The Triumph

by Christopher Nicole

  And then to go off and get himself shot through the head following the General in the last of those wild cavalry charges in which that old madman had sought fame by leading whenever possible! Ralph Manly-Smith had earned the Victoria Cross on that campaign, for commanding a forlorn hope into the heart of the Mahsud stronghold. That had set the seal on his gallantry, in the opinion of everyone —except his eldest son. That VC had been Mum’s proudest possession; she had carried it everywhere with her. Thus when she had died in Holland it had disappeared. Bert wasn’t worried about that: she would probably have willed it to him had she had the time.

  Poor Mum. He didn’t even know how she had died. She had been engaged on some kind of hush-hush work, with the General, of course, and bingo. He wondered if he hated the General.

  But then, he had hated Fergus. Sometimes, he still wanted to hate Fergus. But how could you hate a man who has saved your life? And whose future wife you have seduced? Or had she seduced him? He didn’t suppose that mattered, save that he so wanted to explain that to Fergus, and perhaps to warn him, that a woman who was the daughter of a general — because old von Reger had been a general in the Wehrmacht — and could carelessly offer herself to a common soldier, was maybe not going to make an ideal wife for an officer. But he just couldn’t. For one thing, he couldn’t imagine Fergus’s reaction to that information. For another, it was difficult to feel, in his heart, that he owed Fergus all that much. Fergus had not rescued him, Bert Manly-Smith. Fergus had done what was expected of a Mackinder, and played the bloody hero. And been more than adequately rewarded for it.

  All he knew was, that if Ralph Manly-Smith hadn’t also acted the bloody hero, and got killed for it, Bert himself might have been an officer too, and able to make his own play for Annaliese von Reger. Except...would he really want to do that, knowing what she was like? He had been tempted, to go home, and see her again, and discover if she was still as randy as ever. But he hadn’t. He couldn’t do that to Fergus.

  If he had been an officer, then he too would have been expected to act the bloody hero at the drop of a hat, and he might have got his head shot off.

  He wondered if the person he really hated was himself?

  *

  ‘The balloon has really gone up. The latest reports are that the Russians have been taken completely by surprise, and are retreating, or surrendering, everywhere.’ General Auchinleck poured the wine himself. He was fond of tete-a-tete supper parties with his senior officers, and Fergus was a regular guest, because of the general’s friendship for Sir Murdoch: Auchinleck had often dined at Broad Acres and had known the Mackinder boys since their schooldays.

  ‘Damned good thing,’ remarked Brigadier Campbell. ‘If they get to slaughtering each other it’ll be better for the rest of us.’

  ‘Ah, but we are going to fight with them,’ Auchinleck said. ‘The PM is making the defeat of Germany his prime objective, and worrying about what happens after that, after that.’

  ‘Does this affect our plans, sir?’ Fergus asked.

  Auchinleck gave a grim smile. ‘Not if I can help it. But of course, everyone is now clamouring for us to launch our attack here earlier than planned. To help the poor Russians. Quite makes you sick. When did the poor Russians ever help us, when we desperately needed it?’

  He was unusually bitter, and Fergus understood some of the pressure which was being brought to bear on him. And respected his determination to do things his way or not at all. But he was taken aback when, after the meal and while they were enjoying their brandies and cigars, Auchinleck suddenly turned to him and asked, ‘What do you suppose your father would do, Fergus?’

  ‘Oh...ah...I’m sure he’d act exactly as you are doing, sir.’

  ‘Don’t you believe it. He’d have waved his sword and led the armour straight down Halfaya Pass, guns blazing. And do you know something? He’d have got away with it. He always did.’

  ‘Yes, sir. But don’t you think that the fear he might not always get away with it is the reason he hasn’t been given a fighting command in this war?’

  ‘Point taken. But I have no doubt he’s doing a great job in that hush-hush establishment of his. Although, you know, I wish he had been given a fighting command. Things might have been different. Give him my regards when next you write, Fergus. Tell him we are going to do our best.’

