Alamein

by Iain Gale

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good. Send it to all corps commanders. Freddie, would you ask Brigadier Kirkman to come and see me forthwith. I want to know more about the artillery situation.’

  He did not have long to wait for Kirkman, his chief artillery commander. As always his key officers were concentrated around the central hub of the command caravan. Kirkman was as sanguine as ever.

  ‘As far as I can find out we can continue with this battle for ten days at the present rate – but we can’t go on indefinitely, sir.’

  ‘Oh it’s quite all right, absolutely all right. Don’t worry about ammunition. This battle will be over in a week’s time. There’ll really be no problem.’

  ‘Very good, sir. Oh, there is just one more thing. It may be nothing in particular but I thought that you might want to know that General Lumsden has not been keeping in touch with his corps artillery chief. Can’t understand it.’

  Montgomery stiffened; Lumsden again. ‘Kirkman, will you be so kind the next time you see Herbert Lumsden to point out to him that he must keep his corps artillery officer in the picture.’

  As Kirkman left the caravan, Montgomery reached for his diary and started to write in a small, energetic hand.

  ‘I have just discovered that LUMSDEN has been fighting his battle without having his CCRA with him…Lumsden is not a really high-class soldier.’

  Six hours later the same book lay open at the same page and Montgomery stood looking down at his words. Throughout the day he had been haunted by the significance of Kirkman’s parting shot. For most of the day he had managed to keep himself away from the business of the battle in the monk’s cell of his caravan. From time to time he had sought inspiration in the Bible. Reports had come in and he had responded where necessary; 329 tanks had been lost or temporarily put out of action; X Corps already had 93 under repair. So his total of tanks fit for action stood at 900.

  This had been a time for calm reflection. Now, finally, he thought, was the moment to act. And so, for the second time in that day he decided that something must change. He left the caravan and found Poston outside. ‘John, would you ask Generals Leese and Lumsden to join me soonest. Here. Now, if they wouldn’t mind.’

  Poston muttered a polite ‘yes’ and as he hurried off mused on the commanding general’s state of mind. He seemed uncharacteristically on edge and unusually nervous.

  Leese and Lumsden were not long in responding. Montgomery welcomed them outside the caravan with a smile. He was standing in pullover, scarf and his usual hat beside a table made from sandbags on which rested a corkboard to which was pinned a map. He turned to Leese.

  ‘Oliver, I need you to change the plan. You are to engage the enemy in close combat with XXX Corps. The Highlanders, the Australians, the New Zealanders and the South Africans. Every man who can still fight. I intend to build a reserve. We sidestep. Bring the New Zealanders and Tenth Armoured into the reserve and use the Australians again as planned, “crumbling” northwards from the salient at Trig Twenty-nine towards the sea. That way we write off all the enemy positions in the coastal sector by getting in behind them.’

  Leese nodded. Montgomery went on: ‘Herbert, I’m putting you in charge of plans for an armoured reserve corps containing the New Zealand division and Ninth Armoured Brigade, Tenth Armoured Division and possibly Seventh Armoured. And use the artillery in support. You will hand over command of First Armoured Division to General Leese.’

  Lumsden nodded: ‘Sir.’

  ‘And then, gentlemen, we shall have the force that we need to deliver the knockout blow. And then we shall carry the day.’

  TWENTY-SIX

  4.00 p.m. Near Camel Pass, the Quattara Depression Ruspoli

  For two days they had been waiting for this moment with dread. He had known that it would come. But the reality of it was more horrible than all his imaginings. Tanks. It seemed like hundreds of them, and for the last hour they had been advancing upon their position. And he and his men had been powerless to stop them. He had known, of course, that their guns, the little 47/32s designed to be light enough to be dropped by plane, would have no effect on armour plate. The most that they could hope for was that a lucky shot might set fire to the tank tracks. He had known all along that their guns were there for the men’s morale. The only way for them to fight the tanks was in close combat. It was suicide and they all knew it. Ruspoli had called together a meeting of his platoon and company commanders as soon as they had heard the tanks’ engines and felt the earth begin to tremble.

