Freefall

by Robert Radcliffe

  As always he led from the front, the tip of the spear, driving between columns harrying and chivvying, or flying his plane from one hotspot to another, landing, conferring, then taking off again. Time and speed as ever were crucial; if they were to succeed the Panzers must stop for nothing. Overflying a column one evening, he found it making camp for the night, hastily scrawled a note and threw it through the window: ‘Two hours’ daylight yet! Get moving!’

  The plan was working. General Cunningham, alarmed, requested an urgent retreat of the 8th back towards Egypt, but was refused by Auchinleck, who replaced him with yet another general, Neil Ritchie. Ritchie held his nerve, sensed Rommel was over-reaching himself and renewed the offensive towards Tobruk, succeeding after several days in linking up with the garrison there. Suddenly a corridor lay open and Tobruk was relieved. Meanwhile Rommel’s Panzers were becoming strung out, taking heavy casualties from air attacks and running out of fuel. A column stopped mid-desert when it ran dry. Furious, Rommel ordered its trucks back thirty miles to a fuel cache, only to find it blown up by the RAF. On their return they passed within a mile of a huge Allied fuel dump – enough petrol to last a month – but never knew it.

  His luck was changing, his great counter-attack was foundering, and worse still it was becoming irrelevant now that the main prize, Tobruk, had been lost. Hastily he sent more forces back to attack the corridor, but orders became confused and the Panzers held back. The British now turned on the offensive, inflicting fatal damage. By December Rommel was in retreat, dragging his battered expedition back to Gazala, west of Tobruk. Still the British came at him, especially the RAF, which wrought havoc to his stricken ground forces. Further retreat was inevitable; by Christmas he was back at Benghazi, by January 1942 all the way back to El Agheila – his starting point the previous March.

  It was a disaster. Tobruk was gone, Panzergruppe Afrika in shreds. Yet Rommel was unflustered and unrepentant. He was a career soldier, and a pragmatist; to him retreat was a necessary part of warfare, and when all looked hopeless a leader’s duty was to save his forces, not squander them, withdraw to good defensive positions and regroup. This strategy earned him few plaudits. Hitler believed only in ‘stand or die’ and Mussolini, humiliated, was openly contemptuous. But to Rommel it was all perfectly logical. El Agheila might be where he started from, but it had advantages. An Axis stronghold, beyond reach of the British, it was easily defended and readily resupplied. Barely had he set up HQ there than he was shipping in reinforcements, rebuilding Panzergruppe Afrika, and planning a new offensive.

  And launching it sooner than anyone believed possible. Brushing aside Pearl Harbor and America’s entry into the war, by February he was back on the advance, surprising the British and retaking Benghazi before moving forward into the desert south of Gazala and digging in. There a climactic confrontation took place between the forces of the Allies under Claude Auchinleck, and Rommel’s Panzerarmee Afrika. Covering an area of desert more than three hundred miles square and involving two hundred thousand men, thousands of tanks and hundreds of aircraft, the battle, which lasted through the spring, showed Rommel at his most masterful, employing feints, surprise attacks, fast outflanking manoeuvres and a final drive that split the defence in two, threatening to cut off the entire 8th Army. Auchinleck ordered Ritchie to form a new defence line but that too was quickly over-run and before he knew it Ritchie was retreating towards Egypt, leaving Tobruk to its own devices. Rommel then threw everything at the besieged town, bludgeoning it into submission, and a few days later finally drove inside to accept its surrender, together with more than thirty thousand Allied troops and vast stores of supplies. It was the greatest victory of his career, a glorious triumph of willpower and mastery. The news spread round the globe; his sunburned face stared out from every front page. Yet again his critics were silenced, while his supporters crowed, and Hitler promoted him to Field Marshal.

  Yet typically he didn’t rest on his laurels, and leaving newly captured Tobruk he set off in pursuit of the retreating British. Desperate to stop the rot, Auchinleck sacked Ritchie and took command of 8th Army himself, withdrawing deep into Egypt before finally turning to confront Rommel barely sixty miles from Alexandria. The place he chose was a railway halt of no significance, but strategically located in a natural bottleneck formed by the Mediterranean to the north and a giant depression in the desert to the south. Its name was El Alamein, and there he finally checked Rommel’s advance. Churchill immediately pressed him to counter-attack but Auchinleck baulked – he wanted 8th Army to rest and regroup. So Auchinleck was replaced by a new chief, Harold Alexander, who installed a tough First War veteran called William Gott to lead the 8th. But flying in to take up his command Gott’s plane was attacked and he was killed. Frantically Churchill and Alexander scoured the lists for yet another replacement, finally settling on an abrasive and outspoken vicar’s son from Donegal called Bernard Montgomery.