  *

  General Auchinleck had laid his plans for an offensive in the middle of November, and to this he adhered, despite increasing unrest in the Government in London at this lengthy delay, and despite increasing fears that Rommel might strike first or that, if not preoccupied in North Africa, the Axis might attack Malta in overwhelming strength. However, Rommel too was clearly awaiting reinforcements which were at that moment committed to the invasion of Russia, as Murdoch was able to confirm through his network of agents. Thus the ‘Auk’ was able to adhere to his dates even if he had failed in his efforts to bring the Eighth Army up to the strength he desired, of three full armoured divisions. By mid-November, under the overall command of General Cunningham, it consisted of two corps, the Thirteenth, commanded by General Godwin-Austen, and comprising the Fourth Indian Division, the New Zealand Division, and the First Army Tank Brigade, and the Thirtieth, commanded by General Norrie, comprising the Seventh Armoured Division (made up of the Seventh Armoured Brigade and the Twenty-Second Armoured Brigade), the Fourth Army Brigade Group, the First South African Division, and the Twenty-Second Guards Brigade Group.

  The plan, naturally, was the same as that used by O’Connor nearly a year before; there was no other available. The Thirteenth Corps was therefore required to make a frontal assault on the German position, while the Thirtieth Corps, which was mainly armour, would swing as widely as possible into the desert, slash into the enemy’s flank, and drive for Tobruk, only seventy miles away. But this was to be a battle on an altogether larger scale than O’Connor’s; the tank strength alone had been raised from around two hundred to no less than seven hundred and twenty-four machines. This was about double the estimated German strength, which in fact provided almost the margin of superiority Auchinleck sought, and half of the tanks were the new fast-moving cruisers, the Tiger Cubs, with which the regiment had been re-armed, and which had hopefully had all their wrinkles ironed out. There were another two hundred in reserve.

  It was impossible to suppose that the accumulation of this large force, which of course included the emplacement of vast supply dumps, or the obvious manner in which it would have to be used, could provide any possibility of surprise. Yet tactically this did seem to happen. The attack was aided by a break in the weather, for no sooner had the preliminary bombardment commenced than the skies opened and a torrential downpour followed. The order to advance was given, and the tanks rolled forward, very slowly at first, as they were following the sappers who were going to clear a path through the minefield — no fortuitous movement of enemy armour had been observed this time.

  With the rain clanging on the tanks like pebbles, and limiting visibility to only a few yards, it was even more eerie than advancing in a sand storm. Fergus rode with Captain Allack and B Squadron, in the centre of the regiment; from here he felt he could exercise a greater tactical control of the situation. But for two days there were few tactics to be employed. On 18 November, a Tuesday, the armour felt its way cautiously from behind the frontier wire to the El Abd Track, the nearest thing to a road in the desert. This day they encountered no enemy at all. On the following day they crossed the track, and moved on. By now they had ascertained that there was a German Mobile Corps stationed about the oasis of Bir Hacheim, roughly due west of the El Abd Track. A small holding force was detached to mask this possible threat, while the rest of the armour made north for the Capuzzo Track, some fifteen miles further on. This was the key to the whole manoeuvre, as because the British and Australians were still holding Tobruk, the Capuzzo Track was Rommel’s main line of communication.

  Dominating the Capuzzo Track was the village of Sidi Rezegh,
which was situated on the top of a ridge some hundred feet above the vital road. On the south the rise to this ridge was quite gradual, but on the north, above the track, it made a very steep escarpment, so obviously its seizure would enable the British to dominate the road and it would be very difficult to retake. Equally important, close to it was a large enemy airfield, which would also be dominated from the village.

  The drive north from the El Abd Track was exhilarating, for only enemy patrols were encountered, and these were quickly dispersed. Orders therefore came for the Corps to split up and seek the enemy armour, which had to be around somewhere. Fergus could not help but feel that this principle, dispersal rather than concentration, was what had got them into trouble earlier in the year. But at least the Seventh Armoured Brigade, with its Support Group, was detached to seize and hold Sidi Rezegh.

  ‘Let’s go,’ Brigadier Campbell told his men, and the tanks surged forward across the desert, racing into the town to the discomfort of the surprisingly small garrison. ‘Well done,’ the Brigadier said. ‘We are here, and we now wait for the rest of-the army to come up. This is the decisive point.’

  Fergus stood his men down for a meal, watched by the curious Arabs, who did not seem the least concerned to have exchanged their German and Italian masters for British. ‘I suppose because you’ve all been here before,’ Joey Manly-Smith suggested.

  ‘We didn’t have time to stop in places like this,’ Bert told him. He had come across to make sure his little brother was all right, but in fact the regiment had suffered no casualties at all. ‘We were in a hurry, the last time.’

  ‘We’re going to be in a hurry again, pretty soon,’ Butler told them. ‘Jerry can’t leave us here.’

  And indeed, before they had finished their meal, the alarm was given: ‘Enemy armour in sight.’

  Fergus hurried forward, while the villagers hastily got inside their houses; they knew there was going to be trouble.

  ‘There seem a hell of a lot of them,’ the Brigadier growled, studying the dust storm to the north-east through his binoculars. ‘For an army which only has four hundred tanks. I would say there are damn near that number heading this way.’

  ‘That means we’re outnumbered two to one,’ remarked his Brigade Major, somewhat unnecessarily.

  ‘Make to General Norrie,’ Campbell said. ‘Enemy attack on Sidi Rezegh imminent, with approximately three hundred tanks.’ He grinned at his officers. ‘One should never exaggerate, gentlemen. Add to that: Request support.’

  ‘Urgent?’ inquired the Brigade Major.

  Campbell considered. ‘I think you could mark that urgent, yes. Now, gentlemen, our business is to hold this village until the army comes to us. Fergus, I want you to withdraw your regiment, as quickly as possible, down the rear of the hill. Move to the west, and when I say so, launch a flank attack on the enemy. You understand you will be outnumbered.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Fergus said. About six to one, he thought.

  ‘However,’ Campbell went on, ‘if he has already committed himself to attacking the village, and it is my intention to wait until he has, your counter-stroke may just throw him into confusion, and force him to retreat. That should gain time for the entire division to concentrate.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Fergus repeated, and hurried off. ‘Let’s go,’ he shouted over the loudhailer, and the tank crews hastily abandoned their meals and climbed into their vehicles.

  ‘Are you returning here, sir?’ Bentley asked.

  ‘In a little while,’ Fergus assured him, and, sitting next to Captain Allack, he rolled out of the village and down the slope behind. ‘Regiment will assume squadron line ahead,’ he ordered, and stood in the cupola to watch the sixty tanks form up.

  ‘Another half mile,’ the Brigadier said over the wireless; he was watching them from above. ‘Then halt and await orders.’

  The regiment proceeded to the west, round the edge of the escarpment. In another half mile the Capuzzo Track came into view, but the enemy armour was still out of sight. Here they waited, for about half an hour, while to the north of them firing began, and looking up the hill they could see shells bursting in the village, and hear the rumble of the rest of the brigade returning fire.

  ‘Stand by, Westerns,’ came the voice over the wireless.

  Fergus picked up the mike: this was the first time he would lead the dragoons into battle as their colonel.

  ‘Move,’ came the command. ‘And good hunting.’

  ‘Advance,’ Fergus said to Allack, and the tank went forward. Heart pounding, Fergus thumbed the mike. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘the regimental prayer.’ He drew a long breath. ‘May the great God of battle, who has guided the fate of this famous regiment on many a hard-fought field, and never failed to lead it to distinction, grant that on this day, faced as we are with a host of enemies of our King and our Country, every man will do his duty, so that should we fail in our ordained task, it will yet be said of us, they were the Royal Western Dragoon Guards, who fought and died according to the ancient valour of their regiment and their blood.’ He waited for the rumble of repeating voices over the wireless to cease, and for Allack’s tank to turn the corner of the ridge and sight the German armour. Then he added, ‘Gentlemen, there is your enemy!’

  ‘Hurrah!’ shouted Corporal Manly-Smith, and his cry was echoed by fifty-odd other tank commanders.

  The entire regiment rounded the ridge. The German tanks were already surging up the steep slope behind the belching guns, and for the moment they were taken unawares. ‘Where?’ Allack inquired quietly.

  ‘Hit them amidships,’ Fergus said, closing the hatch and sitting beside him.

  ‘Left hand down,’ Allack told his driver, and the tank swung to the north. ‘Traverse right fifteen degrees. Range one thousand yards. Fire!’

