Hellfire (2011)

by James Holland

  Tanner jumped down and went to the back of the truck where he cuffed Phyllis lightly round the shoulder. ‘I’m just going to talk to the boss,’ he said, and strode over to Peploe’s truck. The whole company was ready, waiting for the signal to move out, and despite the shelling, Tanner wondered whether perhaps the time had arrived.

  ‘Any news from Old Man Vigar?’ he said to Peploe.

  ‘About five minutes ago. Stay put.’

  ‘I really think we should get going,’ said Tanner. ‘It’ll take time to get across our stretch of the front, and even more so for B Company. We want to be there ready when it all kicks off. I’m sensing they must be nearly through their minefields by now, then they’ve a quick dash across the desert and the lead units will be on us.’

  ‘All right, hold on, Jack.’ He turned to Bradshaw, the company signaller. ‘Get me Battalion, will you?’

  Bradshaw made the connection, then passed over his headphones and the transmitter from the number 19 set at his feet.

  ‘Can you put me through to the colonel?’ asked Peploe. He looked at Tanner. ‘Sir, we’re going to head out now. Can I give B Company the heads up too?’ He flinched as a shell landed up ahead. ‘Yes … Yes … Right, sir. Right away, sir. Thank you, sir.’ He handed back the headset and transmitter, then turned to Tanner. ‘We’re going. Great minds clearly think alike, Jack.’

  ‘Good,’ said Tanner.

  ‘Bradshaw,’ said Peploe, ‘tell B Company to move out, will you?’

  Tanner held out his hand. ‘Good luck, sir.’

  Peploe shook it. ‘And to you, Jack.’

  Engines roared into life, throttles were revved, and they were moving, wheeling out of the protection of the Himeimat and heading in groups of three back towards the wide open gravel flats. They were moving westwards, towards the edge of their own minefields, where the King’s Royal Rifle Corps were dug in, their six-pounders positioned in scrapes, rocks piled in front of them so that only the barrel peeked out. And then us, thought Tanner. He looked at his watch. Twenty-five past twelve. At that moment aircraft roared overhead, no more than a couple of thousand feet above them, half a dozen naval Albacores, relics now from the biplane age.

  ‘Jesus, is that the might of the Desert Air Force?’ said Phyllis. ‘Six old biplanes?’

  ‘I hope not, Siff,’ said Sykes.

  They drove on, leading the company alongside Captain Peploe. A minute later, they heard light anti-aircraft guns, and watched tracer dash into the night sky. Then parachute flares were bursting into life, turning the desert orange. And below, caught in the bright lights drifting down towards them, was Rommel’s strike force, emerging like tiny spectres through the dust.

  ‘Christ, will you look at that?’ said Sykes.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ whistled Brown, as the air above them was torn apart, not by more incoming shells but by the arrival of a squadron of Wellington bombers.

  ‘Here they come!’ called Sykes. More furious ack-ack was spurting into the air, vivid above the flares, but moments later bombs were falling among the mass of tanks and vehicles, and then the six-pounders opened up. Huge flashes of flame and mushrooms of smoke burst and billowed into the sky as more bombs fell. No sooner had the Wellingtons delivered their lethal loads than more flares descended, followed by another squadron of Wellingtons.

  The enemy artillery shelling was more intermittent now as, ahead, a mass of German armour and vehicles hared across no man’s land towards the British line.

  Tanner yelled at Brown to move alongside the easternmost edge of their minefield, between two six-pounders that were already firing furiously.

  ‘Hold it there,’ he called, as another wave of Albacores flew overhead, ‘but keep the engine running.’ He put his binoculars to his eyes. Five miles away, tanks and vehicles were emerging from five lanes through the minefields and speeding towards them in a steady stream. Soft-skins led the way and now, only five hundred yards in front, the first were reaching the westernmost part of the British minefield. He could see men jumping out of trucks, armed with mine detectors, then mortar crews, artillery and machine-gun teams.

  ‘Right, boys,’ he said. ‘Time to start shooting. Smiler. Get that Bren going.’

  ‘Sir,’ said Smailes, standing on the body of the truck and leaning the barrel of the Bren on the roll-bar. He opened up, the sharp chatter ringing in Tanner’s ears. He grabbed his rifle from its stand between the seats and brought it to his shoulder. He had already fixed his Aldis scope and zeroed it at five hundred yards.

