by John Harris
Wutka’s head rose. Like Hochstatter, Nietzsche and Hrabak, he was there to recover from injuries received in battle, and he limped badly and was always glad to sit down. He was also overworked, sick of the war, sick of Qaba, even sick of Adolf Hitler. ‘Not a hope,’ he commented flatly.
‘There must be.’ Hochstatter pushed across the signal that had come in from army headquarters. ‘We must have more strong-points, road blocks, wire barriers, mines and booby traps.’
‘My men can’t do guard duties and build strongpoints,’ Nietzsche said.
‘And my men can’t repair damaged harbour walls and transport supplies and stand in for your men,’ Wutka snapped back.
Hochstatter sighed. He liked to consider himself a civilized soldier and a believer in Krieg ohne Hass - war without hate. But while, on the whole, the units of the German army in North Africa managed to leave acrimony out of their dealings with the British, they found it hard to leave it out of their dealings with the Italians and each other.
‘You must try,’ he said patiently.
‘We’ve tried,’ Nietzsche growled.
‘Then you must try harder. We must have your men. If only for a few days.’
Wutka frowned. ‘Very well,’ he agreed. ‘You can have thirty. But I’d like it in writing.’
‘I’ll see that you get it. Veledetti, how many can you spare?’
Captain Veledetti’s brown eyes moved unhappily. He already considered he had barely enough to patrol the perimeter of the prison compound and he was afraid that if he had less the prisoners would break out and murder him as he slept.
‘Ten,’ he suggested warily.
‘Come, Veledetti.’
‘Twenty, then.’
‘That’s better. Hrabak?’
‘I can let you have thirty,’ Hrabak said. ‘But I must have them back the minute we get transport.’
Hochstatter nodded. ‘Von Steen?’
‘Twenty,’ von Steen said. ‘Not one more, or the whole operation of the port will come to a stop.’
‘Twenty then,’ Hochstatter said. ‘That makes three hundred and fifty-three engaged purely on defence. Tarnow, ask army headquarters if we can’t borrow from Tobruk. What about guns?’
Schoeler, the artilleryman, looked up. ‘Zohler got a smashed-up Mark III from 15th Panzers. We’re digging it in now. It can’t be repaired and won’t move and he had to tow it into position, but the turret can be cranked. He’s also got two old British tanks armed with two-pounders.’
‘Is that all?’
‘The panzers are sitting on everything they have,’ Schoeler said. ‘In case they have to be cannibalized for spares. They’re expecting to need them before long.’
Hochstatter frowned. ‘Aren’t they all getting a little worked up about this big attack?’ he asked.
Nietzche shrugged. ‘This time they seem to think they need to.’
‘What about tank men?’
‘Zohler sent down fifteen and an officer. All convalescents!’
‘Himmelherrgott!’ Hochstatter gestured wearily. ‘Have we nothing but the halt, the blind and the lame? I just hope that the British are having the same difficulties we are.’
As it so happened, they were - as the explosive mixture crammed into the tented camp at Gott el Scouab indicated.
At that precise moment in time, the camp was chiefly notable for the sullen atmosphere that hung over it. Most of its inhabitants were moving about with frowning faces and saying very little. Hockold watched them from the doorway of his headquarters, a drab wooden hut which, following a raid by the Luftwaffe in July, didn’t even stand erect but leaned at an angle. Amos and Watson were behind him, Amos sitting at the desk working at a training programme Murdoch had written out, Watson staring at the tent lists and wondering if the idea of separating everyone from his friends had been a good one.
When he’d first arrived in Egypt, like everybody else who’d left England in the dark days of 1940, he’d never expected to go home again because he’d thought the war would go on for ever.
It had made the pain of being separated from his wife all the worse and for a long time he’d just accepted that he must be grateful simply for having known her. Now, however, with the old piratical days of 1940 and 1941 gone, the desert filling up with armed men, and the certainty growing that this time they really were going to knock the enemy out of Africa, the longing to go home had become an agony and he was impatient to finish the job.
‘Think it’ll work?’ he asked.
Amos lifted his head. ‘It’ll work,’ he said confidently. ‘By tonight they’ll be swopping fags.’
