Alamein

by Iain Gale

  Certainly the loss of officers had been horrendous. His two original forward companies now had only two officers between them, himself and a captain who had been transferred from the right reserve company. And Samwell knew that that company had only its CO and one subaltern left. Number Four company had been dispersed to fill holes in the others and the remainder of the company which had been detailed to follow up with the tanks had not been seen for ten hours. In all the total strength of the rifle companies was not more than 150 of all ranks. Sitting in the shellholes they had been amused to see tanks come up in the afternoon and move forward to a rise in the ground. They had lined up as if they were on a review at Aldershot and then had been hit by enemy fire one after the other like ducks in a fairground shooting gallery. It was about as depressing and demoralizing a spectacle as they could have witnessed and he hoped that it had not had too bad an effect upon the men. Thankfully at 9 p.m. some rum came up prior to the attack, and Samwell thought of the first war and the way it had been. Officers had died then too. In droves. His father of course had been spared. But he could not help but think that if this was Montgomery’s great new modern plan of attack how exactly did it differ from that employed on the Somme in 1916?

  The rum was not enough. The men did not get their regulation tablespoon swig each and they were obviously disgruntled. Naturally the NCOs and officers declined theirs and Samwell wished that his whisky bottle still contained something more than water.

  They moved up to the start line. A long trench, but quite shallow. Again he thought of the Western Front, of his father. It occurred to him that it was cruel for two generations to have to undergo this ordeal. The two missing platoons had come up now and the reserves left to rejoin their original company. Samwell did a quick head count. He had thirty-two men left, the company sergeant-major, two corporals and himself.

  The moon rose high in the sky. Sergeant-Major Macdonald turned to him and spoke quietly in a lilting, gentle West Highland accent: ‘D’you suppose, sir, that the moon might tell Jerry that we’re coming to pay him a visit?’

  ‘Yes, Sar’nt-Major. I think you might have a point. And with the new company arriving and the reserves being up at the start line this place sounds like Piccadilly Circus.’

  ‘Wouldn’t know, sir. I have never been there, sir. But now if you were talking of Sauchiehall Street on a Saturday night, well I might just take your point.’

  ‘Sauchiehall Street it is, Sar’nt-Major. Perhaps I’ll see you there after this lot’s over.’

  ‘That would be fine, sir. I’ll stand you a pint in the Horseshoe Bar.’

  ‘It’s a deal. And I’ll get in the chasers. Whisky. Or rum if you prefer it.’

  They laughed together. Then a whistle blew and they stopped laughing and looked to their front. Slowly the men began to climb up and over the top of the sandbags. Just like my father’s war, thought Samwell again. They stood on the parapet and began to advance and almost instantly the German guns opened up. There was no artillery support, as there had been on the previous attack. The idea this time, he and the other officers had been enthusiastically informed by the CO, was to surprise the enemy. In any case the position they were to assault was held only lightly by frightened Italians who had apparently tried to surrender to the recce officer earlier in the day. He had reported that he had been forced to refuse as he had been alone, but that some of his friends would be along later to gather them up. The men had been heartened by the news. Now they walked on with confidence.

  They had gone no more than a few yards when streams of machine-gun tracer bullets began to whistle across their front, intersecting at a point a hundred yards directly ahead. Alarm bells rang in Samwell’s head. Again he was a soldier on the Western Front in 1916. The enemy were firing across their front on fixed lines, just as they had twenty-five years ago.

  There was a heavy crump and in an instant mortar shells began to land just to their right and rear. Samwell knew that it would only be a matter of seconds before the mortar commander found their range. There was only one way to go now and that was forward. He turned his head and yelled to the men: ‘Come on! Into them!’

  He could still see the intersecting machine-guns’ tracer ahead and it felt bizarre to be walking directly into it, to know that within seconds they would inevitably be among that hail of death. But there was nothing to be done. He stepped into the intersection and felt the bullets skidding past him. There was a cry from his left and he saw one man fall and then another, and another to his right. Then they were through the worst of it. Samwell breathed with relief but then looking to his left realized that the company that had been walking forward there had disappeared. Again the same feeling of isolation returned that he had experienced on the first night and with it the nausea and tightness in his stomach. He could hear noise from that direction. Shouts and rifle and machine-gun fire and realized that the company must have run into some enemy positions and encountered stiff resistance.

