by Leo Kessler
Awed by the quietness, Schulze lowered his voice almost to a whisper when he had to give directions. Now he knew that they were only a couple of streets away from Mustafa Barracks. Suddenly he made a decision. ‘Matzi, pull up over there – next to that wall.’ Grumbling a little, Matz brought the three-tonner to a halt. ‘Now what?’ he demanded.
By way of an answer, Schulze dropped from the cab and then as an afterthought, reached in to pull out his machine pistol. ‘Grab hold of yer pea-shooter,’ he commanded, ‘and let’s get on with it. This place puts years on me.’
In heavy silence they plodded through the deserted streets, keeping to the shadows cast by the high walls, doubling rapidly across the open spots drenched in brilliant moonlight. Schulze felt his hands begin to sweat. Twice he tried to fight off the desire to check whether any one was following them and twice he failed. There was no one. He shuddered violently and told himself not to be a fool.
They passed down another street. Beyond it, Schulze knew from the map, the barracks were situated. Schulze gripped his machine pistol in his sweating hand. ‘Matz,’ he whispered, ‘watch it. The barracks are round the next bend.’
They moved towards the end of the street, noises from the direction of the barracks becoming apparent. At the corner the two of them halted. Cautiously Schulze poked his head round. He gasped with shock.
‘What is it, Schulzi?’ Matz asked in alarm.
For a moment, Schulze was unable to answer. ‘Take a look at that, Matzi,’ he whispered.
Matz peered round Schulze’s bulk and he too gasped at what he saw there.
Along the walls of the barracks, hastily slung arc lamps glared down, careless of the stringent blackout regulations. In their bright white light, scores of red-faced Tomrnies – many of them elderly and obviously second-line troops, some of them bandaged as if they had just been called hastily from the local military hospital – laboured at their tasks: filling sandbags and erecting walls around the long barrelled guns that were being wheeled into position everywhere in the alley ways and courtyards around the barracks. ‘Anti-tank guns,’ Schulze cried hoarsely, ‘and you know what that means, Matzi?’
‘Ay,’ Matz said quietly, ‘the bastards know Wotan is coming!’
THREE
‘Stop here, Matzi!’ Schulze hissed.
The truck, its engine already switched off, came to a halt with only the slightest of noises. For a moment the two Wotan men sat there in the blacked-out cab staring down the long street.
To their right was the bulk of a hotel, but no light came from within. Beyond, the left side of the street was as black as hell. A whole battalion of Tommies could have been hiding there and they would not have been able to see them.
They clambered out and began to walk down to number 14. The sound of their footsteps echoed and re echoed from the high walls on both sides. Schulze and Matz hauled off their desert boots and thrust them into their pockets hastily. They went on, almost having to feel their way through the inky darkness of the shadow. The house they sought was perhaps a matter of fifty metres away now.
Suddenly Matz grabbed Schulze. ‘There’s somebody up there,’ he hissed urgently. ‘Look.’
Schulze screwed up his eyes and could just make out the faint glow of a cigarette, and whoever was smoking it was standing outside Number Fourteen.
Schulze’s mind raced. Who would be hanging around on a cold city street in pitch darkness at this time of night? he asked himself. He edged his way from the street into a sort of a courtyard. It was too dark to really make out, but Schulze sensed that it was rectangular, hemmed in by a compact mass of silent buildings. From somewhere came the hollow boom of a clock sounding the hour. His lips moving silently, Schulze counted the strokes. Eleven o’clock. The CO would now have begun his move into Alexandria.
‘Matzi, I’ve got a nasty feeling that they’ve stuck a guard on Madame Pomme’s front door. God knows what’s going on at her place, but we’ve got to get in there and warn the CO. Otherwise it’ll be murder for the Company. Those poor turds will walk right into the shit.’
‘The backway?’ Matz suggested hastily.
‘Right. Come on, let’s see if we can find it in this mess.’
They skirted the buildings of the courtyard. For a few moments they felt their way along a high wall, but it ended in a windowless building, which might have been some sort of storage shed. ‘No good,’ Schulze cried in exasperation. ‘Back!’
