‘Wadis, sir?’
Taggart had often heard the word and knew perfectly well from the contours on the map what it must mean; but he enjoyed prodding the Brigadier into expatiating when he had the chance.
‘Valleys.’ Weatherhead looked balefully at Stuart. ‘You've seen the target area, I suppose?’
‘Yes, sir. The Turkish fort on Jebel Asad is rather interesting. I tried to take a photograph of it a couple of years ago, but it's not allowed: some Wop soldiers got frightfully het up.’
‘Never mind: plenty of photographs; the R.A.F. have taken some recently.’
‘When are we going in, sir?’ Taggart was looking at some glossy prints the Brigadier was setting out.
‘Timing is critical, of course. The date General Wavell wants is a week from today. That will give us time to work out a detailed plan, for you to rehearse, and to get you down to the area and recce before you seize and ravage the objective.’
Taggart was relieved. He had expected to be told that the raid must be staged within forty-eight hours: which was the kind of schedule one expected from the Brigadier.
Brigadier Weatherhead had served all four years of the Great War on the Western Front; between periods in hospital in England having his three wounds patched up. He had won a Military Cross in 1915 as a second lieutenant and a Distinguished Service Order in 1918 as a brevet captain. In the 1930s he had won a bar to the M.C. on the North-West Frontier, and a bar to his D.S.O. in France in 1940. It was commonly believed that he coveted a V.C. and it was even rumoured that he had asked not to be promoted above the rank of lieutenant colonel and command of a battalion, which seemed to be his last chance to win one. He was a man of swift action and a delay of one week between now and carrying out Operation Wolf was an unexpected boon.
Taggart, always wary since his blooding in France and on two raids against its shores soon after the Commandos were formed, wondered where the catch was.
‘I've worked out your general plan for you, Taggart,’ the Brigadier said.
***
Captain Pennati's battalion had been ordered to fall back to the west of Msus; which was a Godforsaken spot in the wilderness, 25 miles south of the southern fringe of The Green Mountain, Jebel Akhdar. Benghazi, on the coast, on the mountain range's far side, was 60 miles north-west.
He had been recommended for a decoration. So pleased with him was his Colonel that Pennati's name and a citation of his excellent fighting qualities and record had been sent, not by letter, but by wireless.
‘I know I can rely on you and your company to withstand the heaviest of attacks,’ his battalion commander had told him. ‘You are too valuable to put unnecessarily at risk: a fine example to the whole regiment and excellent for morale.’
What morale? Pennati thought dolefully. The regiment's all right, but what's the use of one regiment with high morale amongst a rabble of timid conscripts? Hoteliers must be among the most cynical people on earth and he had been in the business since the age of 17: ten years, now.
The Colonel was still praising him. ‘The General is using our battalion as a back stop: to rally the others when... I mean if we retreat and to fight a rearguard action while they withdraw through our positions. I'm posting your company at the rear of our positions, in future, to hold the enemy up.’
While the rest of the division turn their backs on the enemy and pelt westwards. Pennati mentally completed the battalion commander's unspoken intention.
On the day after Brigadier Weatherhead's arrival at X Troop's desert base, Msus was captured and Pennati's company lost a dozen men before retiring. Pennati himself was pinned down for several minutes under fire from two-pounder guns and machine-guns, and felt sure he was about to be killed and thus deprived of the honour of receiving his medal personally from Il Duce.
Along the coast road, the Italians were retreating in haste towards another insignificant place on the map, Beda Fomm. The force to the south of the Jebel Akhdar was making for the same place. The intention was for the two columns to join there and fall back together to El Agheila, where the narrow space between hills and sea formed a naturally good defensive position: a bottleneck.
The Australians swept into, and beyond, Benghazi.
At Beda Fomm, the southern column of the Italian forces was overtaken by British armoured cars, tanks, wheeled artillery and lorried infantry.
Pennati, weary and depressed, prepared to make what he felt sure must be a last stand before death, wounding or capture. He woke at first light, after four hours' sleep, to the sound of tanks and the cheers of his battalion, to see the main column, from Benghazi, approaching; and among it no less than a hundred new cruiser tanks.
