The Triumph
Page 16
Then it was back to work. The build-up of forces continued, replacements arrived, men and machines, and it was a matter of training them in desert techniques and survival. The men were very eager, but also very green. They also, unfortunately, had a very healthy respect for the name Rommel, and Fergus began to realize that it was a matter of crucial importance that the Auk gain a victory as dramatic as that of the previous year — and that this time he should hold on to it.
But the General was still not ready, in his opinion, when peremptory orders arrived from London that he must attack no later than the dark moon period of June. This political direction of a commanding general in the field was unheard of since the days of the Peninsular War, and caused a stir. Many expected the General to resign. But like a good soldier he accepted the decision and made his preparations for an offensive. Unfortunately, Rommel struck first.
*
Fergus had just taken the regiment back up to the front, and had indeed been greatly impressed by the huge defensive system which had been created, almost reminiscent of what his father had told him of Flanders during the Great War. Here were what were known as ‘boxes’, foursquare fortresses designed to resist enemy armour. They didn’t look like fortresses, and to the recruits, seeing nothing but empty desert, they seemed a joke. But they were surrounded by minefields and carefully embedded concrete pillboxes, as well as buried dumps of food and fuel and ammunition. The General had clearly given much thought to resisting marauding columns of enemy armour, and this certainly seemed one answer. In theory, the panzers were to be allowed the freedom of the empty desert, but be unable to crack any of the strong-points, around which they might flow like an incoming tide around various concrete moles, but from which they could be counter-attacked at the right moment.
Even the British armour was concentrated in boxes, and if this was ultra-defensive thinking to Fergus’s mind, he assumed it was because the army was not yet ready to take the offensive.
The sudden appearance of the German tanks, careering out of the desert behind blazing guns and supported by their mobile artillery as well as the Luftwaffe, did not therefore frighten anyone, as it had done further west on two previous occasions. If it was a probe, such as had started the last Rommel offensive, it would hopefully soon discover that this time there was going to be no headlong Allied retreat. If it was the commencement of a battle, the army felt total confidence in its new defensive position, and if Rommel blunted his panzers immediately before the British were ready to launch their own attack, so much the better. The brigade thus contented itself with firing at any enemy vehicles which came too close, and awaiting the orders for a counter-thrust.
Within a couple of days, however, it became obvious that this was indeed the opening of a battle, and that the German target was Tobruk. The panzers hurled themselves at the various boxes which had been set up to block their advance, and disconcertingly, some of these supposedly impregnable positions began to crumble. The Seventh Armoured Division was also subjected to heavy attacks, in its position east of Bir Hacheim, which was being defended with the utmost skill and gallantry by the Free French. These onslaughts were repelled, and the regiment knew they were giving as good as they were getting, but to their dismay no orders came to counter-punch and relieve the French. Day after day passed, with the panzers apparently being allowed to run free in the belief that they would simply wear themselves out.
‘When are they going to let us go?’ Bentley grumbled. ‘For God’s sake, we’re not fortress troops.’
It was not until 4 June that the division was let go, and then it was too late. The panzers, having recoiled from their initial onslaught, had been reinforced, and yet again in the open desert the German machines and gunfire were over-whelming. Soon the British armour was as usual being ordered to pull out. This time the troops were angry. ‘When are we going to beat the buggers?’ Sergeant Manly-Smith moaned, banging his fist into the side of his tank.
Losses had been heavy, but when the casualty figures were estimated, they still seemed on the right side of the ledger. The panzers had lost some four hundred tanks, as against three hundred and fifty British; on both sides a number of these would be repairable, depending on which side eventually held the field; there were in any event still over three hundred British vehicles ready for immediate use, two hundred and fifty of these being cruisers. More disturbing was the loss of men, over the army as a whole; the total was estimated at about ten thousand, and the Germans and Italians could hardly have suffered less, as their infantry had been battering against the South African division holding the coastal road — but of the Allied total some eight thousand were thought to be prisoners of war. This suggested that despite the boxes, there had been a crumbling of morale in some places as the panzers had advanced.
