The Triumph

by Christopher Nicole

  ‘Report, B Troop,’ Fergus said.

  ‘Gripes, sir, there must be hundreds of them. And there is artillery and infantry support.’

  ‘Are they at the bridge yet?’

  ‘Perhaps half a mile, sir.’

  ‘Have they seen you?’

  ‘No, sir. We are in a dip.’

  ‘Well, good shooting, Lieutenant. We’re on our way.’

  ‘Come on,’ Smithie said. ‘Come on.’

  The tanks were moving as fast as they could along the icy road; there was nothing to be gained by attempting to go across country, because there was no telling how thick the ice was and when the vehicles would become completely bogged down. At least the Germans would be having the same problem.

  They heard gunfire from in front of them.

  ‘There goes Masters,’ Smithie growled. ‘That boy had promise.’

  ‘He’ll get a medal, no matter what happens,’ Fergus promised.

  The firing flared in violence for several minutes, then died away again.

  ‘Whatever happens,’ Fergus repeated.

  They were very close now. B Troop of C Squadron moved forward with its five tanks as an advance guard, rolling up the slight rise that separated them from the river, while the remainder of the regiment formed column of squadrons behind it, leaving the road and advancing on a front of fifteen tanks. Now Lieutenant Porter’s voice came over the wireless, distinctly anxious. ‘There is enemy armour across the bridge, sir.’

  ‘Any sign of Lieutenant Masters?’

  Porter’s voice seemed to have a catch in it. ‘There’s a lot of burning stuff down there, sir.’

  Fergus thumbed the mike again. ‘Westerns,’ he said. ‘This is Brigadier Mackinder. I would like you to join me in the regimental prayer.’ He waited for a moment, while the tanks slowly rolled up the hillside. Then he said, ‘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.’

  As he finished, the regiment topped the hill, and looked down on the scene beneath them. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said. ‘There is your enemy.’

  As Porter had said, the Germans were still crossing the bridge; their armour was strung out for a considerable distance south of the river. Accompanying them were truckloads of infantry, and self-propelled artillery. With anti-tank guns — though these were not yet in position. But the immediate problem was the force already on the west bank; Fergus’s quick estimate was that there could hardly be less than two hundred tanks already across.

  He had stumbled on a hornet’s nest. But hadn’t that been what he was looking for?

  And Masters had gone out fighting. If the position of the British troop was marked by burning tanks, there were also three German panzers in the river, into which they had clearly been pushed by those behind after they had been brewed by the British seventy-fives.

  He glanced at Smithie. ‘Tell them to go, Colonel,’ he said.

  ‘The regiment will advance,’ Smithie said into the wireless. ‘Open fire.’

  ‘The bridge,’ Fergus told him. ‘The bridge.’

  The tanks rolled down the slope, firing as they did so.

  The first panzers in front of them dissolved in a mass of flaming steel and dying men, and they were racing at the German concentration. Guns boomed and men shouted; the wireless crackled with orders.

  ‘The bridge!’ Fergus shouted again.

  In front, behind, and to either side was a blaze of gunfire. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Bert, clutching his dynamite in his arms. The Sergeant-Major gave him a grin.

  Smithie was snapping orders. ‘Traverse right, range one hundred yards, fire. Traverse left, range seventy-five yards, fire.’

  The gun swung to and fro and exploded time and again, and the interior of the tank filled with smoke and fumes. They coughed and choked, but in front of them the opposition fell to either side before the fury of their assault. Tank tracks flew apart, trucks exploded and burst into flame, foot soldiers scurried for shelter. Snow flew into the air, mingled with black dirt and blood. And the bridge was in front of them, still filled with tanks.

  ‘Form a leaguer,’ Fergus snapped into the wireless. ‘All remaining tanks form a leaguer. Sergeant-Major, earn yourself a medal.’

  For they were at the bridge, and the belching seventy-five had stopped another tank in its tracks, thirty feet from the west bank. Once again those behind were crowding it, attempting to push it into the swift-flowing water, but there were minutes to spare.