  He turned to the sergeant-major: ‘Looks like they’ve found some of those “frightened Eyeties” Sar’nt-Major.’

  ‘Aye, sir, and there must be some on the right and all.’

  He pointed to their right flank where C Company was supposed to be and again Samwell found himself looking into an empty landscape. His company was utterly alone, ahead of the rest of the advancing infantry and beyond the deadly machine-gun fire.

  ‘Nothing for it, we’ll have to go on.’

  Together they continued with what was left of the company, soon they came up against barbed wire. Samwell ran at it and jumped, followed by the men. Ahead of them now he could see several sandbagged strongpoints. This was it. He knew that within them men would be sitting, their fingers poised on the triggers of machine-guns and rifles. This though was the moment for which they had all trained. He yelled to the men: ‘Scotland forever! Charge!’

  From behind him thirty voices joined in a chilling scream, the battle cry that countless drill sergeants had instilled in them during bayonet practice at Camberley, Aldershot and all the other training camps across the British Isles. They held their rifles horizontally the bayonets gleaming in the moonlight and they yelled for Scotland and ran at the enemy through the night, as fast as their weary legs would carry them. As they ran, Samwell saw the tops of distinctive German helmets in the foxholes and cursed the reconnoitring officer for his lies. There was a rattle of fire and fifteen yards half-left of him a machine-gun opened up. From the corner of his eye Samwell saw the tracer bullets coming straight for him and beyond them the heads and shoulders of the three men manning the gun. The next instant he felt a heavy blow to his thigh as if someone had hit him very hard with a hammer. He spun round a full circle and managing to keep his balance, began to walk on towards the enemy. He managed a dozen paces and then to his surprise and annoyance his left leg suddenly gave way and he lurched forward on to the rocky ground.

  He was conscious as he fell of seeing the men behind him do the same, although they seemed to be falling on purpose and it occurred to him that they had not realized that he must have been hit; they had mistaken his fall for an attempt to take cover.

  There must have been a dozen of them he reasoned, lying no more than twenty yards away from the enemy positions as the bullets whistled over their heads, only just missing their tin hats. Samwell, frustrated, attempted to get up, but found that he could not. He managed to raise himself on one arm and looking behind, yelled at the men: ‘Go on! Charge them!’

  The men closest to him looked quizzically at him, wondering why he was not getting up himself.

  He realized that he could not see the sergeant-major, nor indeed any of the NCOs. He was wondering what to do when a corporal from the reserve section doubled over to him through the hail of tracer bullets. ‘Sir, what’s happening? What should we do?’

  Samwell yelled at him: ‘Get in there, for God’s sake. Get the buggers in there. Take that bloody position.’

  At that moment the company sergeant-maj
or arrived. Samwell was just about to repeat the order to him when he pointed at the German lines: ‘Look, sir.’

  The enemy were shouting to them and without waiting for a reply, they stood up in their trench and put their hands up. Instantly the men who had been lying behind Samwell jumped to their feet and rushed the position. Using every ounce of his strength he managed to pull himself half-up and dragged himself after them.

  He drew level with the machine-gun post, the one that had opened fire on him. He turned towards it just at the moment that three Germans jumped out of it and ran off back towards their lines. Realizing that he was still holding his pistol, he aimed at their backs and fired off four rounds. One of them fell forward on to his face and Samwell felt a frisson of satisfaction tinged with nausea before sinking back down to the ground. There was a shout of triumph and he knew that they had taken the position, and moments later he was being picked up by two of his men. They carried him into the German trench and laid him on a bunk in a dugout. The place was full of British wounded and in the heat the stench of sweat, ordure, blood and broken flesh was already terrible.

  He shivered and pulled the blanket on which he was lying closer to him. To his surprise it was warm and he realized that it was the residual heat from the German soldier who until a few minutes before had been sleeping there. A stretcher-bearer bent over him: ‘You all right, sir? Look a bit peaky. There’s some cold coffee here, left us by Jerry. It’s all right, really. Here, you try some of this, Lieutenant.’

  Samwell grasped the tin and took a long drink. Cold coffee had never tasted so good. The company sergeant-major came into the dugout: ‘We’ve got the Jerries in the bag, Mister Samwell, sir. There’s an officer among them. Right dour sort of bugger. He disna say much.’

