Hellfire (2011)

by James Holland

  ‘They’ve got to, haven’t they?’ said Albert.

  ‘Looks like it,’ agreed Tanner. The prisoners they had captured more than a week before had been from the German 90th Light Division. At their initial interrogation at Battalion, they had revealed that the Deutsches Afrika Korps were moving down to the southern end of the line and that the Italian Littorio and Ariete Divisions were still there. The former was fully motorized, the latter armoured. That meant all Rommel’s panzer and motorized divisions were massing in the south.

  With the tea boiled, the brew was poured into mugs from the truck.

  ‘How are you getting on with the six-pounders?’ Tanner asked, as he stood looking at the gun.

  ‘Pretty good. Nice bit of kit,’ said Albert. ‘Good against soft-skins and most Eyetie tanks.’

  Tanner grinned. ‘And it looks like that’s all you’ve got directly in front.’

  He lit a cigarette, then one of the Riflemen said, ‘Oi, oi, who’s this coming in?’ A truck had heaved into view, emerging from around the edge of the low escarpment up ahead.

  ‘A Dodge,’ said Brown.

  ‘Who’s driving them round here? The KRRC?’

  One of the Riflemen scrambled down to the area of flat ground to show the approaching truck where the entrance to the fence line was, despite the numerous tracks funnelled there.

  Tanner watched with mild interest, then saw that one of the men in the truck was standing on the running-board, clutching a sub-machine gun. ‘What the hell?’ he said, and at the same moment the Rifleman cried out, ‘They’re bloody Jerries!’ and tried to swing his Thompson as the German on the running-board opened fire. The burst missed but the Rifleman hit the ground. Tanner now saw that in the back of the Dodge there was a machine-gun. He already had his rifle off his back and pulled back the bolt, aiming as the machine-gun opened fire towards them with a short burst. Bullets pinged and ricocheted as men dived for cover, but Tanner was already in position with a bead on the man. He held his breath and felt his finger squeeze the trigger. The butt thumped against his shoulder, and the machine-gunner lurched backwards off the truck, tumbling on to the sand.

  The Rifleman by the wire had also opened fire, making the man on the running-board duck. With their machine-gunner dead, the driver now careered round in a wide arc away from them. Another man in the back was scrambling up to take over the machine-gun, swinging the barrel towards them, but Tanner already had him in his aim, and squeezed the trigger again. He saw the German’s right shoulder jerk backwards. Not dead, but that’ll hurt, all right. Others were firing their rifles now as the Dodge swerved away, speeding back across the desert in a cloud of dust.

  ‘What the hell was the point of that?’ said Sykes, standing beside him.

  ‘I suppose they thought the truck would get them close enough. Brave lads, but pretty reckless, I’d say.’

  ‘Good shooting,’ said Albert, clambering down towards his fellow Rifleman, who was now on his feet and dusting himself down.

  Tanner followed with Sykes, and made his way through the wire to the German lying prostrate some hundred and fifty yards away.

  When they reached him, he was on his front, so with his boot, Tanner rolled him over. A large stain of dark blood had spread across the dead man’s chest. His face, too, was dusty, and he was only young. His cap had fallen off, revealing a mop of thick hair. Tanner bent down and patted the man’s pockets. In the shorts he found what he was after: cigarettes – almost a full packet. ‘Bloody idiot,’ he said, then turned and walked away.

  Later that day, around seven o’clock in the evening, A Company was back at its operating base in the Deir el Munassib when the ration wagon arrived. That was one of the many advantages of being stationed along a fixed line and closer to the Delta: instead of long weeks of hard-tack biscuits and bully beef, there were tins of Maconochie’s stew, tinned fruit, even corn flakes, as well as condensed milk and cigarettes.

  Each section had men with particular roles, tasks that naturally fell to one person rather than another. In Tanner’s truck, Mudge was the cook, with Smailes as his assistant, while Sykes, despite his elevated position as CSM, still considered himself the best brewer of tea. Now Mudge and Smailes hurried to collect the food. From his seat up front in the truck, Tanner watched them. He was about ready for some scoff, but there were still plenty of flies around. It would be better to wait another half-hour, by which time the temperature would have started to drop, the sun would be setting and the flies would be calling it a day.