They retraced their steps. Schulze tripped and floundered full-length over some stairs. Underneath him he felt something squirming and alive. He got up with a frightened yell. A cat shot over his stockinged feet. Schulze held his breath, but the sound died away with out any reaction. The buildings all around remained silent.
Cautiously they started to mount the stairs, feeling the cold stone through their foot-rags. Reaching upwards Schulze felt what he took to be some sort of wrought iron grille. ‘Looks like a balcony, Matzi,’ he whispered. ‘Let’s have a look.’
A thin blue knife of light had slid into the courtyard below. The two NCOs froze. There was a faint hiss of tyres on the cold surface of the yard. It was a man on a bicycle. There was a grunt, which they took to be a man getting off his mount. For a moment there was total silence, then knuckles rapped on glass. A window opened and light flooded the courtyard momentarily and illuminated the man.
There was a brief interchange of words between the cyclist and someone inside, which the two men pressed tight against the balcony wall could not understand. But they did not need to. The cyclist was in British uniform and he had a rifle slung over his shoulder!
The light went out, but the cyclist did not move away immediately. From above they could hear the rasp of a match. Red flame spurted up and the watchers could see the man puff at the cold pipe gripped between his teeth until apparently satisfied he dropped the match and went on his way.
‘Christ!’ Schulze whispered, ‘Madame Pomme has been forced to tell the Tommies what’s going on. That’s why they’re digging in those anti-tank guns at the Barracks. These are guards, waiting for dummies like you to walk right into a nice little trap.’ He licked his parched lips and for the first time was fully aware of the magnitude of the problem. ‘Shit, the Tommies have really got us by the short and curlies this time!’
Schulze bit his bottom lip desperately, his mind racing crazily. By now the Wotan would be well within the city. Should he attempt to break into Pomme’s house, even if it were occupied by the Tommies and fight his way to that radio so that he could warn the CO? Or should he bolt for it and try to stop the CO before he ran into the trap? But which way would they take into the city? He cursed. Naturally he did not know. The only place in which he might be able to warn von Dodenburg was in the street that led to Mustafa Barracks. He made his decision. ‘Come on, Matzi, let’s get out of here, and back to the Barracks.’
‘Barracks?’
‘I’ll explain in the truck. Come on, get yer finger out!’ In his haste to get over the rail of the balcony, Matz forgot the flowerpots. His right foot unhooked one. Before he could grab it, it sailed over the balcony and exploded below, with what seemed to the horrified SS men the noise of an 88mm going off.
There was a shout of alarm. And another. Blackout regulations flung to the winds, lights began to click on everywhere. Up above them a window was thrown open. A voice shouted something in Arabic; then, surprisingly, in German. Instinctively Schulze looked up. He caught a glimpse of Pomme, her bruised, bloody figure contorted with horror. Next to her a little man in British uniform – obviously the one who had shouted – was leaning out of the window, his revolver raised.
The Tommy aimed. Next to him, Pomme darted forward, a sudden fury in her eyes. With all her strength, she ripped her nails down the side of the Tommy’s face. He screamed with startled pain and staggered back. In his agony he pressed the trigger. Pomme threw up her arms. No sound came from her throat. Schulze caught one last glimpse of her fluffy yellow wig slipping
down over the face in absurd pathos and then she disappeared from sight.
Scarlet spurts of flame were beginning to stab the darkness. Schulze ran down the stairs with all speed.
‘Into the shadow,’ he gasped. Now there were excited angry voices crying all around them in the mess of houses. Wildly the two men looked for some means of escape. The exit to the courtyard was already blocked. ‘The hatch!’ Matz cried urgently. ‘At your feet!’
Schulze saw what he took to be the cover for the chute into which went the carbon for the houses’ winter heating system. He grabbed it with both hands and heaved with all his strength.
Nothing happened. The damn thing was jammed!
‘Over here,’ someone shouted. There was a clatter of heavy boots across the cobbles.
