The Triumph

by Christopher Nicole

  O’Connor gestured Fergus into a small inner room. ‘Sit down, Mackinder.’ The General also sat down, as did his ADC. ‘Cigarette?’

  ‘I don’t, sir.’

  O’Connor nodded. ‘I’m recommending that you are confirmed as CO of the Westerns, Mackinder.’

  Fergus raised his head. ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘You are the obvious man for the job, in more than one way. Or you should be. Tell me, how is the trooper you picked up?’

  Fergus gulped. He’d had no idea the General knew anything about that. ‘He is badly burned, sir. But I believe he is going to be all right.’

  ‘Good. It’d be a pity if he were to die, after your effort. A splendid effort, Mackinder. But hardly one expected of a commanding officer.’

  Fergus opened his mouth and closed it.

  O’Connor smiled. ‘Your action was observed by an Italian colonel, who apparently nearly ran you down while you were rescuing Manly-Smith, and who insisted upon bringing it to my attention. I therefore required Captain Romerill to give me a full report on the incident, and he confirms in every way what the Italian colonel said. I intend to forward these reports together with my recommendation.’

  Fergus swallowed. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said.

  ‘I would estimate they will give you a medal. You certainly deserve one for so gallant an action. As to whether they will consider that your behaviour in abandoning your tank to save the life of a single trooper was consistent with the responsibilities of a commanding officer, I cannot say.’

  ‘With respect, sir,’ Fergus said. ‘I was not in command of the tank, and at that moment I had no idea that Colonel Wilkinson was dead.’

  ‘Oh, quite. I shall put that in my report as well.’ The General held out his hand. ‘It’s a privilege to know you, Fergus.’

  *

  Fergus stood outside the door of the command tent and watched the truck bouncing over the uneven ground towards him, grinned as he saw the officer getting down from beside the driver. ‘Tommy!’ he shouted. ‘Welcome back.’

  Bentley saluted. ‘They were kind to me, Colonel.’

  Fergus shook hands. ‘Thank God they were, Major; I’ve been doing two men’s work.’

  ‘And you’re to get the VC.’

  ‘Yes.’ Fergus was embarrassed.

  ‘That’ll make three in the family. That has got to be unique. What does your old man think about it?’

  ‘Well, I haven’t actually heard from him yet. I only got the news yesterday. How the hell did you find out?’

  ‘It’s all over Benghazi. So, what’s been happening?’

  The two officers gazed over the sand at the horizon, shimmering in the distance. The command tent was pitched on a slight rise, allowing Fergus to overlook both the regiment, encamped in the hollow behind him, and the desert to the west, but the only things visible out there were the three outposts, situated on other hillocks looking west. ‘Not a lot. The Eyeties are too afraid to move, and Sir Richard isn’t ready yet.’

  For O’Connor had also been promoted, to lieutenant-general, and given a knighthood, for his brilliant Desert Gallop.

  ‘So I’m back in time,’ Bentley said with considerable satisfaction. ‘I’m looking forward to seeing Tripoli.’

  ‘Yes,’ Fergus agreed. ‘I have a notion it’s not going to be quite such a romp, this time. There are Germans over there.’

  ‘Germans?’ Bentley was incredulous.

  ‘Yes. Armoured units. Some of our fellows had a skirmish with them just beyond El Agheila a couple of weeks ago. There don’t appear to be very many of them, but they’re obviously intended to stiffen up the Italian resistance. So...’

  ‘I’d like to have a whack at the Germans,’ Bentley said.

  ‘Oh, so would I. And we’re going to get it. Glad to have you back, Tommy. Now get yourself settled in.’

  *

  The truck had also brought mail. There were letters from home, full of congratulations for the brilliance of the campaign in which Fergus had shared. It seemed all England was basking in the sunlight of a victory at last. But no one up there yet knew any details, although Wilikinson’s death had been reported. ‘I expect you’ll get the regiment,’ Dad had written. But he hadn’t known. Or about the Victoria Cross. That hadn’t sunk in yet. It had been his dream, always. But it hadn’t crossed his mind when he had leapt out of the tank to rescue Bert.

