Target Tobruk: Yeoman in the Western Desert

by Robert Jackson

  ‘It was Dunkirk all over again,’ he said, ‘except this time the enemy had complete air superiority.’ He waved a hand towards Yeoman. ‘Oh, I know what everyone said at the time, about the Air Force being absent and so on, but I also know for a damn fact that if it hadn’t been for the Air Force thousands more chaps would have gone into the bag.’

  Yeoman, who had flown fighter patrols over Dunkirk during the evacuation and who had escaped from the beaches after having been shot down, agreed mentally, but stayed silent. He was eager to hear something about the Greek campaign from someone who had experienced part of it.

  ‘Yes,’ Phillips continued, ‘it was German air power that shattered the Allied effort in Greece. I remember what happened on the night after the start of the German invasion; their bombers attacked Piraeus, where our ships were unloading, and one of them blew up with hundreds of tons of TNT on board. She took most of the harbour and a dozen other ships with her. That meant we had to divert supplies to other, more difficult ports, and it all added to the communications difficulties.

  ‘Then Yugoslavia collapsed — you’ll recall that the Germans attacked her on 6 April, the same day they invaded Greece — and that left the western end of the main Greek defensive line in the north completely exposed. There was no choice but to pull back, and with the Greek army falling apart everywhere there was no chance of making a stand anywhere else. Don’t get me wrong — the Greeks fought magnificently, but their armies were split up by the speed of the enemy advance and their communications smashed by continual air attack. After that, they were mopped up one by one.’

  Phillips smiled wryly, and went on with his story. ‘There was a lot of grand talk about an Australian division holding the Pass of Thermopylae, where Leonidas and his Spartans made their last stand against the Persians a few thousand years ago, but that all came to nothing. Perhaps it was just as well. The Persians didn’t have any Stukas or tanks, but the Spartans got killed just the same.

  ‘Well, we were left with about two days to evacuate fifty thousand British, Australian and New Zealand troops. It was a hell of a problem, because they couldn’t be seen near the beaches during daytime because of the danger of air attack, and all the embarkation had to take place at night. Admiral Cunningham threw all his light forces into the task, including half a dozen cruisers and about twenty destroyers, not to mention dozens of smaller craft like my schooner.

  ‘The evacuations began on 24 April from five or six places in the Peloponnese — you know, that’s the southern bit of Greece, shaped like a cow’s udder.

  ‘I arrived on the twenty-sixth, at a place called Nauplion. Embarkation was a bit slow, and with no hope of getting clear before first light we crept into a very narrow cove and tried to make ourselves inconspicuous, lying hard against a cliff.’

  Phillips took a long pull at his beer and his face took on a grim expression. ‘Another ship, a freighter called the Slamat, I think, was also caught by the dawn, and as she was clearing the land the Stukas came. She took a couple of direct hits, but before she went down most of the seven hundred or so men on board were taken off by two destroyers, the Diamond and Wryneck. A few hours later, the Stukas sank them too. Only about fifty men survived.’

  He set down his empty bottle. ‘Life’s a bastard, isn’t it?’ he said quietly.

  ‘What happened to you, sir?’ Kemp asked.

  ‘Oh, we got away after dark and took our troops to Crete. Then we came back for another lot. After that, we spent a couple of days searching coves and inlets for any stragglers before we packed it in. According to some reports I heard, we got about twenty-five thousand men to Crete and another fifteen thousand to Egypt, although a lot of those were wounded. So we didn’t do too badly.’

  ‘Sounds as though Crete could be turned into quite an effective fortress,’ Yeoman said thoughtfully.

  Phillips shook his head. ‘I don’t think there’s going to be time,’ he said. ‘The troops are scattered all over the place. From what I saw at Suda Bay, where most of them were put ashore in Crete, there weren’t even any tents; the poor beggars were sleeping rough in the olive groves with no blankets or overcoats, and it gets pretty cold at night. One New Zealand chap told me they had no provisions, and that a lot of the men hadn’t had a hot meal for days. He said that considerable numbers, the majority Australians, had gone off to forage for themselves in armed gangs, and that their mood was dangerous.’

  ‘Do you mean that discipline has broken down completely?’ asked Yeoman.