Schulze swore and heaved again. He exerted all his strength. The noise of the running feet was getting ever closer. There was a sucking sound and the hatch gave. Matz swung himself feet first into the chute. The next instant he had disappeared with a slight yelp of surprise. Schulze worked himself into the hole, hanging on to the side with one hand the cover with the other. Somehow he managed to replace it. All light vanished. He let go and started to whizz downwards into the unknown murk…
FOUR
At 11.45 on the night of 24 October 1942, 1st Company, SS Assault Regiment Wotan started to rattle into the sleeping suburbs of Alexandria. The little streets did not remain silent for long. Windows were flung open everywhere and the Egyptians, startled from their sleep by the rusty squeak and clatter of tank tracks, stared out in disbelief at the long column of Mark IVs and halftracks, laden with panzer grenadiers, below.
‘German…German…German…’ the exciting discovery fled from mouth to mouth. ‘THE GERMAN LIBERATORS HAVE ARRIVED!’ Suddenly the streets were swamped in Egyptians, wild with delight. Men, women and children rushed directly at the vehicles, flinging themselves on the running boards. A girl in a European dress flung her arms round Sergeant Doerr and kissed him madly. The one-eyed Sergeant was so surprised that he did not even have time to run his hand up her short floral dress as he would have done under normal circumstances. An old man dug a packet of Egyptian cigarettes out of his pocket and tossed them into von Dodenburg’s turret. Wine and Egyptian brandy appeared from nowhere. Standing next to a perplexed von Dodenburg, the ‘Prof’ was hit full in the face by a bunch of roses. Flowers scattered everywhere. In an instant the streets were blocked and von Dodenburg raged as he saw his young troopers submerged by cheering, crying civilians, swept by a torrent of emotional relief and wild joy.
For once in his life, von Dodenburg did not know how to cope with the situation. Assault Regiment Wotan had never been welcomed like this before; even back in the Reich the Armed SS were never really popular. He knew he must not let himself be stalled like this. Hastily he picked up the radio mike.
‘Sunray to Sunray One,’ he barked above the noise to Seitz who, with the Egyptian Major, was leading the column. ‘Do you read me, over.’
‘I read you Sunray,’ Seitz cried and von Dodenburg could tell from the high-pitched enthusiasm of the young second-lieutenant’s voice that he had been infected too by the crowd’s wild joy.
‘Now simmer down, Sunray One,’ von Dodenburg said sharply. ‘Break loose from that mob and get on with it. Time is precious. Over and out!’
Von Dodenburg stood fuming with impatience, then he heaved a sight of relief for up ahead in the jammed street, Seitz’s troop were gunning their engines with a tremendous roar, sending the crazy civilians scattering out of the way in alarm. Next moment, the lead tank, with Seitz and the Egyptian Major in the turret, pulled away, followed by the rest of the troop.
The ‘Prof’ balanced himself on the edge of the turret and started to harangue the civilians in their own language. But his efforts were without success. The fact that he spoke Arabic encouraged them to flock around and bombard him with excited questions. In despair he turned to von Dodenburg and raised his hands helplessly. ‘They simply won’t go away, Major,’ he began ‘I’m afraid I’m not very good –’
The rest of his words were drowned in a blast of gunfire. Von Dodenburg swung round. The white moonlit sky had flushed an angry red. Next instant, there came the frightening chatter of many machine-guns. Screaming hysterically, their brown faces suddenly blanched with fear, the civilians scattered and headed for cover. In a flash they had disappeared back into their houses.
Von Dodenburg grabbed the mike. ‘Here Sunray…here Sunray,’ he called urgently. ‘Sunray One, do you read me?’
‘They’ve,’ Seitz threw all radio procedure to the winds in his horror at whatever was confronting him, ‘they’ve got the whole place…’
The rest of his sentence was drowned by the high-pitched wailing note of another set jamming Seitz’s radio. Furiously von Dodenburg twirled his own dials, trying to eradicate the thrumming wail. Suddenly with startling clarity, Seitz’s voice came through, high and hysterical with pain. ‘My arm…oh God in Heaven…my arm…I can’t bear it… They’re all dead in here…I can’t get out…Please, sir, get me out!’