  He had spoken bluntly and without pretence, offering them the chance of an honourable surrender, knowing that all would refuse. And then he had shaken each of them by the hand and kissed them on both cheeks. Then they had taken their posts and waited. Shortly after the last engagement they had moved a little to the south into new trenches, recently vacated by the Germans, which had been solidly built, with good walls and substantial sandbagged forestations. That at least was comforting. Beyond the main trench line the Germans had put in a dozen equally strong foxhole positions, and in each of these Ruspoli had placed two of his best men. They would be the first line of defence against the tanks and he prayed to the blessed Virgin that they were ready.

  The British came on in the way they had expected: tanks and infantry advancing behind a barrage of artillery fire. Now in the final moments before the infantry came into range of their machine-guns and mortars, Ruspoli took one last look at the men directly to his left and right. Santini of course was lying to the rear in a new casualty bay. But the others were there, as it seemed they had always been. Mautino, Bari, newly-promoted corporal, Marozzi, Marcantonio, Speda, Fratini, Silvio, Rosso; Gola was in a mortar pit slightly to the rear, with his men and his beloved mortars.

  He tried to judge their distance from the advancing infantry. A thousand yards. Eight hundred. Six hundred. He called to Mautino: ‘Carlo, open fire at one hundred metres. Not before.’

  They still came on. The artillery barrage was falling on the foxholes now and Ruspoli watched as a direct hit wiped out two of his crack troops, blowing them into eternity. The tanks were firing too now. Seventy-five millimetre shells began to crash into the ground behind the Italian trenches. A few minutes more, thought Ruspoli, and they will zero in on us. We have to take out a few tanks before they overwhelm us. The tanks’ turretmounted machine-guns raked the forward trenches. ‘Keep down!’ yelled Ruspoli. Mautino took up the command with the NCOs as the bullets hit the parapet, thudding into the sandbags and sending pieces of wood and rock flying off in all directions. How many metres now, he wondered? He decided that they were close enough: ‘Fire!’ At once every machine-gun in the company opened up on the advancing infantry. Ruspoli watched as they fell in the hail of bullets. He heard the thud of Gola’s mortars and saw more of the tin-hatted British go down in a storm of splintering metal. Now, he thought, for the tanks.

  One of the foxholes to the left of his command post had been selected for the company’s remaining flamethrower, manned by a big man from Milan, Sergeant Nicola Pistilli. They had built the post into as impregnable a state as possible given the materials at their disposal and Pistilli was able to push the nozzle of his flamethrower through an aperture which gave the maximum cover. Now Ruspoli saw the area in front of it begin to smoke. In the next instant a sheet of flame shot out from Pistilli’s post and collided with the front armour of one of the leading Shermans. The tank went up in a wall of flame and within seconds an enormous explosion blew it high into the air as the petrol tank and then the ammunition exploded in the intense heat. Ruspoli smiled and the men who had seen it happen gave a ragged cheer. Before the noise had died away he saw Pistilli turn his weapon on a neighbouring tank with similar effect. There was a louder cheer from the men and cries of ‘Folgore!’ This was all that he had hoped for. Two tanks destroyed and the men in as good a state of morale as he had seen. But he knew too that there was only one Pistilli. Only one flamethrower and that it could not be everywhere. In the
centre and the right of the battlefield the British tanks still came on and now there was only one way to hold them back.

  He looked on in awe, knowing what was about to happen. One of the Shermans approached the line of advanced foxholes and as it did one of his men leapt from the safety of the pit and for an instant was silhouetted against the tank, David standing against Goliath. This was it, he thought. Flesh and blood pitted against the brute force of mechanized warfare. It was the bravest thing he had ever seen and as he watched he felt the tears course down his cheeks. What chance did the man have against armour? One man, young d’Agostino rose from his foxhole and ran towards a tank but was machine-gunned before he had gone five paces.

