Peploe arrived back. ‘Vigar’s called for an OP and apparently an FOO is on his way.’
‘Good,’ said Tanner. ‘That’ll help. Any idea when he might be here?’
‘No. The colonel’s also about to send some carriers to pick up some more ammo, get the casualties out and bring us a medical officer.’
‘How many have we lost?’
‘Twelve wounded and three dead so far.’
By the time the B Company carriers trundled off, it was clear that the enemy armour was on the move as well. While the 88s remained on the ridge line, more than thirty German tanks now moved after the retreating Shermans, while another column of enemy tanks had appeared from the north-west.
‘We’re in the wrong place,’ said Tanner. ‘This lot are going to cut across our north flank.’
‘Then let’s move,’ said Peploe.
Quickly they ran along the southern rim of the bowl, telling the riflemen to change position. Furious gunfire ripped through the air. Smoke and dust engulfed the position. Shells were hurtling towards them, and two more carriers were hit. Through the smoke and haze, Tanner saw one of B Company’s carriers hit as it hurried back across the open desert. The men got out but were gunned down. Crouching low, Tanner ran, his men with him, eventually reaching the northern lip of the Grouse position. Finding some cover among the vetch, he brought his rifle to his shoulder. Tanks were moving across their front now, just five hundred yards away. Some were firing ahead towards the retreating Shermans, others, turrets swivelling, towards the Rangers’ positions. To the north, around Snipe, an equally fierce battle seemed to be taking place.
Two Panzer IIIs were hit, while a little further away he spotted an Italian M13 shed a track and grind to a halt. But Tanner was searching for tank commanders to hit. A German now stuck his head from the turret of a Mark IV. Yes. Four hundred yards. Perfect. A little bit of aim-off, breathe in, squeeze the trigger … The butt pressed into his shoulder and he saw the tank commander jerk backwards. Then, as another tank was hit and shed a track, men began to clamber out. Aim, breathe in, fire. Aim, breathe in, fire. Three more men dead. Beside him, Mudge was firing the Bren, casings littering the ground. A few yards away, a six-pounder rolled backwards. Smoke was billowing from the burning carriers, dust, smoke and haze covering the ground ahead so that at one moment there were targets but at the next they disappeared. Tanner wiped his brow as a tank shell scored a direct hit on another six-pounder just twenty yards away. One man was obliterated, another lost an arm and a third was flung backwards ten yards.
‘Bloody hell,’ muttered Tanner, then saw Phyllis blanch and vomit.
‘Sorry, sir,’ he mumbled, wiping a filthy hand across his chin.
Men hurried over to the dead and wounded, but Tanner saw that one of the X Company six-pounders attached to A Company was now being brought over from the southern side of the bowl. A carrier was pulling it with rope, the gun tilting horribly in the sand. At last it righted itself and the carrier sped forward. It was halfway across the bowl when a burst of machine-gun fire raked them, killing the driver and the men behind.
‘Damn it!’ cursed Tanner. ‘Stan, Browner, come with me!’ Sprinting into the bowl, Tanner pulled the dead driver out, jumped in and drove the carrier forward while, behind, Sykes fired the Bren, bullet casings clattering on to the metal body. A tank shell whistled over them, but now smoke offered a screen of protection. Crouching and grimacing, Tanner took the carrier forward, then swung it around beneath the northern lip, and waved at the men to help manually bring the gun into position. A dozen were soon around it, pulling and heaving, sweat glistening on brows and forearms.
‘Someone grab the ammo!’ shouted Tanner, as they swivelled the gun so that it faced the enemy. Several men hurried forward with ammunition boxes and the gunners opened fire. Tanner saw two more tanks hit, but it was enemy MG fire that was causing the most casualties. As another flurry of tank shells pounded their position, a Spandau from a Mark IV raked the top of the lip and Tanner heard Mudge cry out.
‘Oh, no!’ said Tanner, but as he reached him, Mudge slipped back into the sand. Quickly turning him over, Tanner saw that a bullet had hit him in the neck. Blood was pumping from the wound, Mudge’s eyes searching wildly, his face draining of colour.
