El Alamein

by Jack Murray

  ‘Come on,’ said Manfred to himself. ‘Bail out you fool.’

  The engine started again as the pilot decided he was too high to glide down quickly enough. Then a figure emerged from the plane. He seemed to hit against the wing and then he was falling. No parachute opened. The figure fell four hundred metres and hit the desert sand watched by the soldiers in silent shock.

  Two hours later they returned to the leaguer. The memory of what they’d seen was still scored on their minds, muting conversation. Later that evening one of the supply drivers came past clutching the post. Manfred looked up at the red rimmed eyes of the young man. He frowned a question as he took the post from him.

  ‘Hadn’t you heard?’ asked the driver.

  ‘Heard what?’ asked Manfred.

  ‘It was Captain Marseille that was killed today,’ said the young man.

  Manfred glanced down and saw the shocked expression on Basler’s face. Then the lieutenant nodded. Nothing else was said. Manfred sat down and read the letter from his father in a daze. The war felt terribly close again. Like the mythical Kraken he’d read about as a child, its tentacles stretched everywhere bringing death and destruction to everything within its reach.

  -

  A week later Dick Manning sauntered into the headquarters of his squadron. In this case, the headquarters was a large tent with half a dozen tables and two large upright boards. A large map was pinned to the first board. On the other was a list of pilots. In the centre of the tent were half a dozen tables set together with an enormous map laid out flat on top. Sitting on the map were model planes, tanks and guns. A few officers milled around the table chatting and occasionally gesturing towards the map.

  ‘Hi Dick, when did you get back?’ said a man behind a desk at the entrance to the tent.

  ‘Last night. I think I need another break,’ replied the airman.

  The man laughed and offered up a few salacious reasons for the evident fatigue of their flyer. Manning was never a man to forgo the opportunity to imply that he’d satisfied every craving of his female admirers over the last few days in Cairo.

  ‘Who’s up today?’

  The man consulted the roster.

  ‘Looks like Jarvis, Heathcott and Wilkins will be accompanying the reconnaissance boys.’

  ‘I’ll speak with Wilkins. Put my name down, will you?’

  The man looked quizzical but shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘I’m sure Wilko won’t object to an afternoon nap. Very well, Dick. By the way, what’s that in your hand? Is that what I think it is?’

  Manning looked down at his hand. He was carrying a wreath. A small card was taped on it. There were three words.

  R.I.P. Hauptmann Marseille.

  34

  Heidelberg, Germany: 21st September 1942

  Sammy Schneider was a career criminal. Or at least he had been. After his third spell in prison and with the arrival of war he took the very wise decision to retire from felonious activities. What was the point? He was merely an amateur. The true professionals were running the country. He lacked their vision, their ambition.

  So Sammy became a window cleaner. He often wondered about the wisdom of such a profession as it offered so much temptation. How many times had that open window beckoned him, pleaded with him, begged him to nip in and fill a swag bag?

  But Sammy said no. He’d made a promise to his wife.

  Heike Schneider had spent ten of their twenty-seven married years bringing up their children single-handedly. She’d known what he was from the start, but love blinded her to the very real risks of matrimony with a man likely to spend enforced time away from the family home.

  When Heike Schneider saw Peter Brehme standing at the door, her face fell. Brehme was used to seeing some degree of suspicion and caution when he arrived on doorsteps. Such was the nature of his job. Heike Schneider’s reaction was one he would remember.

  In the space of a few split seconds her face ran a gamut of emotions from fear to anger and then back to fear. The anger part was the most fun as she considered the very real possibility that Sammy had once more lapsed into old ways. It struck Brehme that if he had, he would never have made it to prison for his rather impressively made wife would have squashed her more diminutive husband like a rhino sitting on a fly.

