Seize and Ravage

by Richard Townsend Bickers

  Taggart led his group to the mouth of the wadi which debouched onto the eastern slope of the hill from which the fort towered above them. They began their climb, dodging from rock to boulder to fold in the ground, wishing the camel thorn bushes had not been burned away, swearing silently when ashes disturbed by their feet and lifted on the faint breeze prickled their noses and, through their panting mouths, irritated their throats, so that they were hard put to it to suppress a sneeze or cough.

  When they were halfway up they began to crawl on all fours. When, finally, they were within 100 yards of the fort, they lay prone and wriggled forward on elbows and knees; until at last they had crossed the open expanse of flat ground at the summit and were under the walls. They unpacked the explosives they had carried, and Corporal Owen began his careful work. When he moved on, the rest of them withdrew, creeping to the southern side before slithering down to the wadi where Stuart was waiting for them before taking his section on to the western side.

  Corporal Irwin and his three men had gained the road which led from the main road and ran along the western side of the parking area. Here, they separated: Irwin and his gunner moved northward, the other two went the opposite way. The tanks themselves looked menacing in the gloom, as though they were watching for intruders. The sentries strode steadily up and down their beats.

  He watched his intended victim, tall, heavily-built and goose-stepping in the faint moonlight as though on parade down Under den Linden. He timed him. The others, their watches synchronised, were doing the same with their allotted enemies. The man approached to within twenty yards, then turned about. Owen eased forward and hid under the edge of the tank park, which rose three feet above the road.

  He could not risk peeping over the top and had to listen for the sound of stamping jackboots. He picked it up when he judged that the sentry had same thirty paces to go. His heart was beating at twice its normal rate and he felt short of breath. His fighting knife was in his left hand: being left-handed was an advantage, for it always took an opponent by surprise when he fought back. Irwin was determined that this one would die before he had time to struggle.

  He cowered, hugging the ground, as the German took his last three paces. He heard the man turn, and rose as swiftly as a Jack-in-the-box. Two leaping strides and his right forearm hooked itself across the German's mouth and jerked his head back. Owen drew the razor-sharp knife across the German's throat, pressing the blade deep. The German sagged so heavily on him that he almost fell. A moment later the corpse was lying on the road, in the shadows where Owen had been hiding.

  He sprinted westward, along the north side of the tank park. He found his gunner bent double, nursing a broken right forearm. A dead German lay at his feet.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Sod got me with his rifle butt before he died.’

  ‘Get to the R.V. as quickly as you can.’

  The rendezvous point was in the wadi on the south side, where one of the medical orderlies waited, with his assault party.

  Irwin ran to the tank nearest to him, the one farthest from the fort, and opened the turret. Then he went to the next two and put a lump of plastic explosive, with a pencil time-fuse, under the tracks of each. He hurried on. Halfway along the line, he met the driver, who said quickly. ‘No bother. Where's Smith?’

  ‘Jerry broke his arm. He's gone to the R.V.’

  ‘Sod it. You'll have to be gunner, then?’

  ‘Right.’

  They ran towards the tank closest to the fort, suspecting trouble. Where was the fourth man?

  They heard a gurgling cry that hung on the air for no more than a second before it was cut off.

  ‘Bloody hell, I hope Jerry and the Wops think that was a jackal.’

  The fourth man appeared at the double.

  ‘Bastard turned round just as I was on him. Sorry, Corp. Where's Smith?’

  ‘Broken arm... gone to R.V. Come on quick.’

  They ran back to the furthest tank and climbed aboard. By torchlight, they began to find the switches and controls. Corporal Irwin and the driver had been inside knocked-out Mark 3s in France and had a rough idea of the layout.

  A searchlight came on in the fort and swept towards the tank park.

  The wicket gate in the big main gates opened and soldiers emerged through it at the double: both Italians and Germans.

  There was a series of vivid flashes of light all round the fort, some of them absolutely simultaneous, others two, three or four seconds apart. The flames that leaped from them were tall and bright enough to light the whole area. The roar of the explosions followed, and the rumble of collapsing masonry, the screaming and bellowing of men's voices; and a thick cloud of all-enveloping dust over the target.

  The captured tank's engine started and it jerked forward. Corporal Irwin was standing at the open hatch, directing the driver.

  He ducked down again and positioned himself at the gun.

  ‘All right, Jack, drive straight for the gate and bash our way in. Take her right round inside and point her at the gate again, so we can fuck off out of it fast, if we have to.’

  ***

  Corporal Owen had been so absorbed in setting his charges with precision that he had been oblivious of every danger. It was only when the last was done that he realised that he had spent forty minutes exposed to discovery, which would have been followed by a challenge and a burst of bullets. The shadows at the base of the fort were deep, but it needed only some alert sentry to look down for long enough, and his presence would have been spotted. But there were no sentries patrolling the wall, as the Commandos had learned during the past few days and nights. So far behind the front line, no danger was anticipated. The only sentries were two men inside the main gate and one on the tower above it.

  When he had left the fort and joined Taggart's group, he began to tremble with the release of tension. He could do with a good cup of tea, he told himself. There would be no tea for many hours yet. He busied himself with examining the unused explosive, which was intended for blowing up the interior of the building.

  From time to time he looked at his watch. As the minute hand moved the last seconds towards ten to two, he could only stare at the fort and count the seconds under his breath.

