Target Tobruk: Yeoman in the Western Desert

by Robert Jackson

  Far ahead of him, the glow of the sunset gradually died away as he trudged on, and dark blue velvet crept over the sky from the east, brilliant with stars. The young moon had not yet risen, but the stars themselves shed their light on the desert, enabling him to pick his way without much difficulty.

  Despite the cold, he found himself sweating. His breath rasped in his throat, inflaming the torture of its parched walls. He forced himself to go on, planting one foot in front of the other stolidly, counting the steps and concentrating only on the few yards of ground immediately in front of him.

  He plodded on for an hour, two hours. All around him there was nothing but silence. Overhead, seeming to recede and then grow bright again in front of his tired eyes, the stars mocked him. Once or twice, he paused and looked around; the silver crescent of the moon was coming up over the horizon, its pale light casting weird shadows. He had the strange, unreal feeling of walking on water, an impression belied by his feet, which were beginning to hurt abominably in Kemp’s borrowed boots.

  Suddenly, he pitched headlong in the sand. Panting, he rolled over and tried to get up. His left leg was caught on something; he pulled, and there was a sound of ripping cloth. Cautiously, he reached down and explored his shin. His probing fingers encountered a strand of barbed wire.

  A danger signal flashed through his mind. Barbed wire meant that he must be somewhere near the Tobruk perimeter. Straining his eyes, he dimly made out coils of wire to left and right, but whether they had been laid by friend or foe he had no way of telling. He decided to proceed with extreme caution, on all fours, stopping frequently to listen for sounds of movement.

  He had gone no more than fifty yards when flares hissed into the night sky half a mile away on his left. He rolled into the shelter of a small dune and hugged the sand breathlessly as the brilliant lights fell slowly back to earth. Machine-guns opened up with a heavy stutter and distant tracer flickered back and forth across the desert. The exchange of fire lasted only a few seconds, then the flares went out and the night was silent again.

  Yeoman crawled on painfully, telling himself that it had probably been a false alarm. He felt something warm and wet on his chin and found that he had inadvertently bitten his lip. His hands, elbows and knees were beginning to suffer too, lacerated by sharp stones and the tiny, brittle shells that littered the surface of the desert. The crunching noise they made as he put his weight on them sounded fearfully loud, making his heart pound.

  He stopped for a rest and lay full length, breathing heavily, his face pillowed in his arms. He lay there for a few moments, then lifted his head, wrinkling his nose as he detected a new smell: a smell of oil and sweat, sharp and acrid on the night air.

  He sniffed, then shook his head in self-reproach. George, he told himself, you’re imagining things. You’re cracking up. Time to get moving again. Weakly, he pushed himself up on his knees.

  A hand, wiry and incredibly strong, clamped itself over his mouth, stifling all sound. An arm crushed his neck like a vice, strangling him. He was so petrified with fear that he could not have moved or cried out, even if he had been in a position to do so.

  Other hands were moving lightly over his body, touching him from his boots to the top of his head. His flesh crawled and successive waves of heat and cold shuddered through him. He felt his sense slipping away. Then, miraculously, the pressure around his neck slackened a little and he was able to gulp air into his tortured lungs.

  He was vaguely aware of muted voices, of whispered words in a strange language. His battered senses registered the fact that it was neither German nor Italian. There was no time for conjecture, because he felt the cold, hard shock of a knife blade against his throat, and at the same moment strong hands seized his arms, urging him to his feet. He stumbled forward, prodded by the knife, a hand gripping his collar. His fear had now given way to a helpless rage. He toyed with the idea of making a break, but deep down he knew that he would get no more than a few paces before his silent assailants cut him down. They were not going to kill him, at least not yet, so he judged it more prudent to wait and see what happened.

  They had gone, perhaps, half a mile when the grip on his collar tightened, dragging him to a halt. One of his escorts hissed out a word and a response came out of the darkness almost immediately. They moved on, through a gap in some barbed wire, and in the moonlight Yeoman picked out what looked like sandbagged gun positions. A few yards further on he was pushed unceremoniously down a slope and into the entrance to a dugout. Someone lifted a heavy curtain and he almost fell into a cave-like interior, blinking in the fitful light of an oil lamp.