  There was a complex character. Because included in the mail was a letter from the hospital in Cairo: ‘It is difficult for me to express my thanks to you, sir, as I understand that you saved my life,’ Bert had written, his hand as stilted as his choice of words. ‘I would appreciate your knowing, sir, that I am and must remain grateful to you for the rest of my days on earth, and this I shall do. I therefore, sir, tender my most humble apologies and look forward to the day when I can rejoin the regiment.’

  Fergus wondered if the pain and shock had affected the poor young idiot’s mind. What did Bert Manly-Smith have to apologize to Fergus Mackinder for? What could he have to apologize for? At any rate, he intended to see that the lad got his stripes back. He deserved them.

  He sat in the canvas chair outside his tent and looked down at his command. His command! It already bore the mark of Mackinder. But then, it had, even when poor Johnny Wilkinson had been alive; it was, after all, not yet a year since it had last been commanded by a Mackinder. Now the men, even the padre and the medical staff, fell in for their keep-fit classes every morning without being summoned, just as they oiled and greased their weapons and their machines with loving care. They were veteran soldiers now. They had fought, and they had won. Long gone were the white skins. Those had accompanied the spic and span tropical kit into memory. Now their uniforms were that whitish yellow he had first seen on Sergeant-Major Blair outside Alexandria.

  Alexandria! he thought. And Cairo! And Monique! Since the campaign had ground to a halt he had had too much time to think, and it had been mostly about Monique. Which distressed him. He was engaged to be married to Annaliese — and he had let her down with a bump. No soldier on active service could be expected to remain chaste, but when he took a woman it should be some nameless and virtually faceless whore, who provided a function yet could never interfere with the course of his life; it should never be with a lovely, vital woman who was impossible to get out of his mind. Because he knew that the next time he got leave, which could not be long delayed, he would wish to return to Cairo and find Monique again.

  But why was he guilty? Monique had demanded nothing of him save his body. Which was all he had demanded of her in return. Not a word of endearment had passed between them. She was a sensible, sophisticated woman, who had wanted sex and had chosen a partner. It was up to him to be no less sophisticated, and forget such crazy ideas as loving her. He could not possibly love her; he loved Annaliese.

  How he wished this war would get moving again, so that he could occupy his mind in combat. In leading his men into battle. His men, for the first time.

  But O’Connor’s plans were being frustrated by events beyond his control. Towards the end of the previous year the Italians had invaded Greece, with no more success than they had obtained in Egypt. The Greeks had defeated them and hurled them back. So Hitler had gone to the aid of his ally there as well. Only on a much larger scale than in Africa. It was obvious that the Greeks could not take on both the Italians and the Germans, so Wavell had been required to send an army from Egypt to fight in the Balkans. Those men had been the reserves for which O’Connor had been waiting to resume his westward advance.

  Even worse, a large proportion of the logistical support he had been awaiting had been diverted to Greece as well. It looked as if the long-heralded invasion of Tripolitania was going to be delayed still further, and all the while the Italians, now that they had been reinforced by some German elements, would be preparing a stiff resistance, no one could doubt. Thus the Eighth Army sprawled, comfortably, dispersed on what was essentially garrison duty. El Agheila was
held by an infantry regiment. The dragoons were in reserve, some ten miles back, encamped just off the road to Benghazi, but close enough to the sea to enjoy it; Fergus could see the blue from his tent. The rest of the army was also in cantonments, in and around Benghazi itself. Once again, it was difficult to remember that they were at war, it was so peaceful, sitting here in the desert, waiting. A restful time.

  Had been a restful time. Fergus frowned as the telegrapher hurried towards him. ‘Message from Major Lawton to all units, sir,’ he gasped. ‘He is being attacked.’

  Fergus sat up. ‘By what?’

  Lawton commanded a flank guard situated a further ten miles into the desert.

  ‘Armour, sir. German armour.’

  ‘Holy hell!’ Fergus was on his feet. ‘Sound stand to. Fall the men in. And find me Major Bentley.’

  The trooper hurried off, and Fergus buckled on his revolver. ‘Break camp,’ he told Waterman, his batman. ‘Hurry.’ German armour? Now indeed he could hear the distant sound of gunfire. He went to the wireless truck. ‘Does HQ know about this?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The telegrapher was listening again, while the notes of the bugle summoned the regiment to assemble. ‘El Agheila is under heavy attack.’

