Alamein

by Iain Gale

  Turk laughed: ‘Hey Loot, it’s friggin’ Robin Hood.’

  ‘Well whoever’s driving them, they’ve taken a pasting and they need our help. Mount up, guys, let’s roll.’

  It did not take them long to move. Miller reckoned he had got it down to a fine art. Two-point-five minutes from alarm to action.

  They drove hard along the track. It was quite a difference, thought Miller, to the first night’s fighting, when every turn of the wheel might have brought a one-way ticket to eternity through an encounter with a mine. After a while they entered the battle zone. Shells were crashing around them and the track was lined by an assortment of walking wounded and German and Italian prisoners.

  They did not have to look hard to see the tanks. They were not Shermans nor Grants but Crusaders, the more lightly armed and armoured British machine and it was plain to see that they had suffered badly at the hands of the German MkIVs and 88s.

  A major approached them. ‘Thank God. We were following up the infantry when an 88 opened up on us. Meant to have been taken out. Took three casualties and then a Jerry sniper got a bead on the flank tank. Shot two of the men. Can you deal with the artillery casualties first, chaps?’

  ‘No problem, sir. Just show us the way.’

  The major indicated the three closest tanks and Miller and Thomas drove towards them and pulled up close by. The smell of cordite, sump oil, petrol and burning flesh caught the back of the throat and Miller knew it would not go away for some days. He walked over to the first tank which, amazingly, had not caught fire and hauled himself up on to its hull. Why, he did not know. Curiosity perhaps. He leant over the manhole and tried to accustom his eyes to the darkness. A faint sweet smell came up which reminded him of the barbecues his father had organized at their house on Cape Cod every summer he could remember. Gradually the objects in the turret came into view. The tank crew were arranged around the inside. They lay in a clumsy embrace and their faces, pallid in death, were made all the whiter by the light dusting of sand which had already invaded their resting place. One of them had a huge hole in his head. The whole skull had been stoved in behind the remains of an ear. Another man was covered in blood, his own and his comrade’s. He was suspended on the machine-gun mechanism, his legs twisted around the tank’s levers in a frozen dance of death. A curious silence hung over them which to Miller felt strangely holy and he wondered why such a feeling should have struck him here in particular rather than anywhere else in this country of death. He climbed down. The third member of the crew had already been taken away in a Bren carrier apparently, before they’d arrived.

  Thomas came up to him: ‘Josh. See that guy over there?’ He pointed to a trooper standing against the side of an apparently damaged Crusader. ‘His two mates were shot by a sniper. They’re still in the tank. Almost certainly they’re dead. He looks a little shaky. Maybe just shock. Can you take a look?’

  ‘Sure, sir.’ Miller walked across to where the tank driver was leaning against the side of his vehicle, eating meat and vegetables from a can and drinking tea from a tin mug. At first sight he did not appear shaken. Miller spoke: ‘Hi. You the driver?’

  ‘Aye, sir. That’s me. As was.’

  Miller detected a regional accent but wasn’t sure from where. ‘Where you from?’

  ‘Barnsley, Yorkshire. You know it?’

  ‘No, sorry, I’m American.’

  ‘I thought so. I said to myself, that bloke there’s no Englishman. He’s either an Aussie or he’s a Yank. Ambulance driver?’

  ‘That’s it. Are you hurt?’

  ‘No. I’m fine. Me mates copped it though. Tank commander and operator they were. Bloody shame.’

  Now Miller could see the tension and the anger. The man looked as if his face was about to split open and tears rolled down his cheeks.

  ‘D’you want to tell me what happened?’

  ‘Well, I didn’t seem to be getting any orders so I had a look at George – Corporal Wood. He were sitting in his seat and at first I thought he were all right. But then I seen that he were dead. Then I had a look at Bert, like, and he were covered wi’ blood. Bastard must have plugged one of them when he was up looking out of the turret and the other one when he poked his head up to see what it was. So I came out of the lid, jildi like.’

  Miller shook his head: ‘I’m sorry.’