  ‘No, not at all,’ Phillips replied emphatically. ‘You’ve got to realize that the evacuation from Greece was a lot more chaotic than the Dunkirk affair, in many ways. At Dunkirk, the great majority of units preserved their cohesion, even up to embarkation, but in Greece there was a frightful mix-up and quite a number of officers and NCOS didn’t make it, which added to the discipline problem. Besides, the evacuation ships had been bombed continually on the way over, or strafed, and the chaps on the decks had suffered casualties. So when they got to Crete and found no comforts at all, not even food, they understandably grew more than a little bloody-minded. Everything happened too quickly, or at least that’s the excuse, and by the time things get sorted out it’ll probably be too late.’

  ‘But surely,’ objected Kemp, ‘the Navy’s still powerful enough to smash any invasion force? With a couple of fighter squadrons on Crete to provide air cover —’

  ‘What bloody fighter squadrons?’ Yeoman interrupted. ‘We’re at full stretch as it is, what with Rommel on the one hand and this confounded revolt in Iraq on the other!’ The revolt to which he referred had been brought about by a strong pro-German faction led by one Rashid Ali, who had made himself prime minister, ousted the legitimate regent, and ordered his forces to capture the British airfield of Habbaniyah. They had failed, and by all accounts were taking a beating, but according to some reports a squadron of German aircraft had arrived at Mosul, and the revolt had to be crushed quickly if the enemy foothold was to be kicked away. To that end, every fighter that could be spared in the Middle East had been rushed to Iraq. So far, the RAF fighter contingent at Habbaniyah consisted of five old Gloster Gladiator biplanes, an indication of how serious the aircraft shortage had become.

  ‘Well,’ said Phillips, ‘there are a few fighters on Crete, the ones that managed to get away from Greece, but they’d be hard pressed to defend themselves, let alone provide air cover for warships. Anyway, the Germans won’t come by sea. They’ll come by air.’

  Kemp let out a low whistle. ‘An airborne invasion! I know the enemy made use of paratroops in Norway and Belgium, but this would have to be something far bigger — a massive operation! And our forces would be ready for them, to some degree at least. No, sir, I don’t think they could do it.’

  Phillips looked at him and raised an eyebrow. ‘Don’t you, now?’ he said grimly. ‘I’m afraid I don’t share your optimism. Nevertheless, we shall have to wait and see.’

  He looked at his watch, and a moment later rose stiffly from his seat. ‘Time I was getting back,’ he said. ‘Thanks for the beer.’

  Without another word he tucked his greasy cap under his arm and limped out of the room, back to the ship that had become his whole world. Yeoman watched him go, remembering his words with a deep sense of foreboding. Unlike Kemp, he knew in his heart that Phillips was right. The Germans would land on Crete, and the island would fall. Not because the Allied troops lacked courage, but because they had too little to fight with, and it was too late, And then what? Cyprus? Malta? If Malta fell, the chances of the British being able to hold their own in North Africa would be slender indeed. His mind reeled with the possibilities, all of them potentially disastrous.

  With a sudden start, he realized that Kemp was speaking to him, and shook his head as though to clear it of the dark thoughts that came crowding in. There was an immediate life to be lived, and a great deal to be achieved in it.

  He was airborne again at sunset, on yet another offshore recon
naissance. He sighted nothing until Tobruk harbour came up over the horizon, and then he picked out a single craft, a schooner, her sails golden in the dying sun as she nosed westwards. There was no mistaking the Contessa Maria. For the second time that day he dived down on her, dipping his wings in salute. On the deck, a burly figure stood with legs braced and waved back. Yeoman looked back once as he headed in over Tobruk towards the airstrip; the schooner had disappeared, lost like some phantom ship in the golden glow.

  The following morning a great sandstorm howled out of the desert. It lasted for two days, and within its boiling cauldron men crawled and suffered, taking what shelter they could find in caves or tarpaulin-covered foxholes dug out on the leeward side of vehicles. For some, on both sides of the line, the strain proved too much. At Ras Medauer a young soldier of the 24th Australian Brigade, a boy barely nineteen years old, began to scream and tremble in his foxhole and crammed handfuls of sand into his mouth. Helplessly, his friends watched as he choked to death. Three miles to the south, another young soldier of the 5th Panzer Regiment suddenly went berserk and mowed down three of his comrades with a Schmeisser before someone put a bullet through his head.