  ‘It’s been a pretty easy war up to now,’ Monty told an aide when he arrived in Cairo, ‘but it’s about to get a lot tougher.’

  ‘It’ll be all right, sir, don’t you worry,’ replied the aide.

  ‘Not me, you idiot! I’m talking about Rommel!’

  *

  The next morning something feels different. Quite what is hard to define at first. I can’t say my gloom suddenly evaporates like the mist, or the weather unaccountably perks up, or that life at XIB takes a miraculous turn for the better. Far from it – the next few days are as bad as any. But for me there’s a sense of change, of recalibration, and of pages turning, both literally and figuratively. Several factors may account for this: Pip Smith’s pep talk certainly strikes a chord; as does the news I’m being moved again. And last night’s ‘encounter’ with Theo is significant to say the least. Undeniably though, the main catalyst for change is the news that two of our men have escaped.

  The story breaks at morning roll call, or Appell. We’re roused as usual by the window shutters banging open and coarse shouts of ‘Aufstehen!’ and ‘Heraus!’ from the guards. Normally I’m long since wide awake at this, but today I am soundly asleep, unusually, and have to be bullied from bed by the others who clump about the hut wrapping themselves in everything they possess before shuffling out into the meagre dawn light. I descend reluctantly from the bunk, pull on damp clothes, beret and French army greatcoat and follow. Outside low cloud blankets the scene; the light is a pewter colour, heavy with the threat of snow, while around the compound sleepy men are gathering, their breaths misting the air as they form up for counting. The French are still the largest group and take up one side of the square; we Brits stand opposite while smaller groups of Poles, Czechs and Dutch make up the rest. There’s even a contingent of Americans, captured bomber crews, who slouch about in their leather flying jackets and baseball caps. Regarded curiously by us and with hostility by the guards, they soon get moved on to bigger camps further east.

  At first, in my bleariness, I completely forget about Jack Bowyer and George Stebbings, and just stand there shivering, willing the guards to hurry up so we can get back to the huts for breakfast. But as they begin passing along the lines, chopping their hands down as they count, I suddenly remember and, craning my neck, see that the NCOs’ section is more restive than usual, the men nudging and jostling each other, talking and murmuring in low voices when they’re supposed to be standing silently at attention. Such sloppy behaviour would normally attract a reprimand from the CO, but Pip, I note, standing out front as Senior British Officer, is also watching them intently. Clearly he’s in on the plan, and also awaiting news. It soon comes, and as the NCOs are counted by the clipboard-wielding guards, then counted again, their restlessness becomes more boisterous, and by the time Möglich wanders over to see what’s going on, ribald laughter and general tomfoolery is breaking out. Möglich consults his men; there’s a baffled rechecking of clipboards, and yet another count, then suddenly the penny drops.

  ‘Ruhe!’ Möglich bellows, ‘Silence!’ but to no
avail for the news is rapidly spreading: ‘Bowyer, Stebbings, out last night!’ Excitement mounts, Möglich barks orders, the guards form up, rifles raised, but still the NCOs keep it up, the laughs become cheers and then there’s a cry of Waho Mohammed and suddenly the entire British contingent, myself included, are in uproar, shouting and whistling in unrestrained celebration. It’s silly, and provocative, and decidedly reckless, but the release from pent-up frustration feels marvellous, and for a moment we are the dominant party again, in charge, invincible, proud and victorious. The war cry swells, caps and berets fly, jeers and insults too. The Czechs and Poles join in for fun, the French watch in bafflement, while the Germans look increasingly rattled. Pip’s right, I realize, they are losing this war and they know it. They will be defeated, and it’s our job to keep reminding them. And reminding ourselves.

