by Ian Blake
The verticals showed the layout of the small town very well and enabled Pountney to work out the best approach to Rommel’s headquarters. The Rommel-Haus, as the local Arabs apparently called it, was situated in a compound situated at the edge of the town and was surrounded by smaller buildings. Pountney could see that the best way of getting to it was to skirt the town and approach from inland, where the ring of surrounding buildings were most sparsely scattered.
But it was the low-level obliques that drew the party’s undivided attention, for they could see from them that the building was three storeys high while the surroundings ones were all single-storey. Less surprisingly, its roof was covered with various wireless antennae and dotted here and there were trees and bushes, ideal terrain for arriving unannounced at someone’s doorstep.
Besides the photographs and maps, Laycock had also brought a very rough sketch of the interior of the Rommel-Haus. He had handed it over with the warning that it must be treated with caution. ‘The locals are eager to help,’ he had said, ‘but their intelligence can’t be graded higher than C3.’
The sketch showed the position of the wireless room on the ground floor as well as of the sentries, and Laycock seemed to think that these details were probably accurate. He had also brought a pre-war photograph of Rommel, from which the man’s pugnacious, square-jawed features stared out at them. There was no humour in the face and the mouth, thin-lipped, was set in a grim, downward line.
The group passed around the sketch and photograph, then returned to the oblique photographs. Most unusual of all there appeared to be no perimeter fence, but when one of the party mentioned this, Pountney simply said: ‘Remember, this building’s two hundred miles behind the lines. Why should they have a fence? The Houses of Parliament don’t have one and they’re a lot nearer the Germans than we are to Beda Littoria.’
When the final plan had been formulated Pountney asked in the captains and navigators of the two T-class submarines which had been detailed to take the raiding party to its destination, and explained his mission. The navigators had brought charts of the area. These confirmed that there was no natural hazard which would stop a landing taking place and that the submarines would be able to approach within eight hundred yards of the beach.
At dawn the next morning, with the greater part of No. 1 Special Boat Section aboard, both submarines sailed from Alexandria harbour and dived to eighty feet.
8
‘Bloody glad I’m not going to have to pick you lot up again.’
The captain of the T-class submarine Turbulent, a lieutenant commander in the Royal Navy, was a jovial, red-faced character who looked as if he would be more at home on a farm than on the bridge of one of His Majesty’s submarines, and indeed he was known to all and sundry – out of his hearing – as Farmer Giles.
‘I can’t see one good landmark to take a bearing on, much less two,’ he said as he scanned the shoreline again with his binoculars, propping his elbows on the side of the bridge to steady them. Then he took them off from round his neck and handed them to Pountney. ‘See what you make of it.’
They were still some distance from the Libyan coast, but its outline against the night sky looked uniformly flat and featureless.
‘Are you sure we’re in the right place?’ asked Pountney.
‘No,’ the Turbulent’s captain answered cheerfully. ‘Never sure of anything in this game. But my pilot’s first-rate and I guarantee we’re not far from it.’
The submarine crept forward towards the shore. The Captain, an old hand at clandestine operations, had employed a different technique to Woods: he preferred to surface well offshore before ordering the folbots on deck. These had been secured by long painters to the upper superstructure of the bridge, and the Turbulent had then been trimmed down until only the conning tower remained above the water, with the folbots tethered alongside it. Pountney saw the advantage of this method: there was no need to worry about making a noise and the folbots could be brought up from below without hurrying. This lessened the possibility of the enemy being alerted to the presence of the submarine and of the folbots being damaged because the crew were rushing to complete the job. On the other hand, two perfectly good folbots could be lost if the submarine had to crash-dive. Also, if there was any sea running, the small, fragile craft could get swamped. But the surface now was flat-calm, for the Levanter had temporarily blown itself out.
‘Can you go as close as eight hundred yards?’ Pountney asked, handing back the binoculars.
Farmer Giles looked up at the night sky, which was blanketed by cloud. ‘No moon. Plenty of water under us. I’d say we can take you in to within five hundred. That close enough for you?’
The man might look like an easygoing rustic, but he must have nerves of steel to agree to go that close in, Pountney thought.
‘You bet,’ he said appreciatively.
Attached to the canoes were inflatable rubber floats on which some of their gear was secured, so it was essential to get as near to the shore as possible.
‘But my crew haven’t had any practice in crash-diving stern first,’ Farmer Giles added, ’so I’m going to have to keep my bows pointing seaward.’
‘Fair enough.’
‘Which means I can’t use my main gun to cover you if anything goes wrong and you have to re-embark.’
‘I’ll take that risk,’ Pountney said.
He had, he believed, got the better of the bargain. Farmer Giles returned to scanning the shore. The minutes passed, but there was no signal from the shore. Then, just as Pountney was resigning himself to the fact that they must be in the wrong place, or that ‘Tommy’ had not made the rendezvous, from the black ribbon of coastline there came two quick winks, pinpricks of light, followed by a longer one.
At first Pountney thought he must have been imagining it, but then it came again and Farmer Giles said: ‘That’s a “V" all right. Ready to go in?’
‘Yes,’ said Pountney. ‘It must be him.’ But he felt far from convinced.
Farmer Giles altered course towards the flashing signal and when the operator of the echo-sounder reported through the voice pipe that they had a hundred feet of water under them, he ordered the submarine to make a 180-degree turn. For the last few hundred yards it moved slowly astern under its electric engines – a submarine’s diesel engines could not be reversed – before he ordered the internal trimming tanks to be blown.
The blinking of the torch was much stronger now. The huge, bulbous carcass of the submarine rose slowly from the water as it forged slowly astern. Compressed air bubbled round its hull, and the folbots, each with its inflatable supply bag, bobbed and jostled by the conning tower. Farmer Giles ordered the engines to be put into neutral, and when it seemed that the submarine had stopped he threw a white wood chip into the water. It bobbed alongside, then slowly floated slowly seawards, showing that the submarine was going astern.
‘Slow ahead, both engines,’ he said into the voice pipe, then almost immediately: ‘Out both engines’ clutches.’
He waited for a moment and then threw in a second chip. This time the piece of wood remained stationary by the bridge.
‘Ready when you are,’ he said to Pountney. Ayton and the two crewmen of the second folbot were already poised at the bottom of the conning tower’s ladder and on Pountney’s orders were on deck in a moment. A seaman followed them to release the painters.
Pountney shook Farmer Giles’s hand, scrambled down the ladder on to the forecasing and lowered himself into his canoe, which Ayton was keeping steady with the outboard blade of his paddle.
‘Cast off,’ Pountney said quietly, and the seaman undid the painter and handed it to him.
A few brisk strokes and they were clear of the submarine, which immediately began to trim down. The inflatable bag bounced and yawed behind them, but they hardly noticed the slight drag it caused as they paddled steadily towards the shore. They could not see Tommy’s signal now. Perhaps they were too low in the water, Pountney told
himself, but there remained the ever-present nagging doubt that he was leading his men into a trap.
On their right they could just see the dim outline of the second folbot. Five minutes later they heard the surf breaking ahead and braced themselves for a rough landing. But the waves were modest in height and had not been whipped up by the wind, and Pountney even managed to catch one as it broke, which allowed him to surf the folbot right into the beach. He wished that it was always that simple, and out of the corner of his eye he saw that the other folbot was not having such an easy time.
He and Ayton scrambled out and dragged the folbot and its supply bag clear of the water before lying flat on the sand, their tommy-guns at the ready. To their right they saw the second folbot broach to, dumping its crew unceremoniously into shallow water, but they too quickly wriggled free and dragged the folbot away from the breaking waves.
Carefully, Pountney and Ayton scanned the beach for any movement and listened over the slop of the breaking waves for any unusual sound. But the beach resembled the desert: it looked and felt not just empty but as if they were the first humans ever to have visited it. There was no sign of their guide.