  So amusing was the reaction, Brehme, in a moment of humour that had certainly not been a thread through his life, genuinely considered keeping up the pretence that Sammy was in trouble with the law again. He didn’t have the heart. He’d done enough to Sammy over the years. Anyway, Brehme’s stock-in-trade humour was exceptionally dry and almost wholly reliant on the hubristic folly of others rather than the improvisation required here. Brehme held his hands up as he saw murder in the eyes of Frau Schneider.

  ‘Please, I am not here to arrest Sammy. Quite the opposite. I need a favour, would you believe?’

  One look at the face of Sammy’s wife told Brehme that she certainly did not believe it and that he was walking on thin ice. Unfortunately, Brehme had little time for negotiating the tortuously Byzantine emotional state of a middle-aged married woman. He went direct.

  ‘I need to see Sammy now. Where is he?’

  Even a woman as forceful as Heike Schneider knew where the power lies. She climbed down from the high horse that she was threatening to mount and yelled into the corridor, ‘Sammy, there’s someone here to see you.’

  This was never going to be an easy reunion, accepted Brehme. After all, he’d arrested Sammy. Twice. On both occasions he’d been jailed for a couple of years. Oddly, though, he didn’t dislike the little burglar. He was just professionally obliged to discourage his activities.

  When Sammy appeared in the corridor it was no surprise when his face fell at the first sight of their visitor. Guilt clouded his face like a child caught stealing Berliners from the pantry.

  Brehme smiled by way of appeasement although even he would have been the first to acknowledge his natural lack of warmth might have made the rictus grin even less welcoming than a frown.

  ‘Good morning, Chief. What brings you here?’ asked Sammy cautiously.

  ‘Good morning, Sammy,’ replied Brehme. He glanced at Frau Schneider and then back to Sammy. ‘Is there somewhere we can talk?’

  -

  Sammy looked at Brehme in utter shock. The two men were sitting on a park bench. This was just as well as Sammy might well have collapsed otherwise. It was clear from what the Chief of Police had said to him, and by the tone of his voice, that he was completely serious. He shook his head. Fearfully at first and then energetically.

  ‘Absolutely not. I left all that behind me.’

  ‘I know, Sammy, I know. And if you don’t want to do it, fine. I will walk away and you will never see me again.’

  Sammy was appalled. The idea of returning to the trade that had cost him ten years of his life behind bars and, to add insult to injury, at the request of a man who’d been responsible for much of that incarceration seemed like a horrible joke. He stared at the Chief of Police. There was no question he was being serious. The question was…

  ‘Why? And why me?’

  Brehme looked away and sighed. He knew that what he was asking would have been too much of a friend never mind someone who owed him nothing and had every reason to despise him.

  ‘There’s a filing cabinet I need you to break into. It belongs to the Gestapo.’

  If, the original request had been a shock, this put Sammy into a state of apoplexy.

  ‘Gestapo?’ he exclaimed. He rose to his feet which, sadly, didn’t mean very much in Sammy’s case and therefore undermined the impact he wanted to generate. ‘You want me to break into the Gestapo’s private files? Are you insane? These people are evil. I want nothing to do with them. Why should I help you?’

  Brehme’s answer was quiet and resigned.

  ‘You answered your own question, Sammy. These people are evil. Don’t worry, I understand, Sammy. I’m asking too much.’

  Brehme st
ood up. He couldn’t look at Sammy. Not because he was angry. Far from it. He appreciated the fear the little man was feeling. The reason why he couldn’t look at him was because he was close to tears. He fought hard to regain his composure then, finally, looked at Sammy.

  ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come.’

  He started to walk back towards the Schneider household. But Sammy hadn’t moved. Brehme wasn’t aware of this initially and then he turned around, surprised. He frowned at Sammy.

  ‘You haven’t told me why you want this. Why now?’ asked the former burglar.

  Brehme shrugged. What could he say? A feeling? A sense of something about to explode. The changes happening all around him. More Gestapo had arrived at the police station. SS, too. Manfred’s old friend Erich was a regular visitor. There was an air of expectancy.

  They were planning something. A raid.