  Others had a better idea. Ruspoli watched as another man waited for a tank to pass over his foxhole and looked on with pride as he leapt from his hole and ran back towards their lines, to the rear of the machine. Catching up with it he gave a huge leap and sprang on the back, clinging on to the objects slung around the turret, regained his balance and placed a dark object just above the right-hand track and below the turret. Ruspoli knew what it was. A mine, plucked from the sand and carefully placed in position in the foxhole along with half a dozen others like it. He watched as the man (was it Cafolla?) rolled off the tank, being careful to avoid its track and any others coming in its wake. The soldier ran back the few metres and threw himself into the foxhole as the following tank raked the ground around him with its machine-gun. The tank rumbled on and as to whether the crew were aware of their impending fate he never knew. There was an explosion, a huge flash and a heavy thump and the machine stopped dead, its right track slewed off the sprocket wheels. Its turret, at a bizarre angle, had turned a dull black and as Ruspoli watched flames began to lick around its edges. Then the hatch flew open and a man jumped out. He was on fire and his screams could be heard cutting through the cacophony of fire. He threw himself from the stricken tank and rolled on the sand. Another man followed in a similar state and began to writhe next to the first. And that was it. As Ruspoli watched the tank exploded.

  Meanwhile over on the left flank Pistilli had turned his flamethrower on a third tank. Soon, thought Ruspoli, his fuel will be gone and then he’ll be easy meat for the British. Unless we can get him back. He saw d’Agostini, fresh from his first kill, jump out again from the foxhole clutching a second Teller mine. He tried the same manoeuvre and ran back behind the tank that had just ridden over his position. Ruspoli watched in admiration, as the boy took a huge leap towards the rear of the tank, and then in horror, for the leap froze in mid-air as a stream of bullets fired from the neighbouring tank’s machine-gun cut through the boy from shoulder to waist. D’Agostini just seemed to hang in space for a timeless instant and then he fell, like a modern Icarus, thought Ruspoli, and his lifeless body hit the sand, his hands still clasping the mine. Another of the men in an adjacent foxhole saw his fate and threw himself out in a rage, shrieking at the top of his voice: ‘Italia! Italia!’ He flung his mine at the nearest tank and it hit with full force, exploding on the unarmoured underside of the hull. The metal flew apart and the tank died from the underbelly up, a sheet of flame shooting through the hatch. But the blast came back against the Italian and a huge piece of steel severed his head from his body. Ruspoli shook his head in despair while all the time the Italians’ machine-guns rattled out and the British infantry, desperately trying to take cover behind the wrecked tanks, fell by the dozen. On the left Ruspoli saw Pistilli, most of his fuel gone, run from his foxhole for the trench lines. He yelled across to Mautino: ‘Carlo! Covering fire. Save Pistilli.’

  Mautino shouted a command to the nearest section and six rifles and two Bredas opened up on the infantry closest to the retreating engineer. Pistilli, running for his life, had just reached the parapet of the trench when one of the tanks in the centre traversed its turret and a burst of machine-gun fire hit him in the back, igniting the little fuel that was left in the container. Pistilli screamed and fell into the trench, his back a wall of flame. Ruspoli, unable to watch the agony, turned back to his front and saw that there were now five burning tanks. He could not count the numbers of the British dead and wounded. And then, nothing less than a miracle. The remaining tanks, there must have been twelve of them, stopped and then they began to reverse. Still firing of course, but pulling back. And with them went what was left of the infantry. He could not believe his eyes. They had beaten them off. For now, at least.

  The men gave a huge cheer. Ruspoli turned to them and beamed. Those closest to him rushed up to shake his hand. He found Mautino. The captain was jubilant: ‘Colonel. Did you see that? We beat them. Just us, with nothing more than machine-guns and small arms. We beat off the tanks.’

  Ruspoli hugged him and then stared at him and smiled. ‘Yes, you’re right. We beat them off. But we had more than machine-guns, Carlo, more even than flamethrowers and mines. We beat them because we’re Italians. Because we’re Folgore. We beat them with our guts.’