  And at the height of the storm, over the radio, came the insinuating voice of William Joyce, ‘Lord Haw-Haw’, the Irish traitor who broadcast propaganda for the Germans.

  ‘Good morning, rats. How are you this morning? Not very well, I hope. And how is your Air Force? Oh, I forgot, you haven’t got one, have you? Never mind, we have plenty of planes, so we’ll send a few over for you.’

  The men listened to Haw-Haw’s words apprehensively. Whatever other lies he told, they knew that when he promised them a visit from the Luftwaffe, the Luftwaffe always arrived.

  ‘No,’ the broadcaster continued, ‘it can’t be very nice for you over there, cowering like rats in your holes. That’s what you are, you know. Rats. And do you know what we do with rats? We exterminate them.’

  Despite the threat, the men of the garrison looked at one another and grinned through the layer of gritty sand that caked their faces. Suddenly, they had a new identity, and they knew somehow that they would never lose it.

  The Rats of Tobruk.

  Chapter Five

  Yeoman lay in the scant shade under the wing of his Hurricane and looked at his watch for the tenth time in as many minutes and prayed for the telephone to ring in the operations hut. Surely, he thought, it couldn’t be long now. Just a few minutes more and he would be away from this sweat-soaked hell, climbing up into the clean sky.

  It was almost ten o’clock in the morning, the sun was a furnace and Yeoman felt as though his whole body were turning into a pool of salty liquid. He wore a battledress blouse and trousers on top of his normal shirt and shorts, and the bottoms of the trousers were tucked into a pair of fur-lined boots, fortunately of the right size, which he had borrowed from Kemp. Beneath all this clothing the pilot’s body itched and roasted and perspired, and yet again he asked himself if it was all really necessary. But he already knew the answer to that question. It could get very, very cold at thirty thousand feet or more.

  The previous evening, Yeoman had been summoned to a briefing in Navy House, where a senior army officer had told him that British Intelligence in Cairo was seriously perturbed by the daily high-altitude reconnaissance flights carried out by lone enemy aircraft over Alexandria and the British bases in the Canal Zone.

  ‘The point,’ the officer had continued, ‘is this. For the past few days, a convoy of fast merchant ships has been en route to Egypt from England. It is carrying considerable numbers of tanks and fighter aircraft, and I don’t think I need to tell you how vital these are to our war effort. The enemy knows of the convoy’s existence, for it has already been under heavy attack during its passage through the Mediterranean, but what they do not yet know is its destination. Well, I can tell you in the strictest confidence that in approximately two hours’ time, the first of the merchant ships will be docking in Port Said.’

  The officer tapped a wall map with his stick. ‘It is certain,’ he went on, ‘that as soon as the Germans learn the convoy’s location, they will mount a major air attack in an effort to destroy the ships before unloading can be completed. We fear that the daily reconnaissance flight tomorrow will give them the information they need.’

  ‘Excuse me, sir,’ Yeoman interrupted, clearing his throat, ‘but what about enemy agents in Port Said? Surely they will inform the Germans of the convoy’s arrival?’

  The officer smiled. ‘Very astute, young man. However,

  I may tell you, again in strict confidence, that our — ah — undercover people have been quite busy in Port Said during the past week, feeding a lot of false information to the agents you mention, while many more known agents have been rounded up in Alexandria. In this way, we hope to persuade the enemy that Alexandria, not Port Said or anywhere else, is the convoy’s destination.

  ‘If, however, the enemy reconnaissance flight is allowed to proceed, then we anticipate the worst. And that is where you come in.’

  Yeoman swallowed hard and said nothing. The officer tapped the map with his stick again. ‘Now,’ he continued, ‘as you know, these flights over the Canal Zone take place at very high altitude, well outside the range of our anti-aircraft guns and the ceiling — that is the term, isn’t it? — of the few fighter aircraft we have available for air defence. Nevertheless, there is one slim chance. Look.’