  ‘I think a lot of innocent people are going to suffer, Sammy. I’d like to stop that,’ replied Brehme sadly.

  Sammy Schneider stared at Brehme. By rights he should have hated this man but, oddly, he didn’t. They stood on opposite sides of a divide professionally. Or, at least, they had. Because of Brehme, Sammy had missed seeing his son grow up. But this had always been a risk irrespective of the arresting officer. He hadn’t taken it personally. Brehme was not a person one could like. He was too serious, too virtuous. While he, Sammy, had a more flexible moral compass. Yet, he sensed that Brehme was no Nazi acolyte. He was straight. Sammy suspected strongly that Brehme did not equate his role with the objectives of the ruling party, the men who had pulled the country into a war. He could respect that.

  ‘I can’t, Chief. I have to think of my family,’ said Sammy. There was a tinge of regret in his voice.

  Brehme nodded. He exhaled and started to move again, followed by Sammy. They walked in silence then Brehme asked Sammy, ‘You had a boy, I remember. How is he?’

  It was Sammy’s turn to exhale loudly and none too happily.

  ‘He’s in North Africa.’

  Brehme paused for a moment and the two fathers looked at one another. Then he started to move again.

  ‘Mine, too.’

  35

  El Alamein, Egypt, 22nd October 1942

  There were three letters for Danny. This was unusual. He normally expected one and sometimes, deliriously, he would receive two. The third was a worry. He didn’t recognise the writing. A sense of foreboding assailed him as he held the letter and debated whether or not to open it first or last. He decided to wait. Better he should savour the other two letters first.

  His mother’s letter was full of the usual questions about his health, what he was eating but, mercifully, stopped short of any enquiry as to his bowel movements. Danny smiled at this thought as he was pretty sure she’d wanted to ask. They still hadn’t heard anything from Tom, but they’d had it confirmed he was alive and in Italy somewhere. He was probably safe now but, knowing Tom, he’d be trying to escape. They’d shoot him if they caught him. Danny felt a chill descend as he thought about the risks his brother would face even as a prisoner of war.

  The second letter was thick. Inside was a letter and a photograph. It was a pity it was black and white. One couldn’t see those extraordinary green eyes. She was smiling embarrassedly. Probably she felt foolish trying to take a picture of herself. He wondered how many she’d had to take before choosing the least mortifying. It took his breath away to think that she was writing to him. Not just writing, in fact revealing herself, her thoughts, her emotions and her feelings towards him.

  He was so lucky. The sound of a plane overhead shattered the reverie of his good fortune. A thought occurred to him that was difficult to deny. Perhaps her feelings towards him were tied up in the situation they were in. The idea of a young man going off to fight for his country had a certain romance to it for a girl of an impressionable age. Would that romance have been sustainable had Danny been the apprentice ‘smithy? He tried not to think of the answer to this question.

  He stared at the third letter for a few moments and then opened it. A quick glance at the top right-hand corner told him that it was from Edith Perry. Anxiety seized him. He began to read.

  Dear Danny,

  I wanted to write to you to let you know how Arthur is. I’m sure you will want to know. He is alive and, if not quite well, he is with us and that is the main thing. He’s in great pain. We all suffer for him. I cry every night at seeing how he is. They say he will have to have a lot of operations. I don’t think he’ll ever work again. His hands. I can’t describe them, but they were in a bad way. The girls are wonderful. Without them I don’t know how I’d have managed. We talk about you often. Arthur remembers you fondly. I hope when all this is finished, you’ll remember us and visit. Thanks for being such a friend to Arthur over the last year.

  Danny put the letter down. Tears stung his eyes as he thought of his friend again. The memory of the hospital, the screams of men suffering, the smell of the disinfectant became real to him again. He wiped the tears away with the heel of his palm and folded the letter. He put it in his knapsack along with the others he’d kept from home. He returned to them often. The connection they provided was more than just with family or love even. They represented the best of him, and he wanted to preserve something of this in the midst of the brutality, the violence and the chivalry that surrounded him.

  He looked around. The tanks were mostly camouflaged under canvas. This was to make them look like lorries for any aerial reconnaissance by the Luftwaffe. Men were sitting in the shade, engrossed in reading letters from home. It was as if they knew something was in the air. And it was. All around them there was a look in the eyes of the senior officers. An edginess that had been building throughout October. A fact picked up by PG.

  ‘You noticed they’re all a bit grim-faced these days.’

  Danny looked at the Yorkshireman who was every bit as dour as men from that wonderful part of the world are reputed to be. He made a show of looking PG up and down.

  ‘Get out of it you, cheeky tyke. Some folks are serious. Not kids like you,’ said PG defensively. He ignored Danny’s laughter. Finally, Danny responded to the original thought.

  ‘I agree. Do you think they’re going to give us the orders soon?’ asked Danny.

  ‘Aye. I do. It’s a full moon on the 23rd. Makes sense to do it when we can all see each other.’

  ‘They can see us, too, n’all,’ remarked Danny moodily.

  Later that morning the rumour became fact. It was Major Robert Crisp who broke the news to them. They all assembled in front of the South African. There was little of the usual banter that Crisp enjoyed so much. He went straight to it.

  ‘Men, Colonel Pyman has just given us our orders. They come all the way from Monty. It’s happening tomorrow night. We’re finally going in. As you know, it’ll be a night attack. There will be a number of phases. The first phase is named “Lightfoot”. The Sapper chaps will go in and remove those bloody mines. We’ll follow soon after that. This is the break-in phase. Two lanes will be cleared. One north and one south. The southern lane will be a feint. The real attack will occur in the northern lane. That’s where we’ll be. In both cases, the infantry will clear a path for the armour to storm the citadel, so to speak. Following this will be “Supercharge”. This phase will take place over a narrower front of around two to three miles and will involve two infantry brigades plus the armour. The good news is that we are going to be used in almost all the phases.’

  He paused for a moment and regarded the men in front of him.

  ‘I know we’ve heard all this before, but I think this time it really will be different. I will read out to you the thoughts of our Commander-in-Chief.

  Crisp took a piece of paper out of his pocket and unfolded it. Then he began to read, ‘When I assumed command of the Eighth Army, I said that the mandate was to destroy Rommel and his Army, and that it would be done as soon as we are ready. We are ready now. The battle which is now about to
begin will be one of the decisive battles of history. It will be the turning point of the war. The eyes of the whole world will be on us, watching anxiously which way the battle will swing. We can give them their answer at once: “It will swing our way”. We have first-class equipment; good tanks; good anti-tank guns; plenty of artillery and plenty of ammunition; and we are backed up by the finest air striking force in the world. All that is necessary is that each one of us, every officer and man, should enter this battle with the determination to see it through – to fight and to kill – and finally, to win. If we all do this there can be only one result – together we will hit the enemy for “six”, right out of North Africa. The sooner we win this battle, which will be the turning point of the war, the sooner we shall all get back home to our families. Therefore, let every officer and man enter the battle with a stout heart, and the determination to do his duty as long as he has breath in his body. And let no man surrender so long as he is unwounded and can fight. Let us all pray that “The Lord mighty in battle” will give us victory.’

  When he’d finished, he looked up at the men who were sitting in rapt attention.

  ‘Tomorrow night, Jerry will be on the receiving end of one almighty shellacking from our artillery boys. This will buy us time for the initial move through the minefields. Are there any questions?’

  There were none.

  ‘Very well, I will brief the tank commanders now on specific details as it applies to them. But this is the one we’ve been waiting for. Probably for the first time, we have the men, the equipment and, most importantly, a sound strategy. We can deal the Afrika Korps a body blow and I can tell you there isn’t a senior officer who has spent time with Monty who doesn’t believe that this is it. This is our time.’