‘Come on, mate,’ said Phyllis, now beside him and frantically tearing open a field dressing. ‘Come on, Mudgy.’
Tanner opened another packet, pressing the gauze against the wound but Mudge’s lips had stopped moving, and his eyes, although still wide open, were lifeless.
‘Damn – damn!’ Tanner punched the ground, then closed Mudge’s eyes.
‘I can’t believe it,’ said Phyllis. ‘Not Mudgy.’
The enemy tanks were now being engaged by the British armour hull-down a mile or so to the east of Grouse, and with more panzers knocked out and burning, they began to fall back.
‘Thank God for that,’ said Peploe, wiping his brow.
Tanner took another glug of water. ‘Poor old Mudgy,’ he said. ‘A good lad.’
‘And a good cook,’ said Sykes. He patted Phyllis’s shoulder.
Tanner’s mouth was too dry to smoke, but he put a cigarette between his lips all the same, and glanced around their position. A scene of chaos: burning vehicles, upturned ammo boxes, empty casings, mounting numbers of dead and wounded. And just fourteen guns left.
Christ. This is not good.
Enemy shelling continued relentlessly, but for a while, the enemy tank formations held back. Then, at around one o’clock, a dozen Panzer Mark IIIs appeared and directly attacked the northern lip of the bowl. The four six-pounders there opened fire at long range, but with no sign of either the promised FOO or more ammunition, within minutes only one was still firing; the rest had run out of shells.
Two of the tanks had already been hit, but the remaining ten were getting ever closer and firing with both their main guns and their Spandaus.
‘We need more ammo!’ shouted Lieutenant Carver, the troop commander. ‘We’ve got to get some more bloody ammo!’
‘I’ll get some,’ said Peploe. ‘There’s got to be some spare on the southern lip.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ said Tanner. ‘We can take my truck.’
A nod of agreement, and then they were sprinting, a burst of MG fire hissing over their heads. The smoke had lessened – the knocked-out carriers smouldering now – but as they reached the still intact truck and sped off, a tank shell exploded just behind them.
‘Here, Jack!’ They drew up alongside one of the knocked-out guns. Boxes of unused ammunition still stood beside it, so they leaped out, heaved the boxes on to the back of the truck, then set off again. Another shell whammed into the sand nearby, then another burst of MG fire, bullets spitting up the ground as Tanner swerved.
‘Christ alive!’ yelled Tanner, but they were nearing the northern lip again now. The six-pounder rolled back in recoil but more machine-gun bullets spat towards them and raked one side of the Bedford, hitting the fuel tank and setting it on fire.
‘This way!’ said Tanner, pulling Peploe over to the driver’s side, then staggering to the back and dragging the ammunition clear. Their men were around them now, grabbing the boxes and taking them to the waiting six-pounders.
Tanner hurried over with a box, dropped it on the ground, prised open the top, then lay down beside the gun and looked out ahead. The panzers were now only six hundred yards away, but the six-pounder crews were firing again and, in moments, four more panzers had been hit. Several shells thumped nearby but then another landed right in front of the gun, knocking it back on its wheels. The blast sent the crew flying backwards. As the sand and grit settled, Tanner lifted his head. The crew were spreadeagled: two appeared to be dead and the other two badly wounded.
Tanner cursed, yelled for help, then grabbed a shell, hurried to the gun and, crouching to the left of the breech, one knee on the trail, pushed the cocking handle down, then loaded the shell. The breech closed automatica
lly. He peered through the sights, picked out one of the leading panzers, to the right of the others, pressed his shoulder against the pad on the left of the breech and pushed against it slightly until the barrel had traversed sufficiently. With the panzer now perfectly in his sights, at less than four hundred yards, he was about to jump up and move to the other side of the breech to fire, when Sykes scrambled up beside him.
‘Stan, get over the side and get ready to fire!’
‘Sir!’ said Sykes, crouching to the right of the breech.
Tanner peered through the sight again, then said, ‘Fire!’
Sykes pulled the operating lever, the gun fired with a resounding crack, the breech flying thirty inches backwards. Tanner remained watching ahead of him. To his relief, the six-pound shell smacked between the turret and the hull at precisely where they had been aiming. But although sparks flew off the metal, there was no explosion.