The frantic plea for help ended in the sharp clear crack of a revolver fired close by. There was the same eerie thrumming of the set for a moment. Then it, too, stopped as the mike fell out of the dead Seitz’s fingers.
Von Dodenburg made a quick decision. ‘Driver, advance,’ he yelled over the throat mike. As the driver thrust home his gear, he called over the radio, ‘Sunray here – to all commanders, prepare for action!’
* * *
‘Halt, driver!’ von Dodenburg cried frantically, as they swung round the corner into the square in front of Mustafa Barracks. Through the swirling mass of black oily smoke, he could see two of his men. One was advancing with hesitant steps, clutching his ruined stomach with both hands. Through his outspread fingers, a horrified von Dodenburg could see a gory red mess of straggling entrails. Just behind him a man lay in the dust looking stupidly at his legs. Where his boots had been there was pink flesh, thrown into relief by the startling whiteness of the stumps. Next instant their stricken tank exploded, its tracer ammunition zig-zagging wildly into the sky.
Von Dodenburg ducked and felt the Mark IV rock like a ship at sea struck by a tremendous wind. Metal pattered heavily against the turret and the force of the explosion dragged the very air out of his lungs. The men had vanished, as had the thick smoke. He gasped with horror. Ahead of him, concealed a moment ago by the murk, there were the deadly British six-pounder anti-tank guns waiting for fresh victims after the slaughter of Seitz’s troop. They had walked into a trap.
Schulze and Matz, wherever they might be at that moment, had failed in their mission after all!
Already the Tommy gunners had spotted him. White tracer started to stich the air as the bren-gunners ranged in. In a moment the first armour-piercing shell would come winging his way and at that range the tanks would not have a chance.
‘Driver – reverse!’ von Dodenburg shouted in a sudden paroxysm of fear. He pushed the ‘Prof’ to one side and flung himself behind the 75mm. It was loaded with solid shot, instead of high explosive which would have been more effective against the Tommy gunners. But he had not the time to re-load. He must put the Tommies off their aim by getting in the first shot.
He jerked back the firing lever just as the flustered young driver stalled the engines. The solid shot whizzed through the air and missing the nearest anti tank gun position, blasted a great hole in the masonry of the barracks.
‘Great balls of crap!’ von Dodenburg yelled in fear and frustration, ‘sort those fucking gears out, man! Quick!’
His words were cut short by a fearsome bang. Von Dodenburg gasped as he was drenched with cold water. For a moment he was physically and mentally paralysed. Where had the water come from? A shell must have hit the water jerricans at the back of the tank. The terrible realization almost made his sick with fear. The Tommies had infiltrated men behind him and the rest of the column. He was cut off.
Again he pressed the trigger. It chattered frenetically. Like angry red hornets the slugs stitched a glowing pattern through the dust in front of the gunpit. He had missed. The Tommy gunners did not. Like a bat out of hell, the AP shell hissed through the air. It lammed into the turret with an awesome crack. The ‘Prof’ screamed. Von Dodenburg swung round. Reichert was grovelling on the floor, twisting with pain a dark red stain spreading rapidly across the back of his khaki shirt. ‘I have been hit,’ he said, pulling himself together, in spite of the tears of pain streaming down his face. ‘Not…not too seriously, I trust.’
Von Dodenburg ducked again, as the tank was struck once more. It shuddered violently as if it might overturn. Von Dodenburg jerked furiously at the intercom leads so that the driver was almost strangled, and screamed: ‘REVERSE…FOR GOD’S SAKE – REVERSE!’
The driver thrust home reverse. For a split second the world stood still. Across the blazing square the Tommy gunners were reloading furiously. Then the engines revved and the Mark IV, its metal sides gleaming silver with shell scores, heaved backwards.
Engines revving full out, they swung round the corner into the burning column, right into the path of the two SAS troopers waiting with the PIAT. At that range, the two troopers crouched over their anti-tank weapon could not miss. Their bomb whammed right into the engine cowling. The driver’s head flew off like an abandoned football, and von Dodenburg’s tank came to an abrupt halt. An instant later there was a whoosh of exploding fuel and it began to burn.