  Tanner, who had been reading the last of the Thomas Hardy novels Lucie had bought for him, flicked a fly off his face. They had been particularly bad that day – he’d had his tiffin earlier with his mess tin an inch from his mouth and a cotton keffiyeh he had bought in Cairo over his head and the food, but still the flies had got through. God only knew how many he’d eaten since first arriving in the desert. Even after the food had been cleared away, they buzzed about the men’s faces, landed on their arms, and crawled over the vehicles. It was impossible to be free of them, and brushing them away was almost a full-time job, arms swishing like a horse’s tail.

  Peploe wandered over. He was capless, his strawberry-blond hair wild and thick with dust. Seeing Tanner whisk away more flies, he said, ‘They’re bad today, aren’t they?’

  ‘Bloody awful. It was better when we had the run of the desert, wasn’t it?’

  ‘In that respect, yes. By the way, did you know that the flies out here are different from the ones we have back home?’

  ‘Really? They look the same. I thought a fly was a fly,’ said Tanner.

  ‘Not according to Tom Arliss.’

  ‘He’s an expert, is he?’

  ‘It would seem so. I was talking to him earlier after seeing Old Man Vigar. He was saying that the common European housefly is much bigger – Musca domestica, to give it its proper name.’

  Tanner raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Musca what, sir?’ said Sykes, sitting beside Tanner.

  ‘Domestica. Latin was never my strong point at school, but it means “house”. Musca – fly. Major Arliss was saying that the desert fly is smaller, hardier and aggressive. Musca sorbens, apparently.’

  ‘He didn’t mention a way to get rid of them by any chance?’ said Tanner.

  ‘I asked him that too. He said, “Yes. Stop the war.”’

  Suddenly the air was filled with a rushing whine. Tanner and Sykes leaped out of the truck and, with Peploe, pressed themselves against the escarpment as others hurled themselves to the ground. The shell landed some short distance behind them, but was immediately followed by several more. The ground trembled with every explosion while dust, grit and stone erupted into the air, much of it landing on the A Company positions, showering the men and pattering on to the vehicles. There was coughing, cursing, and an open tin of stew was ruined – but no one was hurt.

  ‘Something’s up,’ said Peploe, crouching beside Tanner.

  ‘Too bloody right,’ said Tanner. ‘They’ve got to attack any moment now. They’ve just got to.’

  Several more shells landed nearby and then the enemy fire moved further to their right. They heard the New Zealanders’ guns from Alam Nayil firing counter-battery barrages, the ground shuddering.

  ‘I think they’re done with us for the moment,’ said Tanner. ‘Shall I tell the lads to get on with supper, sir?’ he asked Peploe.

  ‘Might as well.’

  Tanner stood up and dusted himself down. ‘Flies have gone,’ he said. ‘They might be aggressive but they’re cowardly little bastards too. A couple of shells and they scarper.’

  The shelling lessened as the sun began to set. Tanner had asked Peploe if he would like to join them for supper, an offer he accepted. As Mudge and Smailes prepared the meal, the rest sat in the truck or stood around smoking and chatting.

  ‘What have we got, then, Mudge?’ asked Peploe. ‘Any surprises?’

  ‘Tinned potatoes and beans, sir,’ Mudge replied, as he squ
atted by the two stoves – one, a fuel can of petrol-soaked sand, the other a Primus. ‘And some Maconochie’s.’

  ‘What about pud?’

  ‘Tinned pears and condensed milk,’ said Mudge, ‘unless you’d rather have Mudge’s Special Burgoo, sir.’

  Peploe thought a moment.

  ‘Mudge’s burgoo is usually pretty good, sir,’ said Sykes, ‘but it’s always worth checking his biscuit and jam source before you make a decision.’

  ‘They’re Peak Frean’s biscuits, sir,’ said Mudge, ‘and Egyptian jam, probably strawberry. It’s red, at any rate.’ He suddenly looked up, his face brightening. ‘I know! How about burgoo with pears?’

  ‘It’s not every day we entertain the company commander, Mudgy,’ said Tanner. ‘You should pull all the stops out on this one.’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t want to be greedy,’ said Peploe.

  ‘It’s fine, sir,’ said Mudge.

  ‘I’ve got a few extra tins stashed away,’ said Sykes.

  ‘Course you have, Stan.’ Tanner grinned.