  The driver brought the tank round in a tight circle, and Bert threw open the hatch. He had never lacked courage, Fergus remembered. Out he leapt, the sticks of precious dynamite clutched to his chest. One bullet in there and no part of him would ever be found. But fortune favoured the brave, and he slithered down the bank beneath the steel struts.

  Fergus had time to look around him, because, amazingly, the firing had stopped, although the echoes still reverberated from the low clouds. Some thirty-five tanks had burst through the German force and were now hastily wheeling into position to his left and right, guarding the bridgehead. Behind them was a torn mass of burning metal and men, for they had inflicted at least as many casualties as they had suffered. But there were still well over a hundred and fifty German tanks on the west side of the river, and these were now regrouping.

  ‘That was well executed, Brigadier Mackinder,’ said a new voice, speaking English with only a trace of accent. ‘In keeping with your name. But now your regiment is quite surrounded. The only course open to you, in order to avoid needless bloodshed, is to surrender.’

  ‘Who the hell is that?’ Fergus demanded.

  ‘I am Major-General Paul von Reger,’ the voice said. ‘Commanding this division.’

  ‘Von Reger? Good God!’

  ‘Yes,’ Paul said. ‘As we are by way of being related, Brigadier, I would not like to see you needlessly killed. Lay down your arms. There is nothing dishonourable in surrendering when confronted with such odds.’

  ‘Related, sir?’ Smithie whispered.

  ‘He’s my fucking brother-in-law,’ Fergus growled. ‘Good heavens! Small world, isn’t it? But...what are we going to do, sir?’

  Not a damn thing, until we hear from the Sergeant-Major.’ Obviously Reger had not seen Bert leaving the tank; certainly he seemed to have no concept that the idea behind the dragoons’ suicidal charge was to blow the bridge. Annaliese’s brother, he thought. There was a turn-up for the book. He wondered what Paul von Reger would say if he knew that he had two near relatives with the regiment.

  ‘I must have your answer, General Mackinder,’ Paul said. ‘I will give you five more seconds.’

  ‘It’s been fun,’ Smithie muttered.

  Bang-bang on the side of the tank. ‘Let’s get the hell out of here, sir,’ Bert Manly-Smith shouted, dropping into their midst.

  Amazingly, he appeared quite unhurt; even his beret was at its usual cocky angle.

  ‘Regiment will advance,’ Fergus said into the wireless. ‘And open fire.’

  Engines roared, and the tanks started to move back towards the German armour. Fergus thrust his head through the hatch and looked back, just in time to see the stricken tank on the bridge plunging into the river. The German column started to move again.

  ‘You are a fool, Mackinder,’ Paul von Reger said. ‘You...’ his voice was lost in the roar from behind them. Once again Fergus looked back. Bert hadn’t been able to do a very professional job; only the very northern supports of the bridge had been blown, but some twenty-five feet of the span had collapsed down the river bank, taking with it the leading tank. No doubt the German engineers would have it functio
nal again in a couple of hours — but a couple of hours was surely all he needed.

  ‘You are a man of great resource, Brigadier,’ Reger said. ‘I will wish you goodbye.’ He then gave several rapid orders in German, but as he did so another voice cut across his.

  ‘Regiment will deploy and advance,’ it said.

  ‘Harding!’ Fergus shouted.

  ‘Regiment will deploy and advance,’ repeated Macalee of the hussars.

  ‘Hoorah!’ Smithie bellowed.

  ‘Get out of those trucks,’ Major Schmidt was saying. ‘Bazooka squad to the front. Let’s get us some Krauts.’

  The dragoons were already in the thick of the melée with the Tigers, but the Germans had also heard the voices behind them. And now there came yet another.

  ‘We are in contact, Brigadier Mackinder,’ General Manton said. ‘Division is deploying now. Just hold them for half an hour, Fergus.’

