Vaughan nodded. ‘Absolutely, sir.’
‘Malta is about to go on the offensive again, with both the RAF and the navy targeting the Axis sea lanes very heavily. They’ll be doing their level best to ensure that Rommel doesn’t get anything like the tonnage he needs,’ McCreery ended.
‘Here’s something to give you confidence, Vaughan,’ smiled Alexander. ‘We know that the enemy needs his supplies just to keep the Panzer Army Africa on its feet, but we are currently unloading a hundred thousand tons of fuel per month.’
Vaughan whistled.
‘Quite something, eh?’
‘It certainly is, sir.’
McCreery leaned forward. ‘We’re fairly certain Rommel will attack before the month is out, Major, and at present, stopping him is our first priority. However, as the C-in-C has just said, we’re confident we can do so. Our air forces are primed, the Army Commander has drawn up a good defensive plan, and blocking an attack is more straightforward than winning outright. What’s more, Rommel cannot outflank us as he did at Gazala.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Afterwards all our minds will be concentrated on delivering that knock-out blow.’ He turned to Davy. ‘Do you want to explain, Brigadier?’
‘Of course, sir,’ said Davy. ‘Our naval and air forces will be continuing their assault on Axis shipping, but we also want to hit enemy supplies once they’re unloaded. Now, as it happens, we’ve already been thinking about launching a co-ordinated raid on Benghazi and Tobruk, using the LRDG, Stirling’s SAS, and some naval forces as well.’
‘That’s where you might be able to help, Major,’ said Alexander.
‘You were part of Middle East Commando,’ Davy continued, ‘and we also now have the Special Boat Section, which has been a hit-and-miss affair, but has recently been put largely under operational control of Major Stirling’s SAS. However, we think you can help Stirling. You have all the right experience, your record is first class, you’re a fluent German and Italian speaker, and your thinking is spot on.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Vaughan.
‘So – the mechanics. We’re proposing you should command C Detachment of the Special Boat Section.’
‘An irresistible pun,’ interjected McCreery.
‘Exactly so,’ said Davy. ‘This will place you under operational command of Stirling. It will be up to you to form this force but we’re looking to keep it quite small and somewhat ad hoc. In other words, you’ll be used for specific operations.’
‘May I suggest targets and operations, sir?’ asked Vaughan.
‘Absolutely. And you will do this through the DMO’s branch at GHQ. We’re proposing to install a staff officer at GHQ working under me. His task will be to co-ordinate all future raiding operations. I’m having a conference next week, which you’ll attend and at which I’m hoping to square this away.’
‘Do you have any ideas, Major?’ asked McCreery.
‘Yes, sir. As I’m sure you’re aware, at SIME we’ve been trying to break an enemy spy circuit operating here in Cairo.’
Alexander nodded. ‘We talked to Maunsell about that.’
‘The messages they’ve been transmitting have been received at Mersa. In order to attack the port facilities there effectively, it will be necessary to go under cover – to pass ourselves off as German or Italian. It might be possible to gather intelligence as well as destroy enemy supplies.’
‘Possibly, yes,’ agreed Davy.
‘It’s something to consider,’ said McCreery, ‘but in the meantime, Vaughan, we’d like you to concentrate on planning and preparing for a double-fisted raid on Tobruk and Benghazi.’
‘Of course, sir. Am I to leave SIME, sir?’
‘Only temporarily. For the time being, this is a secondment. I’ve already spoken to Maunsell, and he wants to keep you at arm’s reach, especially while this Axis spy circuit is still active.’
So RJ already knows, thought Vaughan.
‘But I’d also like you to help with planning,’ added Davy. ‘And you’ll need to go up to Alexandria and talk to Admiral Harwood and the 10th MTB Flotilla. You should also get together with David Stirling.’
‘Yes, sir. When were you thinking we should launch the raids?’
‘With a bit of luck, around the second week of September. It’s going to need very intricate planning because the SAS and LRDG will have to set off a number of days beforehand – certainly before your lot set sail from Alexandria.’