  The man appeared to be calmer now. He wiped his face and smiled. ‘Can’t be helped. That’s war. That’s all. It happens.’

  Leaving the poor man to eat his can of food, Miller climbed up the side of the second tank and peered in the hatch, with the desperate thought that George or the radio operator might be alive. But it was soon evident that they were not. The breech of the gun, the wireless, the machine-gun and the shells stacked neatly in the rack were splashed thickly with fresh blood. The machine-gun belt too was covered in it. On the floor the empty cases of bullets lay in an inch deep pool of blood. Miller gawped. His imagination could see the mist of blood as the two men were picked off. He looked at the two corpses. Both had been shot neatly through the neck. The exit wound had splayed open the jugular in both cases, accounting for the quantity of blood.

  He climbed down: ‘Nothing we can do for them I’m afraid. How about you?’

  ‘I told you, mate. I’m all right. You go and find some bloke who really needs help. I’ll be fine.’

  But Miller knew from the look in his eyes and his trembling hand that he was far from fine. Nevertheless he walked off towards the third tank. There was still the chance that someone might need his help.

  The wounded were sitting in a huddle close to their wrecked vehicle which had brewed up easily. One man, the worst, they had laid on a stretcher. Miller went over and saw that he was very badly burned. The others were not so bad. Two had burnt arms and another burns to his legs. A fourth man looked relatively unscathed but was shivering with shock.

  Thomas was with them: ‘Josh, all of these guys need to get back to the aid post. I’ll take them. You stay on and see if there are any others from that other tank. I think one guy got out alive, but he may be in a bad way. I’m going to load these guys on now. You take Turk. The Prof can go with me. There’s a lieutenant there who’ll help you.’

  Miller walked slowly across to the fourth tank and on the way his eye was caught by a slit trench on his left. He went over to it and instantly regretted that he had. The bodies of the Italian dead lay there in ghastly attitudes, surrounded by pitiable rubbish: picture postcards of Milan, Rome, Venice, snapshots of wives and children; the wrappings of favourite chocolate bars and hundreds of cheap cardboard cigarette packets. Among the holiday litter lay bayonets and the little tin ‘red devil’ grenades, little crackers that could blow a man’s head off. The helmets of the Bersaglieri lay all around, their proud green and black feathers fluttering in the breeze.

  Miller felt sick. He walked a little away from the trenches and threw up. He was mopping the vomit from the corners of his mouth when an English voice spoke.

  ‘Hello, Yank. Pretty sight, isn’t it?’

  ‘You mean that?’

  The man shook his head. He was well-spoken and Miller guessed not much older than himself, perhaps twenty-two or twenty-three, with a handsome face; a long, aquiline nose, moustache and dark hair. He wore the uniform of a lieutenant in a cavalry regiment. ‘Sorry. Just being funny. Matching pathos with pathos if you know what I mean.’

  ‘I do as a matter of fact.’

  The lieutenant looked at him for a second, weighing him up then said: ‘You’re a volunteer, aren’t you? Which college?’

  ‘Harvard. You know it?’

  ‘Only by name and reputation. I was at Oxford when war broke out. Douglas, Keith Douglas.’

  ‘Josh Miller. Good to meet you. What were you studying?’

  ‘English literature, mostly. I write poetry, among other things. You may not believe this but I actually wrote pieces in our magazine, The Cherwell, attacking militarism. Look at me now.’

 
‘Yeah, well. War changes things I guess. And people. I swore I’d never hurt anyone and I end up killing two guys. Now I’m real mixed up. How’d that happen?’

  Douglas smiled: ‘As you say, war changes everything.’

  He looked back down into the trench then called to a trooper: ‘Get a party over here, Bucknell. Loads of salvage.’

  Two men came running and oblivious to the dead, jumped down into the trench and began to recover anything they could. They emerged with rifles, Bredas, Luger pistols, sand glasses, binoculars, British tinned rations and, to Miller’s surprise dozens of flat, round German tins of chocolate.