  ‘Where are you?’ he muttered softly, then spotted a team of German sappers busily training their mine detectors. A moving target, but one that was heading slowly and almost perfectly straight towards him. He breathed in, held his breath, then pressed the trigger. The rifle cracked and he saw a man drop. Pull back the bolt, aim, hold breath, squeeze. The butt pressed into his shoulder and another man fell.

  An enemy machine-gunner had opened up and had clearly seen their silhouette, as tracer now arced towards them. A burst of bullets zipped through the air above them.

  ‘Move, Browner!’ he yelled, and the truck lurched forward just as another burst of MG fire hissed behind them. More and more enemy vehicles were now hurrying across the open desert, and Smailes opened fire again with short, sharp bursts across the minefield. It was now almost impossible to see the westernmost edge beneath the thick dust and smoke. Tanner aimed again, this time at a series of dark figures, firing one shot after another in quick succession until he needed to replace his magazine with two more five-round clips.

  ‘They’re bunching up beautifully, aren’t they, sir?’ shouted Sykes behind him.

  ‘Not that we can see bugger all.’

  ‘A big cloud of smoke makes a good target for the bombers, though.’

  ‘Too right – especially with starlight shells over them. Let’s hope they get over here fast.’

  They did not have to wait long. More parachute flares were dropped, this time over the British minefields, lighting up the desert around them as though it were almost day. A strange luminous orange glow filled the sky, turning the desert white, and overhead they heard more bombers arriving, a thunderous drone between the shell- and small-arms fire. Moments later, bombs were whistling down, the whine clearly heard even over the din of the guns and the battle going on along the desert floor. Flashes of explosions pulsed through the smoke and then flames as a vehicle or tank was hit. Thick black smoke billowed upwards, swirling with the dust and the grey smoke of the shells and bombs, while arcs of tracer criss-crossed the sky.

  Although they were only a few hundred yards away, Tanner felt like an observer, not a participant. Smailes had stopped firing; Tanner had laid down his rifle. All were dumbstruck by the carnage in front of them.

  ‘I’ve got to say,’ said Sykes, in Tanner’s ear, ‘that has got to be one of the most awe-inspiring sights I’ve seen. Thank Christ we’re not German or Italian right now.’

  ‘It’s hellfire, Stan!’ Tanner agreed. ‘Absolute bloody hellfire.’

  Another wave of bombers came over, then another, so that all along the southern stretch of the line, bombs were crashing down on the enemy strike force. German and Italian guns were firing shells towards the higher ground where the British guns and armour were dug in, while more bombs whistled down from the RAF bombers overhead.

  It was not until a little after two thirty that it seemed the enemy would soon force a passage through the minefields. A little to the right, and under cover of the smoke and dust, two anti-tank guns had pushed forward to within a hundred and fifty yards of the eastern edge of the minefield, and suddenly opened fire, knocking out two six-pounders and a carrier.

  ‘The bastards,’ said Tanner, and while Smailes continued to fire short bursts with the Bren, he and the others took shots with their rifles. Overhead, the bombers kept up their attacks, wave after wave flying over, but the moment the enemy were free of the minefields and able to spread out, the attacks from the air wo
uld be less effective.

  Tanner could see what was happening: the enemy anti-tank guns were providing a screen for the engineers behind. One of the enemy guns was soon knocked out by KRRC six-pounders, but machine-gun fire and mortars were now pouring towards them, tracer cutting across the desert.

  ‘Keep moving, Browner!’ shouted Tanner. Other Rangers’ trucks and carriers were speeding back and forth, firing into the mass, then wheeling around and heading away from the fray as enemy Spandaus and mortar teams got their bead. Tanner saw one Bedford hit – A or B Company? – and catch fire, figures jumping out and scampering towards a nearby carrier that rushed towards them.

  Another passage through the minefields was developing away to their left, and Tanner guessed the same must be happening all along the line.

  ‘We need to think about falling back, Stan,’ he yelled to Sykes. ‘Where’s the skipper?’ He turned to them all. ‘Keep an eye open for Captain Peploe!’

