The Triumph

by Christopher Nicole

  ‘Lie down, General!’ someone bellowed in English.

  Murdoch threw himself on the floor of the car as the shooting began. The men around him attempted to return fire, and one of them grasped Murdoch’s shoulders to pull him back up, perhaps to use as protection. Murdoch struck him a swinging blow with the edge of his hand, so happy to be able to relieve his feelings in action at last. The German grunted and fell back against the cushion, and was shot before he could move again. The friendly Lieutenant who had freed his hands was already dead. For the partisans were now right round the car, shattering the windows to shoot in. Hands grasped Murdoch and pulled him out, while others fired into the petrol tanks of the cars.

  It was all over in a matter of seconds, the three cars blazing, and the bullock carts being driven hastily away. Only two of the German soldiers had managed to get out, and both lay dead. Three of the partisans had been hit, one quite seriously, but they seemed very pleased with their success.

  ‘General Mackinder,’ said a lantern-jawed man, whose entire face was cast in the same granite mould. He was heavily armed and actually wore a khaki uniform, with a forage cap, and was speaking tolerable English. ‘When we heard, from Himmler himself on the radio, who you were, we felt we had to regain you.’

  ‘For which I am very grateful,’ Murdoch said. ‘Were you sent by Colonel Kostitch?’

  The grim face relaxed into a grin. ‘Kostitch? No, I was not sent by Colonel Kostitch. Now, we must get you out of here, eh?’

  Murdoch was hurried up the hill and into another valley, where there were more men waiting. There were, in fact, more men in these hills than he had seen since he had visited General Mikhailovitch. Had Mikhailovitch rescued him? In which case he would be prepared to like the man.

  Certainly there were sufficient men here to carry out a major assault, and they were well armed.

  ‘One of my people is still in the hands of the Gestapo,’ he told his English-speaking rescuer. ‘In the village where I spent the night. They wish her to lead them to Kostitch’s hideout. And to tell them where this Marshal Tito is to be found.’

  ‘How can she do that?’ the man asked. ‘You do not know where Tito can be found.’

  ‘That is true. So they will torture her.’

  ‘And she will lead them to Kostitch. He can take care of himself.’

  ‘You don’t understand,’ Murdoch said. ‘She is probably being tortured at this very minute. I would like to take some of your men down there to rescue her.’

  The man studied him for a moment. Then he said, ‘You are too used to playing the hero, General Mackinder. It is not possible to rescue the woman. That village is far too strongly defended; my men would be slaughtered to no purpose, and even if we got in, the Germans would certainly kill their captive before we could reach her. Had we artillery, mortars, perhaps...but we do not. Your army will not spare them for us. I am sorry, General. It is not heroic, eh, to abandon a damsel in distress? It is not British, perhaps. But this is not a heroic war, and you British will have to learn that before you can win it. We have had to sacrifice much, even our own homes and families, because we have had to balance what we would like to do against what is possible, and what is necessary so that the fight can continue. You must forget the woman. She will not be the only one to die. Now we must hurry. I have arranged for you to be taken to a deserted part of the coast, and I will arrange for a British submarine to come there and pick you up. Your Mr Churchill will be happy to do that, eh? To get his general back. And perhaps he will be grateful to us for rescuing you. He may even send us those mortars, eh.’

  ‘I am sure he will. But you will have to cancel your arrangements,’ Murdoch said. ‘I am not leaving Yugoslavia. If, as you say, it is impossible to rescue Private Edmunds, then I mean to avenge her. You have very nearly an army here, my friend. If you lack the means to fight, I will provide those means. And only I can do it.’

  The man studied him for several seconds. Then he grinned. ‘I have heard, and read, much about you, General Mackinder. They have called you Britain’s greatest fighting soldier. Now I can see why. It will be a great pleasure to have you stay here, and fight with us. And see to our supplies.’ He held out his hand. ‘I am Marshal Tito.’

  9

  England, 1943

  Churchill said, ‘Before Alamein, we never had a victory; after Alamein we never had a defeat.’ This was an oversimplification, and was indeed a sad injustice to the brilliant, if temporary, triumphs of Wavell, O’Connor and Auchinleck. What the Prime Minister really meant was that before Alamein, however many tactical victories were gained, there had been no strategical successes: after Alamein, although there were to be tactical setbacks often enough, there were no more strategical checks. The Allies had the Axis on the run, and it was a matter of maintaining that advantage. This situation became yet more apparent when that same winter the Russians forced the surrender of the German forces investing Stalingrad.

  But there was still a great deal of very hard fighting ahead, before the enemy could even be sealed inside Fortress Europe — much less the walls of that fortress breached. The capture of Tripoli might have seemed the end of their personal road to the Westerns, but Rommel continued to lie in front of them, now reinforced and refuelled, and there were enormous numbers of German and Italian troops in Tunis, determined to fight to the last. Thus it was necessary for the Eighth Army to continue their campaign, and on Thursday, 4 February 1943, they themselves crossed the border into Tunisia. From here they pressed on to the capture of Medenine, a fortnight later.

  By then Rommel had assumed overall command of the opposing army, and letting the Eighth Army get on with it for the moment, he launched a shattering onslaught on the inexperienced American forces at Kasserine, in the west. Matters were put right by the Allied air forces, which harried the Germans into retreating, but true to his policy of conducting an active defence, Rommel returned to the attack again and again, and after a lone British brigade had covered itself with glory at Hunt’s Gap by repelling a panzer onslaught equipped with the new Tiger tanks, he turned against the Eighth Army for the last time, attacking fiercely at the Medenine Pass.

  The battle was reminiscent of the old tank melées further to the east, save that Montgomery kept his armour under strict control, and this time it was the British anti-tank screen that tore the panzers apart. This was actually Rommel’s last battle in North Africa, as immediately after it he was recalled to Germany to command the troops holding the West Wall — the Channel. Yet the Germans remaining in Tunisia were as full of fight as ever, and when the Eighth Army came up against the strongly defended Mareth Line, they had one of their hardest battles of the war.

  Here there was no possibility of waiting for the panzers to come to them: the line had to be forced. So, having sent the New Zealanders on a flanking movement, Montgomery launched the army in a frontal assault. The attack began on Saturday, 20 March, and lasted a week. The initial onslaught was brought to a halt on the Monday, and the following day the Germans counter-attacked so strongly that the Allies were forced to withdraw. But Montgomery was again equal to the situation, reorganized his battered troops, and sent them forward again. On Sunday 28 March the Eighth Army smashed their way into Mareth and once again the Axis forces were driven into retreat.

  It had been as hectic an action as Fergus had ever known. The command tank of A Squadron in which he was riding was hit, and although the crew got out before it brewed, two of them were killed, including Captain Brown, while Fergus himself was hurt.

  It was not a serious injury, and involved only a couple of broken ribs, but he had become so used to emerging from every battle unscathed that it came as a bit of a shock to find himself lying in a field dressing station. John Allack hurried forward to take command, but by then the victory had been won.

  *

  Of the British armour engaged, the Westerns had suffered the heaviest casualties, in both tanks and men. They were pulled back to rest and recuperate, while t
he campaign continued, to culminate six weeks later when the last German and Italian troops in Tunisia surrendered. By then Fergus was fit again, but astounded to read that the Germans were claiming to have captured, while on a secret mission to the Yugoslav partisans in the mountains of Serbia, General Sir Murdoch Mackinder. He just could not believe his eyes. What on earth was the old buzzard doing on a secret mission in Serbia? He could only have got there by parachute. At his age! It was at least reassuring to know that, according to the German report, he was in good health. But Father, a prisoner of war? Again, at his age? He wrote Lee asking just what on earth had been going on.

  Whatever his concern about his father, he was delighted that his regiment’s splendid behaviour, over the whole campaign, and indeed the whole two and a half years they had been in Africa, had been recognized by the award of two DSOs, one to himself and one to Allack, three MCs, to his squadron commanders, and eight Military Medals: one of these went to RSM Manly-Smith, who had also been wounded in the battle, shot through the fleshy part of the thigh.

  The medals were presented by General Montgomery personally, and after the ceremony he drank tea with Fergus in his ACV.

  ‘I suppose the big question is, where next?’ Fergus ventured.

  ‘That is of course up to our lords and masters,’ Montgomery said. ‘Although I would have supposed we will now assault Fortress Europe itself. And my bet would be here in the Mediterranean, which is certainly the weakest link. We are, however, to be allowed a breathing space of a couple of months. I suggest you take advantage of it. You, and quite a number of your men, have now been out here for two and a half years. Too long. I am issuing leave warrants, and I would like you to select those men who you feel are most in need of a short spell in England. I personally am selecting you.’

  ‘But sir,’ Fergus protested. ‘My place is with the regiment.’

  ‘Of course. But you will only remain an efficient regimental commander if you take a little rest. And I am sure you have this very odd business with your father very much on your mind. I think you should find out something about it. It is not a matter I propose to argue about, Mackinder. Your convoy leaves Gibraltar in three days’ time, and there are aircraft seats available the day after tomorrow. Pick your men. You will, of course, give priority to those who have been wounded or may have domestic matters to be seen to. Major Allack will command until you return.’ He held out his hand. ‘Enjoy yourself.’

  *

  ‘Gripes, sir, but I shan’t know what to say to anyone,’ remarked Bert Manly-Smith, as the transport nosed into Plymouth Sound. It was a port all the troopers, and the three officers who had accompanied them, were glad to see. U-boat wolf packs had been very active off the Portuguese coast, and the men had to spend the entire voyage on deck and at their assembly points, and wearing their lifejackets, being allowed below only to perform the most necessary of human functions. Their ship had escaped unscathed, but they had watched three others in the convoy go down, their passengers and crews drowning in the oil-covered water. They had all decided they felt safer fighting the Afrika Korps.

  But now they were safe. At home. Fergus rather agreed with Bert, and in addition, he had a good deal on his mind. During the continuous advance which had followed the victory at Alamein, the troops had obviously received mail very rarely and at irregular intervals. Even then, although he had received, from time to time, letters from Annaliese and Mom, there had been nothing from Dad. Yet Mom, in her more recent letters, had said more than once that Dad was fine, if very busy. It was unlike Dad ever to be too busy to write, and it was equally unlike Mom to comment on his activities, even in a negative sense.

  Now it was all explained. At least up to a point: Mom must have known what Dad was doing. The old rascal, he thought. But, Dad in a German prison camp? He could only remind himself that Dad was indestructible, and always successful. In any event he would soon find out the truth of the matter.

  Just as he would soon hold Liese in his arms. After two and a half years! He wondered if she would recognize this gaunt, sunburned figure? If she would still want to marry him? Strange how his thoughts never included the word love. Because he had no proof that Liese did love him? Her letters were loving enough, but lacked passion, often as she repeated her anxiety to have him back home, safe and sound. But then, were his letters any better? And he was the guilty one, with Monique Deschards locked away in his secret mind, and dominating his secret heart, as well. He knew how that heart would leap were he to meet her again, just as he knew she was in England. Of course the possibility of their encountering each other was too remote to be imagined — but suppose he met someone who knew someone who knew this woman Deschards? That was not beyond the realms of possibility. Would he be able to stop himself from obtaining her address and rushing off to find her? He was a cad.

  ‘Golly, what a shambles,’ Bert commented, staring at the town as they disembarked. ‘Do you reckon the village has been hit, sir?’

  ‘There’s been no report of it,’ Fergus said. ‘So what are you going to do with your leave, Sergeant-Major?’

  ‘Sink a few dozen pints of beer, sir. While I tell Grandad all about it. He’ll want a blow by blow description of every battle, from beginning to end.’ He grinned. ‘That’ll be reason for another dozen pints of beer.’

  ‘No girl on the horizon?’

  ‘No, sir. I was a little young for that when I left Blighty.’

  You’re a little young for that still, Fergus thought. But still, Bert was a sergeant-major. ‘I should think you’ll have no trouble in finding one now,’ he suggested.

  ‘Maybe I won’t, sir,’ Bert agreed. ‘But a fortnight ain’t much time to do a lot about it. Permanently, anyway. Time enough when we’re home for good.’

  ‘Well,’ Fergus said, ‘don’t forget to spare the time to come up to the house for a drink. I know my mother would love to see you. You never met my fiancée, did you?’

  ‘Gosh, yes, sir,’ Bert said. ‘When I was helping in Grandad’s shop, before the war.’

  ‘Of course you must have,’ Fergus said. ‘Well, I know she’d like to meet you again, too.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Bert said. ‘I’m sorry about the General, sir. All the lads are.’

  ‘So am I,’ Fergus said. ‘But I imagine he was doing what he wanted to. I’ll expect you at the house, Bert.’

  *

  They separated, because although they were using the same train, of course the Colonel was travelling first class, and the NCOs and troopers were in third. That was just a fact of life, Bert thought, as he gazed out of the window at the countryside rolling by. Just as it was a fact of life that no matter what had happened to his father, Fergus Mackinder was going home to pat his retrievers on the head, and make sure the Daimler was still in working order, and stand on his porch and look out at his rolling acres of countryside, and hug his mother, making sure not to disturb her twinset or her pearls...while he was going home to squeeze himself into the tiny, smoke-filled and smoke-stained parlour where Grandad would be listening to the wireless, and play a game of draughts, and then go down to the pub and see if anyone there remembered him. He would probably get a bit of a welcome, he supposed. He was a man, now, in every way. As well as a war hero. Even that plump barmaid might give him a smile.

  But Fergus Mackinder would also be going home to take his fiancée into his arms. Bert felt more than ever guilty about that — about every aspect of it. While they had been fighting together in North Africa, and especially after Fergus had saved his life, he had been aware only of self-horror, that he could have allowed such a thing to happen. Equally had he felt guilty at being unable to warn his commanding officer of the character of the girl he was intending to marry.

  Those feelings had persisted all the way home, although he had then known that he never would say anything to Fergus. But the sight of Plymouth had induced a subtle change in his feelings. The seaport might have been bombed to bits, but it was still recognizably the place he
had looked at on that October night in 1940, when the regiment had embarked for Alexandria. Then his brain had been filled with the thought of what he was leaving behind — and only Annaliese mattered. But then his dreams had been so abruptly shattered by Fergus’s telling him of his engagement.

  The sight of Plymouth had brought those dreams back. Suddenly he wanted, all over again. And the woman had to be Annaliese. He wondered if he was in love? It was not something he had ever considered. But then, he had never before felt for any woman the way he felt for the German. Perhaps the very fact that she was a German, a member of the nation against which he was fighting, one of whom might very well one day blow his head off, made her the more attractive. If he went up to Broad Acres, and met her, and they looked at each other. and she had that look in her eyes again...therefore the only thing to do was to ignore Fergus’s invitation. The Colonel would no doubt be offended, but Bert felt sure he could make up a suitable reason for not being able to find the time — even if he had to invent a woman. Even lying would be better than cuckolding the old man once again: the fellow had saved his life.

  *

  ‘Fergus?’ Lee stared at her only surviving son, who was surrounded by leaping dogs. ‘I heard the barking...oh, Fergus!’ She ran down the front steps to throw herself into his arms, while Robbins the butler, who had actually opened the door, stepped back inside the house.

  ‘If only you could have let me know you were coming!’ Lee cried, her eyes filling with tears.

  ‘Well, you know I couldn’t do that, Mom. But I’m here.’ He kissed her again, then held her away to look at her. Nearly four years of war had aged her in a fashion he hadn’t noticed before he had left. The slight figure in the twinset and pearls was as neat and slender as ever, but the fair hair was more grey than yellow, and there were strain lines on her face. Yet she looked well enough. ‘It is so good to see you.’