by Iain Gale
Someone whistled. ‘Where exactly do we go, Sarge?’
‘Good question, Marsh. Good question. We, boys, are part of an attack against somewhere called the Fig Orchard.’
‘Coo, Sarge. Does that mean we get to eat some figs?’
‘You can eat all the figs you bloody-well like, Malone. But only after you’ve taken the bloody place. And after we have taken it then we move out and see if we can’t take somewhere called Thompson’s Post. All right? All clear?’
There was nodding. ‘When do we go, Sarge?’
‘Midnight, Marsh. We go at midnight. So everyone try to get some rest before then.’
He had never imagined that this could happen to him. To be not quite forty and to be leading a platoon of his countrymen in this bloody barren wilderness so many thousands of miles from home. Was this what he had been preparing for all his life? Of course he still felt an allegiance to the old country. His family had only emigrated in 1914. He was a Geordie, as his granny told him every time he had seen her. Newcastle was his family home although for the past twenty-five years it had been Adelaide. Maybe when this was all over he’d set up on his own. He reckoned they could be in for some sort of payment for war service and every town needed plasterers. That’s what he’d do, start a little business and they could all move to a nice house in Brighton, Glenelg or even Kensington Gardens.
He didn’t mind it when the lads called him a ‘pom’. He liked it, if the truth be known. He thought about Mabel and their two girls, back in Helmsdale, aged fourteen and twelve now. He wondered what they were doing at this moment, and tried to work out what time it would be down under.
‘How’re ya doing, Lofty?’
Kibby stared at him and shook his head. ‘I’ve told you, Herb mate. Try to call me Sarge or something. I’m only your bloody platoon commander.’
‘Sorry, mate. I mean Sarge. S’pose I should really call you sir.’
‘Come on, Herb. The day I make officer you can ship me back to Adelaide. You’ll never see a pip on these shoulders.’
Herb Ashby grinned at him. He liked Kibby. They were good mates in fact.
Lofty was the only nickname he could ever have had in the army, Australian army at least. At five-foot-six Kibby was the shortest man in his platoon. But he made up for his lack of height with a formidable strength. Riding, football, cricket, anything outdoors and Bill Kibby was your man. It had been only natural to have joined the Militia six years back. They’d made him an artilleryman, a gunner. He’d liked that. The idea of sending a huge heavy shell through the air appealed to him. But when war had broken out he’d joined the infantry. So here he was, a bloody footslogger, in the Twenty-fourth Australian.
But even as Ashby smiled, Kibby was burning with a need to tell him. Tell anyone. That was why he knew he’d never make an officer. He was too keen to share all he knew with the men, even though now he realized why you didn’t want to tell the men everything. Since he’d assumed command of the platoon he’d quickly come to have a different regard for officers. He’d always thought them a bit dim really. It was the sarges that did all the work, everyone knew that. But now, well, now he wasn’t so sure. Of course, the NCOs did all the real work but there was something else that went with being an officer. A horrible responsibility.
He yearned to tell the men but dared not, because he knew or thought he had a pretty good idea of just what sort of hell they were headed into.
Lewin had called him and Ashby over before the assault and had shown them Monty’s orders to the Ninth Australian Division. They were specific and chilling: draw everything on to yourself. It is vital.
‘Draw everything on yourself’; they were going to be used as decoys, a target to get the Jerries away from where Monty wanted the big attack to go in. It was a classic tactic but that didn’t make the knot of fear in Kibby’s stomach go away.
NINETEEN
5.30 p.m. Point 115 Ringler
They had been here for near on thirty hours now, had beaten off another British attack with heavy casualties and Ringler wondered whether they would manage another one if, or rather when it came in. In that time though he had witnessed one of the most haunting things he had seen in a war that had brought many bizarre episodes.