  Tuesday 27 October

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  ‘Snipe’ position, Kidney Ridge 2.00 a.m. Tom Bird

  Lying at the forward lip at the top of the shallow depression which held his command – A Company, Second Rifle Brigade – Tom Bird dug his elbow into the sandcovered rock, looked out across the endless desert through his field glasses and watched the lines of tracer bullets as they criss-crossed in the night sky. And as he did so he reached down further into the deep pocket of his hebron coat and searched again in vain for a cigarette. He was certain that there had been three or four in there when they had set out from the start line. He cursed silently and hummed to himself; he hadn’t been able to get the damned tune out of his head for days. ‘I Know Why’, it was called, by one of the new Yank bands. A fellow officer had kept playing it in the mess on a wind-up just before the push, over and over again until two of the subalterns had spear-tackled him and brought the gramophone down. And now the melody was stuck in Bird’s mind. Funny how these things came to you in the strangest of places. ‘I know why and so do you.’

  Bird was damned if he knew ‘why’. Why he was here and not at home in Henley. Why he was lying on the edge of a desert filled with hostile Germans who, if he so much as stuck his head up a few inches more would compete to send him to eternity. He supposed though that he did have an inkling as to why they were all really there. They were on a mission to save Europe, save the world, from the scourge of a tyranny unparalleled in world history. And that, he thought, must surely be worthwhile. Worth all the death that now lay around them. Killing had become second nature to Bird and his men, death a commonplace. Often, as when poor Rifleman Garner had died yesterday afternoon in a shrapnel burst, it seemed so senseless and it was at moments such as this that he had to remind himself of their purpose. That they mattered. And they all mattered. Every one of them. Garner, Corporal Briggs, Colonel Turner, all of them. As long as they all did their own tiny bit then there was just a chance that they might win. The tune came back to haunt him again and again he thought of Moira.

  Despite the warmth of the coat, he felt a chill cut through him to the bone and he shivered. At least, he thought, the Jerries hadn’t spotted them yet. But he knew that this was the lull before the storm. He fumbled in his pocket for one last time and still having no joy, turned sharply to his right where his batman Briggs was sitting, writing a letter home.

  ‘Briggs, see if you can’t conjure up a cup of tea, there’s a good chap. I’m sure you could do with one yourself. And see if you can’t scrounge a couple of fags from someone. Anyone. I’ll pay top dollar. Wills’s, Player’s, anything.’

  ‘Will do, sir. One nice cup of cha coming up. An’ I know that Larbert’s got a packet of Woodbines on ’im. Will they do, sir?’

  ‘That’ll do splendidly, Briggs. I’ll pay, of course.’

  They had arrived here shortly after midnight, following a deafening half-hour barrage from the thirty big guns to their rear. It had been a major operation, manoeuvring a battalion up an
d into action against an entrenched enemy position. But Bird was certain now that they had taken a wrong turning, if you could call it that. This damned desert was impossible to navigate. They might as well be at sea.

  He knew their orders – only too well. They had been told to take and hold this ground as a key strongpoint in the Allied line. A ‘pivot of manoeuvre’ for the tanks. They would simply have to hold the positions until first light on the twenty-seventh when the armour would pour in and relieve them. There was only one problem, thought Bird. It was a task that could only be accomplished by infantry. And out there in the desert that he was so desperate to see through the black, shell-lit night, lay German tanks. Panzers, hundreds of them, including the new Mark IVs with their terrible 75mm guns. He shuddered at the thought. Well at least it was better than the minefield duty they had been on throughout the twenty-third and twenty-fourth. Or the bloody tedious traffic control work they had done on the twenty-fifth directing Second Armoured. Bird knew though that his men were exhausted. Yet now they had gone into the offensive. He supposed though that they were no more tired than the rest of the army. One thing you could say for Monty. He had built this army, Eighth Army, into a fit, effective fighting force. There could hardly have been, he thought, a single ounce of excess fat on any one of the thousands of men who that night lay all around him, engaged in actions similar to this. It was reassuring, even if it did not alleviate the worry of the threat from German counter-attack. He yelled back into the depression: