Seize and Ravage

by Richard Townsend Bickers

  The knowledge that tanks and armoured cars were within a kilometre of the forward positions, and the expectation that bombers would soon be overhead, made him highly conscious of his slight wound. His arm started to itch and throb. He carried his submachine-gun in his left hand. Would he be able to fire with his right hand and use the right arm for grenade-throwing? He felt handicapped and fretful.

  Where are our fighters, damn them? Where are those Fiat CR42s? Not that they stand a chance against the Hurricanes individually, but we've got swarms of them out here and if they came over in great enough numbers they might at least confuse the Hurricane pilots and manage to bring down a few bombers.

  His speculation was answered by the drone of aero engines. Thirty CR42 biplanes came into view. Pennati watched them with scorn. They were marvellously manoeuvrable and every fighter pilot in the Regia Aeronautica was an expert at aerobatics. They were well able to dodge the bullets of the British fighters! But, with their slow speed that was not much more than two-thirds that of the Hurricane, and four machine-guns against the Hurricane's eight, they were not much use in combat. They were slower, also, than the Blenheim bombers. He hoped they would patrol the area, for they would never overtake the Blenheims if they went too far forward and the Blenheims slipped past.

  The CR42s were climbing and soon lost to view, but the beat of their engines continued for a long time to reach the ground.

  An hour dragged past, and then another. The day quickly became warm as the sun mounted. The glare began to hurt the eyes. The flies hung in clouds around everyone. Pennati kept angrily brushing them away from his face. Each time he did so, his wound gave a twinge.

  He heard a faint rumble and the hair at the nape of his neck began to feel uncomfortable. He scratched it.

  A different sort of noise, a growling and clanking, blended with the growing sound of the Blenheims' engines and those of a small number of Hurricanes escorting them. The tanks and armoured cars were on the move.

  The CR42s, a fresh formation of 30, came diving from where they had been lurking.

  The eight Blenheims came in sight, with half a dozen Hurricanes above them.

  The Hurricanes turned towards the Fiats. Tracer flickered across the sky. Two CR42s began to burn and a third turned away from the fight with white coolant smoke issuing from it.

  The Blenheim air gunners were shooting and two more Fiats caught fire.

  500 lb bombs began to fall from the Blenheims' bomb bays.

  The CR42s were making insistent attacks on the Blenheims and the air was webbed with red, yellow and green beads of light as tracer ammunition flitted to and fro. A Blenheim pulled away with smoke belching from one engine; but not before it had shed its bombs.

  The armoured cars came charging from right and left, rising over the crests of tall sand dunes. Their 2 lb guns sent shells into the Italian forward defences of sandbag walls and slit trenches. Between them, Matilda tanks suddenly loomed and added their gunfire to the assault.

  The din of exploding bombs and shells, the concussion each time a gun fired, the rattle of machine-guns and chatter of rifle fire, the thump of mortars, blotted out the noise of the aero engines and the air fighting directly above the battleground.

  A haze of smoke from high explosive mingled with the sand thrown up by shellbursts, tank tracks and vehicle wheels. The fog was lit by flashes of flame; red, orange, blue, yellow: shells and bombs gouging craters in the sand, hurling it high in the air, flinging sandbags, bits of rifle and machine-gun up with it; tossing dismembered bodies around as lumps of bleeding flesh and twirling limbs.

  The anti-tank guns' distinctive sharp reports punctuated the louder, flatter sounds of battle. From behind, shells whined by on their way to burst among the advancing attackers. The anti-aircraft guns were silent, unable to fire while friend and foe were in the same air space.

  Pennati was soaked in sweat from exertion as he ran from one platoon to another, one section to another, to lend a burst or two from his weapon and to see for himself how his company was faring, how it was conducting itself. Wounded men called to him for help. The dying sobbed and wheezed. If they were able, they tried to crawl behind some form of shelter. He had no time for pity or to give aid. His throat was dry from breathing acrid fumes and smoke. The stench of scorched flesh disgusted his nose, his nostrils felt as though they were scoured out by sand and cordite. Sand was gritty in his eyes and mouth, between his collar and his skin. And even in the thick of a battle, the flies never ceased to buzz around men's heads.

  He heard a clamour drifting from the left, saw Verey lights in the murk of smoke and sand, and knew that the two companies over there were falling back.

  He hurried up and down his line, calling to the men to stand firm.

  A tank came lumbering out of the gritty fog. He fired a burst at its track and heard his bullets ricochet. He dragged a grenade from his belt and flung it directly in the tank's path, then jumped into a trench beside a dead man. The grenade exploded and the tank slewed to one side. Its 2 lb gun did not stop firing, its machine-guns continued sweeping from side to side.

  Pennati climbed out of the shallow trench and ran towards it, holding a grenade. He climbed onto the back of the tank and sought an aperture through which to push it. The hatch jerked open, a head and shoulders appeared, a revolver fired. He flung himself to one side and lobbed the grenade. It hit the open hatch and tumbled inside. The British officer scrambled out. There was an explosion. The tank's weapons fired no more. Pennati pointed his gun at the tank commander and pressed the trigger. The magazine was empty. The Englishman grinned, aimed his revolver; and Pennati flung the submachine-gun at him, giving his wounded arm a savage wrench that made him cry out.

  The gun smashed into the English officer's face and he fell. Pennati, panting and uttering yells of triumph, grabbed the tank commander's pistol, dragged the lanyard over his head and stood over him. His finger trembled on the trigger. His hand was too weak to pull it.

  The Englishman rose slowly, with blood pouring from a broken nose and torn cheek. He glared defiantly at Pennati.

  Well, one prisoner won't be any bother. And, by God, it will be some satisfaction after all the humiliation they've put me through.

  Pennati made a peremptory sign with the revolver.

  ‘You're my prisoner. All right, you needn't put your hands up: you need them to stop your nose-bleed. You can take your handkerchief out. But any tricks, and I'll blow your head off.’

  The prisoner's hands went to each trousers pocket in turn.

  ‘Damn!’ His voice was thick because his nose was blocked. ‘Lost the blasted thing.’

  ‘Here.’ Pennati tossed him a neatly folded, clean one.

  The Englishman put it to his nose.

  ‘Christ! Bloody scent.’ It reeked of Pennati's cologne toilet water. ‘Fancy being put in the bag by a bloody pansy. I'm not going to turn my back on you, chum!’

  ‘I'm sorry my gun ran out of ammunition. Now get moving: I'm taking you to my Colonel personally.’

  FOUR

  Commandos did not normally live in barracks, nor were civilian billets found for them. They were paid six shillings and eightpence a day with which to find board and lodging. When a Commando was posted or sent on detachment, he was not provided with transport and a unit did not move together. He was told where and when to report and left to devise his own means of getting there punctually. Railway warrants, of course, were issued, if wanted. This was part of the exercise of initiative, which was the basic essential in a Commando.

  In Scotland, the Raiding School was too far from any village, and the nearest was, anyway, too small, for all the Commandos to find their own accommodation. They were therefore housed in Nissen huts, but lived separately from the ordinary infantry and troops from other arms who attended the courses.

  Now, in North Africa, they were provided with one-man bivouac tents, but fed communally. They camped near an airstrip and there were various infantry, armoured and o
ther units in the area, but the Commandos' site was well apart.

  The daytime temperature was hot but pleasant and dispelled one of Taggart's worries about men succumbing to unaccustomed heat.

  X Troop was attached for pay and rations to the armoured car battalion whose representative had met him so haughtily; and whose Commanding Officer treated him and the whole notion of a Commando attack by troops unseasoned in desert warfare with irony and scepticism.

  There was trouble on the first day. Taggart had given his unit a day's rest; and was waiting to hear details of the target and the date for the raid, before he began training for it. The sea lay only a few hundred yards from the airstrip and Army camps. Every X Troop officer and man spent the afternoon on the beach. There were only a few of the R.A.F. and others about.

  Although the water was much warmer than around the British coast in high summer, those who had been in Egypt for many months did not venture into it between November and April. The Commandos, however, were delighted to swim. Private Cassola was lying on the beach, talking to Corporal Lewis, a few yards away from the main group. Their conversation was in Italian and, inevitably, about women.

  Some armoured regiment soldiers were kicking a football about and it went into the sea. Cassola immediately ran after it, dived in, and, after making some flashy water polo throws and swimming about with the ball, emerged and tossed it to four men who had come to the water's edge.

  One of these stood six feet four inches tall and weighed a good fourteen and a half stone. He had an unpleasant manner and his face looked vicious. He leered and said ‘You're the tough blokes that's come to show us how to fight, ain't yer?’

  Cassola looked him up and down. ‘We're tough, yeah. Don't know about teaching you to fight: some blokes can't be taught.’

  ‘Whatcher mean, chum?’

  ‘What I said.’

  ‘I suppose you lot reckon you're tough going in the bloody water like a bunch of kids. We reckon it's barmy: you wait till it really gets 'ot: then it’s the time to go in the sea.’

  ‘Are you calling me barmy?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Cassola moved swiftly and the tall, heavy armoured car gunner went down unconscious. When his friends revived him he had a dislocated jaw, a broken arm, three cracked ribs, an eye that was already closing and turning black, a bleeding nose and a throbbing crotch. He lay gasping and whimpering.

  Cassola looked at his victim's friends in turn.

  ‘Any more for any more?’

  There was a sullen silence.

  ‘Right, then. All three of you say after me: 'Our mate's a big prick. The Commandos are tough. It's not barmy to swim. We're just too soft'.’

  ‘You fuck off,’ said one of them, taking courage from the presence of his two comrades.

  Cassola dumped him on the sand. When he came round he was spitting out broken teeth, his nose was pushed to one side and he was also moaning and retching and holding his testicles.

  Cassola approached the two who were still upright. ‘O.K., are you going to say what I told you to?’ They did, in surly fashion, then helped their two limping friends away.

  Cassola picked up the football and slung it so that it hit one of them in the back and pitched him face-first onto the sand.

  Lewis shook his head. ‘You shouldn't have done that, Aldo. I've never hit a bloke outside the ring and I never would. You'll be on a charge.’

  ‘The C.O's all right. He won't take a blind bit of notice. That big bugger asked for it; so did the other one.’

  ‘The C.O's not going to like it.’

  ‘What can he do: confine me to camp?’ Cassola laughed.

  ‘He can give you seven days, suspended till we get back home.’

  ‘Shit, I never thought of that. When I get back I'll be so bloody randy, seven more days to wait'll be enough to turn me rotten.’

  The Commandos were spread over some 200 yards of beach. The fight — or demolition — had taken place at the end remote from where the three officers were dozing in the sun. Troop Sergeant Major Vowden had hurried — without running — to the scene, but by the time he arrived the two injured men had been helped to their feet.

  Cassola, turning to go back whence he had come, a hollow in the sand, bumped into him and looked up, startled but grinning.

  Vowden stood, arms akimbo, glaring down at him. ‘Thinking of having a go at me, now, are you?’

  ‘No, Sar' Major.’ Then, with assured big city cheek: ‘You're one of us.’

  ‘I'm not one of you, Cassola; I'm not a damn fool. And stand to attention.’ The warrant officer's voice rose. ‘I'm tearing you off a strip, you horrible little man. You came here to fight the Ities, not your own side. Are you too dim to realise what you've done?’

  Cassola, knowing this was a rhetorical question, had the sense to remain silent.

  ‘For all you know, you've put two valuable men out of action: two men their unit is going to need next time it goes into action. That's something you know nothing about, Private Cassola; yet. Who d'you think you are? Errol bloody Flynn? James Cagney? What d'you think a battle's really like, you horrible little man? D'you think you're going to be able to knock even the Italians over as easily as chucking your weight about in a brawl?’

  Vowden stood, looking threatening and waiting for a response.

  ‘No, Sar' Major.’