During a lull in the fighting earlier this afternoon a British jeep and an ambulance had appeared from behind one of the sand dunes. They had been about to fire on the jeep when he had noticed the red cross marked on the side of the second vehicle, and a curious emblem with a bird painted in its centre. He had shouted to Fiedler to find a white flag and wave it. They had found a dirty shirt. The English had driven in and so he had run down the hill with two of the men and for a moment caught the eye of a young man wearing the uniform of a British soldier but looking somehow different from the infantrymen he had encountered before. The young man had stared at Ringler, long and hard, as if he were trying to understand something about him. He had not spoken but had turned and gone to attend the English wounded. Ringler had wondered who he was. He had a kind face and did not look like a soldier. Perhaps, he thought, he was one of the volunteer ambulance drivers they had heard about. An American. He wondered what it could be that would make a man want to come to this hell on earth and not fight. To come here to be shot at and simply to help his fellow man. He found it hard to comprehend. The desert, this desert, was a place of death, an arena where two sides stood against one another to decide the fate of nations. There was little room for mercy here. Yet in the past few months he had seen his fair share of it. In a sense, he thought, this battle, this tiny part of a much bigger conflict is surely the last war fought by gentlemen, where chivalry and fair play have a hand.
Now they were down to thirty-two men. Mahnke and the rest of the badly wounded had been taken back to the reserve lines. Feuerkogel though, despite the extent of his injuries, had stayed on, making do with his makeshift bandages.
Half an hour the truce had lasted but fifteen minutes after the British ambulance had driven away the shelling had begun again. And so it had been on and off ever since. As he thought about it another salvo came in and hit their position. There were no shouts, no casualties. None at least save the morale and the nerves. It was the incessant nature of it, that and the randomness. Ringler buried his head in his hands. One thing was certain. They could not stand another day like this.
Fiedler came up to him: ‘Sir. The men are on their last few drops of water. Is there any chance of getting any more?’
‘Not at present, Fiedler, I’m afraid. Be assured that my thirst is as great as anyone’s.’
As the despondent sergeant wandered off with the unhappy news, Ringler raised his field glasses and scoured the dunes to their front, as he had done every few minutes for the last few hours. Nothing. Sand and the burnt-out hulks of the tanks and a few other vehicles caught in a previous fight littered the desert landscape. He swept the glasses in front of him in a 180-degree arc. Nothing. Then he froze. Suddenly every fibre of his being was on fire. There, two or maybe three thousand metres away to the northwest: Tanks. Enemy tanks. A great wedge of them approaching their position freely and with no opposition. They looked larger than any he had seen previously. Were these the new much-talked-of Shermans sent from America? How the hell had they got there, he wondered. There must be another way through the minefield. As he watched the tanks continued on their path and cut through the desert on their flank. My God, he thought, they’re coming around to attack us in the rear. They would have no chance; unless – he had an idea. There was an observation post sited five hundred yards directly to his rear. Perhaps if he were to make contact with it he might be able to get in touch with Battalion HQ. He looked behind, uphill. It was just up there he knew, a little distance behind the assault gun. Quickly and without more thought, Ringler sprang out of the foxhole and took off up the slope. He ran stooped, trying desperately not to attract the enemy fire. It was in vain. He had been running only a few moments when the sand around him began to sing with incoming
bullets. He flung himself to the ground but realized that he must go on. The bullets were flying everywhere around him but he knew that it would be just as bad going back as it was going on. He got up and still stooped ran the rest of the distance up the hill. His chest was pounding as he reached the summit and the perimeter of the OP. With a last desperate effort he leapt into the position and landed in a heap. He looked up and saw Lieutenant Bauer. He smiled.
‘Congratulations on your three hits, Ringler.’
‘I thought they might be Italians.’
‘Rubbish. They were obviously English.’
Despite Bauer’s arrogant tone, Ringler felt relieved. Bauer went on: ‘If they had come on a bit we would have helped – but I can only shoot if the OP is directly threatened.’
‘Thanks for that! Well perhaps now you can let me get in radio contact with the Battalion HQ.’
Bauer shrugged and smiled: ‘Well, we can try – perhaps I can get them through Divisional HQ.’