  ‘There, sir!’ shouted Brown, pointing towards a Bedford firing to the left of a six-pounder. He drove towards it, then Peploe’s truck suddenly reversed and began turning away. Brown followed as the Bedford fell back several hundred yards. Another wave of bombers roared overhead, distracting the enemy, as yet more starlight shells were dropped, the flares wafting down and casting a shroud of magnesium light over the battlefield. All at once, bombs whistled down, shells hurtled back and forth, and small arms chattered. The noise was deafening, the air thick with the stench of cordite.

  Peploe saw them and came to a halt. Tanner jumped out and ran across.

  ‘We’re going to fall back soon,’ shouted Peploe. He glanced at his watch. ‘It’s after three. Any moment now the six-pounders will start pulling back. We’re going to cover them, then pull back too. We want to be clear of here before dawn.’

  ‘Shall I tell any section we see?’

  ‘Yes.’

  While the bombers continued to shroud the enemy in smoke and dust, Tanner ordered Brown to run the course of their front, stopping by as many of their vehicles as they could. All still seemed to be in one piece. That was something. Out of the darkness, gun tractors and portees were now appearing and heading towards the six-pounders, which were still firing towards the enemy. Tanner ordered Brown up to where a battery of six-pounders was spread at the edge of the minefield. Once more he and the others opened fire, bursts of Bren and rifle shots aimed at any dark figure emerging through the smoke and dust.

  Soon after, the first of the six-pounders was hitched up and pulling out, followed a few minutes after by another and then another. It wouldn’t be long now, Tanner thought.

  By four, the last of the guns had left, although Tanner saw several destroyed six-pounders left in their scrapes, their shields bent and barrels broken. Above them, the bombers had not let up. Just as soon as he thought they had called it a night, another wave appeared. Normally, out in the open, attacks against open formations of vehicles were of limited effectiveness, but as the mass of Rommel’s strike force had been funnelled into the handful of lanes through the minefield, Tanner reckoned it must have been a slaughter.

  The battlefield was still shrouded in smoke and dust. It was impossible to see what was going on, but bursts of machine-gun fire continued to be aimed towards them and mortar shells rained down, but the aim was blind. Even so, thought Tanner, it only took one lucky shot.

  Peploe drew up alongside, several other sections around him. ‘Time to go, Jack,’ he yelled.

  Tanner nodded. ‘I’ll have a quick sweep. See if there are any others.’

  Brown sped forward. A mortar shell burst forty yards away, but although a small amount of grit clattered around them, they were clear of the blast. Up ahead, another Bedford. Frantic arm waving – Pull back! Pull back! – but just then machine-gun tracer cut across the desert and peppered the truck as they neared it. A bang, a gush of smoke, and the Bedford ground to a halt. Smailes fired back into the smoke as, twenty yards ahead, men jumped out and ran towards them.

  Tanner saw McAllister race to the front of the smoking vehicle and try to tug the driver clear – who was it in McAllister’s section? Parsons. Tanner jumped out and ran over to help. Another burst of MG fire, this time well to their left, while behind him a mortar shell burst, a shower of grit pattering around him.

  By the time Tanner had reached McAllister, Parsons was clear of the now burning truck.

  ‘Here,’ said Tanner, as McAllister tried to lift the man. ‘You take one arm, I’ll take the other.’

  Parsons groaned. His right leg was sticky with blood, and, Tanner now saw, so was his side. Damn it. Brown was now alongside them, engine idling. Round to the back, and Mudge jumped down and together they hoisted Parsons into the now crowded body of the truck. Scampering back to the front, Tanner leaped in as another burst of machine-gun fire fizzed nearby.

  ‘All right, Browner,’ he said. ‘Time to go.’

  As they sped away, Tanner glanced back and saw, emerging through the smoke and dust, the barrel of a panzer. The Afrika Korps. The enemy was through.

  16

  Peploe led them south, towards the edge of the Qattara Depression, and they continued east, along the Depression’s edge. Dawn was breaking, the desert turning pink as the first sliver of sun rose above the horizon. Fifteen miles or so from the minefields, Peploe called a halt. Behind them and to the north, artillery fire continued to boom. A thick pall of smoke hung over the British minefields, so that the tip of Himeimat rose above it like a mountain peak bursting through cloud. Among the fog of smoke and dust they could see thin columns of black smoke rising, burning wrecks of enemy machines butchered by the Desert Air Force.