  But we must do it cannily, because Möglich, though puce with fury, is nevertheless keeping his head, to his credit, and just as a riot seems inevitable he snaps his fingers at a watchtower and a burst of machine-gun fire tears into the muddy compound. This quietens us rather, as does the sight of three men, heavily laden, sprinting from the guardhouse to set up a second machine gun right before us. An uneasy hush descends. Both sides are overwrought and edgy, the danger is palpable and very present. Paras are an unruly bunch at the best of times, bloodthirsty and primed for recklessness. One false move and anything could happen.

  Möglich beckons Pip forward.

  ‘Major Schmitt,’ he says loudly, and in English for the first time in my hearing. ‘You will bring your men to order. Or there will be blood. Which will be your responsibility.’

  Angry muttering continues in the ranks, someone shouts ‘Bollocks!’ but the moment has passed and Pip knows it.

  ‘Parade!’ he shouts, holding a hand up for quiet. ‘Parade, a-ten-shun!’

  The heart-warming thump of boots as we all stamp to attention. The Poles and Czechs join in too, bless ’em, while the French look on snootily.

  ‘Last night,’ he goes on, ‘two of our men escaped from here, and are now, even as we speak, hopefully making their way home to their loved ones.’

  Sombre murmurs of approval.

  ‘Home with our loved ones, is where we all belong...’ He turns pointedly to Möglich: ‘Wir alle gehören dahin... And where, God willing, we soon shall be. So with that happy thought in our hearts, let us now return to our huts, give thanks for our deliverance, and remember those who will never return home.’

  Fine words, perfectly pitched, and we all dutifully troop back to the huts. Whether Möglich is moved or not is another matter, but either way the sanctions inevitably follow. Locked in all day, no exercise or fresh air, stoppage of all privileges, no mail or Red Cross parcels, worse slop than usual to eat, and so on. It’s petty and tedious and we just have to lump it. Stuck in our huts, some retreat to their bunks to catch up on sleep, others read books or magazines, a few play chess or cards. I, meanwhile, both stirred and perplexed by it all, scrounge paper and pencil and attempt, as Pip suggested, to make sense of it in written form, thus beginning the first pages of what will eventually grow into a sizeable tome. Later, desperate for the outside, and only because medics are allowed to attend their patients in the lazaret, I visit Theo once more.

  He’s where I left him the night before. On his back, head angled to the window’s fading light. He’s been turned, fed, bathed and changed, I note, checking his chart, otherwise nothing’s different. Except perhaps my attitude.

  ‘Hello, Private,’ I announce briskly. ‘And how are we this evening?’

  No response; none expected. But if we’re ever to establish a rapport, at least one of us must start making an effort.

  ‘It’s been quite a day, let me tell you...’ and I proceed to fill him in on camp gossip, including the news of Jack Bowyer’s escape. ‘Splendid chap, Bowyer, if a little forthright. And, er, hasty. He was all for sticking you full of morphine months ago, you know. Yes, well, anyway...’

  I then get on to the business of our forthcoming move. Which is when it finally happens. ‘… Elm, I think Pip said, or was it Olm? God knows, I’ve never heard of it, and quite why we’re going there is also a complete mystery. Anyway, down in the south somewhere, which will hopefully make a pleasant change. Anything’s got to be better than this dump, eh? Hopefully warmer too. No, no, it wasn’t Elm, it was Ulm! That’s the place, Ulm!’

  A pause while we digest this. Over at the guard hut furious barking tells me the dogs are preparing to come out for the night. The guards will be locking up again too, extra vigilantly no doubt.

  ‘I must get back.’

  A sigh. Like a whisper. Nothing more. A tiny sibilant sound like ‘sim’.

  ‘Trickey?’ I’m not sure I hear it, not sure even if it’s him or a draught at the window. I bend lower. His eyes are slits, his face white and waxy in the last of the light. ‘Trickey, did you say something?’

  The sound comes again, another whispered exhalation: ‘sim’.

  Then I realize it’s not just a sound. I realize he’s saying something.

  ‘It’s him.’