He had an appetite for breakfast that morning for the first time in many days.
Air reconnaissance reported that the British could now muster only some thirty tanks. Pennati inspected his company positions with words of encouragement and reassurance in which, for a change, he could believe.
‘We've got them where we want them this time, lads. Look at all those tanks. Try to count the guns our fellows have brought from Benghazi. Just look at all that infantry. This is where we stop them, once and for all
The first British shells came screaming through the air while he was still making his round and he had to fling himself flat while sand was thrown over him by nearby explosions. The enemy armoured cars were racing between fountains of sand where Italian shells were bursting. The Crusader tanks, hull down behind dunes and ridges, kept lobbing their shells into Beda Fomm and changing position while the defending gunners were trying to range on them.
Pennati, watching and waiting for a charge by the Italian tanks which would sweep over the small British tank force, saw the Italian armour scuttling about in small numbers, obviously bewildered. Why didn't they concentrate into two or three large bodies and seek out the enemy in overwhelming strength instead of wasting their efforts, their petrol and precious time on disorganised searching? Why did they stay near the coast road, when the British were roaming freely about the desert?
He saw a clutch of three Italian tanks brew up almost simultaneously as British shells burst on them. Another tank, on its own, disappeared in a flash of fire and dense smoke from the midst of which two of its crew appeared, staggering and screaming, their clothes alight. A few hundred yards away, five tanks were brought to a halt by British gunfire: three with tracks torn off, two burning.
What had all that cheering been about, a couple of hours earlier?
The troops in the most forward positions were being over-run by armoured cars or charging infantry. Some were dying, others surrendering. Hundreds were retreating.
Verey lights were bursting and whistles shrilling, voices bawled orders, imprecations and exhortations. The sand was churned up by feet and vehicles: Italian armoured cars, lorries, gun limbers, scout cars.
Pennati was choked with sand and the fumes of high explosive. He held his ground, the whole battalion tenacious and full of anger at the disappointment of defeat; when, with so many tanks and men against so few, victory had looked certain.
An armoured car loomed through the gritty dust and two men near him in a slit trench were decapitated by its first burst of fire. Pennati ducked into his own foxhole and sand from the car's tyres was flung into his face, temporarily blinding him. He scrambled out of hiding and ran after it. He lost sight of it and twice he tripped and fell over dead men. It appeared suddenly, again, broadside on, and he slung two grenades at it. One burst against the driver's visor slit and the car began to swing uncontrollably from side to side. Then it was gone again in the storm of upflung sand. Shells were still raining on the Italian lines.
As Pennati paused to draw breath, a British soldier came out of the murk, bayonetted rifle at the high port.
He lunged at Pennati with a hoarse, threatening yell. Pennati stumbled back, turning sideways. The bayonet entered his left upper arm. He heard the man swearing. Pain from the thrust made him cry out also. He lugged hi
s pistol from its holster. As the Englishman withdrew his bayonet for a killing lunge in the belly, Pennati shot him four times in the chest. The dead British soldier fell on top of him. It was thus that stretcher-bearers found Pennati a few moments later: pinned down by the weight of the enemy he had killed, blood seeping from his wounded arm.
By nightfall that day, 7th February 1941, the Italians had lost the Battle of Beda Fomm. The British had knocked out 60 tanks and captured altogether 120. The Italians, fleeing, abandoned 40 tanks and 216 guns. The British and Australians took 20,000 prisoners. Only three British tanks had been put out of action.
At dawn on that day, when the battle was obviously being lost, the survivors of Pennati's battalion were ordered back to Tripoli for a rest. Before they boarded the lorries, Pennati, his left arm in a sling, stood in front of his Colonel.
‘The medical officer tells me your arm will be fully usable in a few days, Bruno.’ They were on their own. The Colonel had not addressed him so intimately before. He wondered what was coming next.