  They ate the stew as the desert changed colour, like a chameleon, from dun to amber to pink. A few of the braver flies had returned, but the hordes had gone.

  ‘’Ere,’ said Sykes, ‘I ’eard a good one this morning from one of those Rifle Brigade lads.’ The others looked at him expectantly. ‘I was cursing those Jerries that tried to shoot us up out of the blue, and he was saying that not all Jerries were bad. And then he told me this story. At one point they’d been dug in for a little while, and he was saying about how it was small things that made the desert bearable. Anyway, for him it was his enamel plate. It was a really nice one: beautiful white, dark blue trim, barely a chip on it. All the other lads had their battered old mess tins but this chap had his enamel plate. He was always very careful about washing it afterwards and making sure he looked after it. Anyway, Jerry attacks one day and they get pushed back. It’s when they stop again that he realizes he’s lost his plate. Fair gutted he was about it. And you know how it is: little things take on greater importance than they should. Well, a little while later they counter-attack and retake their old positions, and there, the other side of this little ridge, is a stove and a number of old tins and so on. And there’s his plate – the same one – but there’s a little stone on it and underneath a note.’ He looked at the others and grinned. ‘It says, “You left this behind last time. Thanks for the loan. All the best, Fritz.”’

  Everyone laughed.

  ‘He swore blind it was true,’ said Sykes.

  ‘I wouldn’t want an enamel plate,’ said Phyllis.

  ‘No? Why not?’ asked Peploe.

  ‘I prefer the mess tin.’

  ‘No refinement in Siff, is there?’ said Brown.

  ‘I’ve got enough to worry about out here without thinking about enamel plates. As long as they don’t get me they can have any of my kit.’

  ‘Not your bundook, though, Siff,’ said Tanner. ‘Lose that and it’s the glass-house for you.’

  Phyllis looked worried. ‘Is it? Really?’

  Tanner shook his head. ‘Siff, where did they get you from?’

  ‘Leeds. Well, Horsforth, actually.’ He was typical of many of the Yorks Rangers: small, wiry, undernourished as a kid. Most of them came from the twin cities of Leeds and Bradford – they were working-class boys, where growing up had been hard. Tanner had noticed that it was the ones who had been in the battalion longest – men like McAllister, Smailes and Hepworth – who were the biggest and fittest. Hepworth was quite tall, McAllister was not, but they’d filled out since he’d known them. Hepworth had grown up on a farm, but the other two were from Bradford. McAllister, he knew, had grown up living four to a bed, eating bread and dripping, meat once a week if he was lucky. The only fruit were apples and even those were rare. The army had done them good. They complained about the monotony of the food but at least they were given three square meals a day – for the most part, at any rate, which was better than most of them had had growing up. They were fit and, on the whole, healthy too. They’d had meat, vegetables and fruit most days since they’d been back in the line, plenty of exercise, and cleaner air to breathe than there was in any of those industrial cities at home. Phyllis was still a skinny runt, Tanner reflected, but so long as he survived the fighting, he would grow into a strong young man.

  There was a pause while Mudge prepared his pudding. The packet of Peak Frean’s biscuits was crushed finely and poured into a billy-can of condensed milk, which was heated over the Primus. He added some sugar and the jam and stirred it into a thick, pink, syrupy sauce, or burgoo. Sweet-smelling steam rose from the billy-can, while Sykes brewed more tea.

  Eventually, satisfied that the burgoo had reached the right consistency, Mudge dished it out, encouraging them to help themselves to the open tin of pears in syrup.

  ‘Well, sir?’ said Mudge, as Peploe took a mouthful.

  His eyes widened and he clutched his throat. ‘Argh!’ he said. ‘It’s musquois!’

  Mudge’s face fell, then Peploe laughed. ‘Sorry, Mudge. A cheap trick. It’s delicious.’

  Mudge’s face relaxed.

  ‘It’ll certainly weigh me down,’ said Brown.

  ‘Careful, Browner,’ said Tanner. ‘Insult the chef and you’ll be cooking your own.’

  ‘Sorry, mate.’ Brown looked sheepish. ‘It’s bloody beautiful. My mam couldn’t have made it better.’

  ‘Maybe Mudgy should become a housewife when he’s older,’ said Phyllis. ‘You could stay at home and look after the nippers while your missus goes out and works the shift.’