  ‘Christ!’ Bentley had arrived. ‘I thought they were done.’

  ‘Apparently they don’t know it,’ Fergus snapped. ‘Get me Brigade. Ask them for orders.’ His instincts were to go to the aid of Lawton. But if Agheila was also in difficulties...

  The radio was a jumble of voices, asking, commanding, imploring...the telegrapher raised his head. ‘El Agheila has been ordered to evacuate and fall back, sir.’

  ‘On us. Right. Major Bentley, have the crew fall in and the engines started. We must be prepared to counter-attack the enemy the moment the garrison at Agheila reaches us.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Bentley hurried off.

  ‘Sergeant-Major, move the trucks to the rear,’ Fergus said.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Brothers followed Bentley. The engines started, and the trucks rumbled along the road towards Benghazi.

  ‘Enemy tanks reported north-east, sir,’ the telegrapher said.

  Behind them! Fergus snapped his fingers. The Germans must have sent their tanks across the desert, just as O’Connor had done.

  ‘We’re to fall back on Brigade, sir,’ the telegrapher said. ‘Fall back?’ Fergus was incredulous. ‘What about the people from Agheila?’

  ‘Brigade is to concentrate, sir. Before Benghazi.’

  *

  ‘The Germans are commanded by a chap called Rommel,’ Brigadier Campbell told them. ‘He’s an experienced tank officer. He was one of the fellows who led the panzers through France.’

  I wonder if he’s the chap we fought that day? Fergus thought, with Dad in so remarkable command.

  ‘As far as we have been able to discover, he has perhaps a panzer division with him here. That would mean we could be outnumbered, but we beat the Italians when we were outnumbered, so there is no reason to suppose we can’t beat these fellows. Rommel is trying the same flanking movement as we carried out successfully last month. Well, we are going to go out there and hit him before he completes it.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ they chorused happily. Germans, Fergus thought. Those were the fellows he really wanted to fight. Annaliese’s people. But Annaliese wanted them beaten as badly as anyone.

  The brigade moved out, a screen of tanks scouting. They advanced into the desert for some miles, then they heard cannon fire, and the scouts returned. ‘Enemy armour beyond the next hill,’ they reported. ‘Supported by artillery. One of our tanks has brewed.’

  ‘Artillery?’ the Brigadier queried. ‘Out here in the desert?’

  That didn’t make sense, and the brigade prepared to attack. They topped the next rise, the three regiments alongside each other in column of squadrons, and there paused to take stock of the situation. In front of them, some five miles away across a shallow valley, there was at least a brigade of tanks; it was impossible to say whether they were German or Italian. But they were presently parked, behind a screen of rather small and obviously highly mobile guns, supported by infantry — and the infantry were definitely German.

  ‘Those are anti-aircraft guns,’ the Brigadier commented over the wireless. Not artillery.’

  No one replied; they could all see the British scout, which was still burning in the valley.

  ‘Brigade will attack,’ came the order.

  ‘Follow me,’ Fergus told his men, and the dragoons rolled down the hillside. They reached the bottom without mishap, within about three miles of the enemy, and then the anti-aircraft guns, brought down to aim horizontally, opened fire. Fergus could see the flashes, but had no idea where the shells were going until there came a sharp expletive over the wireless followed by silence from that source.

  ‘Brewed,’ Martell, the new commander of A Squadron, observed.

  ‘There is another, sir,’ remarked the corporal driver.

  Fergus twisted his head left and right. It was difficult to see clearly, especially as they were now enveloped in sand and the British tanks had started to return fire. But what he could see he didn’t like. At least five of the attacking tanks were out of action. In ten minutes they had lost half as many machines as in the entire earlier campaign, and they had not yet closed the enemy.

  ‘Fall back,’ the Brigadier commanded.

  ‘Fall back?’ Martell looked at Fergus in dismay.

  ‘Obey orders,’ Fergus told him.

