The Triumph

by Christopher Nicole

  It was so odd, really. There had been no hesitation over Monique Deschards. They had seen each other, she had beckoned, and he had looked neither left nor right. Well, Liese had certainly beckoned.

  Although she had not done so again after he had rejected her on that first night, had been apparently content with a good night kiss and holding hands while they walked in the garden.

  There was no way of telling what she actually thought about his refusal to bed her. But he had become quite concerned about it, since leaving England again and being able to look at it objectively, as it were. Liese was a most lovely girl, and she was the girl he was going to marry. Yet he was afraid to touch her. Of course he had pretended that it was the proper thing to do to wait until they were married, but he knew that wasn’t the truth. The truth was that however much he thought about her when he was away from her, the moment he got near her his sexual processes seemed to dry up. What he had to do, and before their marriage, was work out why.

  Ian? It had seemed quite natural to replace him, and he adored little Ian, would not have wanted anyone different as his own son. But the replacement had been in the abstract, as a husband. Replacing him in bed had seemed a sufficiently remote contingency when he had proposed; he had never imagined that Liese would wish to jump the gun. Was he then afraid that she might wish to compare him unfavourably with his dead brother? He did not honestly think so.

  Well, then, what of the other men, the men who had helped her escape from Germany, or even worse, the men she might have known before it had become necessary to escape? But surely those had been exorcized long ago. If they had not bothered Ian, why should they bother him? Again, he did not honestly think they did.

  Thus it had to be Annaliese herself. And that, he knew, was the truth. He was afraid of the woman he intended to make his wife. There was a confession of weakness. But it couldn’t be denied, at least to himself. He was afraid of being conquered. Because Liese was a conqueress. She had offered herself to him, but with the offer had come a challenge: match me if you can, but if you cannot, become my slave. To be Annaliese von Reger’s slave might be a very pleasant existence...but it was not something he had in mind. He wondered if Ian had been her slave? Perhaps there hadn’t been time. But perhaps once would settle the matter.

  So why did he not settle the matter, once and for all, now that he had at last realized the reason? So it might mean acting the utter cad. But that would be preferable to a life of misery. Besides, he was Murdoch Mackinder’s son. When Mackinders saw an enemy, or a problem, they charged it with their swords drawn. A fitting analogy. He should have done that long ago. Have at her, and were they not suited, call the engagement off. As she had reminded him often enough, he could hardly be accused of stealing her virginity.

  That way, either way, lay happiness. And it would be done, the very next time he returned home.

  *

  As with all of his resolutions regarding Annaliese, that moment of truth seemed a comfortingly long way in the future. Nearly three years had elapsed between leaving England in October 1940 and returning there in May 1943; if the next break could hardly be that long delayed — it was inconceivable that the war could still be raging in 1946 — he did not suppose it was going to happen very soon.

  But he was to be surprised. The invasion of Sicily went very much according to plan, for if the Germans put up as determined a resistance as had been expected, the Italians crumpled right away. The landings — Operation Husky —took place on 10 July; fifteen days later Mussolini was dismissed and arrested. No one immediately knew what would happen next, but that a change in Italian policy could be expected seemed obvious.

  Meanwhile the invading armies surged onwards. An armada of six thousand ships had landed twelve British and American divisions on the south coast of the island, and although the Germans immediately hurled everything they had at the intruders, the Allies gained their lodgement and then forged steadily inland. Catania and Syracuse fell in the first week, and on 20 July Enna, the communications centre for the defence of the island, was captured.

  The United States Seventh Army stormed Palermo on the north coast on 22 July, and spreading west at the same time, took Trapani two days later, the day before Mussolini’s fall. The Germans might have hoped to hold their strong hilltop positions at Centuripe and Regalbuto, but the British and Canadians drove them out on 2 August, and on the 14th they were past Mount Etna. By then the Allied armies had been entertained by the behaviour of the American General Patton in slapping a soldier suffering from battle fatigue, but that did not stop the advance. Taormina was taken on 15 August, and two days later the Axis forces evacuated Messina for the Italian mainland.

  Preparations were instantly made for the invasion of Calabria, and the armoured divisions were now moved from Egypt to Sicily. The men were jubilant at going into action again — for many of them it would be for the first time — but this was an odd campaign for veterans like Fergus or Bert or Allack. The crossing was made on 3 September, the British fourth anniversary of the beginning of the war, and accomplished without a great deal of difficulty, for Italy was still in a state of utter confusion; indeed, an armistice was secretly signed between the new Italian Government and representatives of General Eisenhower on the day of the invasion, although it was not made public, for various reasons, until five days later. But already the Allied troops were welcomed as friends and liberators by the Italian people, and by such soldiers as could escape the clutches of the retreating Germans.

  Predictably, this caused even greater confusion, as the German forces attempted to disarm and imprison their erstwhile allies while fighting off the invaders, and to add to their troubles another assault was now made, at Salerno, just south of Naples, by the US Fifth Army assisted by the British Tenth Corps. In these circumstances the advance was rapid. The Eighth Army, given the eastern side of the peninsula as their field, were in Brindisi only eight days after landing at Reggio, and on 16 September the two armies, Fifth and Eighth, linked hands; the toe and heel of Italy were secure.

  By now the fraternization between the troopers and the Italians, or at least, the Italian women, was becoming a serious problem. In the desert there had been no women, save for the occasional heavily veiled Bedouin. One had saved one’s lust for civilization, wherever that might be found, and even then, it had to be strictly bought sex. Suddenly the men were surrounded by extremely attractive, visible, white and willing young women, who were prepared to make any soldier a very happy man for no more than a bar of chocolate. They were ignorant of most of the facts of life, and the incidence of VD suddenly became alarming. RSM Manly-Smith here proved a tower of strength — for all his youth he did not appear to be interested in Italian women any more than in British — but Fergus was heartily glad when after a brief pause for regrouping, the advance was resumed.

  To continue at almost breathtaking pace. The important rail junction of Potenza fell on 21 September, and the even more important communications centre of Foggia on the 27th. On the left the US Fifth Army reached Pompeii two days later, and entered Naples on 1 October.

  ‘At this rate we’ll be at the Alps before Christmas,’ Allack said jubilantly.

  Fergus wasn’t so sure. It was unlike the Germans to give up without fighting; it was a matter of how soon they could get their Italian affairs under control — but already their commandos had rescued Mussolini from his mountain-top prison and set him up in a new Italian Fascist state in the north.

  At the beginning of November the Fifth Army fought their way across the Volturno, despite vicious German counter-attacks which showed that resistance was going to stiffen as the Allies approached Rome, and on the 19th, after even harder fighting, the Eighth Army crossed the Sangro, which was in flood. They continued to drive forward, but now the land was becoming mountainous, and by the beginning of December it was obvious that the tumultuous advance was grinding to a halt before the series of ridges dominated by the mountain of Cassino.

  ‘I t
hink even Rome by Christmas is to be optimistic,’ Fergus told his men.

  But they weren’t going to see Rome at all. The next day orders came for the Royal Western Dragoon Guards to withdraw to Naples.

  ‘Rest and recuperation, I imagine,’ said the Brigadier. ‘If it’s going to become a slogging match, we will need to rotate all the units in turn.’

  Yet it was odd that the choice of which regiment should be first withdrawn had not been left to him, and he was obviously put out.

  Fergus led his somewhat bewildered mm into the famous old city, a peculiar mixture of bomb-shattered buildings and bustling port. Staff officers showed them where to park their tanks and camp, just outside the town, and they were given time off to drive out to Pompeii and look at the ruins. Then they were visited by General Alexander himself. He inspected the regiment, before lunching with Fergus and Allack. ‘You embark tomorrow,’ he told them. ‘But no one except yourselves is to know that until the order is given.’

  ‘Embark, sir?’ Fergus asked in a mixture of amazement and dismay.

  ‘You’re going back to England,’ Alexander said.

  ‘To England? All of us?’

  ‘The entire Seventh Armoured Division, yes. This regiment is simply the first to be pulled out. You’ll leave your tanks here. They’ll be moved back to the line by your replacements.’

  ‘But...’ Fergus and Allack looked at each other.

  ‘I am not at liberty to tell you why this is happening,’ Alexander said. ‘Although you’re obviously welcome to draw your own conclusions. I can tell you that General Montgomery has also been recalled to England, to take up an important new command. He has already left the Eighth Army. He has, however, been allowed to name one or two units which he wishes to have with him in this new command, and the Desert Rats happen to be one of them. I think you should congratulate yourselves.’

  ‘But...to leave the army, and in the middle of a campaign, sir...’

  Alexander’s smile was only a little bitter. ‘I’m afraid this campaign is going to become something of a sideshow, Mackinder, which I am to have the honour of commanding. I will wish you good fortune in your new assignment.’

  10

  England, 1944

  ‘Think we’ll be home for Christmas?’ Allack asked.

  ‘With luck,’ Fergus said.

  ‘Shame we can’t let them know we’re on our way,’ Long remarked. ‘My dear old mum has a weak heart, and when I suddenly walk in...’

  ‘We’ll find some way of letting them know when we’re in England,’ Fergus promised him.

  But in fact they didn’t get home for Christmas, as they were held up in Gibraltar waiting for a convoy to assemble. Christmas was actually spent at the Rock, which was disappointing, especially as they were forbidden to fraternize with the locals and were confined on board their ships, sitting in the harbour, and staring at the Spanish mainland. Long led them in carol singing and the navy provided plum puddings, but it was a severe letdown.

  ‘It really is most frightfully hush-hush, isn’t it, sir?’ Mather asked. ‘What on earth can be going on?’

  ‘Simple,’ Fergus told him. It’s the build-up for the invasion of France. That’s obvious.’

  ‘And we’re elected, by Monty himself,’ Allack pointed out. ‘Rather a feather in our caps, what?’

  To join all the others, Fergus thought. Of course he was excited about it. But he was even more excited to be returning home, however briefly, far sooner than he had anticipated. Because he had not forgotten his determination. So, was he also scared? Merely pleasantly apprehensive, he thought.