  Two officers, unmistakably British, were seated at a small camp table, perusing some documents. Both looked up in surprise and the senior of the two, a major, got to his feet, leaning forward to peer at the newcomer.

  ‘Good Lord,’ he exclaimed. ‘What’ve we got here?’

  Yeoman, feeling on the point of collapse, tried to speak and managed only a dry croak. He pointed feebly at his mouth and made a drinking motion. One of the officers handed him a water-bottle and he sucked at it greedily. The liquid was warm and brackish and tasted like pure nectar.

  ‘I Say, steady on,’ the major said, ‘you’ll give yourself a pain in the guts. Now, just who the hell are you?’

  The pilot gasped, took another drink of water and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  ‘Yeoman,’ he said jerkily. ‘Flying officer, RAF. Went after a Jerry recce aircraft this morning, but I had to bale out. Stayed put in the desert all afternoon, and started walking as soon as it started to get dark.’

  The major looked past Yeoman and addressed his cap-tors in their own language. The pilot half turned and saw them clearly for the first time. They wore British battle-dress, but their faces were dark and bearded, with hooked noses and fierce, hawk-like eyes that burned like live coals. After exchanging a few sentences with the major, they saluted smartly, turned on their heel and left the dug-out.

  The major noted Yeoman’s mystified expression and smiled broadly. ‘They’re Rajputs,’ he explained, ‘warrior-caste Hindus from Jodphur. Absolutely first-rate chaps. You were bloody lucky, though; if they hadn’t thought you just might be British, then —’ he made an expressive slicing motion across his throat with his index finger. Yeoman shuddered. ‘Came back with a bagful of ears last time they went out on patrol,’ the other officer grinned, ‘just to prove they were playing the game and not exaggerating. Yes, really splendid fellows.’

  ‘Now then,’ the major continued, ‘this is all very well, but we’ve got to prove you are who you say you are. Don’t suppose you’ve got any identity on you?’

  ‘Just my discs,’ Yeoman replied, fishing inside his shirt for them. ‘But if you get through to Air Liaison, and ask for a Lieutenant Kemp, he’ll put you in the picture about me.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s really necessary,’ a voice said quietly.

  Yeoman looked round, startled. There was a third man in the dugout. He had been sitting quietly in the dark shadows of a corner, and now he rose and came towards the pilot, his hand outstretched. Yeoman focused with difficulty on the man’s face, and then he remembered. It was the Australian captain with whom he had shared the cabin of the truck on his first journey into the desert, a month earlier.

  He grinned weakly. ‘I see you made it,’ he said.

  The other nodded, smiling, then stepped forward and put an arm round Yeoman’s shoulders as the pilot swayed on his feet. ‘Here,’ the Australian said, ‘you look all in. Better get some kip. Time to sort out the details later.’

  Yeoman took another long drink of water and allowed himself to be led to a rickety camp bed. He collapsed face down on the filthy blanket that covered it, and knew no more.

  Chapter Six

  Yeornan surfaced groggily from a deep sleep, wondering at first where he was. The curtain that hung across the door of the dugout had been drawn back, admitting warm air and a shaft of brilliant sunlight. A shadow
y figure was silhouetted against it. Yeoman peered at the figure through narrowed, gummy eyelids and made out the grimy, grinning features of a soldier. He was holding out a mug of tea.

  The pilot reached out and took the mug, raising it shakily to his lips. He swallowed the scalding liquid with difficulty, for his throat felt as though it had been rubbed with sandpaper. He coughed, and managed a smile.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Nine o’clock,’ the man replied. ‘You’ve had a good sleep, and no mistake. Missed the battle last night, and —’

  ‘Battle?’ Yeoman enquired, utterly perplexed.

  ‘Jerry tried to break through in our sector about two o’clock this morning,’ the soldier told him. ‘Didn’t get very far, though. We wiped out about fifty of his blokes, along with a couple of tanks.’

  The man nodded cheerfully, took the empty mug and left. Yeoman was stiff all over and felt like death. He eased his legs carefully out of bed and stood up painfully, feeling horribly dizzy. He was surprised to find that someone had removed most of his clothing while he slept and dressed the lacerations on his hands, elbows and knees; he hadn’t felt a thing.