  ‘I’d love that,’ said Mudge. ‘Cooking and looking after the kids would be brilliant. I’d hate the scrubbing, though. It’s bad enough cleaning my bundook.’

  ‘Well, who knows what the world will be like when we all get home?’ said Peploe. ‘The old order changeth – and about time.’

  ‘It certainly is,’ said Tanner. ‘I never thought I’d get a commission.’

  ‘Will there be a revolution, sir?’ said Sykes.

  ‘I don’t think so. But social change – yes, I’m sure. After all, the women are working now, aren’t they? We’ve got Land Girls on our farm back home and my old man reckons they’re doing a bloody good job too. They can drive tractors as well as the next man.’

  ‘We’ve got ’em on our farm an’ all,’ said Hepworth.

  ‘All these women in the factories and on the land and manning airfield control rooms might like working and may not want to give it up,’ said Peploe.

  ‘But they worked in the last war and everything went back to how it was,’ said Sykes.

  ‘True. But we’re a quarter of a century on,’ replied Peploe. ‘Society moves forward. Look, I’ve got no crystal ball, Stan, but this war will change things. I’m certain of it.’

  They were all silent for a while, until Hepworth said, ‘Anyway, we’ve got to get through this yet. We might all be dead this time tomorrow.’

  ‘Bloody hell, Hep, you miserable bastard,’ said Tanner.

  ‘Yes – thanks for that cheery thought, Hepworth,’ added Peploe.

  ‘Can’t help it,’ said Hepworth. ‘I’ve survived this far but I keep thinking my luck’s bound to run out.’

  ‘Stick with me, Hep, and you’ll be fine,’ said Tanner.

  ‘I just wonder how we’re ever going to beat Rommel,’ Hepworth continued. ‘He seems so much better than any of our generals.’

  ‘That’s almost treacherous talk, isn’t it?’ grinned Sykes.

  ‘You should have killed him when you had the chance, sir,’ Hepworth told Tanner.

  ‘When was that, sir?’ said Phyllis.

  Tanner smiled. ‘In France, a couple of years back. I had him in my sight. A bullet was going to go right through his temple but then some aide moved and he caught it instead. Actually, I had another chance a few minutes later, but if I’d fired then we’d have betrayed our positions and probably all got ourselves killed. Stan here stopped me
.’

  ‘Do you ever wonder whether you should have done it anyway, sir?’ Phyllis wanted to know.

  ‘It’s crossed my mind once or twice, but not really. Not now, anyway. If you ask me, he’s busted his flush. Another Jerry general might have had a bit more sense and stayed around Tobruk but he’s a reckless one, Rommel. He’s got to attack us here, and as long as those cavalry idiots stay put, as Montgomery’s told them to, and don’t go racing after the enemy the moment they look like they’re pulling back, he’s going to lose. And we’ve got the RAF. Those boys rule the roost, these days, and that’s a beautiful thing to see.’

  ‘Too right,’ said Sykes. ‘You remember Norway and France? It’s nice to know Jerry’s getting it in the neck for a change.’

  Tanner put a cigarette in his mouth. ‘If you ask me,’ he said, striking a match with his thumbnail, ‘we’re going to be eating Rommel’s bollocks for breakfast.’

  Colonel Maunsell was of much the same opinion. Vaughan had been unable to join him at morning prayers that day, but had received a call from Maunsell asking him to drop in that evening and had done so. Maunsell was in a celebratory mood and, even after another sweltering day in the city, looked as immaculately urbane as ever in a white silk suit and what Vaughan recognized as a Charvet tie.

  ‘Ha!’ said Maunsell, lighting his pipe. ‘The Huns must be ruing the day they failed to take Malta. We’ve learned, Alex, that the Italians have ordered nine fuel-carrying ships direct to Tobruk and Mersa, leaving Taranto and Naples over a period of six days. Apparently, Rommel’s desperate for them. His fuel supply is critical. Enough for one last push and that’s it, but if these tankers don’t make it, he really will find himself up the proverbial creek without a paddle.’

  ‘You always did say it was a war of supply, RJ,’ said Vaughan.

  ‘Anyway, we got wind of the first convoy of three ships and they’ve been attacked by Malta-based submarines and aircraft and two are already at the bottom of the Med.’

  ‘That’s the most marvellous news,’ said Vaughan. ‘So the submarines are back on Malta too?’