At that moment they were swopping nothing but uncomplimentary remarks about their new commanding officer.
‘Fuddy bugger, isd’t ‘e?’ Private Waterhouse was yelling, a gormless, untroubled grin on his face. ‘Proper cobedian. Let t’ battle commence, eh? What a lot o’ drippingg. It makes me fair roll od the bloody groud.’
On the whole they were in complete agreement. Gott el Scouab was clearly a bigger hell-hole than No. 2 Transit and the vastness around was oppressive, limitless and awful. Sand seeped into everything, a fair proportion filling their socks, while the brooding sun stuck their shirts to their backs with a board-like consistency and made their necks raw with the gritty dust.
‘If this is the commandos,’ Sugarwhite observed, ‘we should have joined the chain gang.’
They were all set for a good grumble, but Murdoch didn’t give them that long and sent the sergeants and corporals round the tents to chase them out. They came unwillingly because they were still feeling they’d been cheated, and Murdoch stared contemptuously at them as they turned up in dribs and drabs.
‘When I say I want y’on parade,’ he said in his quiet low voice, ‘I mean I want y’on parade - now!’ His voice remained quiet but there was something deadly in it now that made them uneasy. ‘I’m a commando. You want to be commandos. Well, the fairst thing you’d better learn is discipline -- without question. Contrary to what Errol Flynn would have you believe, toughness isnae bashing another chap’s head in. Toughness is keeping on going when everybody else has stopped. And that depends on stamina, temperament, will - and discipline. Well, we cannae change your characters or make you stronger than you were born. But we can give you discipline.’
He paused and the yellow gaze flickered across their faces as what he’d said sank in. ‘I was in Abyssinia and Spain,’ he went on. ‘So I ken what I’m talking about. Yon Abyssinians and yon Spanish were brave enough but they didnae savvy much aboot discipline and it was that that did for ‘em. With a bit o’ discipline -- a couple of commandos or the Fairst Black Watch, for instance -- we could have seen off both Mussolini and Franco, and then Hitler might no’ have bothered to go to war.’
As he stopped to draw breath, there were no funny comments because they all knew that what he said was the truth. ‘So!’ he ended. ‘I shall be doing everything you’re doing, as will all the other officers and sergeants, so you’ve no need to think you’ve got it tough.’
A few glances were exchanged and Murdoch went on. ‘You’re fully trained soldiers,’ he said, his foxy eyes gleaming behind his glasses. ‘When I’ve finished with you, you’ll be fit fully trained soldiers - with courage, physical endurance, initiative, resource, activity, self-reliance and an aggressive spirit towards the war.’
‘Jesus!’ Waterhouse let his breath out in a bleat of horror.
‘In the words o’ Garibaldi - ‘
‘Wha the hell’s Garibaldi?’ Keely muttered.
‘Some bloody Eyetie ice-cream merchant,’ Belcher pointed out. ‘Shut up.’
‘- you’ll know “fame, sete, marcie forzate, battaglia e morte.” Churchill puts it a different way. “Blood, sweat an’ tears,” he called it. There’ll no’ be much red tape, but there will be bull, because a clean soldier’s a good soldier and it’s all only normal infantry training. A wee bit quicker and a wee bit harder, to make you persevere, when the time
comes, right to the end. Any man can cover seven miles an hour if he wishes - even out here. It’s our job to see that you do wish.’
There were a few shocked looks but Murdoch seemed impervious.
‘Most o’ what you do, therefore,’ he continued, ‘will be done at the double, carrying heavy weights. When you’ve finished you’ll be better men, and when you leave here every one of you will walk on the earth as if he owns it. To the Germans he will have to face, he will be as a wolf is to a lamb. Now, who are the engineers?’
A group of men shuffled forward, none too willingly, because it was the oldest dodge in the army to ask who were birdwatchers or Baptists or who could ride a bicycle, and then give you the job of cleaning out latrines.
This time, it was different.
Murdoch turned to Jacka, the commando sergeant. ‘I want an assault course constructed. So that they can learn to do the things they might have to do. I want it finished by tonight.’