  He traced a line on the map with his stick. ‘Our Intelligence people have found out that the enemy has two of these long-range reconnaissance machines here, at Benghazi, and that they take it in turns to fly their missions into Egypt. Now, after take-off, the aircraft fly across the Jebel Akhdar, here, and cross the coast just to the east of Tmimi gaining height all the time. They pass to the north of Tobruk and set course for the Nile Delta, flying over the sea all the time. By the time they turn inland, they have reached their full operational height.’

  The officer paused and looked at Yeoman. ‘The aircraft,’ he said slowly, ‘pass north of Tobruk at an altitude of approximately thirty thousand feet. We know their timetable, because it never varies, or at least it hasn’t done so far. Now, we know that the Germans think there are no fighter aircraft in Tobruk, but they are wrong, aren’t they? Think what a nasty shock that reconnaissance pilot would get, if he were to find you waiting for him in the right place at just the right time …’

  Yeoman shook his head, pondering. ‘It might be possible,’ he murmured. ‘It might just be possible. But I don’t think I could push the Hurricane much above thirty thousand, and even then she’d have to be stripped down.’

  He looked at the officer and grinned. ‘Still, I’m willing to have a go.’

  The officer’s relief was visible. ‘Good man! Now for the finer details. We have an agent positioned here in the Jebel, overlooking the enemy airfield, and as soon as he observes the reconnaissance aircraft taking off he will send a brief radio signal to the communications centre here. You will be standing by your aircraft and will be informed immediately. You should just have enough time to take off and climb to your, ah, rendezvous. The enemy machine’s estimated course and its time north of Tobruk will be passed to you over your radio.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ Yeoman said, ‘but it won’t. You see, the radio will have to come out to make the Hurricane lighter. However, with a bit of luck the recce kite should be starting to leave a vapour trail. I’ll find him, if he’s there.’ Yeoman felt nothing like the confidence his words implied. The army officer, however, was reassured. ‘I’m sure you will,’ he beamed. ‘Now, it remains only for me to wish you good luck. I’m sure you need to return to the airstrip without delay.’

  Yeoman’s ground crew worked throughout the night, stripping every ounce of surplus weight from the fighter. In addition to bulky items such as the radio, Yeoman instructed the men to remove all armour plating and to arm the Hurricane’s six machine-guns with 150 rounds of .303 ammunition per gun instead of the ful
l belt of 300 rounds. That should give him around eight seconds of firing time, which left no margin for error. He would have to get it right first time. He realized, however, that there would probably be time for only one firing pass in any case, before the enemy aircraft outclimbed him.

  Each second, as he lay and sweltered under the fighter’s wing, seemed like an eternity. Suddenly, he got up and began to walk towards the operations hut, To hell with it, he thought. If something doesn’t happen soon I’m going to take off anyway. Much more of this, and I won’t be in any condition to do anything.

  He had not gone more than a few paces when Corporal Riley burst from the hut, his thumbs upturned. ‘It’s on, sir!’ he yelled. ‘The Jerry kite’s airborne!’

  Yeoman turned and ran back to the Hurricane, clambering into the cockpit. It was fiercely hot, and he winced as his hands came into contact with metal objects. The engine fired first time, a tribute to the fitters who had gone over it thoroughly during the night, and he taxied quickly out to the strip, turning in a cloud of billowing dust and opening the throttle. He didn’t bother to strap in; there would be time enough for that during the climb. What mattered now was to get into the air as quickly as possible. Every second counted.

  To Yeoman, who had got used to long, laborious takeoffs in the hot desert air, the fighter lifted away after what seemed an incredibly short run. The removal of surplus weight had certainly made a big difference; he hoped it would be enough.

  He pulled up the Hurricane’s undercarriage and climbed hard into the northern sky across Tobruk harbour, his eyes already searching for the first glimpse of his target. There was nothing. He fumbled with his straps as he climbed, cursing when his Mae West lifejacket got in the way. He carried no dinghy — that had been left behind to save weight — and he would have liked to abandon the lifejacket too, but his mission involved flying a considerable distance out to sea, and since he was not a strong swimmer the Mae West would be his only real means of support if he had to bale out or ditch.