  Time, though, for a head count, and to contact Battalion. And a much-needed brew.

  A carrier from 2 Platoon was missing, as were two trucks from 3 Platoon. No one knew where they were but, equally, no one claimed to have seen them hit either. The only vehicle known to have been lost was Sergeant McAllister’s; the rest of Lieutenant Shopland’s 1 Platoon was still present and correct, as were the two trucks of Company Headquarters. They had also been joined by a six-pounder and gun tractor from KRRC.

  ‘I thought you was our mob,’ said the sergeant. ‘I was just following you and trying to get out of there.’

  ‘Do you want to stick with us for the moment?’ Peploe asked him. ‘There’s every chance we’ll bump into the rest of your lot at some point.’

  ‘Don’t mind if we do, sir,’ said the sergeant. ‘It’s Rakes, by the way. 5 Platoon, B Company.’

  And apart from Rifleman Parsons, the company could report no further casualties. A miracle, but Parsons needed help quickly if he was to survive. He had been shot twice in the leg and once in his lower abdomen. Tanner had tied a tourniquet around the top of his thigh, but despite this and the mass of field dressings that had been pressed against his wounds, the lad was losing a lot of blood.

  ‘Right, let’s get him on to one of 1 Platoon’s Bedfords,’ said Peploe, ‘and then to an RAP at Division HQ as quick as we can.’

  Shopland picked one of his trucks and sent them on their way, speeding off.

  While char was brewed, Tanner climbed on to the body of his truck with his binoculars and gazed back towards the stretch of desert through which Rommel’s strike force was now pouring. He could see at least two main columns, clouds of dust following in their wake. He looked at his watch. Nearly a quarter to five. The nearest column was some two or three thousand yards away, but he reckoned A Company needed to get a move on. If they were to fulfil their task, they had to get ahead of the enemy columns, then drive at them out of the sun, shoot up whatever was in front of them and scuttle away again. Harry and snap, Peploe had said.

  He glanced around at the men. They all looked exhausted, faces smeared with oil and grime. Behind stretched the Depression, deep and hazy in the early-morning light. A faint breeze blew up, and Tanner wondered whether that was a portent of something stronger heading their way.

  He jumped
down, and Sykes thrust a mug of tea into his hand.

  ‘Cheers,’ said Tanner. ‘You’re still alive, then.’

  Sykes grinned. ‘So far. Some night, though.’

  ‘Bloody impressive. Feels different this, doesn’t it? Same old plan from Rommel, but this time we’re better prepared. Everyone knows what they’re doing. Christ knows how much of a pasting the Jerries got, but they’ve not even come up against our armour and artillery yet.’

  Sykes smiled ruefully and lit a cigarette. ‘I reckon there’s a little way to go, though. We’ve been out here long enough to know it can go arse over tit at any point.’

  ‘Nah,’ said Tanner. ‘We’ll be all right this time.’

  ‘Just so long as those cavalry boys stay put,’ said Sykes.

  Peploe came over to them. ‘Sounds like the rest of the battalion got out all right,’ he said. ‘Bradshaw got through over the net. They’re further east than us.’

  ‘What about B Company?’ asked Tanner.

  ‘A bit spread to the four winds, but appearing in dribs and drabs.’

  Tanner outlined his plan. ‘We can make good use of the early-morning sun, I reckon.’

  ‘Good idea,’ agreed Peploe. ‘Let’s get on with it, then.’ He turned and shouted, ‘Right, let’s move!’

  Wearily, the men got back into their trucks and carriers. ‘Everyone all right?’ Tanner asked the men in his vehicle. Exhausted nods.

  ‘Good. Iggery, then, Browner.’

  Monday, 31 August. All morning the men of A Company sniped at the enemy column away to their left. To begin with, they had kept ahead of the southernmost column, but then, as it had wheeled north-east some twenty miles from the British minefields, they had turned north-east too, keeping a distance of around two thousand yards. In pairs, trucks and carriers would turn in, and, out of the sun, get within four or five hundred yards and pepper whatever vehicles they could with Bren and rifle fire. Most of the M/T they attacked had been trucks, half-tracks and even motorcycles – presumably, Tanner and Peploe guessed, the reconnaissance force of the Deutsches Afrika Korps.