As the others tramped away, the engineers stared at Jacka.
‘What the hell’s an assault course?’ they demanded.
Jacka grinned. ‘A few ups and a few downs,’ he said. ‘A few unders and a few overs. That sort of thing.’
‘Where do we get the gear? There’s nothing here.’
‘No, there isn’t, is there?’ Jacka looked at the speaker contemptuously. ‘‘Then find the bloody stuff!’ he roared.
It was their first lesson in independence and in no time they’d begged, borrowed or stolen from neighbouring camps or the intervening desert, nets, poles, rope, boxes, boards, spades, rolls of barbed wire, even wrecked cars, old lorries and one rusty tank.
The rest of the men had grouped round Murdoch who was balancing a rifle and bayonet in his hand. He looked murderous despite his glasses.
‘Weapon training,’ he said quietly. ‘You all know about weapons and how to handle ‘em. Some o’ you might even have had a pot-shot at a Jerry. In the commandos, the aim o’ weapon training is no’ to take pot-shots, but to kill.’ His voice rose slightly so that he seemed to be the embodiment of a diabolical will, and anyone who’d thought up to then that there was any other aim to weapon training realized he’d been kidding himself.
They were all a little sober as they headed back to camp at the end of the morning and all a great deal dustier after four hours of solid marching to see what they could do.
‘Gawd chase me up and down Wapping Steps,’ Belcher said, brushing the sweat from his eyes. ‘I feel like ten men - nine dead and one paralysed all down one side. Who’s that feller think ‘e is, anyway? Bew Guest?’
By this time a lot of Jacka’s assault course had been put up and there was a contrivance of derricks and wires stretching across the sand from one of the huts. ‘What’s yon for?’ Keely asked.
‘You’ll soon find out!’
The words had an ominous ring and there were no further questions. They’d already learned that the commandos weren’t in the habit of enlarging on things too much, and asking them for explanations was about as rewarding as trying to nail jelly to a wall. It seemed safer to wait and see.
Training was no part of Hockold’s business at this stage because he had too many other things to attend to in Cairo.
Kirstie gave him the best smile she could manage as he appeared. In Murray’s office he was brisk, keen and to the point. With her he was grimly silent and she felt it her duty - even more than her duty - to give him a degree of encouragement. It had clearly worked so far because, instead of crashing past, taking half the furniture with him as he had the first time he’d appeared, he stopped by her desk.
‘How about a drink when we’ve finished?’ he barked.
She beamed at him, and he blushed and vanished into Murray’s room. Murray was on the telephone. He seemed to spend half his life on the telephone. He waved Hockold to a chair and went on with his conversation. When he’d finished, he seemed to surface slowly, lit a cigarette, and smiled.
‘Things are looking up,’ he said. ‘There’s another meeting and Bryant telephoned to say he’s got you half a dozen launches and something to go alongside the pier.’
Hockold didn’t reply and Murray looked quickly at him.
‘It’s a beginning,’ he said.
‘Yes, sir. But I’m a bit worried about those guns.’
‘So am I. But we’ll come up with something.’
Hockold drew a deep breath. ‘I was thinking of tanks, sir,’ he said.
Murray’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Tanks?’ he said. ‘Tanks can’t operate in the dark.’
‘They might, sir. After all, we always used the dark to get into position, so why not use it to fight? We did at Beda Farafra last year. Jerry was all round us, so we took off the black-out shields and switched on the lights. They were so surprised, it worked.’
‘You’ll need more than headlights,’ Murray grunted.
‘We could arrange for the RAF to drop flares and fit extra lights on the turrets. We don’t need anything big. Or anything very new. Honeys, for instance. They’re fast. There’s a wide slip alongside the mole and if we could get them on to the beach they could go up there. If they’re quick, all those 47s could well be facing the wrong way.
Murray pressed a bell and Kirstie appeared. She didn’t look at Hockold.
‘Get me Alec Gatehouse,’ Murray said. ‘If anyone knows whether it can be done, he will.’
