by Iain Gale
He wondered what his father would make of him now. He had never wanted his son to join the army. He remembered the day in 1910 when he had left the classroom in his father’s school in Heidenheim and walked off to the barracks of the 124th Württemberg infantry regiment to enrol. He recalled quite clearly his father’s red-faced rage. Well, who could blame the man. He was a maths teacher. He had already persuaded young Erwin from meddling in aeroplanes. What did his son want with the army?
He cursed at the interminable flight. He had gone first from Munich to Rome. The meeting with General Rintelen had confirmed his worst fear; the British attack was making progress and Stumme had gone missing. Further to that Rintelen had confided that there were only three issues of petrol for the army in Africa. They had tried to send more from Italy in the past few weeks but the British had sunk what ships they had. He had cursed the Italian navy and their lack of available transport. Rommel shook his head, watched by Gause. It was nothing less than a disaster. Didn’t the Führer realize that the war in Africa was all about fuel? It was a desert war where he who had the most vehicles was king. Such lack of petrol meant that every vehicle in his army, every tank and truck had a maximum range of 180 miles. How could he resist Montgomery and Alexander? No fuel would mean that his tactical decisions would be impaired.
He had personally ensured that on his departure for Germany there had been eight issues of fuel in hand for the army, precious little in comparison with the thirty there should have been. But three! Good God. He knew that to fight effectively the army would need one issue of petrol for each day of battle. Without that you could only sit where you were like some cripple, allowing the enemy free range. They were in effect not equipped to fight any longer than three days, and so far the battle had been raging for two days. It was nearing dusk now. Rommel peered down again at the ground below and recognized landmarks.
‘So, Gause. What first? We land and then what. To the front? Yes? Or have I some other duties? Remind me.’
‘I’m sorry, Feldmarschall. We have promised that you would find time to award the German Cross to Colonel Bayerlein. It’s protocol, sir.’
‘Of course. Protocol. Bayerlein deserves it too. Then what?’
‘Then we rejoin the army, sir. Your caravan has been kept locked as you instructed.’
Rommel gazed out of the window: ‘How do you like the desert, Gause? Better than Belgium or the Russian front?’
‘It must be better than Russia, Herr Feldmarschall. It stands to reason, sir.’
‘Yes, Gause. Much better than Russia for sure. Even with the sandstorms, eh?’
He remembered his first experience of the sandstorm, the ghibli. That terrible frenzy of dust and debris so dense that its red clouds darkened the sun. He recalled the gasping for breath and the incredible searing heat, like standing before an open furnace.
That of course had been in the glory days. The spring of 1941 when he had gone against orders from Berlin that had told him to halt and carried on, chasing the fleeing British out of Benghazi. He recalled how he had driven himself into the abandoned base at Mechili and, walking through a column of abandoned British vehicles, had reached into one of the cabs and quite by chance found a pair of Perspex sand goggles, with an elastic strap. They were the latest thing and hardly worn. He had attached them to his cap and there they now sat on its peak as they had ever since that day. His trademark. The men liked such individual touches. He remembered turning to his aide, the affable Lieutenant Schmidt: ‘They’re just booty, Schmidt. What d’you think? Even we great generals are allowed a little booty, eh?’
Charisma. That was what it was about. It was all very well being a good tactician. He had told Schmidt that too: ‘If you really want to be a leader of men then charisma is vital.’ And Rommel knew that he had charisma. In spades. Even the British respected him. The ‘Desert Fox’ they called him now, had done since the race to Tobruk. And how quickly his own men had taken it up: ‘Der Wüstenfuchs’. It suited him. The little animal was an expert at fast manoeuvre and concealment, and speed was Rommel’s trademark, along with the ability to vanish like a ghost. And that was what they had christened his Panzer Division in 1940 when he had charged into France, unseen and invincible. He was proud of his reputation. Well, it had been hard-won. Although he was well aware that there were those in Berlin who despised him for it.
