of his nose. ‘Ask no questions,’ he said. ‘Good stuff that, too. None of your lousy wog booze. Take it as a compliment from the blokes. We saw you knocking hell, out of Jerry yesterday.’ He turned towards Yeoman and raised an eyebrow. ‘You me passenger?’ he asked abruptly. Yeoman admitted that he was. ‘Right,’ said Bluey, ‘hop in. Got lots to do; can’t hang around here all day.’
The drive down the escarpment was a nerve-racking experience. Bluey kept his foot hard down on the floorboards for most of the way and kept up the pace, sounding his horn furiously, through the shattered streets of Tobruk itself. Yeoman sat there, white-faced and clinging to the dashboard with sweating hands, while Bluey spun the wheel and whistled tunelessly with great lack of concern. They eventually screeched to a halt in front of a white concrete building which stood on the high ground on the north shore of the harbour. Bluey lit a cigarette and indicated the building with his thumb.
‘Navy House,’ he said briefly. ‘You’ll find the bloke you’re looking for in the communications room. Through the entrance, down the corridor, turn left and down the steps. Second door on the left.’
Yeoman got out, feeling as though all his bones had turned to jelly, and eyed the Australian. ‘Are you,’ he asked, ‘going to be my sole means of transport between here and the airstrip?’ The other nodded.
‘Hm,’ said the pilot. ‘I was afraid of that.’
Security in Navy House, the nerve-centre of Tobruk’s defences, was excellent, as Yeoman soon found. He had to identify himself three times to armed MPs before finally being admitted to the communications room. He stepped inside, gazing around curiously. A bank of signals equipment stood along one wall; maps covered the other three walls, and more maps were spread over a low table that stood in the centre of the room. Electric lights provided the only source of illumination, for the room was underground.
A young, bearded naval lieutenant, who had been poring over the maps on the table with a couple of army officers, straightened up and came over to Yeoman, extending his hand and smiling. ‘You’re Flying Officer Yeoman,’ he said matter-of-factly. ‘Welcome aboard. I’m Russell Kemp, Fleet Air Arm. Used to fly Swordfish, but my Swordfish copped a Jerry bomb some time ago and it ceased to be of further use to me. So, for my sins, I’m air liaison here. Not that there’s much to liaise with any more. I suppose you’ve been properly briefed, and all that?’
Kemp sighed. ‘That’s the trouble, half the time,’ he said. ‘The left hand doesn’t know what the right hand’s doing. Well I can tell you now that your main job will be reconnaissance, with courier work a close second. We used the Lysanders for recce until they got clobbered, and since then we have had to rely on aircraft from Sidi Barrani and Matruh, resulting in delays we can’t afford. What we need is someone who can take off at a few minutes’ notice, have a quick look at what’s going on over the other side, and get back fast with the information so that our defences can act accordingly.’ He tapped Yeoman lightly on the shoulder and grinned. ‘You, my boy, have been selected from hundreds of applicants.’
‘Thanks,’ said Yeoman wryly. ‘But I really haven’t a clue about the system here. Are you going to give me the gen?’
Kemp shook his head. ‘No, Ken Rolfe here is better qualified to do that.’ He turned to one of the army officers, an Australian, who shook hands briefly. The other officer also shook hands, then excused himself. Apart from a signaller, who sat with headphones on in a comer, they had the room to themselves.
Rolfe beckoned to Yeoman and bent over the map on the table. ‘Right,’ he said, ‘let’s take it from the beginning. When Ninth Div got back to Tobruk from El Agheila a few weeks ago, we straight away got busy strengthening the old Italian perimeter, which was pretty much run down.’ His finger traced a semicircle on the map, some ten miles from the town.
‘This,’ he continued, ‘is known as the Red Line.’ He moved his finger. ‘Two miles behind it we built the Blue Line, which is really a continuous minefield covered by barbed wire and strongpoints housing anti-tank and machine-guns. There are an awful lot of mines between the Red and Blue lines, so if you ever have to bale out I don’t recommend coming down there!’
Rolfe tapped the south-west comer of the perimeter with his finger-end. ‘So far, this is the sector against which the enemy has launched his strongest attacks. Further along the perimeter it’s mostly open desert, with little cover for tanks and infantry, and at the other end there are some wadis which make it pretty impossible terrain for armour. So we reckon Jerry will keep up the pressure against the south-west comer — but we can never be sure. We need to know his movements constantly, and that’s where you come in.’
For Yeoman, the next couple of hours passed quickly. He was oblivious to the comings and goings in the communications room as Rolfe built up a complete picture of the defences of Tobruk, and also spoke of the part played so far by the 9th Australian Infantry Division in the desert war. Yeoman, as keen as ever to acquire a full understanding of the events that would be tomorrow’s history, asked a lot of questions, and Rolfe obligingly answered them to the best of his ability.
Rolfe spoke with the utmost respect of the 9th Division’s commander, Major-General Leslie Morshead, who now commanded the garrison at Tobruk. Nicknamed ‘Ming the Merciless’ by the rank and file, Morshead was an austere and highly capable officer who had once been a schoolmaster before serving in the Great War, when he had taken part in the tragic and costly Gallipoli landings and later commanded a battalion in France. Between the wars he had returned to civilian life, as a branch manager of the Sydney offices of the Orient Line, but had continued to soldier in his spare time. His powers of leadership had been very much in evidence during the demoralizing retreat from El Agheila; and with the 9th Division safely inside the Tobruk perimeter, he had told his men in no uncertain terms that there would be no more running. Tobruk was a fortress from which the Commonwealth forces would sally forth to hit the enemy, and hit them hard.