Once again it was a case of everything to the rear. The general orders were clear enough, and confident enough. The Eighth Army would fall back on Egypt, and the vast amount of men and materiel which was now pouring up the Red Sea; these included some three hundred and fifty new tanks, which would entirely make up any losses. This would mean that Rommel, if he continued his attack, would be stretching his lines of communication to the limit, and be ripe for a counter-stroke. The strategy also involved letting Tobruk be invested once more, but only temporarily — and it had survived investment before. This time the garrison was to consist in the main of South Africans, and was to be commanded by General Klopper, of the South African Division.
This decided, the Eighth Army, resentfully and sullenly, pulled back to their old position between Sidi Barrani and Mersa Matruh. Their officers did their best to raise morale, assuring them that it was indeed nothing more than a tactical ploy which would bring them a decisive victory in the near future. Unfortunately, the old hands had heard it all before, twice. While the recruits were merely bewildered. Real warfare in the desert, with the heat and the sand and the thirst, the screaming panzers and the equally screaming aircraft overhead, bore not the remotest resemblance to mock warfare on Salisbury Plain.
Fergus had never known the morale of the regiment to be so low. Men sat around in groups when off duty, muttering at each other. When required to entrench the muttering grew more intense. They saluted their officers while they looked at the ground, and the effect they had on the replacements who hastened up, fresh-cheeked, from Cairo, was disastrous.
Fergus called an officers’ conference. ‘This is a very serious matter,’ he told them. ‘And it must be checked, and reversed, at once. Now, this is what we are going to do. We are...’ he checked to look at the telegrapher, who had entered the room without knocking. ‘What the devil...?’
The corporal’s face was quite white. ‘Colonel, sir,’ he stammered. ‘News has just been received...Tobruk has surrendered.’
PART TWO
VICTORY
6
England, 1942
‘This is quite catastrophic,’ Churchill declared. ‘What in the name of God more can we do? We appoint a fine fighting soldier to overall command; we give him damn near everything we have; we allow him as much freedom of action as we dare, having regard to the whole world situation...and he gets beat.’
‘He’s saved the Eighth Army,’ Murdoch protested mildly.
‘Saved the Eighth Army? I didn’t give him the Eighth Army to save it. I gave it to him to drive Rommel out of North Africa. And I don’t know that he has saved it. Do you realize there is the most tremendous flap going on down there? They are talking of evacuating Cairo. They are burning their code-books. Some blithering idiot of a naval officer has commanded that the entire stock of binoculars in Alexandria be thrown into the harbour to prevent them from falling into the hands of the enemy. This is after we have allowed Tobruk, with enough supplies to keep an army going for three months, to be handed over to the Afrika Korps. It is quite unbelievable.’
He paused, and Murdoch waited. The PM clearly had considerable problems at that moment, too many for his own to be mentioned.
Murdoch sighed, but he had known that decision was inevitable, even if no suggestion of evacuation had come from the Commander-in-Chief himself.
Churchill had heard the sigh. ‘More than the last time, it’s a matter of restoring morale. It is a matter of restoring morale here in London as well, I can tell you.’
‘So who is going this time?’
‘Alexander. Perhaps I should have sent him in the first place.’
Murdoch thought he might just about be right. He did not know Harold Alexander well: there was a considerable difference in their ages, Alexander being ten years the younger. Yet for that very reason he would probably be a sound choice: he was, equally, seven years younger than Auchinleck. He was also a soldier of the most undeniable courage and tenacity of purpose; the last time Murdoch had seen him had been on the beach at Dunkirk, when as general officer commanding the evacuation, he had been the last to leave, and had inspired everyone with his quiet confidence.
But there was a problem. ‘I thought Alexander was already earmarked to be Eisenhower’s deputy, when we launch Torch,’ he said. The Anglo-American decision to undertake an amphibious attack on the western Mediterranean coast of North Africa, so as to catch the Axis forces between two fires, had been recently concluded and was still known only to a very few people.