‘It all depends on when the Panzer Army attacks,’ added Alexander. ‘When we’ve stopped Rommel, and seen off his advance, then we go on the offensive. These raids, Major, will be part of our preparation for the decisive battle to come.’
Five minutes later, Vaughan was back outside the hotel. It was bathed in golden light as the sun was already lowering in the sky to the west. He smiled to himself as he clambered into a waiting gharry. Active service again. It was what he had wanted, and incredibly, he had the backing of both the C-in-C – Alexander himself! – and the chief of staff. Yet apprehension stabbed inside him. It was what he had hoped for, but such operations were fraught with danger. Furthermore, the eyes of the senior generals in the theatre would be on him and the raids; the responsibility was enormous. He experienced a niggle of doubt. He was still only twenty-nine, his highest command that of a company some six months before. He looked across the river, towards the desert. He thought of Tanner, who would be out there now, back with his battalion. That was who he needed. Sykes, too, the tough little Cockney who had proved such a dab hand with explosives on Crete.
But first there was a battle to be fought. Despite the C-in-C’s confidence, Vaughan was keenly aware that the outcome was still far from certain.
11
The men had been allowed a swim. At around two o’clock, as the heat rose off the metalled coast road, shimmering and causing mirages ahead, the red flag was raised, the column had halted, and the men had run the three hundred yards to the sea. Stripping off, leaving their boots and clothes in small piles, they had enjoyed a brief, cooling respite in the iridescent waters of the Mediterranean.
Forty minutes later, they were on their way again, joining a supply column heading up to the front. Other vehicles began passing them on the way back towards Alexandria. To their right, the sea twinkled in the afternoon sun; ahead and stretching for ever to their left, the desert, that desolate, unvarying landscape of scrub, sand and stone. Hummocks of vetch stood up between the sand and rock, giving it a mottled biscuit complexion. A short distance away, Tanner watched a Bedouin boy with his goats, then spotted a small camp – russet cloth over a few rough wooden poles.
‘Good to be back, sir?’ asked Brown.
‘I thought it was,’ Tanner replied. ‘Now I’m not so sure.’
‘It’s quite boring, isn’t it, the desert?’ When Tanner did not reply, he added, ‘Well, we can be thankful for one thing – at least we’re not Bedouins.’
‘What, Browner?’ said Hepworth. ‘You mean you don’t fancy living out here all your born days with nothing but a bit of cloth and some goats to keep you company?’
‘I’d rather get blasted to hell.’
‘We’re not going to this time, Browner,’ said Sykes. ‘Haven’t you heard?’
‘D’you think it’ll be different, then, sir?’ Hepworth asked Sykes. ‘Or will it be the same old story? I remember before Gazala everyone was so damn sure we were going to have Rommel beat. And look what sodding well happened there.’
‘That’s what I love about you, Hep,’ said Tanner. ‘Glass always half empty, isn’t it?’
‘All I’m saying, sir, is that I’m not getting too excited just yet. I know we’ve got new generals, but who says they’ll be any different?’
They drove on along the road until the lead vehicles turned off and began rumbling across the desert, clouds of dust following in their wake. As their own vehicle slowed and dropped on to the rough track, Tanner looked ahead and saw the rail stop of El Hammam – a solitary rectangular building t
he same shade as the desert – and away to his left, a large number of tents and camouflage nets under which were lines of fighter aircraft. A battery of anti-aircraft guns had been dug in around it. The column slowed again as each vehicle rolled over the railway line. At the edge of the landing ground there were more ack-ack guns and behind them more netting. A fuel dump, thought Tanner.
He put his sunglasses back on to protect his eyes. The track was marked by oil barrels, painted and filled with rocks and sand. For a while the going was reasonably smooth, but suddenly they hit a rockier area, the truck jolting and rattling, the men cursing. The track was leading them south-west along the edge of a minefield. Rough signs had been put up, skulls and crossbones on each, with warnings written in English, Italian and German. Tanner took out his map, freshly issued the day before with the latest minefields marked in pencil. This one was some fifteen miles from the forward positions but running south-west, a relic from July when the Auk had clearly been worried about enemy encirclement.