  Douglas began to talk: ‘You see, as a writer, I felt that the experience of battle was something I must have. Nothing can compare with the excitement of seeing thousands of men, few of whom can have much idea why they are fighting, all enduring hardships, living in an unnatural world, having to kill and be killed. Yet they also feel comradeship with the men whom they kill and who kill them. They all endure the same things you see.’

  Miller nodded: ‘Yes I know. That’s exactly how I feel. It’s what I was thinking earlier this morning as we watched the men going up.’

  ‘Yes. All going about their business as they’ve always done. Happy in their work. And have you noticed how they always whistle?’

  Miller laughed: ‘No, but now you say that, yes, of course.’

  The sound of firing from the west reminded them of their own purpose. Douglas pointed towards the tank. ‘A patient for you. Lieutenant, like me, 88mm blast caught him on the tank. Took off most of his foot. Peter Norman. Ever been in a tank?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Don’t bother. They give you a periscope but there’s no point in using it. In a battle we, the tank commanders, all sit on the open hatch. Your legs dangle down. It’s pretty cramped in there and bloody hot. And when you’re moving you can’t hear anything else except the engine and explosions.’

  They walked across to the wounded man who was lying on his back on the sand, his mangled limb bound in bandages, his head resting on a haversack.

  ‘We managed to give him some morphine. Quite a lot of it actually. And a bit of brandy. Bloody shame about him. He was a show-jumper. Horses, you know. He hunted too.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  Miller bent over the wounded man who opened his eyes and smiled. ‘Hi, Peter. We’re here to get you back to hospital.’

  The man nodded and smiled again: ‘Rotten buggers blew my foot off.’

  Then he went to sleep. Together, Turk and Miller laid down the stretcher they had brought and carefully lifted the wounded man on to it. Then they raised it and gently loaded him into the back of the ambulance.

  Before they left Douglas went up to Miller and held out a folded piece of paper. ‘Here, I’d like you to have this. It’s something I’ve been working on. I think it might have some relevance to you. Read it sometime. Don’t worry, I’ve made a copy. Well, I must go. Have to rejoin the tanks. Good luck.’

  Miller took the folded piece of paper and unfolding it scanned it. It was a poem. He re-folded it and put it into his inside pocket: ‘Thank you, I will. Good luck.’

  He climbed up into the cab and turned over the engine. She started first time and Miller put his foot gently down on the accelerator and pulled away. Looking in his mirror he could still see Douglas standing there, beside the ruined tanks, as they crested the small dune that led them on to the road. There were no sounds from the patient, but Miller still drove at a stately pace. The road was quiet for the moment. The prisoners had passed down the line. Suddenly there was a terrific crash from behind and the ambulance lurched towards the left. Turk yelled: ‘Shit, we’ve been hit.’

  Miller stopped the vehicle and looked back. There was a gaping hole through one of the sides and one of the rear doors had been blown off.

  ‘Shit.’ A shell, a dud or one with a mistimed fuse, had gone into the truck and out again.

  Both men threw open the cab doors and ran to the rear. More shells were crashing around them now and they saw the reason. Along the track in the opposite direction, towards the front, a score of Sherman tanks were advancing. The German spotters had somehow zeroed in on them.

  Turk yelled: ‘Hit the dirt!’ and dived under the Dodge.

  Miller shouted to him: ‘What about the wounded guy?’ He peered into the back. The man was either asleep or dead from the shock. He gently shook his shoulder. He murmured something. Miller ducked under the ambulance. ‘He’s still alive. What do we do?’

  ‘We leave him in there. What else?’

  The tanks continued towards them and began to rumble past. One of them had been hit by an 88 and was blazing further away down the track. There was no trace of any survivors. Miller looked at Turk: ‘I’m going to see if anyone needs help.’

  ‘Chrissake, Miller. We need the fuckin’ help. And you need fuckin’ psychiatric help. They’re dead, man.’

  ‘Maybe, but I just want to make sure.’