  ‘Thank you, Sar’nt-Major. Well done. Sorry for my outburst out there. Had to get them to carry on. Never sworn at the men before.’

  ‘I didna hear a thing, sir. Nothing at all.’

  ‘Can you help me out of here? I think that I should interview that officer, don’t you? And we’d better get dug in, in case they counter-attack.’

  The CSM grabbed Samwell by the arm and together they hobbled out of the dugout. Samwell knew that he must get as much information as he could from the prisoner. Their position was not good. They were isolated in what had just become no-man’s-land. For all he knew the companies on both flanks had been beaten off and he and his men were the only British infantry left out here.

  They found the prisoners seated in a corner of the adjoining dugout. Samwell tried to make out their regimental markings but gave up. He spoke to the officer who was surprised to be addressed in German: ‘Please tell me your unit name, your strength and your orders.’

  ‘I am only obliged to give my name, rank and serial number.’

  Samwell shook his head: ‘Do you seriously think that out here in the middle of the desert we can still go by that? You know what I need. If I don’t know those things then we could lose a great many men.’

  ‘Name, rank and serial number. I will say nothing else.’

  Samwell nodded to the CSM who punched the man hard in the ribs, catching him off guard and winding him.

  ‘Shall we try again, Lieutenant? I haven’t got much time. My men are in danger. What is your unit?’

  The German stared at him: ‘I protest. This is barbaric. These are not the rules of war.’

  ‘I’m sorry. My men will die.’ He nodded at the CSM and again the German doubled up. He looked up at Samwell and his expression had changed to one of resignation. He looked overwhelmingly exhausted: ‘All right, Lieutenant. You win. I will tell you. We are the 433rd Infantry Regiment, an Austrian unit. But myself and my fellow officers are German. It’s often the way now in our army. We came here just after dusk to relieve the Italians who had faced you before.’

  So the reconnoitring officer had not been so wrong.

  ‘Thank you, Lieutenant. My apologies for my use of force. You understand.’ The German stared at him. Samwell limped away, helped by the CSM. It was useful information that he would pass to Battalion as soon as he could. As soon, that was, as he had the faintest idea where Battalion HQ was. He was about to re-enter the dugout when he caught sight of a group of men, a platoon, moving across the desert outside the position. Among them was the CSM of the missing right-hand company. He yelled across to him. ‘Sar’nt-Major! Come here. Over here.’

  The man turned and apparently not recognizing Samwell, shouted something back which was lost in the night.

  At that moment there was commotion over to the left and A Company, the unit that had started on his left came rushing in. Samwell tried to stop them. ‘Where’s your CO? I need to hand over.’

  A young subaltern appeared: ‘Hello. Suppose I’m in charge. What is it you want exactly? Can you be quick? You’re rather stopping me from fighting.’

  Samwell fought to control his temper. The pain in his leg was beginning to kick in. He replied in a flat voice: ‘The fighting’s all over here. Can you take over the defence here for the Jerry counter-attack? They’re bound to come at any minute.’

  The boy, for he was no more than twenty, looked peeved. ‘Why the hell can’t you do it? I have my own platoon to look after.’

  Samwell felt the fury boiling up inside him and was about to reply when he realized that the German officer who had just answered his questions was standing close by. He prayed that he didn’t understand colloquial English. ‘I order you to take over at once. Can’t you see, I’m hit.’

  The boy looked suddenly sheepish, and stared at Samwell’s bleeding leg: ‘Oh!’ he said. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.’

  Samwell lay down again on the German’s bunk and tried to relax. But he wasn’t happy in the dugout. He felt too enclosed. He was desperate to know what was going on. And if they were going to be counter-attacked he wanted to be able to defend himself. He called to Baynes, who had just dropped into the trench. ‘Be a good chap and dig me a shallow trench.’ He scanned the perimeter. ‘Over there should be fine, on that slight rise.’ The man set to work and in a short time reported back. Samwell stumbled across to the trench and found, not the shallow dip he had asked for but a more substantial earthwork. Baynes was smiling broadly: ‘Took three of us, sir. Reckon you’ll be safe in there.’

  ‘Thank you, Baynes. Much appreciated.’ Samwell sent him off to find a weapon and after a few minutes he reappeared with a Bren gun. Samwell smiled: ‘Couldn’t you find anything smaller, Baynes?’

  ‘No, sir. Sorry, sir. I was to tell you that the company commander of A Company, Captain Macalister, is organizing an all-round defence and that there’s no need to worry. But I thought I’d bring you the Bren anyway.’

  Samwell crawled into his hole and setting up the Bren, fired a few rounds at the sky to clear the barrel. He was just settling into his new home when Corporal Connolly arrived. ‘Sir, they’ve brought in another prisoner. Thought you might like to talk to him.’

  ‘Yes, bring him here.’

  The man did not want to speak. He looked almost bored to be there. He was, he said an Austrian, too old for active fighting. The officers were all Germans. ‘We don’t get on with them. I should not be here. I’m not well. When is the doctor coming?’

  Samwell gazed at him. Was this the calibre of the crack German Afrika Korps? An old man from Austria who did not want to fight? It occurred to Samwell that their original plan had been for Battalion HQ to move forward following on from the attack. ‘We should both be safely in hospital before the sun comes up. A British hospital.’

  The Austrian smiled: ‘Good. Me, I’m glad to be out of it. I was a machine-gunner you know.’ He pointed and Samwell followed his finger to the post from which he had seen the three men running, one of whom he had shot.

  Christ, he thought. I shot you. ‘Where were you wounded?’

  ‘In the back.’

  Samwell couldn’t quite believe it. Here he was, talking politely with the man who had first shot him
in the leg and whom he had then shot in the back. The Austrian smiled at him again, unknowing and at that moment a great noise broke the silence as German mortar rounds came thumping into the position. The Austrian ducked, instinctively. There was a terrific explosion as one of the rounds hit close by. Samwell pulled himself up and looked out of the trench. Then he heard the screams. A neighbouring trench had taken a direct hit. The mortar rounds were still coming in and one of them exploded close to a foxhole, wounding two of the men sheltering inside. But it was the screams from the first trench to have been hit that were the worst. Abruptly the mortaring stopped and Samwell managed to pull himself out of the trench, leaving the Austrian with a wounded infantryman as a guard and hoping that the lad was not too trigger-happy. Crouching, to make less of a target to any opportunistic enemy sniper, he managed to make it across to the stricken trench. He stopped at the parapet. The trench had been full of light casualties and the bomb had landed directly in the centre. Shrapnel splinters had flown out at high velocity and close range. Two of the men must have been killed instantly and were scarcely recognizable. Another man had a large splinter embedded in his chest and was beyond hope. The fourth was still screaming. A fragment of smoking bomb was protruding from his thigh which it had penetrated and another had torn away part of his groin while a third had embedded itself in his stomach. There was blood everywhere. Samwell gawped for a moment and then took possession of himself. ‘Medic! Stretcher-bearers!’

  Within a few moments two bearers and the company medical officer were there. He looked at the screaming man and then at Samwell and shook his head. ‘All I can do is give him morphine to help the pain. Nothing else.’ As the now redundant stretcher-bearers returned to their own trench, the MO climbed down into the bloody trench and pushed an ampule of morphine into the man’s good thigh. Then another. Quickly the screaming subsided into sobs. Samwell turned away and hobbled back to his trench where the Austrian and his guard were huddled in one corner. He joined them and they sat there in silence for some time. Samwell felt sleep about to overtake him and was only kept awake by the sound of the Austrian’s voice: ‘Wann kommt der Arzt?’ The same question. Where was the doctor? ‘Oh, don’t worry. He’ll be here soon.’ The man spoke again but Samwell’s German was not good enough. Then he realized that he was pointing to his shorts. Samwell looked down and saw that they were soaked with blood. His first thought was that it must be someone else’s. But looking down at his wounded leg he discovered that the Austrian’s bullet had gone through the fleshy part of his thigh, coming out at the other side. It looked as though when the stretcher-bearer had bandaged him up he had placed the field dressing not on the exit wound where he was bleeding but over the entry wound. The Austrian made a sign to him and said in German: ‘I can do it?’ Samwell nodded and with some difficulty because of his own wound, the man removed Samwell’s bandage and replaced it with his own clean and unused field dressing. Samwell watched him work, feeling all the time guilty for having spoken to him abruptly and even more so for having shot him. The man finished. Samwell spoke in German: ‘Thank you. Can I help you now?’