‘That’s true. But we will have to have him back. I’m giving the Americans Bernard Montgomery instead.’
‘Hallelujah!’ Murdoch murmured.
Churchill shot him a glance. ‘What have you got against Montgomery? I know he hasn’t had a very brilliant war, but he simply hasn’t had the chance since we were thrown out of France. Now’s his opportunity to do what he can.’
‘Oh, quite. I was just thinking that he’s not everyone’s cup of tea. He can be...abrasive?’
‘You mean damned cocky,’ Churchill suggested. ‘Eisenhower will have to grin and bear it. But in addition to replacing Auchinleck in Cairo, I also intend to make some changes in the whole command structure of the Middle East. Holding a command which covers everything we have to defend from Iran west is too much for one man. I see that now. It is a change I should have made before. Alexander will have overall command of North Africa and responsibility for defending the Suez Canal; Auchinleck will take the rest of the Middle East.’
‘That’s a little rough on Auchinleck,’ Murdoch pointed out. ‘If he had only had to worry about Libya he might have pulled it off.’
‘I accept that,’ Churchill said. ‘That is a stroke of ill fortune. But in the present circumstances there has to be a change.’
‘And who will get the Eighth Army? Or are you retaining Ritchie?’
‘No, I am not. He has clearly lost the confidence of his troops. As to who is to replace him, I wish to God I knew. It will have to be Strafer Gott, I suppose.’
‘You’ll hardly do better. But Strafer took over Thirteenth Corps from Godwin-Austin before Rommel’s attack. He’s been as much involved in the disaster as anyone.’
‘From what I have been able to gather, Thirteenth Corps has come out of this debacle better than anyone else. Which is to Gott’s credit. Anyway, I haven’t made a firm decision yet. I intend to fly out to Cairo myself, and see the situation on the ground personally. I also intend to inform Auchinleck of my decision regarding him in person as well; I can hardly do less.’
Murdoch nodded. He knew that Churchill, like himself, never shirked his duty. ‘When are you leaving?’
‘Tomorrow. Now then, have you got the man for Yugoslavia?’
Murdoch grinned. ‘Yes. Myself.’
Churchill frowned at him. ‘I am really not in the mood for jokes, Murdoch. Not today.’
‘Sorry. It really would be just up my street. I have parachuted before, you know.’
‘Crawling about a lot of cold mountains with a bunch of bandits is up your street?’
‘Well, I rather gather that a good number of the guerrillas are soldiers who refused to accept the surrender of the Yugoslav Army. They could become a useful fighting force. But the main reason is that my reports have told me that Paul is now in Yugoslavia. A general, would you believe it.’
Churchill’s frown deepened. ‘You wish to go and fight your own son?’
‘If necessary. But you know I have always had a feeling that Paul was never whole-heartedly behind Hitler. I won’t deny he’s a Nazi. But it’s Hitler we want to get out. And if there is an underground movement, and Paul is interested in it, and I could contact him...’
‘We’ll get Hitler by smashing him from the front,’ Churchill growled. ‘Who are you sending?’
Murdoch sighed. ‘Brigadier Durden. He knows the area.’
‘What orders have you given him?’
‘As we discussed. We have contacts there already, and they are expecting a high-ranking British officer. He will be dropped by parachute at an agreed place, with his staff, which I am limiting to three people. As I say, these Chetniks, as they call themselves, will be waiting for him. He will make contact with their leader, this fellow Mikhailovitch, and set up a liaison with him. He will observe the Chetnik operations against the Germans, and relay back to us their requirements.’
‘Within reason,’ Churchill reminded him. ‘You say these people are expecting him. You realize we know nothing about this Mikhailovitch save that he was an officer in the Yugoslav Army who wishes to continue fighting. We know nothing about these so-called Chetniks, either, save that they have taken to the hills. Are you certain Durden won’t be jumping straight into a trap?’