Quickly he pulled down the cocking handle again. The empty casing flew backwards and Sykes rammed in another. A glance through the sight, a turn of the elevating handle, and Tanner shouted, ‘Fire!’ again. Another crack, the gun rocked backwards and this time the entire turret was flung into the air followed by an explosion inside the belly of the tank as the ammunition caught fire. Bullets and shells crackled and spat as angry flames and smoke gushed from the open hole.
Another panzer had also ground to a halt, the crew shot by a burst of Bren fire as they tried to escape, but the remaining three were now only two hundred yards away, still firing furiously towards them. Several shells landed nearby, and Tanner saw men fall backwards – who? He couldn’t say, but the gun on their right had stopped firing. Two guns against two tanks. A clatter of MG fire against the six-pounder’s shield as Tanner aimed again. The nearest panzer was not heading directly for them but slightly at an angle and Tanner now turned the elevating gear and aimed for its tracks.
‘Fire!’ he shouted to Sykes again. The breech rocked back and they saw the shell smack into the side of the panzer, a track snapping forward like a crack of a whip and several wheels spinning off wildly.
‘And another, sir!’ cried Sykes, pulling down the cocking lever and pushing in another shell.
The stricken panzer was now a sitting duck, halted in the open at what was effectively point-blank range. A cheer went up as the last panzer burst into flames, but Tanner was now in no mood for mercy. Another turn of the elevating gear and, with the Mark III locked in his sights, he shouted, ‘Fire!’ once more. The shell hit just above the wheels and immediately a burst of flame hurtled upwards through the hatch, as fuel and ammunition inside exploded.
‘Got you,’ said Tanner.
Another lull, but just before five, British armour appeared to the north-east, shelling them.
‘For God’s sake!’ shouted Peploe. ‘Not again!’
The colonel’s jeep was hit, but the remaining twelve guns were spared. In any case, the appearance of the British armour drew forward more enemy panzers and soon the Shermans and Grants were firing towards them instead.
From what Tanner could see, the enemy tanks, all German panzers, were moving forward in two formations of about forty each. To his amazement, they appeared not to have seen the Rangers’ position in the Grouse bowl and cut across their northern flank, presenting as good a target as any they had had all day.
Manning the six-pounder again, this time with Hepworth and Brown to help and with another box of salvaged ammunition, he began firing at the vulnerable tracks of the exposed panzers. A target moving across their sights was not, Tanner discovered, quite as easy to aim at as one heading directly for them, but they still hit two, tracks snapping off and the beasts grinding to a halt. Ammunition was now so low that they decided not to waste a second shot. Bren and rifle fire would do for the crew if they tried to escape.
Two more six-pounders were knocked out, but a further ten panzers had been left halted and burning, and by half past five the enemy began to withdraw once more. At this, Sykes rolled over on the sand and put his hand across his eyes. ‘No more,’ he said, ‘please, no more.’
But now Peploe was hurrying towards them. ‘There’s another attack developing from the south-east, I’m afraid, and we’ve taken all the ammunition from the guns there.’
‘All right,’ said Tanner. ‘So we need the boys round there with what we’ve got.’
‘Yes, but the good news is that the colonel’s had a signal that we’re to be relieved. If we’re still alive by then, of course.’
Tanner held out a hand to Sykes. ‘Come on, mate. Let’s get it done. Iggery, all right?’
With two men to a box and others carrying loose shells in their arms, they ran, crouched, to the southern side of the bowl where they had begun that morning. Shells and machine-gun fire were already pouring towards the position as they reached the four guns. Each now had just six rounds and the troop commander ordered no one to fire until the panzers were within two hundred yards.
‘Come on,’ muttered Tanner, his rifle ready as he lay beside some vetch. There were fifteen of them, Mark IVs. Dust surrounded the tanks, their tracks squeaking loudly over the roar of the engines, the boom and chatter of their guns. How far were they now? Two hundred and fifty yards? By God, they looked close, but still the gunners held their fire.
‘Go on, boys!’ said Sykes, beside him. ‘Give it to ’em!’