Desultory gunfire boomed not far to the west, while scattered in the desert around them were vast numbers of tanks and other vehicles, most in loose groups for as far as the eye could see. Most were stationary – army reserves and support units – but others were moving, clouds of dust marking their way. Away to their left, near the Alam Halfa ridge, Tanner spotted bulldozers scooping out gun pits. He had never seen them out in the desert before. They appeared to be making light work of it. ‘Jesus, will you look at this?’ he muttered. ‘It’s like a bloody lorry park.’
‘We’ve had reinforcements since we were last out here, though, sir,’ said Sykes.
‘You can say that again.’ Tanner took his binoculars from the pack at his feet and peered at some of the clusters of vehicles, careful not to point the lenses in the direction of the sun. Closest was an encampment of heavy supply lorries and Matadors, their tracks criss-crossing over the desert. They were all the same buff sandy colour, but painted with a logo he had not seen before. ‘Which unit uses a rhinoceros?’ he said. ‘Where’s the bloody jerboa?’
‘Dunno, sir,’ said Brown beside him.
The ground gradually, almost imperceptibly, rose until suddenly they were on a ridge and looking south towards the Qattara Depression, where dramatic escarpments dropped several hundred feet into what had once been a large lake or sea. A single vehicle like a jeep could get up or down at certain parts, but it was impassable to any massed formation of tanks or trucks. It was what made the Alamein Line unique. There was no other position between here and Benghazi that Tanner had ever seen where both flanks were covered. That had been one of the major flaws of the Gazala position to the west of Tobruk. The British line had stretched some forty miles, just as it did here, but without an impassable escarpment, Rommel had been able to send his forces around the bottom. He would not be able to do that now.
The large numbers of vehicles began to fall behind them as they continued south, bumping across the desert until, once again, the red flag was raised and one by one they ground to a halt.
‘What now?’ said Hepworth, exasperation in his voice.
‘Two to one we’re lost,’ said Sykes. ‘They can’t find Brigade.’
Sure enough, a moment later, one of the lead trucks peeled off and began beetling across the desert to the east. Tanner peered through his binoculars again, but although the ground seemed flat as a board, he could see now that it rose gently towards another ridge. Within a few minutes the truck had disappeared.
‘Now where’s he bloody well gone?’ said Hepworth.
‘Calm down, Hep,’ said Tanner, lighting a cigarette. Flies were circling above, so he exhaled a cloud of smoke at them. ‘It’s always the same every time we come out here, fart-arsing about trying to find things. We’ll get there eventually.’
‘I’m hungry again,’ said Phyllis.
‘I reckon Siff’s got worms,’ said Brown.
‘Nah, he’s just a growing lad, aren’t you, Siff?’ said Sykes.
‘Have we got time to brew up, d’you reckon?’ asked Mudge.
‘No, leave it,’ said Sykes. ‘It won’t be long now.’
A low rumble came from the east, which grew louder rapidly. Suddenly, above them, they saw a formation of medium bombers.
‘Go on, lads!’ called Sykes, waving at them. ‘Give ’em hell!’
They roared over, only a few thousand feet up, Bostons. There were sixteen of them in loose formation, and higher, much higher, a number of fighters, black dots in the sky.
Soon afterwards, Tanner saw a cloud of dust on the horizon. ‘Here we go,’ he said, training his binoculars back towards the east where the scout truck was reappearing. They watched it scurry towards them, then halt. Someone got out, a brief conference, maps being studied, arms pointing.
‘He’s found Brigade,’ said Tanner.
‘Hoo-bloody-ray,’ said Hepworth.
A minute later, the blue flag was raised, engines started up again, and the column moved forward, this time heading eastwards over the ridge.
They arrived at 7th Armoured Brigade Headquarters a short while later, a cluster of vehicles, tents and flags sprouting from oil barrels. Tanner wiped his brow as more flies buzzed, circled and landed when they dared. It was always the same: stop, start, stop, start. He got out, stretched, had a pee, then climbed back into the truck, until eventually he could see people striding about. Soon after, the Chinese whisper of orders arrived, passed from one vehicle to the next. They were to leaguer for the night and head up to the front line the following evening.