  *

  Following 8th Army’s first encounters with Panzerarmee Afrika at El Alamein, by the end of August 1942 a period of stalemate had set in, with both sides dug in along a front stretching from the town to the great Qattara depression forty miles south. Rommel’s force was dangerously deep inside Egypt, barely sixty miles from Alexandria, but Montgomery knew it lay at the end of a long supply line and needed time to re-equip. This in turn gave him the time he wanted to prepare 8th Army for a fresh offensive. Back in London Churchill fumed at the delay, but both Monty and his boss Harold Alexander held firm; 8th Army would not move until it was ready and that was that. This suited Rommel, who also needed time, although not just to reinforce his positions and resupply his men. He needed time because he was a physical wreck. By now he’d been in post eighteen months without respite and the strain was killing him. Headaches, nausea, fainting, low blood pressure, a liver infection, exhaustion, the chest and abdominal injuries from the car crash: the list went on and his doctors were aghast. ‘Rest,’ they insisted, ‘the Generalfeldmarschall needs complete rest from the rigours of command – and from Africa.’ Wearily Rommel concurred, even Hitler agreed, and in September he at last flew home to Lucie in Neustadt. ‘At the rate we’ve been using up generals,’ he wrote to her before leaving, ‘that’s five in eighteen months, it’s no wonder I too need an overhaul!’ Six weeks, the doctors told him, before a return to duty could be contemplated, six weeks minimum.

  He barely got four. One morning in October the Führer himself telephoned with news that Montgomery had launched a massive new offensive against Panzerarmee Afrika at El Alamein. The suspicion was he’d done it because he knew Rommel was away. Worse still, General Stumme, the man flown in to replace Rommel, had apparently dropped dead of a heart attack on the first day. Hitler was ordering Rommel’s immediate return to Africa to repel the attack. ‘I’ll need the troops and supplies I requested in August,’ Rommel said. ‘You shall have them,’ Hitler replied. But that night Rommel flew to Rome where he discovered the extra troops promised by Mussolini had been diverted to Tripoli; next he went on to Crete where he learned the British had sunk his vitally needed fuel supplies, and then finally to Africa, arriving at his HQ only to find the Panzerarmee was already short of fuel and ammunition, and the extra tanks and artillery Hitler promised had been diverted to Russia.

  He would lose at El Alamein and he knew it: it was simply a matter of numbers. And even as battle was joined, his strategy became less about beating the British and more about saving his beloved Afrika Korps. At first the omens were good; 8th Army made little progress and by mounting a ferocious defence Rommel all but halted its advance. He even began to counter-attack, but after eight days of bitter fighting, the Allies began breaking through, and with barely a hundred serviceable tanks against Montgomery’s eight hundred the tide inexorably turned. Worse still, M
onty had reserves enough to replace lost equipment, whereas Rommel had none, nor did he have the fuel to mount counter-attacks. By the tenth day he was being outflanked and in danger of encirclement, so he signalled High Command requesting a strategic withdrawal. Hitler’s reply was unequivocal: You will stand and fight to the last man. Shocked at this madness Rommel initially complied, then disobeyed and began pulling his men back. Then followed a long fighting retreat of many weeks and over twelve hundred miles, back through Egypt, across the entirety of Libya, past Tobruk, Benghazi beyond even his first starting point of El Agheila. Beyond ultimately Tripoli itself. There the arid desert landscape began to change into the wooded hills, rivers and grasslands of eastern Tunisia. Here lay the Mareth Line, a fortified narrowing of the route where Rommel might turn, assemble the remnants of his force and mount a last-ditch defence against the advancing 8th.

  But then worrying rumours began. Landings were happening, far to the west in Morocco and Algeria, an armada of ships was amassing off Gibraltar, and swarms of aircraft filled the skies above them. Soon the rumours were confirmed and the awful truth dawned. A massive new army of British and American forces had landed and was heading east into Tunisia, opening up a new front behind him and cutting off any chance of retreat. Rommel read the reports with dismay, but his soldier’s instincts told him what to do. Save Panzerarmee. Africa was finished, and in any case irrelevant now for ultimately the war would be won or lost in Europe. Common sense dictated Germany evacuate Panzerarmee to Italy, or Spain, or even southern France, regroup and prepare to meet the Allies head-on. He put the proposal to High Command, but they refused to discuss it, or even meet with him. Reinforcements were being shipped to Tunis to confront the new threat, they would repel this Yank/Tommy army, while Rommel’s duty was to destroy Montgomery’s 8th Army advancing from the east. Defeat was unthinkable, evacuation out of the question, and any talk of surrender would be considered treason. Panzerarmee would fight to the last.