‘All right,’ said Kemp at length. He had been listening to Rolfe’s words and putting in his own comments from time to time. ‘I think you’ve just about covered it all, Ken.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Lord bless us, it’s time for a glass of plonk. Then I’ll take you round the harbour and show you the sights, George.’
‘Plonk’ turned out to be a mind-blowing concoction of Italian brandy and rum, which Kemp assured Yeoman was good for the stomach lining. Still, Yeoman was forced to agree, it made the inevitable plate of sandy bully beef that comprised lunch a little more palatable.
Tobruk harbour was a shambles. Yeoman gazed at it in astonishment, wondering how any vessel could possibly negotiate the tangle of wrecks to off-load stores. Burnt-out, rusting ships lay all around the fringes; others, half-submerged, poked funnels like accusing fingers from the oily water, or raised their long, dark undersides towards the sky like prehistoric sea monsters struggling for a glimpse of the sun. Every cove and bay around the harbour seemed full of floating wreckage, each island of refuse surrounded by its own halo of scum and oil. Wherever Yeoman looked a scene of utter devastation met his eyes; even ashore, where the once neat white houses lay shattered, tom apart successively by the heavy shells of the Royal Navy’s warships in the days when Tobruk was an Italian garrison, and more recently by the bombs of the Luftwaffe.
Even the men swarming over the quay, where a ship was unloading, looked like ragged, emaciated scarecrows moving through some infernal ruin. They were a mixed bunch of Australian and British soldiers, a few sailors and some native Libyans, and all were covered in a uniform coating of yellowish-grey dust. Yeoman wrinkled his nose as a strange, pungent smell assailed his nostrils; a smell whose main ingredients seemed to be burnt cordite, crude oil, sewers and human sweat. Kemp saw his expression and grinned. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘You’ll get used to it.’ That, reflected the young pilot, appeared to be the most widely-used catch phrase in North Africa.
They picked their way along the north-east side of the harbour, skirting bomb craters, mounds of tumbled masonry and piles of empty crates and drums. Yeoman looked at the anti-aircraft emplacements with interest, and Kemp explained that the guns were a mixed collection of British 3.7s and Bofors, with captured Italian 102-mms and Bredas. The gun pits themselves were well protected, with stone and concrete foundations surrounded by a wall of 40-gallon oil drums filled with sand and stones. On top of the drums was a parapet of sandbags; Kemp said that many of them were filled with old Italian flour, which became as hard as cement when mixed with sea water. The gun crews were mostly relaxing, lying on iron bedsteads — former property of the Italians — beneath their camouflage netting.
In the distance, gunfire rolled across the desert beyond the escarpment.
‘Poor sods on the perimeter catching it again,’ said Kemp. He glanced up at the sky. ‘The Jerries will be here soon. They always arrive before two o’clock. They were here just after dawn, so they’ll no doubt be back to try and get the freighter over there. I just hope the lads get the unloading finished in time.’ He looked back towards the quay, where the men were working like an army of ants under the direction of a portly, sweating lieutenant.
‘I suppose there’s a mad rush for the shelter when the alert goes up,’ said Yeoman.
Kemp laughed. ‘Not a bit of it. Nobody stops work or makes for the shelter — which, by the way, is that big cave you can see over there — until a red flag is flown from Navy House. As long as our chaps go on working the natives will more or less stand firm, but once the flag appears you’ll see the most impressive 150-yard mass sprint imaginable. The trouble is, when the blokes get to the cave, which runs about sixty feet underground, the first lot tend to cluster in the entrance to get a grandstand view of what’s going on, so you usually get a big, struggling mass of sweaty humanity milling around outside, all trying to get in. It’s bloody crazy. They’re going to get a bomb on top of them, one of these days. Personally, I’d rather take my chance in the open.’
‘Well,’ said Yeoman with a calm he didn’t feel,
‘you won’t have to wait for long. Here they come.’
He pointed towards the west, his arm at an angle. There, clearly visible above the haze that still lingered around Tobruk, was a cluster of black dots. Yeoman could hear the drone of aero-engines now, and the sound sent a shiver along his spine. Even at this distance, there was no mistaking the drumming beat of the Stuka.
All around, the crews of anti-aircraft guns were jumping to action stations. Yeoman glanced towards Navy House; the red was conspicuous by its absence, and the men on the quay went on working, although with frequent glances at the sky.
Kemp touched Yoeman’s arm. ‘Remember,’ he said quietly, ‘it doesn’t look good to run. And anyway, it’ll be a minute or two before they are overhead.’
At that moment, with a terrific crash, a stick of bombs erupted across the harbour, turning several small boats into matchwood and raising great fountains of oily water. Both men ducked instinctively as fragments of wood whistled overhead. The next instant, the nearest anti-aircraft gun opened up with a fearful banging.
Yeoman looked up, craning his neck. High above Tobruk, four aircraft cruised in immaculate formation. Even as he watched, more bombs exploded around the harbour, raising a pall of dust and smoke and shaking the ground with their concussion. Fortunately, none fell near the ship that was still being unloaded.
At last, the red flag was unfurled over Navy House.
‘I think,’ said Kemp breathlessly, ‘that it may be time to take cover.’ Together, they dived headlong into the nearest gun pit. A gunner pushed them against the wall of oil drums. ‘Just keep out of the bloody way, that’s all!’ he snarled.
Target Tobruk: Yeoman in the Western Desert Page 5