  ‘Going into action is a hellish lot of noise, of your mates shouting their heads off in bloody agony when they've been hit, of mortar bombs and shells and bullets so thick around you that you don't know where to move: except straight ahead, to your objective. It's got nothing to do with picking fights with blokes you know you can wipe the floor with, because you've been taught every dirty trick there is and they haven't. You took advantage of those two poor sods and I'm ashamed of you. You're a disgrace to the Commandos: what's worse, you're a disgrace to X Troop.’

  The cavalry lieutenant colonel sent for Taggart. He was coldly furious.

  ‘The big man whom your trained assassin has put in hospital is a damn good soldier. He's up for an M.M. He's a severe loss to his crew. The other man has been in action a dozen times and his experience is very useful: he's had to be sent away for medical treatment, too.

  Taggart apologised, as angry as the colonel.

  ‘I'm not making an official row of this, Taggart. I wouldn't insult my men by implying that it needs disciplinary action to protect them. But don't be surprised if there are repercussions.’

  ‘I hope not, sir: any one of us can handle three of any of yours; men or officers.’

  The colonel glowered and dismissed him.

  Vowden had already reported to Taggart: who summoned him and told him to pass on to the rest of the troop what the colonel had said about the two injured soldiers; and to point out to all, as he had to Cassola, that toughness did not consist of bare-handed assault but of steadiness in battle.

  Gosland said ‘He's not a bad lad, is Cassola. Just likes showing off, that's all. One good fright, first time in action, will give him some respect for other blokes.’

  ‘Chap like that in my house...’ But Taggart did not allow Stuart to pursue his scholastic reminisce.

  ‘The subject's closed, Angus.’

  Stuart pinkened and fell silent. He was always cross with himself when he put a foot wrong. It was true that his father had been a sea captain: but of a cargo ship, not a man of war. It was also true that he had been to the leading public school he so often dragged into any conversation; but only for two years. He had begun his education at a council elementary school. His father had made some lucky investments and sent him, aged 11, to a preparatory school. At thirteen he had gone to Uppingfield. At fifteen he had been sent to a grammar school as a day boy, because his father had lost most of his money. The experience had embittered him. He always claimed to have spent six years at prep school and five years at Uppingfield, and it was thus that he had obtained his commission and been admitted to a regiment largely officered by Scots
landed gentry. He knew how to make all the right noises, wear the right clothes and ties, drop the right names and watch his manners. He was very easily hurt and Taggart had just done so.

  Taggart's main preoccupation was the constant query. ‘What's the bloody Brig up to and when am I going to hear from him?’

  Brigadier Weatherhead arrived the morning after X Troop, soon after dawn, in the air gunner's cockpit of an obsolete Hawker Hart light bomber, pride of the R.A.F. in the mid-thirties.

  ‘Air Commodore Collishaw, commanding the R.A.F. out here, is an old friend of mine. I haven't forgotten how to handle the Lewis gun. We had a quick look around to see if we could pot an Italian reconnaissance aeroplane on the way. No luck. All present and correct, Taggart?’

  ‘All but the operational plan, sir.’

  ‘That's what I've come to tell you.’

  The three officers gathered around the Brigadier at a folding table outside their tents, where they sat for meals. The Brigadier spread a map on it and pointed to a spot on the coast a few miles to the west of Tripoli. ‘Jebel Asad.’

  ‘Lion Hill,’ Stuart muttered.

  ‘So I believe.’ The Brigadier was curt. Stuart had once tried to engage him in conversation, at a guest night, about a historic cricket match in which Uppingfield had beaten Winchester by an innings, and he hadn't cared for it. The Brigadier had been bowled first ball in that game.

  As though Stuart had not spoken, Weatherhead went on: ‘Only a pimple, actually. Five hundred feet, and has the profile of a lion's head; more or less: or that's what the local Wogs think. There's an old Turkish fort there, with a garrison of one Italian infantry half-company. Intelligence believe that the enemy will make it a key defence point on the approach to Tripoli. As you can see, the coast road passes near its foot, and there are a lot of wadis around it, which will be an obstacle to our advance: there's plenty of concealment for defenders, and each time we capture one we'll have to drive them off the top of the hill between it and the next one. And, of course, it's all backed by desert.’