Ahead of them the beach appeared to give way to dunes, and after a final look round Pountney signalled to Ayton to make for these. The other pair followed and all four men sprinted inland, leaving the folbots on the beach.
The sand was soft, covered here and there by sparse gorse and clumps of grass. The group flung themselves down under the skyline of the nearest dune, then Pountney moved cautiously forward on his stomach until he could see beyond it. As he did so, the Levanter piped up suddenly from the east. It sighed eerily through the gorse and the spindly leaves of the high clumps of coarse grass, blowing eddies of sand off the ridge of the dune into his face.
Inland, other dunes undulated away into the black horizon. It seemed as if the party had arrived on another planet, so utterly barren did it look. Then, out of the dark, as if from nowhere, a figure appeared. Pountney covered him with his tommy-gun, and when the man, who was dressed in flowing Arab robes, was almost upon him, said the password softly. The figure swung round, gave the answering password, then strode forward, his hand extended.
‘I’m Tommy. Glad you made it,’ he said.
While they waited for the second party to arrive, they brought their folbots up to the dunes. Then they brewed tea, ate stew out of self-heating tins and checked every item of equipment for their trek inland. They also cleaned their weapons with scrupulous care, knowing that just one grain of sand could cause the firing mechanism to malfunction.
Pountney had told each man to tape a second magazine to the one already clipped on to his tommy-gun, so that when the first was expended it could be unclipped and flipped over, and the second quickly snapped into the breech. He had tried it out on a firing range after their visit to Maritsa. It had brought down on him the wrath of the Guards weapons instructor at the range, who was horrified at such irregularity. But it had worked perfectly, and he knew that the success of the present operation depended on such innovation as well as meticulous attention to detail.
Tommy watched their preparations in silence, his face shrouded in his Arab head-dress. When the second submarine was due, Pountney began flashing the letter ‘V’ at regular intervals. They never saw the submarine, but an hour later the other half of the party came surfing out of the dark. The crews sprinted up the beach with their folbots and equipment, and while Ayton returned there to erase any signs of the landings, got themselves ready to move. Pits were dug in the dunes for the folbots so that no trace remained of them. Then Tommy, holding a luminous hand compass, led the way inland, striking off in a direction which Pountney presumed would take them as quickly as possible to the path he had seen on the map. For a while they marched in single file to make it easier for the last man to erase their footsteps, but before long this became unnecessary, for the dunes gave way to hard, rocky, windswept ground.
It was surprisingly cold and the Levanter cut through their clothing. Pountney had just begun to think that the recce photographs must have been correct, and that the path had somehow been obliterated, when the edge of the escarpment along which they were marching ended abruptly and they stumbled right on to it. The first glimmer of dawn was now lightening the sky, so they dispersed among the gorse bushes to hide until dark.
In the light of day Tommy had the appearance of an Arab, but his English accent was impeccable, and Pountney soon found they had friends in common. Nevertheless, he had no idea of Tommy’s real name and, as Laycock had ordered, made no attempt to find out.
‘Are you sure Rommel’s at his HQ?’ he asked.
Tommy shook his head. ‘It’s impossible to know for sure. He comes and goes so much. But every indication is that he is there now. My local contacts say they saw him two days ago.’
Pountney refrained from saying that the Arabs were not the most reliable source of intelligence for fear he might offend his guide. But Tommy read his thoughts. He shrugged and said: ‘I know. The Arabs look at things differently. Two days might mean two weeks. But Cairo must think it worth trying, otherwise you and I wouldn’t be here, would we?’
‘I think it’s a last throw of the dice myself,’ said Pountney. ‘Many people think that if we don’t stop Rommel now he’ll be in Cairo in six weeks.’