Tanner could feel sweat running down the sides of his face, and his heart was thumping in his chest once more. Any moment now …
‘Fire!’ the troop commander yelled, and a moment later, three of the tanks were hit, rolling to a standstill in smoke and flames. Another tank was hit, and backed away before grinding to a halt. Bren and rifle fire pelted the wrecks, even though they could achieve little, and the remainder, which kept coming forward. But when two more were hit just a hundred yards from the edge of the bowl, they began hastily to turn and pull back, disappearing soon after behind a low ridge.
The sun was dropping behind the ridge too. Tanner watched the colour gradually change from dun to pink, and from pink to orange to russet, just as it did every day. Earlier, he had wondered whether he would ever see this familiar sight again, but somehow he had survived, he and Peploe and Sykes and, he was relieved to see, most of his men. Only poor Mudge had gone.
Wrecks of tanks and the corpses of those trying to escape littered the desert. Some of the panzers stood trackless but otherwise seemingly undamaged. Others smouldered still, while a large number burned fiercely. Sykes reckoned there were seventy out there; Tanner nodded. He’d take his word for it. As the last of the light began to go, he looked around at the strewn and twisted wrecks of guns and carriers, the dead, still lying where they had fallen, and the piles of empty shell cases. Really, he thought, it was such an uninteresting and unremarkable stretch of ground: a slight hollow, a bit of vetch – no different from hundreds of other patches of this part of North Africa. And yet he knew that what they had achieved that day had been quite remarkable. Somehow, they had taken on Rommel’s panzers – the very heart and soul of the Afrika Korps, which had for so long tormented British troops in North Africa – and sent them packing. There were many moments in this war of which he felt personally proud, but this action was about as notable as any in which he had taken part.
The relief, inevitably, had not come at nine that evening, as they had been told, or an hour later, but by ten thirty, Vigar had had enough. They were going anyway. Leaving all but one of the guns, and most of the transport that had remained with them – including Tanner’s truck – they had walked out of Grouse, trudging wearily back through the Moon gap into what had been no man’s land, and finally, in the early hours, reaching the safety of the rear areas behind the British minefield. There they had collapsed. No one had said much. Most were too numb, too drained, too bewildered even to try to put into words how they felt at having lived through such an ordeal. A brew of tea, a bit of food, and then they had lain on the ground, wrapped in whatever clothing they could fi
nd. And nothing, not even the cold night air and the dew, could stop them falling asleep almost instantly.
30
After a week of relentless fighting, a permanent fog now hung over the battlefield. It was a yellowish colour, and with it came a distinct smell of smoke, burning rubber and oil, gunpowder – and rotting flesh. Burial parties from both sides were out every night, but it didn’t take long for the dead to get a bit high. The sun and millions of flies saw to that. Vaughan found it quite suffocating as he wended his away along a newly established network of tracks up and down the front line and through the now increasingly gapped minefields. There was one crossroads of tracks he had passed a number of times over the past few days. It was at the edge of the second enemy minefield near the Star track and there, in a tangle of wire, lay a dead Highlander. Every time he passed, the body was still there. Vaughan could not understand why it had been left unburied. And with every passing day, it became more and more covered with dust until now, as he passed it today, on Sunday, 1 November, it looked as though it had been turned to stone.
Vaughan had left Tac HQ that morning with the chief busy in the map lorry making preparations for the final offensive of the battle. Montgomery maintained that the battle had gone much as he had expected, but Vaughan reckoned it had been a damn close-run thing. From what he had seen in his tours of the battlefield, from the intelligence reports and sitreps, and from the discussions he had witnessed, he also reckoned the turning point had come on 27 October – the day Rommel had launched his series of counterattacks. The actions at Snipe and Grouse by the Rifle Brigade and the Yorks Rangers had stopped a major counter-offensive in its tracks. A further panzer counter-attack against the Australians had also been beaten back, while the RAF had repeatedly hit enemy tank formations that day. Much of the enemy’s air forces had also been destroyed on the ground, giving the RAF almost complete air superiority. By dusk on 27 October, it was clear that Rommel had lost his chance of making a successful counter-attack.
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