They walked across the floor of the OP to where a private was sitting beside the radio transmitter. Bauer spoke: ‘Hans, see if you can raise Division for Lieutenant Ringler.’
The set crackled into life and after a few attempts the operator managed to get a response. Ringler looked at his watch and spoke and the man transmitted the message: ‘Situation report at 1800 hours 25 October. About fifteen enemy tanks have broken through approximately 3000 metres to the north. My company is reduced to thirty-two men, one anti-tank gun and one machine-gun still working. We have no food, no water, little ammo, three enemy tanks knocked out by my men. Please send further orders soonest.’
He turned to Bauer: ‘Thanks.’
‘Yes. We’ll see how you get on. I shouldn’t build up your hopes. I think things are looking pretty grim right now.’
Ringler smiled and turned. He looked out beyond the OP and saw the advancing wedge of tanks, closer now. He turned back to Bauer: ‘Good luck, Bauer. See you back at HQ.’
‘Hope so. But if you ask me you’re the one who’ll need all the luck, Ringler.’
Not bothering to reply, Ringler climbed back over the sandbags and without thinking began to run down the slope. Again the machine-guns from the Allied lines leapt out at him. A word came into his mind, ‘Kismet’. An Arab word meaning ‘fate’. He repeated it over and over again with every step as he plummeted back towards the position. The rounds thudded into the earth around him and with one last bound he threw himself into the foxhole. Then brushing himself off he settled down to watch. The shells came crashing in, and slowly, the sun went down below the horizon.
TWENTY
7 p.m. Rommel
The little plane circled again and then regained its course, flying east, away from the setting sun.
Rommel looked out of the window of the little Fieseler Storch down at the Libyan coast which was now passing several thousand feet below him, and knew for certain what he had guessed the moment he had boarded. No, from the moment he had received the phone call from Keitel telling him that Montgomery had attacked. He was flying to his nemesis. He brushed a speck of dust from the pocket of his distinctive olive-green leather overcoat and strained for the first signs of his army. The Panzerarmee Afrika. The Afrika Korps. Some of the best fighting men ever to wage war under German colours. Men of such courage, such audacity. Men who he knew would follow him to death whenever he asked them to, as had the men of all his commands, for the last thirty years. He had the power to inspire. Hitler himself had told him so. But Rommel had known it from the moment of his first commission as an infantry officer.
He turned to his aide, General Albert Gause, who was seated close behind him in the small aircraft. He liked Gause, a clever easy-going Prussian with a notably dry wit. He had earned his spurs in the Great War and taken several wounds. Rommel had been instrumental in obtaining his Knight’s Cross the previous December.
‘Nothing’s changed then, Gause? Eh?’
Gause smiled: ‘It would appear not, Herr Feldmarschall.’
‘It would appear not, Gause.’
Nothing had changed. But then everything had changed. And in such a short space of time. Only a few months ago, in August, he had felt sure that they could triumph. But now. The truth was, he had not been at all well since August. All that stomach trouble had set in again. He’d called in a specialist, Professor Horster. Then things had got even worse. He had even begun to have fainting fits and dizzy spells. Horster had given his condition numerous names, none of which made it any better. He said it was something to do with the circulation of the blood. Liver and blood pressure.
Rommel had never had blood problems. Aches and pains yes, but in his own opinion he was as fit as ever. It was ironic, he thought, when he recalled the words of his doctor back in February 1941 when the Führer had first appointed him to command of the African theatre. It would be good for his rheumatism. Sunshine it seemed was the best treatment for that old trouble. A holiday in North Africa would sort him out. Holiday? He wished that doctor were with him now. He’d show him what sort of holiday this was.
Instead of a cure, Africa had given him a worse illness than he had had. His every nerve felt strained to the limit. His darling Lucie had been so worried about him. Well, at fifty years old, he thought, he was bound to have health problems. Even someone as fit as he was could not hope to work as he did, without some aspect of their health suffering.