  The two-pounder roared, and then again. The tank filled with cordite and other odours as well, as they drove straight at the Germans. ‘Bloody thing bounced off,’ the gunner complained.

  ‘Same fucking story as the last time,’ Allack said in despair.

  ‘Aim at the tracks,’ Fergus told him, and grabbed the mike. ‘Aim at the tracks,’ he repeated. ‘They can’t have reinforced the tracks.’

  The gun was depressed and fired again.

  ‘Sand,’ Allack commented. ‘Up a shade, Ada.’

  ‘Christ!’ exclaimed the loader. ‘Talk about brewing.’

  Fergus looked to either side, and gulped. He counted five of his lead tanks already knocked out as the Germans detached several squadrons and these turned their heavier guns on the approaching British regiment. ‘Keep advancing,’ he said into the wireless. ‘Close the bastards.’

  ‘Got one,’ the gunner crowed as he neatly shot the tracks off a panzer, causing it to slew round and stop. But its gun could still fire, and did so, time and again.

  Now Allack’s squadron was in the midst of the enemy, blazing away left and right with their two-pounders. At this close range they were doing more damage, but not half so much as they were suffering. Fergus felt physically sick as he saw some more of his men being fried alive in blazing tanks, others throwing themselves from the cupolas to be cut down by the machine guns which were the Germans’ secondary armaments.

  ‘Brigade to Westerns,’ came the voice over the wireless. ‘Withdraw your tanks behind Sidi Rezegh. Repeat, withdraw your tanks behind Sidi Rezegh.’

  ‘Oh, shit,’ Allack complained.

  ‘Obey orders,’ Fergus told him, and thumbed the mike. ‘Dragoons will withdraw to the west. One-hundred-and-eighty-degree turn, driver.’

  The tank slewed round, still firing. All who could followed. The battle still raged for the next few minutes, then the Westerns were racing for the shelter of the escarpment. Fergus threw up the hatch to count, and his sickness grew: there were only thirty-six tanks left out of the sixty he had led into battle.

  ‘Well done, Dragoons,’ the Brigadier said. ‘That did the trick.’

  Fergus couldn’t believe h
is ears, looked back in surprise to see that the German armour was also pulling back, disconcerted by the fury of the flank attack they had just suffered. Nor had they gone entirely unscathed: if their casualties were considerably less than those suffered by the regiment, there were still a dozen panzers immobilized or burning at the foot of the escarpment.

  ‘Well done, Westerns,’ he said in turn. ‘Well done.’

  *

  They regained the village, and Fergus was able to report to the Brigadier. In fact, Campbell had seen for himself that tank for tank the British cruisers were no match for the German panzers, and this sombre fact now dominated the battle. The rest of Thirtieth Corps soon came up, and the Afrika Korps soon renewed their assault. The regiment, having suffered such heavy casualties, was kept in reserve in Sidi Rezegh, but the other regiments and brigades launched counter-attack after counter-attack against the enemy, always with the same result: the Germans were invariably checked for a few hours, but the British casualties were heartrending. This constant pounding went on for two days, at the end of which Thirtieth Corps had lost more than four hundred tanks, or a staggering two-thirds of its strength. The Germans had lost about half that number, so that the odds still seemed to favour the British, but from the way more and more panzers were appearing from the north, it was evident that the original intelligence estimates of the total German tank strength had been grossly under-estimated. At this juncture, the support of his infantry having failed to materialize — the South Africans, under-trained for desert warfare, were virtually cut to pieces —General Norrie sadly determined that he must abandon Sidi Rezegh and fall back on El Abd Track to reorganize his shattered command.

  This was a bitter blow to the tank crews, who had fought so hard and so well, and apparently unavailingly. But in fact they had not sacrificed themselves entirely in vain. Rommel had felt called upon to use every tank at his command —which actually numbered five hundred and eighty-eight instead of the approximately four hundred reported by Intelligence — and with the panzers thus thoroughly distracted, General Cunningham had turned Thirteenth Corps’ holding attack on the coast into a fully-fledged onslaught, thus executing the most perfect of all military manoeuvres: the punch becomes the feint, and the feint becomes the punch.