Bryant and de Berry were more forthcoming this time but not much more friendly towards each other. ‘So far I’ve got you half a dozen launches,’ Bryant said. ‘Three naval Fairmile Type Bs, and three RAF high-speed rescue jobs which are under naval command. There’s also an Egyptian water-boat, Horambeb, to go alongside the pier for your troops to land across. She draws only four feet unladen. We can mount guns.’
‘How about the launches?’
‘MLs - three-pounders and machine guns. HSLs - stern-mounted Oerlikons and waist-mounted point-threes in turrets.’
It didn’t seem much and Bryant seemed to recognize the fact. ‘At the moment that’s as far as I can commit myself,’ he said.
‘They won’t get us ashore,’ de Berry pointed out. ‘And we have to bridge the water gap.’ He smiled. ‘Like Jonah and the whale which vomited him on to dry land. He formed a neat parabola through the air, I believe.’
‘Something that’s impractical with tanks,’ Murray interjected sharply.
Bryant’s head jerked round. ‘When did we start talking about tanks?’
‘Just now.’ Murray made himself sound casual. ‘We’re proposing to use them.’
‘At night?’
Murray smiled. ‘That’s what everybody says. I said it myself at first. But why not? 1st and 10th Armoured are moving up in the dark when Monty starts his battle. I think it’d shake ‘em rotten in Qaba if they saw British tanks waddling up the main street.’
Bryant grunted. ‘For tanks you need landing craft.’
Murray grinned. ‘I happen to know you have one or two in this neck of the woods.’
‘They’re obsolete.’ Bryant made a wash-out gesture with his hand. ‘They’re Mark 1s and they’ve never been used as landing craft because they were no sooner built than they were proved out-of-date.’
Murray’s bulldog jaw stuck out and he looked as obdurate as Bryant. ‘We’re not asking for a Spithead review,’ he growled. ‘Just a landing craft. And I know there’s one in Alex.’
Bryant’s eyebrows shot up and Murray continued. ‘She carries three forty-ton tanks one behind the other,’ he said. ‘Steams at a nominal ten knots; and discharges her cargo through her bows. She draws three foot six inches forward, and she was sent out here with others in sections as deck cargo. She was ferrying supplies and, until she moved to Alex, she was at Kabrit in the Great Bitter Lake.’
Bryant seemed amused. ‘You’ve done your homework,’ he admitted. ‘Very well, you can have her. We can even mount machine guns.’ For the first time he seemed to be giving his full co-operation. ‘I’m trying als
o to get you a frigate but it’s unlikely. All our spare units are earmarked for the feint on the day Montgomery’s battle starts.’
‘Six launches, a water-boat, an LCT and the hope of a frigate,’ Murray said. ‘You’ll have to do better than that.’
They seemed to have reached an impasse once more. Hockold looked at de Berry. ‘What about a raid on the airfield?’ he asked. ‘We need to make them switch on their searchlights so we can see. Flares would help too - as near the town as possible.’
‘We could do that.’ De Berry nodded. ‘We might even be able to make the raid seem bigger than it is. They’ve been experimenting with some new metallic strip. I can get hold of some.’
Bryant was frowning heavily at Murray. ‘What losses do you estimate?’ he asked.
‘Thirty per cent.’
‘I’d put it higher than that. Can’t you work out some way of withdrawing into the desert to be picked up by the army as they come through. You’ll be holding the centre of the town and the road to the airfield. You might be able to get out that way.’
Hockold stared at the map. ‘I’m still worried about getting in,’ he said.
It was a thought that worried Hockold a great deal because, with the arrival of the Afrika Korps, the war had become very professional in the last year. In 1940 and 1941 when there’d been only the Italians to attend to, it had even been enjoyable, with the sun rising in a red ball in the mornings and the world clean and good, and a whisky and water at night out of an enamelled mug near a flapping tent. It had been German efficiency that had shaken them out of their self-satisfaction.
The memory was a bitter one and all the worse for coming back to him as he ate a hurried meal in the officers’ club with Kirstie McRuer. Around them the usual desk-drivers from all three services were sipping their pink gins and discussing the latest ‘buzzes’ from the desert. Cairo was a place where everybody seemed to be busy yet nothing seemed to get done, and the thought reminded Hockold how little progress he’d made.