Of course, his marriage had helped to keep him calm. He and Lucie had been married twenty-five years last year. A quarter of a century of love and happiness and with the added blessing of their son, dear Manfred, who had recently joined the local Hitler Youth troop.
And in all that time, while other officers had had their flings, he had never been unfaithful to her. He loved her as much now, more even, than he had when they had first met and wrote her letters almost every day. Darling Lu. He had told her, of course, about all the admiring letters he himself had received from women and girls at home, some of them more amorous than he could ever have imagined.
He’d wanted Heinz Guderian sent out to replace him. But his old friend was not in the Führer’s favour, worse luck, and so Kesselring had taken over. Albert Kesselring. Rommel grimaced. He did not trust the man, he knew for certain that he was plotting to have him replaced. It had been Kesselring who had suggested General Stumme as a replacement when he had flown off for the rest cure. Amiable, robust, fat Georg Stumme, who it now appeared was either dead or a prisoner. He had been missing for twenty-four hours. The Führer had called Rommel personally the previous evening to tell him as much. And so Rommel was back. And Kesselring would be manoeuvring again. He knew it.
The little plane swooped low for a second time, taking its customary avoiding action to evade the Allied fighters. The pilot was a novice. Normally Rommel would have taken over the controls and flown the plane himself, but in truth he was not really feeling up to scratch. He had taught himself to fly back in the years just after the war. He loved the exhilaration of soaring above the clouds, so different from the ground-centred nature of his career. He was an infantryman at heart. He supposed that his love of flying was a natural response for one who had been mired in the trenches of the Western Front although he had been lucky, being posted to the mountains of the Italian front and in fact long before he had decided to become a soldier he had nurtured a love of flight. That had been his first desire. But once again his far-seeing father had predicted that there would be no future in aeroplane design.
He looked up at the underside of the single wing of the plane, examined the aileron and enjoyed the elegant lines. But then the plane turned again and as its wing tip touched the horizon his line of vision was interrupted by the blackened shell of a burned-out tank. An Italian tank. It brought him back to reality.
Alam Halfa had been a mistake. He admitted that now, although he had not said as much to Hitler or Keitel. How could he really have hoped to win with barely 500 tanks, and half of those Italian. As for the fuel that Kesselring h
ad promised him, most had never reached the front. Oh, it had been airlifted in from Italy all right but as it had travelled up the line it had been handed out to all-comers. The tanks had received hardly any. Their advance had been slow, not helped by the soft sand. Speed and surprise were of the essence and his force drowned in that moment.
September had been worse. Six attacks. So many of his own staff killed, seven good friends. And so he had given the order to pull back, and here they had sat ever since. Two months.
Before he had flown he had made sure that the defensive line was in place, 450,000 mines, deep minefields. Of course, these alone would not be enough. But they would delay the British. If only the Führer would send the promised tanks. But they would have no defensive ‘cages’, and no tanks. So he would use the motorized infantry. Hold the reserves back until the Allies penetrated the line and then rush them forward to defend the gap.
It was so different from the way he was used to fighting a war. He was an attacker. Wasn’t his book about all that? Infantry Attacks it was called and that was just what he did. It had hurt him almost physically to have to order the retreat to El Agheila last December, his first retreat as a soldier. But it had been the only way. With Tobruk relieved and his fuel running low, he had realized that he could not go on.
So even if he believed they could win the war, in his heart he felt that they would probably lose Africa. Hitler’s strategy was basically flawed. Malta was the key. Rommel knew it. They must take Malta first to ensure supplies, ammunition, fuel and men. But Malta was not theirs yet and despite that fact, Hitler insisted that they should still push on to Cairo. But with what? With his name? His reputation?
He was aware of his value, his status. He was Rommel, wasn’t he? Rommel the hero. Didn’t Goebbels say just that every time they met? He was ‘a miracle worker’, a ‘genius’. Worth 50,000 men in the field. But Rommel was beginning to wonder whether his luck hadn’t run out and whether if he failed here, Germany would not fall out of love with the hero.