  He crawled out from beneath the ambulance and ran along the track past the advancing tanks. The brewed-up Sherman was intensely hot and as he neared it he realized that Turk had of course been right. There was no way anyone could have survived that. He was about to turn round and go back to the Dodge when another salvo of 88s came in. Miller dived to the ground and heard a thump and an explosion. Getting up he turned round and where the ambulance had been he saw a twisted wreck of burning metal. For a moment he froze. Then he ran back but the heat was too fierce to get close. Both Turk and Peter Norman were obviously dead. He sat down on the sand and stared at his boots. Why? How? There were no answers and there was no logic, no fairness any more in this world. Only random death. The tanks went by and then he was alone in the desert with nothing but the blazing Sherman and the burning Dodge for company. And five charred corpses.

  He thought of Turk. The first of them to die and wondered how many more of his friends he would leave behind. And then for a moment he realized again that he too might be one of those who did not return. He could see Turk’s grinning face in his mind. Thought of him playing cards with Thomas. Cursing himself for losing. Swearing that the lieutenant had the luck of the devil.

  He closed his eyes and wept a few brief, silent tears.

  He supposed that at some point someone must come down the track and collect him. Take him back to civilization. The sun had not yet come up and the bright moon cast its white radiance on the scene. Miller shivered and wondered what would happen to him over the next few months. The next few years. They said the war would last at least another three years, perhaps much longer. What sort of a world was that to live in? Some of the guys had already left the service and gone home to enlist. He wondered whether he could ever do that. Killing a man to save others in a particular situation was one thing. Being part of a machine that sanctioned mass murder was quite another. Despite all he had seen and done, despite what had just happened to Turk, his conscience was still tearing him apart.

  He thought of Douglas, a man of learning, a writer fighting for his country with honour yet able to justify it. How did he manage that? Perhaps, he thought, he might find some clue in the piece of writing he had pressed into his hand. He took it from his pocket and unfolding it, began to read by the light of the burning vehicles.

  Death’s logic. Closed in this imperilled earth Reflect, the dust and souls of merciful men lie still. And not six feet above their rest their poor successors go about and waste the store of their amassing. Busy then and harvest yet among a general dearth.

  Miller looked again at the piece of paper and then he turned it over, took out a pencil from his battledress pocket and began to compose his letter of resignation to the AFS. For at last, in that sublime, terrible moment, he knew what he had to do.

  Monday 2 November

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  10.00 a.m. HQ Eighth Army Montgomery

  Rommel was on his knees. That much was evident and Montgomery allowed himself a small measure of jubilati
on. He sat alone at the table in the caravan and looked at the map with its red and blue pencil marks showing the current troop positions.

  The attack had kicked off at 1 a.m. with a rolling barrage by three hundred and fifty twenty-five pounders. The infantry and armour had gone in on a front of 4000 yards and at a depth of 6000 yards. He had all the statistics in front of him. Fifteen thousand shells fired in four and a half hours. That surely was enough to keep the Germans in their trenches and shatter the remaining minefields. He stared at the map. This time it really did seem to be going according to plan. If they succeeded now he knew it would be the end of Rommel’s army. So much, he thought, for those who had doubted the effectiveness of his ‘Supercharge’ plan. And he knew that among them there were some very powerful voices indeed, both in the army and at Westminster.

  Well, let them criticize him now. Within the next few days, the next few hours, he knew that he would be in favour at last. He would have made his name. Like Wellington, he thought, I shall call my victory after the nearest settlement to the rear of the battle. El Alamein. Of course, it was not just one battle, for over the past ten days many battles had been fought, were still being fought.

  The Australians in their salient at Point 29 at Thompson’s Post had exceeded expectations. He knew too well that had their position been penetrated then his entire plan might have been compromised. But his faith in the Aussies and Morshead had been rewarded. Yes they had taken high casualties, 5000 at the last count. But in doing so they had drawn onto themselves all of the Panzer Corps, most of which they had destroyed with their anti-tank guns. And that perhaps was the point of this great battle. The tank had not proved the king of the desert as so many had predicted. This had been a battle of men and guns.