  *

  But he wasn’t going to get home quite as quickly as he had anticipated. The convoy sailed just before the new year, and arrived, not in Plymouth, but in Southampton, the first week in January. It had been heavily escorted and there had been little U-boat activity, but on the way the regiment was ordered to deface all its badges and distinctive marks, so that when they disembarked they were totally nondescript; even so they were escorted from the docks in closed lorries and under heavy guard — their new tanks were apparently waiting for them somewhere in England.

  ‘Anyone would think we were prisoners,’ Sergeant-Major Manly-Smith commented.

  A lengthy drive through Hampshire brought them to an army camp, where they were given quarters; it was certainly the home of an armoured brigade, for there were tanks everywhere, and security was even tighter — the camp was entirely surrounded with barbed wire. It was also, equally obviously, a temporary encampment. The officers might have huts, but the troopers and NCOs were provided with little tents, each to shelter two men, and each beautifully fitted out with two American Army cots...with sheets! ‘By Christ,’ remarked RSM Manly-Smith. It’s sure as shit we’re not going to be here long.’

  But while they were there, they were going to be happy; there was an enormous NAAFI where everything except sex could be bought — and even that could be arranged on the QT — and a virtually round-the-clock film show to be watched when off duty.

  Fergus and Allack were promptly summoned to Brigade HQ, where they met Brigadier Manton and Brigade Major Crawford. ‘Welcome, gentlemen,’ Manton said. ‘It is an honour to have such a distinguished regiment under my command.’ He glanced at the crimson ribbon on Fergus’s breast. ‘And such a distinguished soldier. I never served with your father, Colonel. Worse luck. And now he’s a prisoner of war. What a shame.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Fergus said, hoping the Brigadier wasn’t going to go on about it. He was also disturbed because Manton had never served in North Africa. They were really amongst strangers here.

  ‘Well, sit down,’ Manton invited. ‘I am sure you have already worked out why you’re here?’

  ‘We’ve formed certain ideas,’ Fergus agreed.

  ‘You were brought back to England at the express desire of General Montgomery, who is now in England himself, taking up his new duties.’

  ‘Will he be in supreme command, sir?’ Allack asked.

  ‘No, worse luck. Now that the Americans are in with us, it seems that they have to have the rank. Eisenhower will be Supreme Allied Commander. Have you met him?’

  ‘Briefly, sir. He inspected the regiment while we were in Tunis, but after the fighting had stopped.’

  ‘Yes, well...he remains the American choice.’ Obviously he would not have been Manton’s. ‘Air Vice-Marshal Portal is Deputy Supreme Commander. But General Mongtomery is to lead the assault.’

  ‘Do we know where, sir?’ asked Allack.

  Manton stroked his moustache. ‘I am quite sure that the decision has already been made, but it has not yet been passed down the line. For obvious reasons. However, whether it is to be the Pas de Calais, the Bay of the Seine, or the Bay of Biscay, we do know that it is going to be France. Our training will therefore be organized on that understanding. And we are going to train, gentlemen. I know that your men are battleworthy. But they must be kept that way.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Fergus agreed. ‘Is there any possibility of leave? Quite a few of my people, including Major Allack and the padre, have been away from their families for more than a year.’

  Allack gave a deprecatory cough, but Manton nodded. ‘Yes. There will have to be arrangements for leave. I think you should make up a roster, Colonel Mackinder, beginning naturally with those people who have been longest away. They can go in batches of about twenty at a time. It is of course necessary to remind them that there is to be no careless talk, but actually, I don’t suppose too much harm can be done. If the Germans don’t know that we do intend to invade them, then they need their heads examined. And if they don’t realize that we are probably shifting men back from Italy for that purpose, then they are not very bright. What they do not know, and they cannot know, because we don’t know it ourselves yet, is the time and the place. Thank you, gentlemen.’

  *

  Fergus and Allack made up their rota, which naturally meant that Fergus himself would be the last to get home.
He was allowed to write, however, and although he had no doubt that, despite the Brigadier’s sensible point of view, what he said would be mangled by the military censors, he was at least able to let Mom and Liese know that he was in England and hoped to see them before too long— presuming the invasion didn’t actually start too soon.

  He was, however, very quickly faced with a problem, when RSM Manly-Smith arrived in his office one day, together with his brother; Joey was by now a corporal. The two came in with tremendous clumping of boots, and sprang to attention before the desk, rather as if Joey was on a charge, Fergus thought.

  ‘Family problems?’ he inquired.

  ‘Afraid so, sir!’ Bert was naturally spokesman. ‘The old man has had a heart attack.’

  ‘Sergeant-Major Yeald? Oh, my God! Is he all right?’

  ‘He’s not too good, sir! Touch and go, the hospital says.’

  ‘Well, you’ll have to go and see him.’

  ‘Corporal Manly-Smith will go, sir! With your permission.’

  ‘You’ll both go, Sergeant-Major. You’re his only living relatives.’

  ‘With respect, sir! I had home leave eight months ago.’

  ‘This is an exceptional circumstance, Sergeant-Major. You will take your leave now.’