‘No,’ Murdoch said. ‘But if we are sending a mission to these people, we must accept this risk; it could happen at the jump or weeks later. I don’t like doing it, Winston. You know that. But if it must be done...’
‘It must be done. We need the support of people who refuse to surrender their country. That is the kind of underground I can work with. Keep me informed.’
Murdoch nodded and stood up.
Churchill grinned at him. ‘And if Durden can open useful contacts with General von Reger, without jeopardizing his mission, then you may give him my permission to do so.’
*
Murdoch sat at his desk and considered writing Fergus. But he really wasn’t in the mood. Fergus had survived this latest setback, and Murdoch had no doubt he would be up to his ears in it, reorganizing the regiment and restoring its morale. But in any event, he would not appreciate having unhappy domestic news foisted on him.
Not even the news that his only surviving brother might well be dead? As a United States Marine, Harry had taken part in the gallant defence of the Bataan Peninsula against the Japanese armies which had come flooding down Luzon and overrun Manila. With his comrades he had retreated to the island of Corregidor, dominating Manila Bay, and there had fought to the last bullet, while so many other garrisons in other parts of the world had surrendered. It was impossible not to feel bitter about Singapore and Tobruk. Of course Percival had reported that the Japanese had captured Singapore’s freshwater reservoirs and that to continue further resistance would have made life intolerable for the large civilian population trapped in the island city, but the fact remained that eighty thousand British troops had surrendered with arms in their hands and ammunition in their belts to a hardly greater number of the enemy. Equally, Klopper had reported that Tobruk was a ‘shambles’ from German artillery fire, yet there again over thirty thousand soldiers had laid down their arms to an attacking force of hardly half that number, while still in possession of all the sinews of war. However grim it might be to think it, had every two men in Tobruk taken one German with them as they died, the war in North Africa would now be over, with an Allied victory.
The defenders of Corregidor had not considered surrender. They had fought, encumbered with civilians and with an ever growing number of seriously wounded or seriously ill, against the Japanese Army, Navy and Air
Force, until an unlucky bomb burst had set off their magazine and all their ammunition. Then, disarmed, they had raised their arms and passed into the horrors of Japanese captivity. But Harry Mackinder was not on the list of those gallant men. He had apparently not lived until that final catastrophic moment.
Murdoch supposed he would never forget breaking that news to Lee. Harry had been their youngest child, and therefore Lee’s baby. That he had opted for American citizenship, her own citizenship, had had to be a source of pride to her, however she had shared Murdoch’s disappointment that he would not be an army Mackinder. And true to the tradition that she had married, she had been honestly angry that Harry had not come back to fight for king and country as his brothers were doing. It was not possible to be angry any more. Lee had wept, as she had not done over Ian.
But Ian had not been less on her mind, because of Ian’s widow. Another cause for anger. Annaliese was apparently feeling the strain of being cooped up down in Somerset, with nothing but female company, and her baby to care for. Lee had been greeted, on her return there, with a tale of woe from Philippa of how her niece-in-law often went out in the evenings, into Bath or even Bristol, apparently to the pictures. But, as Philippa had taken to waiting up for her to return, she had observed that it had too often been with bright eyes and gin-laden breath.
‘Which I have seen and smelt for myself since returning here,’ Lee had written him. ‘Can you imagine, a well-bred young woman going to a pub by herself? Can you imagine who she might meet there?’
Murdoch could imagine very well, nor did he suppose Annaliese had ever been to a cinema at all, at least by herself. It lay heavy on his mind. He had never told Lee of that remarkable conversation in the porch at Broad Acres. It was not something he ever proposed to do. Certainly if the girl was marrying Fergus. But could he allow her to marry Fergus? Annaliese was a young woman with ants in her pants in a way that her mother had never had. Should Fergus not know that? But how could he write a man who has just suffered defeat in battle and tell him that his fiancée was close to being a whore? He had tried to tell Ian that, once, and it hadn’t worked.