  ‘We can do that,’ Fergus shouted above the din of the exploding seventy-five. He heard Reger bellowing more orders in German, presumably warning his tanks which were still on the bridge to pull back before they became sitting targets for the divisional artillery. His own force was now scattered, as the hussars and the lancers tore into them from behind. The noise was terrific, and the screaming of the engines, the reports of the guns, the constant chatter in both English and German over the radio had a dazing effect, just as the swirling mud and flying snow obscured visibility. But the noise was diminishing. Fergus listened to Reger again, shouting, his voice this time higher.

  ‘We’ve brewed him,’ Smithie said.

  Fergus threw open the hatch and looked out, saw men jumping from a burning Tiger a few hundred yards away. The battle was now definitely dying down. ‘Get over there,’ he said. ‘I want that fellow.’

  *

  Paul von Reger had lost his cap and his uniform was torn and blackened with smoke. He was fortunate to have escaped the burning, exploding tank, and his eyes were dull as he watched the destruction of the remnants of his advanced brigade; those who thought to escape over the hill were met by the American infantry and their bazookas.

  ‘The fortunes of war,’ he said, and held out his Luger pistol, butt first.

  ‘The fortunes of war,’ Fergus agreed. ‘Keep your sidearm, General.’

  He escorted his captive to the ACV which had now appeared on the scene with the rest of the support vehicles. The battle was over, and won; the remainder of the German armour was hastily pulling back off the bridge, and the brigade was emplaced on the ridge overlooking it; there would be no repairing the damage until division came up, and then it would be British sappers who would do the job, to allow British armour to cross.

  ‘Tea, gentlemen.’ Waterman was offering, and Padre Wint was also there. Smithie was making a list of casualties.

  ‘It seems odd,’ Fergus remarked, ‘that we have never met. You know both my father and mother, and my late brother, I believe.’

  It was even odder, he thought, how unlike Annaliese this man was, at least in appearance. He had dark hair and his features were far stronger than his sister’s. In fact, they reminded Fergus of someone, although for the life of him he couldn’t think who.

  ‘Yes,’ Reger said, and sipped his tea.

  ‘Well...’ Fergus didn’t know what to say. ‘Your sister is well, I believe. She’s...’ he changed his mind. One couldn’t really tell a prisoner of war that his sister had just given birth to an illegitimate child.

  ‘That is good to know,’ Reger said.

  ‘Yes. Well...it won’t succeed, you know. Your push. It was a crazy idea.’

  ‘Yes,’ Reger said. ‘It was the Fuehrer’s idea.’

  ‘Ah. Well, if you don’t mind my saying so, he’s no military genius. If he’d stayed on the defensive, husbanded his resources, especially his panzers, he might have kept things going for a while. But now we are counter-attacking, your people are going to be wiped out. How many panzer divisions did you throw in?’

  ‘Three,’ Paul said. ‘The last three.’

  ‘Good Lord! Well...that’s about it, I would say.’

  ‘Yes,’ Paul said. ‘He has led us to utter disaster. The Fuehrer.’

  Fergus had nothing to say to that.

  ‘It has been good to meet you at last,’ Paul said. He finished his tea, stood up, and saluted — the old Wehrmacht salute.

  Hastily Fergus did the same.

  ‘And now...I wonder if I might be permitted to be alone for a little while?’ Reger asked. ‘I have a letter to write.’

  ‘Of course, my dear fellow. Use my sleeping cabin.’ He opened the door for him.

  ‘This is a remarkable vehicle,’ Paul commented.

  ‘Oh, just a working caravan,’ Fergus explained. ‘Very convenient.’

  ‘I’m sure it is,’ Reger said.

  Fergus closed the door on him.

  ‘Strange fellow,’ Wint commented. ‘Could almost he British.’

  ‘Yes. His mother was Dutch, as I understand it. Come along, Padre, let’s go and inspect the troops.’

  They spent the next hour with the men, examining the tanks, talking with the wounded. ‘I am certainly going to recommend you for one of these, Sergeant-Major,’ Fergus said, tapping the crimson ribbon on his breast.

  ‘Me, sir?’ Bert was astonished. ‘What have I done?’

  ‘Behaved with a courage over and above the call of duty.’

  ‘Never had a scratch, sir. Since that brew-up in Libya, no Jerry has come near me.’