Wilhelm Keitel for instance, the great Field Marshal, who he knew resented his individual style, and Franz Halder, Hitler’s ultra-conservative Chief of the General Staff. Rommel knew Halder had poisoned the Führer’s mind against him. How could they ever win the war with such idiots in command, content to sit on their own arses and lick the Führer’s. It had not done Halder any good. Hadn’t he beaten off the British attack at Halfaya Pass? Hitler had promoted him and given him two new limousines.
He had taken to Hitler on their first meeting, late in the summer of 1936 when he had been personally chosen to command the escort party for the Führer at the Nuremberg rally. He had managed to control the crowd of hangers-on with conspicuous determination and Hitler had sent for him afterwards. They took to each other instantly. It hadn’t surprised him that he should have been appointed the following year as liaison officer between the War Ministry and the Hitler Youth. But to be the Führer’s headquarters commandant during the invasion of Poland had been the greatest honour.
Rommel admired the Führer’s hatred of the old Germany’s elitist class system. Both of them had come from relatively humble origins. Both of them had done well. And then after Tobruk had fallen in June the ultimate accolade – Field Marshal. Lucie had cried down the telephone when he had told her. She had heard him too speaking on Greater German radio, heard the words which came back to haunt him now: ‘Soldiers of the Panzerarmee Afrika. A great battle has been won. The enemy has lost all his armour. Now we will shatter the last remnants of this British Eighth Army.’
Again, of course Halder had forbidden an advance. But with the huge supplies of captured British fuel, Rommel had disobeyed again and knew that he must chase them. He had known they would be in Cairo by June. Everything had felt right. Victory so close, Cairo within his grasp. So what had happened? The answer was simple.
He looked up from the ground below them, realizing that they were about to land. In truth though he had not been looking at anything. He found himself staring into the face of his aide.
‘You know the problem, Gause?’
‘Sir?’
‘The problem. The reason why we may not win this battle.’
‘Sir? I’m not quite sure I understand.’
Rommel smiled and put a fatherly hand on the man’s shoulder. ‘Fuel, Gause. We just need more fuel. Without fuel for the panzers this damned desert is just going to swallow us up. Without more fuel, Gause, we might as well all go home.’
TWENTY-ONE
9.00 p.m. Point 115 Ringler
After two hours there was still no news from Lieutenant Bauer up on the hill. Ringler was concerned. He had promised to get the answer down to him as soon as it came through. In that time the shellfire from the enemy guns had increased and Ringler was feeling very uncomfortable. At least with the twilight which bathed the desert in a strange violet light, visibility was reduced and so the British gunners were having problems with their aiming. He turned to one of the men with him in the foxhole: ‘Lance-Corporal Kater.’
‘Sir.’
‘Take a run up to the OP and see what’s holding up Lieutenant Bauer. We need that reply from HQ.’
Kater leapt the sandbag wall and began to run up the slope. As Ringler had known they would the British machine-guns opened up on him, again kicking up spurts where they hit the sand around him and the lieutenant watched with concern as the man neared the top. But Kater jumped clear and disappeared behind the dune. Ringler breathed a sigh of relief and was equally pleased when the his head and torso appeared above the skyline. Kater was waving his arms excitedly, but in the twilight it was hard to make out what h
e was trying to indicate.
Within a few minutes though Kater was back with them in the foxhole. He was out of breath: ‘Sir, the OP’s taken a direct hit.’
‘What casualties?’
‘Only the driver of the assault gun’s left alive.’
‘Lieutenant Bauer?’
‘Dead. Killed by a piece of shrapnel in the head.’
‘The others?’
Kater looked grim: ‘Nothing left of them, sir. Just fragments.’
‘What about the radio?’
‘Kaput, Lieutenant.’
‘Did our report get through to Division?’
‘The driver thought that it did.’
Ringler said nothing and together they all waited. The evening began to grow darker and Ringler wondered that even if the message had got through, just how quickly HQ might be able to send them fresh supplies. He had an idea: ‘All right. I need five men. A recce party. We need to know whether there’s anything worth salvaging over there by the burnt-out tanks.’