  He found his clothing lying in a neat pile beside the bed and struggled into it, wincing as he straightened his limbs. The exertion made some of his cuts start bleeding again. As he finished dressing, the major who had spoken to him the night before came in. He looked utterly worn out, seating himself heavily on the edge of the trestle table and passing a weary hand over his eyes.

  ‘I heard you had a spot of bother last night,’ Yeoman said.

  The other looked up, as though noticing the pilot for the first time. ‘That’s putting it mildly,’ he said. ‘We knew something was going on because we saw Jerry transport dashing about all over the desert yesterday. A few tanks and bunches of supporting infantry moved up towards the perimeter during the afternoon, but they were driven off by artillery fire.

  ‘It was too quiet last night,’ the major went on, ‘too bloody quiet by half. Then, at about one forty-five, they let loose with heavy machine-guns and mortars. They gave us everything they had for fifteen minutes, then the tanks and infantry came in. We stopped ’em all right, but not before they had overrun a couple of our outposts. It might interest you to know that some of the Jerry infantry got to within fifty yards of where we are now before we killed ’em.’

  ‘Christ!’ Yeoman exclaimed. ‘I never heard a thing!’

  ‘Just as well,’ the major grunted. ‘You’d probably have had a heart attack.’ He crossed over to the camp bed Yeoman had just vacated and stretched himself out on it, sighing deeply.

  ‘Going to grab a couple of hours sleep,’ he said. ‘There’s an ammo truck coming up in half an hour and you can hitch a lift down to Tobruk on it. By the way, you crawled through the middle of a minefield last night.’ He waved a limp hand. ‘Take a look round while you’re waiting. Be seeing you.’

  ‘Be seeing you,’ said Yeoman, and made for the entrance. As an afterthought, he stopped and looked back. ‘I’d like to say cheerio to my Aussie friend,’ he said. ‘Any idea where I can find him?’

  The major raised himself on one elbow and looked at Yeoman for long seconds before replying. Then he said, quietly: ‘I’m afraid he bought it last night. Went after a Jerry machine-gun single-handed and took a burst in the chest. I suppose he wouldn’t know much about it. Had you known him long?’

  The pilot shook his head slowly, then turned without another word and went out into the sunlight. He felt saddened by the news of the Australian’s death, and wished now that he had made an effort to get to know him better on their journey together from Mersa Matruh. Perhaps, back home, there was a wife and maybe children, still happily going about their lives and as yet unaware that they had suffered a loss that could never be made good.

  He wandered about aimlessly, not straying too far from the dugout in case the truck turned up ahead of time. Soldiers, at work around their sandbagged gun emplacements, glanced at him in brief curiosity, then returned to their tasks. The air still stank of cordite. He leaned against a pile of sandbags, surveyed the scene around him without really taking it in, and wished he had his pipe and tobacco. Try as he might, he could not shake the memory of the Australian out of his mind; it seemed to bring back the memories of all those others he had known in his year of combat, some well and some not so well, who had not come through.

  He was astonished and disturbed to find that he could not even remember the Australian captain’s name. It was often like that, he reflected; and yet some men he had known, little more than casual acquaintances, had seemed to sense the finger of death on them and had suddenly opened their hearts over a beer in the mess or a mug of tea in the crew-room and spoken of the small, pitiful things that were their pride before going their way, and dying. Still others had lapsed into a strange, introverted silence, sweeping towards their death like driftwood on a floodtide without apparent will or reason; and yet others had seemed to rejoice in flirting with the brush of death’s dark wing, finding a kind of frenzied satisfaction in the trade of killing that had been thrust upon them.

  Perhaps these, he thought moodily, were the ones who would survive this war. Or maybe the true survivors were those who were afraid of everything; too afraid to show their fear to their friends, and therefore possessing a mystical kind of courage which drove them to incredible feats and made other men look to them for guidance and inspiration.