They dozed fitfully during the day and made as good a meal as they could in the evening twilight. Then they blacked their faces, primed their No. 36 grenades and made a final check of their weapons. At nine o’clock they moved off in single file behind their guide. Tommy reckoned they were now about ten miles from Beda Littoria, or just over three hours’ march at a steady pace along the rock-strewn path.
Shortly after midnight the first bungalows on the outskirts of the town appeared on the skyline. Tommy waved the others down to one side of the path into a dried-up wadi, and Pountney and Ayton then went forward with him to make a final reconnaissance. Tommy led them round the edge of the outlying bungalows before striking up a small, unmetalled road towards the town’s centre.
The whole place was deserted and in complete darkness. Occasionally a dog barked, but otherwise only the moan of the wind around the eaves of the modern, single-storey buildings could be heard.
They passed through the only Arab-looking part of the town, the souk, or marketplace, and paused while a convoy of trucks rumbled down the Via Balbia, which ran through the central square. Then, when they had nearly reached the far side of the town, Tommy indicated a nearby building. ‘Go down the side of that bungalow,’ he whispered, ‘and you’ll come to open ground. There’s plenty of cover, though. On the right you’ll see the vehicle compound and, beyond the trees, the Rommel-Haus. You can’t mistake it. I’ll bring the rest of the party to this spot now, and have the truck here waiting for you. Good luck.’
He disappeared into the night, the sharp wind billowing his Arab robe around him.
‘Fucking Lawrence of Arabia,’ said Ayton quietly. ‘I hope he bloody well knows what he’s doing.’ He felt uneasy about putting his life in the hands of such a mysterious character. Ayton hated mysteries.
‘He knows,’ said Pountney. ‘Let’s go.’ He led the way down the side of the bungalow, his tommy-gun at the ready. He had crept forward only a few yards when he saw that their guide’s description was not entirely accurate. There was, as he had said, a large patch of open ground. But between where they were crouching and the Rommel-Haus, which stood out white and square-shaped like a blockhouse in the distance, there was a broad swathe of rocky ground which offered no cover whatsoever.
Pountney swore under his breath. They would have to find another approach. They skirted the vehicle compound, which was lined with staff cars, some of them half-tracks, and one of the absurd Italian CV3 tanks whose reputation lived up to its nickname of ‘tin coffin’. Ayton looked at these tempting unguarded targets as they walked by silently and wished he had some clams with him.
Beyond the compound the under
growth was thicker, so that they could work their way towards the Rommel-Haus without undue risk of being seen by the guards who they knew must be somewhere around. Tommy had told them that his Arab informants had said there were two outside the entrance and another two patrolling the immediate grounds. They weren’t Germans, apparently, but Italian Blackshirts, Mussolini’s fascist militia who fought alongside regular Italian Army units in the desert. They were fanatical in their devotion to their fat Duce, but not noted for their skill on the battlefield, and the SBS men were sure they would not cause them any problem.
They inched as close to the Rommel-Haus as they dared and could now see the two sentries by the entrance. One sat on a chair, his rifle across his knees, the other leant against the wall, apparently half asleep, his rifle propped beside him. Their nonchalance made Pountney uneasy. If Major-General Erwin Rommel, the charismatic, hard-nosed commander of the German 7th Panzer Division, which had swept all before it in France the previous year, was in residence, would they be quite so lax?
Then he saw what he guessed must be the sergeant of the guard come out of the main door, and the man’s high-pitched, indignant voice could be heard berating the guards, who immediately sprang to attention. When the Italian had gone back into the building, the two SBS men moved on around it. They noticed that all the windows, except those on the top floor, were protected by steel shutters. None of Tommy’s Arab informants knew where Rommel’s private suite was situated. It made sense to Pountney that it should be at the top of the house, well away from the General’s headquarters staff and the map and wireless rooms, which Tommy had said were all on the ground floor. The shuttered windows meant that the only possible way of forcing their way in was through the guarded entrance. But Pountney had expected this, and the sloppiness of the sentries only confirmed his conviction that they would succeed.