Slowly one of the men stood up. ‘I’ll go, sir.’
Then another: ‘And me, sir.’ Soon he had assembled his five men, led by Fiedler.
‘You know the drill – anything worth bringing back. Food, ammo, guns, water, anything.’
They nodded and slowly began to make their way out of the system of foxholes and stumbled through the twilight down the slope towards the wrecked tanks. Ringler lost sight of them and waited. The minutes passed. Ringler gazed out into the darkening evening. Shots. From the direction of the tanks. A few minutes later he heard approaching runners. Seconds later four men tumbled into the foxhole. As three of them lay panting on the floor, Fiedler got up and made his report. ‘We were just about to turn around and come back, sir, when we heard a noise. We were being shot at. In the open, sir, with the horizon behind us. We had to get away. Kranzhauber was hit, sir. He’s dead. I’m sure. We couldn’t bring him back with us or we’d all have had it.’
‘Did you fire back?’
‘Yes, sir. We must have hit one of them. We heard a scream.’ He paused: ‘Don’t worry. We’ll still get Kranzhauber, Lieutenant.’
Ringler said nothing and tried to think but seconds later there was a scream. Faint and shrill and barely audible, it split the evening and came from the site of the wrecked tanks. As they listened the screams became louder. Ringler looked at Fiedler and nodded. Then, with the lieutenant leading, the corporal and the three men who had just returned with him climbed out of the foxhole and began to walk back down the slope. As they neared the wreckage the screams stopped abruptly. Then there was a different sound. A man crying. Ringler listened. It was, he thought, not unlike the noise made by a dying animal. It brought him back to the woods around his home in the lower Rhineland. Hunting country. The noise was more plangent now and he could not help thinking of the first deer he had shot, the wounded animal dying in agony and the huntsman telling him off for missing the heart.
Then he saw them. The bodies, directly in front of them. They were lying quite close together. Kranzhauber was dead. That was obvious. He was lying on his back and his cap had slipped off his head at a comical angle which was now grotesque. What made his pose all the more poignant was that his arms were folded flat behind his head, like a sleeping child. There was another body. The Englishman had crawled towards Kranzhauber. His bloodstained hands were yearningly close to the German’s body. Ringler could see the trail of blood left by them as the man had pulled himself closer and closer to Kranzhauber. He was a young man with a shock of red hair. His untouched face seemed peaceful in death. Ringler tried to piece together his last moments and arrived at the conclusion that he had simply wanted to be close to someone at the moment of his death. But instead all that the young Englishman had found was another corpse. How senseless it all was.
He looked at Fiedler: ‘We should dig.’ And so they dug a grave. Deep and wide. Wide enough for Kranzhauber. They hacked and dug into the rock and sand, oblivious to the fact that at any moment a British machine-gun might mow them all down. A deep, wide grave. Deep enough for Kranzhauber and deep enough for the Englishman. When they had finished they all stood for a moment and rested. Then they lifted the two corpses into the grave. They took care and put Kranshauber’s weapon in with him. Then they filled up the space with sand and stones. When the bodies were covered they placed the cap and the helmet on the top of the graves. Two more bereaved mothers, he thought. Two women waiting in vain for news of their sons. Two more families destroyed by this senseless war. Of course he could not say as much to any of the men, nor even to his fellow officers. But at this moment that was exactly what it seemed. And there they were, two men, brought together by the war that had killed them, and buried in a common grave.
Together they moved quickly and silently back up to the position. Ringler was drained, exhausted, burnt out. Fiedler turned to him: ‘Sorry, sir. Orders from Battalion. Sent by runner. We’re to go back through the minefield at once. Abandon the position.’
Ringler said nothing. Then: ‘Fine, Fiedler. Get the men on their feet. Let’s go.’
Fiedler smiled at him: ‘Sir. Have you seen them? Most of them are exhausted and asleep. I don’t know how I can rouse them.’