  Obviously they were risking unacceptable casualties —from anti-aircraft guns? The tanks turned and fled for the hills, followed now by the German armour. The shooting was fierce and several more British tanks were knocked out, for the loss of only one of the Germans.

  ‘We’ll give the bastards a taste of their own medicine,’ the Brigadier said. ‘Prepare to receive enemy tanks,’ he told the support group.

  ‘What might be called a tactical withdrawal,’ Martell observed.

  The brigade raced over the undulating desert, and came in sight of their assembly point, and, reassuringly, a row of anti-tank guns waiting for the enemy to appear in pursuit.

  ‘Spread out, make your way behind the artillery, and regroup for counter-attack,’ the Brigadier said.

  ‘A Squadron will steer two four five,’ Fergus said. ‘B Squadron will steer two six oh. C Squadron will steer two seven five.’

  The squadrons opened up as they altered course, allowing the anti-tank guns a clear field of fire. ‘There they go,’ Martell shouted happily as the British guns exploded.

  Fergus unbuckled his belt and threw up the hatch to stand in the cupola and look back. The Germans — he had no doubt now that they were Germans — were coming over the last rise in line abreast, and the British anti-tank shells were bursting amongst them. But none of them seemed knocked out, and certainly they didn’t stop their advance as they belched flame and smoke. Fergus turned back in dismay and watched two of the support lorries exploding, while one of the guns had also been hit. ‘Holy hell!’ he said. ‘Our guns can’t stop them.’

  ‘Pull out,’ the Brigadier commanded. ‘Fall back on Benghazi. Pull out.’

  *

  They fled for their lives, confronted with a situation they had never envisaged. The effect on morale was disastrous. In France the British troops had felt they had been let down by their allies; when British armour had had the opportunity to fight the German panzers, they had generally given as good as they had received. But here they had been routed, by tanks which were more heavily armoured and armed than themselves — and by anti-aircraft guns being used as anti-tank weapons, and possessed of singular penetrative power.

  But more than even the sheer physical effects of their defeat, it was the unexpectedness of it, after the glorious euphoria of the Gallop. Now they could only gallop back again, because there was no time to think. The Germans, supported by the rejuvenated Italians, kept striking as hard as the British had done the previous two months.
Flanking forces kept being sent through the desert to cut the British lines of communication. Benghazi had to be abandoned, and the intention apparently was to make a halt at Derna. But the Germans outflanked the British yet again, and the Eighth Army barely got out of Derna in time. Some of them. Because here catastrophe struck. Lieutenant-General O’Connor, the man the army expected to stem the tide of defeat, together with General Neame, VC, were supervising the withdrawal of the last troops when the Germans arrived.

  The news of General O’Connor’s capture was the final blow to the British morale; now their sole objective was to regain the comparative safety of Egypt. Fergus had never experienced anything like it. In France at least it had been a fighting withdrawal. Now, whenever he wanted to stop and fight, the orders were the same: pull out, as quickly as you can — the enemy are behind you. More often than not they weren’t yet, and the constant retreat was crushing — but not so crushing as the thought of exposing their tanks to those deadly AA guns.

  Nor did they escape unscathed in any event. Trucks were destroyed or bogged down or simply broke down; and so did tanks as their support groups dwindled. The army fell apart. General Wavell, preoccupied with the equal disasters taking place in Greece and Crete, had to take violent steps to stabilize the situation. He threw an Australian division into Tobruk with orders to hold the port at all costs, and commanded the rest of the battered army to re-form inside Egypt, behind the narrow Halfaya Pass, which the troops had already renamed Hellfire Pass. Here they attempted to make a stand, but the German armour came storming through. The regiment was in the thick of the fight, and lost heavily. Even Fergus had to accept the orders for another withdrawal.

  They fell back to Sidi Barrani, where it had all begun, so gloriously and optimistically, the previous December. Here they were again told to make a stand. But they knew there was no way they were going to halt the German armour. Fortunately, this time there was no attack. Fergus and his men gazed wearily and despondently to the west, only slowly realizing that they were at last being given a reprieve. The Germans had reached the end of their supplies and their line of communication. But one hundred and thirty-two British tanks — two thirds of the total with which they had commenced the battle — had been lost, and a large number of men. It had been a shattering defeat.