  ‘Let’s hope it stays that way. Joey all right?’

  ‘Oh, yes, sir. We Manly-Smiths are indes...’

  They both turned, as did the padre, at the sound of the muffled explosion.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ Fergus said. ‘With respect, Padre; that came from the ACV.’

  They ran through the snow, encountered an ashen-faced Waterman. ‘That Jerry General, sir,’ he gasped. ‘He’s shot himself. In your cabin.’ That apparently was what was most upsetting him.

  Fergus leapt into the truck. The door to his sleeping cabin was ajar, and he gazed at Paul von Reger. The General had put his pistol muzzle into his mouth and pulled the trigger. There was blood everywhere, but he must have died instantly.

  ‘I’ll have it cleaned up in a jiffy, sir,’ Waterman promised.

  Fergus bent over the dead man, took the envelope from his left hand, frowned at it. Paul had indeed written a letter. And it was addressed to Lieutenant-General Sir Murdoch Mackinder.

  *

  The war in Europe was to last another four months, but the German offensive in the Ardennes was Hitler’s last throw. As Fergus had told Reger, those seven divisions, three of them armoured, might have held the line of the Rhine for a considerable time. But once Montgomery’s counteroffensive was aided by clearing skies, which allowed the Allied air forces to see what was going on beneath them, the German forces in the ‘bulge’ were blasted out of existence.

  By the middle of January, just a month after the so highly organized counter-offensive had begun, it was all over, and some hundred and twenty thousand German soldiers were dead, wounded, or prisoners, together with six hundred tanks. The Americans had actually lost more tanks, most of them in the first few panic-stricken days, but personnel deaths were less than ten thousand: British losses were minimal.

  A week later the Allies were advancing again. By the end of the month they were at the Rhine, and although German resistance once again stiffened, at the beginning of March the bridge at Remagen was captured intact, and the invasion of the German heartland could begin.

  By then the brigade had had a lot more hard fighting in the Reichswald, but they were with Montgomery’s Twenty-first Army Group when it in turn forced the Rhine at Wesel, and crashed on into North Germany.

  Here the brigade was pulled out for rest and recuperation, which was badly needed after four months of continuous action. And here, at the beginning of April, Bert received orders to return to England to commence training a
s an officer.

  ‘Well, I’ll be damned, sir,’ he said to Fergus. ‘I had thought I’d see the end of this lot.’

  ‘The way the Germans are crumbling, I don’t think you’ll make it back in time,’ Fergus told him. ‘You’re also to receive that medal, remember.’

  ‘Hell, sir, I shan’t know what to say.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll think of something, Bert. And you’ll also be getting leave to go down to Somerset.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Bert looked even more embarrassed about that, but Fergus did not doubt that he would think of something to say there too.

  He had written his mother and Annaliese to tell them of the death of Paul, but he had not forwarded Paul’s letter; it remained in his briefcase: he rather felt that Dad might appreciate having it delivered personally.

  Next morning he was shaving, and listening to the roar of support trucks arriving — they would provide the transport for Bert’s drive back to Antwerp — when Waterman stammered, ‘I beg your pardon, sir, but...the General is here.’

  Waterman was a dragoon, so there could be no doubt about who he was speaking about. Fergus hastily rubbed a towel over his face and dashed into the rear of his ACV, to stare at his father.

  ‘You took some catching up with,’ Murdoch said. He wore uniform and looked as fit as ever, but there was less than the usual good humour in his face.

  Fergus saluted and then grasped his hand. ‘Where on earth have you sprung from?’

  ‘England.’

  ‘When last I heard you were in Yugoslavia.’

  ‘I got back in November.’

  ‘In November? Good Lord! And you never let me know.’

  ‘Well, I had been wounded...’

  ‘Not again. Oh, Dad, whatever did Mom say?’

  At last Murdoch smiled. ‘She wasn’t very pleased. But I think she was pleased to have me back. She sends her best love.’

  ‘And...?’

  ‘Well,’ Murdoch said, sitting down, and obviously choosing his words with great care. ‘Churchill didn’t want word of my return to leak out.’