From his side Ringler heard heavy breathing. Kater and Feuerkogel were sleeping deeply, the former’s head nestled on the latter’s shoulder. How could he wake them? Ringler felt suddenly energized. There was a new objective. He called the section and group leaders together, what was left of them. ‘Listen carefully. Our withdrawal must be swift and silent. The English must not realize that we are leaving here, or at least not until it’s too late for them to act. We’ll go in groups. Crawl over the edge of the dune and then through the minefield. Assemble at the other side.’
He turned to Müller, the one who had broken down under fire. Remarkably, since then the man had been composed. ‘Müller. You go with the first group. Take my car to the OP and gather up the dead. We’ll carry the wounded and anyone who can’t walk on the assault-gun carriage. Fiedler, you and I will go last and spike the gun.’
He turned to one of the sleeping men and prodded him. No response. He tried again and was met with abuse. They were sleeping the sleep of the dead. It took a full fifteen minutes to rouse the survivors. At first Ringler shook them but they made no response and it was only by beating them repeatedly with their fists that he and the four men of the scouting party finally managed to get their comrades on their feet. One by one they began to crawl away from the position back up the hill. In silence Ringler signalled to those men who were most awake and fit that they would have to move the undamaged anti-tank gun from its position in the side of the dunes. Then he, Fiedler and three of the others got their shoulders beneath its chassis. He felt the metal warm against his shirt, took the strain and began to push. It moved by inches. One of the men fell away panting for breath. Ringler signalled for more help and another man appeared in his place. Eventually after another twenty minutes they got it to the crest of the dune and pushed. The gun tumbled down the other side into the soft sand. The men who had been pushing it followed and lay on the ground gasping with the effort. Ringler allowed himself a couple of minutes of rest before getting to his feet again. He had no idea whether the British could make him out against the night sky. There was little moon tonight but the desert was capable of playing treacherous tricks. Slowly, he made his way back down the slope and reached the position. There were only six men left there with the wounded. As he entered the foxhole for the last time there was a whistling above their heads. The world rocked as a shell exploded a few metres away to the right. There had been no time to take cover. Lukas, one of the anti-tank gunners, screamed in agony. Ringler spoke quietly: ‘Any more been hit?’
There was a murmuring. He looked across the foxhole and saw that one man, Kater, was not moving. He crawled across the floor and looked down at his face. It was ashen white and beneath his forage cap a pool of dark blood was seeping slowly. Ringler carefully
lifted off the cap and saw that a shell splinter had neatly sliced off the back of his head. It was clear though from his eyes that the poor devil was still alive. He moaned and looked at the lieutenant full in the face. Ringler whispered: ‘Does it hurt, Kater?’
The man said nothing but shook his head. Thank God thought Ringler. He knows nothing of it and soon he’ll be dead. He wondered again whether the British had noticed the activity in the post or whether it had just been a random salvo. If they were to attack now he and his men would be helpless. He wondered whether they should surrender or fight on to the end. Silly to think about that. There was still time to get away, wasn’t there? He turned to Fiedler: ‘Put an explosive charge down the barrel of that gun, will you? Then with a bit of luck we’ll all get away.’
TWENTY-TWO
9.30 p.m. The start line, Kidney Ridge Samwell
It was nine-thirty and still they had not moved. For the last five hours they had lain in the shellholes listening to the incessant bombardment. The midday briefing had suggested that they would go in at 1600 hours. ‘It is clear that our position is precarious as long as our left flank remains open. The reserve company will walk across the gap and take the objective of the unit which should be to your left. The intention is to bottle up any enemy in the gap and try to find that damned unit.’
It had sounded so urgent. Imperative. So why, he wondered, were they still waiting here?
Naturally Samwell had had a rocket for his folly in the first night’s assault. How, he wondered, had he not had the sense to send men after the running Italians in those trenches? Apparently they had simply run back after he and his men had passed and shot up the reserve companies and Battalion HQ who were coming behind. He still did not know how many lives, how many wounded his inaction had cost the battalion. Nor did he particularly want to find out.