The phone call had come through at about half past five. The same distinct voice.
‘Hello, darling, how are you?’
‘Fine, fine,’ Tanja had replied. ‘How lovely to hear from you.’
‘Can we meet tonight, darling? I really want to see you.’
‘Yes, of course. I’d love to.’ She glanced across at Sophie, then smiled into the receiver.
‘Usual place? Seven thirty?’
‘Yes, all right. I’ll be there.’
For more than an hour and a half she had continued with her work at the Polish Red Cross, chatting with the girls, acting as though everything was perfectly normal. Both Sophie and Ewa were intrigued by the new man in her life – the telephone call had prompted a gentle interrogation.
‘But what about your cavalry-officer friend?’ asked Ewa. ‘Harry – wasn’t that his name?’
‘Oh, Harry – he was sent to the front. But he was just a boy. Alex is—’
‘More of a man,’ said Ewa, smiling coyly.
‘Exactly. He is. A little older, certainly. Two years older than me, which is how it should be.’
‘And works in Cairo?’ asked Sophie.
‘Yes – something very hush-hush at GHQ.’
‘They all say that,’ said Sophie. ‘It’s to hide the boring desk job.’
‘You’re probably right, but I don’t care. I really like this one. I don’t want him heading up into the desert.’
She left at a quarter past seven, walking up towards Opera Square, then crossing the still busy road. Carts, donkeys, cars and buses – it never stopped until the curfew, when suddenly the city closed down and the only noise was that of cats screeching or dogs barking. Tanja turned down Sharia Abdin, the entire street now in shade. She wondered what the message was this time. She’d not yet sent a signal to Cobra, despite Orca’s instructions. Several times she had thought to, then had stopped, unsure what she should say. Perhaps she should have done, though, especially since she had told herself she should appear to be acting normally. She put a hand to her forehead. A headache. The world pressing down around her. I feel so trapped.
When Vaughan had returned to Red Pillars, Maunsell had been as genial as ever and had suggested they go for a drink at Shepheard’s, where, he had explained, he was due to be dining at seven. They had taken a taxi and, on reaching Shepheard’s, had sat inside, clear of prying ears.
His dinner guest had arrived shortly be
fore seven – Brigadier Cuthbert Bowlby, head of the Inter-Services Liaison Department, or ISLD as it was known, and MI6’s organization in the Middle East, and the Middle East Intelligence Centre. As such, Bowlby was very much the SIS supremo in the Middle East. Maunsell had introduced Vaughan and had insisted he stay for another quick drink, so it was not until around ten past seven that he had finally left them to their dinner.
He had walked down Sharia Kamel towards Opera Square, intending to call in on Tanja, first at the Polish Red Cross, and then, if she was not there, at her flat. For once, he had not noticed the hustle and bustle of the city: he was too busy thinking of all that had happened that afternoon. He felt buoyed, excited by his new directive, all the more for the dizzying way in which it had been conveyed. He remembered that David Stirling had told him of a similar conversation he had had with the Auk when he had proposed his idea for the SAS, but certainly it was not every day that one found oneself talking face to face with the C-in-C.
The idea to strike Tobruk and Benghazi simultaneously worried him, though. His idea for C Detachment had been to operate in very small numbers – teams of four or six men and no more. Maunsell’s suggestion, which he had just outlined, of using C Detachment not only for sabotage but also for intelligence work, seemed to tie in much more closely with what Vaughan had had in mind.
‘You’ll have to do this raid,’ Maunsell had told him, ‘but after that it’ll be up to you to make of it what you will. They’ve given you the authority to create this special-operations unit. You must show them what it can achieve.’
Vaughan smiled to himself. Maunsell was a canny old bastard. He wanted Vaughan to remain within the SIME fold, and had suggested he try to attend morning prayers once a week. And introducing him to Bowlby: clearly, it had been his intention all along. ISLD ran a number of double-agents, in Greece and the Balkans, and Maunsell was keen to do this too. ‘Indirect counter-intelligence,’ he had called it. But counter-intelligence all the same.
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