‘I'm making your company up to strength with the best men from the rest of what is left of my battalion. While we're waiting for replacements to bring us fully up to strength again, who will have to be trained before I take them into action, I've got a job for you; on the General's orders.’
The Colonel paused.
‘Sir. I'm... I'm honoured.’
And worried. What the devil had the Old Man got up his sleeve this time?
‘The garrison at Fort Jebel Asad is being withdrawn: they're only second-class troops, as you know. The General wants battle-hardened men there, to guard the road to Tripoli. He's ordered the garrison strength to be increased from a half-company to a full company: yours, Pennati.’
‘Does that mean that we're pulling right back to Tripoli, sir?’
‘Nothing of the sort. We shall hold the enemy at El Agheila. But one must provide for all contingencies.’
‘When do I take over command at Fort Jebel Asad, Colonel?’
‘Straight away. The sergeant medical orderly will take the stitches out of your healed wound. They're due out tomorrow I believe? Good. See you in Tripoli, then; or at the fort, rather: I'll pay you a visit as soon as I can. I hope your other wound won't handicap you: it's really a rest I'm sending you on, as Fort commander.’
Pennati left the presence glumly. El Agheila was not the only bottleneck. He was feeling corked up, himself, and had been looking forward to relieving the pressure in Tripoli; where he knew two or three pretty and complaisant Army nurses. But his orders were to proceed straight to that dreary fort on top of its bleak hill.
***
The day that Brigadier Weatherhead propounded his plan of attack to Taggart and his two section commanders was 3rd February and the eve of the final push towards Benghazi and beyond; the day before Msus fell into British hands.
The Brigadier hinted that an important thrust was about to be made.
‘You'll realise why General Wavell has set the tenth as the date for the operation, in a day or two. Timing is critical.’
‘With respect, sir,’ Taggart said, ‘irrespective of the timing, I don't find the plan for the operation very... er... attractive.’
‘Attractive?’ The Brigadier's thick eyebrows shot up and his brow furrowed. ‘Are you saying it's not feasible?’
‘No, sir. But I think there's a better way.’
‘There's no simpler way; and simplicity is the essence of a show like this.’
‘A frontal attack is always the simplest plan, sir. I think we'd do better to attack on two flanks; and perhaps put up a small frontal diversion.’
‘But we're... you're going to go in like lightning. Take 'em totally by surprise. There won't be time for any fancy flanking movements, Taggart. This is a Commando raid, not a damned campaign.’
‘I have been on a couple before, sir.’ The Brigadier had not been on any. Taggart's voice was as cold and as pointed as an Arctic icicle.
But the Brigadier was not put out. ‘I know your credentials, dammit. Why the hell d'you think I picked you for the job? Look here: we put you down at this spot, a good, flat, hard surface; smooth rock. Low hills on two sides of it. I had a hell of a job persuading the R.A.F. to do it, I might say. Flying in and out will be a damn sight more tricky than what we have to do,’
‘We'll be seen, sir,’ Stuart said. ‘The bedouin will spot us.’
‘What does it matter if some wandering Wog tribe does see us... you? They hate the Italians' guts.’
‘That's true, sir. But there are plenty of informers among them who don't mind taking the Italians' money.’
General Graziani, the Governor of Libya, had the genial habit of executing Arabs convicted of treason by publicly hanging them: not with a rope, but on a meat hook under the chin.
‘All the better: it'll spread alarm and despondency among the Wops. They won't know how much to believe, and they certainly won't know our... your strength or objective. No harm at all if some treacherous bedouin do happen to spot the aircraft.’
Taggart resumed: ‘Attacking up that slope, sir, will be a very slow business. There appears to be good cover, from the photographs, but there's a very good field of fire from the fort. Now, if we approach along these two wadis...’ his finger traced two routes on the map, ‘we could put two parties into the fort while a third, small party makes a diversionary assault on the side where the gate is.’
‘It would take longer.’
‘I don't think we can be sure of that until we've actually seen the ground, sir.’
‘You're not going to have much time for reconnaissance.’
‘We need to move from here, sir, to the hills; to rehearse over the kind of ground we'll be fighting over.’
‘I've already arranged that. You'll leave by road tomorrow night.’
‘The map reference to which we're being air-lifted is much further from the target than I'd expected, sir. I don't want the mortars or the Vickers. I'd rather have four more Brens and more explosives.’
‘You're going to need the mortars to give the impression of a much bigger force.’
‘It might put the wind up the enemy if they think we can put a big force in and pull it out again so easily. But it might be an even bigger shock if they see what a hell of a lot of damage a small force can do. My orders are to ravage the place, sir: to spare no one and to raze the place to the ground.’
‘I know what your orders are, dammit. You're being a bit of a casuist about this, Taggart. Are you sure you aren't against the mortars because of the weight it'll mean carrying?’
‘We can carry the weight, sir, but I'd rather it was distributed among four Brens and more H.E.’
‘The mortars were decided on by senior officers who've done rather more soldiering than you have, Taggart.’
‘And more Commando raids, sir?’ Even his two were a distinction: so far there had been only three raids, all in very light strength.
The Brigadier glowered.
‘You'll do as ordered.’
‘Sir.’ Taggart put a degree of resignation into his acceptance which came very close to insubordination. ‘What's your objection to the Vickers?’
‘I don't want a water-cooled weapon on this kind of operation, sir. Anyway, I'd rather have a Boys.’
‘What use do you suppose an anit-tank rifle will be to you?’
‘If there are any hitches, sir, we might come up against light tanks or armoured cars. And I might want to put a few shots through the gate. If I can't have a Boys, I'd rather have two Brens than the Vickers.’
‘I take your point about the Vickers. All right, Taggart, I'll have it replaced by two Brens.’
‘Thank you, sir. Where are we moving to, sir?’
‘As far west as prudent. How good is your local geography?’
‘I'm still learning, sir.’ Taggart said it with a wry small smile.
The Brigadier took his meaning over that, as well, and gave him a sharp glare.
‘You're aware, then, that Libya is divided into two Provinces, Cyrenaica and Tripolitania.’ Taggart nodded. ‘El Agheila is just this side of the border between them. As you can see, the topography forms a bottleneck there. It's the only place where the Italians can eventually make any sort of a stand. We're a hundred miles from Tobruk, here. I can have you transported seventy-five miles further west, into the eastern part of the Jebel Akhdar. You'll be self-supporting: I'll see that you get rations regularly, even if they have to be dropped by air.’
‘Very good, sir.’
The Brigadier leaned back in his folding chair and looked seriously into the faces of the three young officers.
By God, how I envy them, he thought. Give my right arm to be leading this little show.
‘I want to emphasise once more the great importance attached to this operation. We've pushed the enemy back far more quickly than expected. Benghazi was scheduled to be taken on the twenty-seventh. It looks as though it'll be in our hands within the next three days: three weeks ahead of programme. Air reconnaissance shows that the Italians are pulling back to El Agheila as fast as they can.’ (These words were being spoken four days before the Battle of Beda Fomm. Benghazi was taken the day before that victory.) ‘Operation Wolf should weaken his will to stand at El Agheila, and weaken his force there: troops will be sent rushing back to defend Tripoli. The plan has become even more important than when it was conceived, because of the way events have gone in our favour. The Italians are panicking and a scare near Tripoli will throw them into complete confusion and a total funk. They might even surrender Libya without our having to fight a battle at El Agheila or Tripoli.’
‘We could make it more certain, sir, by dumping our mortars and...’
‘That's enough, Taggart. You've got your orders; and you've got rid of your Vickers gun.’
Taggart grinned.
The Brigadier stood up. ‘If you'd care to send a fatigue party over to where the Hart is parked, you should find the two aluminium stores carriers under the bomb racks have been taken off. There are two bottles of beer each for all ranks in them: with my compliments.’ He favoured Taggart with his wolfish smile. ‘Might compensate you somewhat for having to lug the mortars around.’
Seize and Ravage Page 5