  He shrugged and waved a hand, disturbing a cloud of flies that was trying hard to settle on him. Not so long ago, when he was in this kind of mood, he would have spent ages trying to analyse and categorize his own feelings about life and death; now, suddenly, it was all quite clear. He had become a fatalist. I don’t give a damn, he thought. Live from day to day, that’s the answer. You’re going to cop it sooner or later, so why worry? You probably won’t feel it when it happens, anyway. And if by some miracle you do happen to come through with a reasonably whole skin, forget the bad times and remember the good ones. That was the real recipe for survival, and sanity.

  ‘You the Air Force bloke?’

  He looked up, startled, as the Australian twang interrupted his reverie. The soldier who stood in front of him was clad in what appeared to be the ritual Australian desert fighting dress of shorts, boots, steel helmet and nothing else, if one discounted the habitual limp and dangling cigarette end. He nodded.

  ‘Right,’ said the Australian, ‘let’s get cracking. It’s just about time for the daily air raid.’

  The soldier led him to a truck and they climbed aboard. God, thought Yeoman, as they lurched and jolted on their way, not only do they dress the same but they drive the same.

  After following a rough track for some time they turned west on to the Via Balbia, as the Tobruk-Bardia road was known, and made good progress along it until they reached its junction with the El Adem-Tobruk road, the route that led down to the town itself. A minute later, above the noise of the engine, they heard the dull rumble of explosions.

  ‘Told yer,’ said the Australian nonchalantly, jerking a thumb back over his shoulder.

  Yeoman leaned precariously out of the cab window and looked back. Five miles behind them, clouds of dust and smoke boiled over the perimeter. Above, wheeling like vultures, he made out the black specks of the dive-bombers.

  The next instant, he was almost hurled into the road as the driver put his foot hard down. Throwing himself back into his seat, he clung on grimly and swore.

  ‘One of ’em sometimes comes this way and takes a shot at anything moving,’ the driver said, by way of explanation. ‘Ain’t taking any chances.’

  In Tobruk, the truck screeched to a stop outside an army depot of some sort, and Yeoman gathered that this was the end of the line. He was far from sorry; every bone in his body felt loose. He completed the journey to Navy House on foot, to be greeted like a long-lost brother by Kemp.

  ‘We all thought you’d had it,’ Kemp said, as Yeoman
munched his way gratefully through a plate of food. ‘We were all out watching and we saw you get the Junkers, then we lost sight of your contrail and when you didn’t turn up we thought you must have come down in the sea. General Morshead was all set to make a dead hero out of you.’

  ‘I’d rather be a live coward,’ Yeoman grunted. ‘What’s bothering me is what I’m going to do now. I’m not much bloody use without an aeroplane.’

  ‘I’ll get a signal off to Air HQ,’ Kemp promised. ‘Meanwhile, I reckon you’ve earned a rest. What you need right now is a few hours in the Med, a change of clothing and a few glasses of plonk. Then we’ll worry about what comes next.’

  That evening, bathed, changed and much refreshed, Yeoman had dinner with General Morshead, who expressed his delight, that the pilot was safe and added his congratulations. Thanks to the destruction of the enemy reconnaissance aircraft, the merchant convoy had been unloaded on schedule at Port Said without interference from the Luftwaffe. Yeoman left the general with a feeling of immense gratification. Morshead had questioned him closely about his own career, and had made him feel thoroughly at ease. Here was a man, he thought, who radiated inner strength, and who would never expect his men to do anything he was not prepared to do himself. Small wonder that his Australians would, and did, go through hell for him.

  If Yeoman had expected rapid action on the question of his future, he was doomed to disappointment. No one seemed to know what to do with him. He spent his days between Navy House and the airstrip, where the handful of airmen who remained were almost beside themselves with boredom. He helped out where he could, in the communications centre or on the quayside, but most of the time he was aware that he was getting in the way of people who knew their job thoroughly. His tension and frustration grew with every air raid; if only he had a fighter, he could be up there doing something about the waves of bombers that pounded Tobruk day after day, night after night. In the end, he acquired a Bren and took up solitary station on the high ground overlooking the harbour, blazing away at the bombers and braving the sleet of shrapnel that fell from Tobruk’s own anti-aircraft fire. It was a futile gesture, but it relieved his feelings.