  When the fuses detonated and the thunderclap of sound reverberated while flames leaped and flickered and huge fragments of masonry were hurled high and wide, he began to chuckle. The walls cracked, slithered and tumbled, adding another thunderous note to the noise and confusion, and he began to laugh. He picked up his pack of explosive and began to move towards the ruins of the great gate.

  ***

  Pennati was roused from deep sleep by the violent shaking of his bed, as though the building were in the grip of an earthquake. His head felt as though it were stuffed with cotton wool, for his senses reeled, tremendous concussions dinned in his ears and his thoughts were utterly confused by the agitation, the noise and the screams and shouts that pierced what sounded like the worst thunderstorm since The Flood.

  He rose shakily from bed and felt the floor shudder under his feet as two more enormous explosions boomed above all the rest of the din.

  This appalling disturbance was the last straw. Deprived of well-deserved leave, he had been angry and brooding already, before the Germans turned up; with the unbearable Hauptmann Moelders in command of them. Moelders had been exactly as Pennati had feared he would be: arrogant, contemptuous, and dismissive of the fact that Pennati spoke German fluently. He had, in fact, made fun of Pennati's Tyrolean accent; he himself, of course, speaking the guttural Berlin dialect.

  Whatever the cause of all the noise and confusion, the rocking of the building and the vivid flashes of light that lit his bedroom window, Pennati had, for a moment, the enjoyable thought that, somewhere, the hated Moelders was involved in it too; and may already have been killed or injured.

  Then he remembered the rumours and reports of British troops in Tripoli and a British brigadier general captured by the Sen
ussi, and he began to dress hurriedly.

  When he rushed down to ground level, he was caught up in a turmoil of fallen walls and beams, dust-laden air, the stench of explosives, the crackle of gunfire, the sobs and screeches of wounded men, the yelling of commands. Everywhere, men were running to and fro, stumbling, pushing each other, barging into him.

  Pennati saw his company sergeant major shoving his way towards him.

  ‘Thank God you're all right, sir... I was looking for you.’

  ‘What's happened, Sergeant Major?’

  ‘It's the British, sir: they've attacked.’

  ‘Paratroops?’

  ‘They must be, sir. How else could they have got here?’

  ***

  Stuart, when the walls were breached, took his section up the far side of the wadi in an oblique traverse, where there was shelter from an overhanging ledge of rock. The floodlights around the fort had been switched on, but most of them had been destroyed when the walls crumbled, or had no power supply because the cables had been broken. There were still three on his side of the fort which cast a bright glare over the hill his section was climbing. Until the frontal assault held the enemy's attention, he could not order these three lights to be shot out and give away the fact that his party was moving in.

  Clambering along the hillside, waiting for bullets and grenades to descend on them, No 2 Section reached the end of the ledge and paused for a minute's rest, while Stuart scanned the ground ahead. He was not looking forward to the next stretch, where the scrub had been burned away and there were few rocks behind which to hide. The slope ran smoothly up, with no hollows or mounds. The closer he came to the fort, the more dazzlingly shone the lights. The moon had strengthened and there was little cloud.

  Stuart was not happy in his work. He wished he had been in command of the other section, which Gosland was leading. He had considered his task easier — which meant safer — than Gosland's, but now that the last 50 yards across open and well lit ground was immediately before him, he did not find his position any sinecure after all.

  He took a deep breath as a red Verey light flared: Taggart's signal.

  ‘Come on, Sergeant Quested... come on, lads... let's get going.’

  Brave, confident words, he told himself. I hope my voice didn't sound as unsteady to them as it did to me. The section began climbing at the best speed it had ever managed.

  From the right flank came the clatter of an automatic weapon that was strange to Stuart. If he had fought in France in 1939-1940, he would have known it was a Schmeisser machine-pistol. Two of his men toppled backwards and rolled down the hill. The rest fell flat against the sloping ground.

  The shots had come from a pile of rubble. There was another burst of fire and the section saw muzzle flames.

  Sergeant Quested nudged Stuart. ‘I can get him sir, if you cover me.’

  ‘What are...?’ Before Stuart could finish asking what Quested was going to do, the sergeant was wriggling towards the pile of broken wall. Stuart fired a burst over Quested's head, at the place where the flames had briefly flickered.

  There was answering fire and bullets thudded into the ground near Stuart. Corporal Lewis fired a one-second burst at the enemy, while Quested leaped to his feet and took three enormous strides; and disappeared.

  An agonised howl came from the darkness. Then Quested's voice called. ‘It's all right, sir. Plenty of room here.’

  Since their presence was now known, Stuart gave the order to three riflemen to shoot out the lights. After the three shots, the darkness seemed deeper than in reality. Stuart rose to his feet and charged towards the heap of rubble, with his men at his heels.

  From his other flank, a stream of tracer from a Breda flicked over his head. He was uncertain for a moment what he should do. Then he saw a form move away from him, towards the hidden Italian machine-gunner, and recognised Corporal Lewis's slim figure. He had not known that Lewis could sprint so fast. He saw Lewis's arm swing and saw him drop prone. Five seconds later there was the thump of a bursting Mills grenade, a flash of red and orange light, and the Breda fired no more. Lewis rejoined the section, panting.

  ‘Well done, Corporal.’

  ‘Have to cut down my smoking, sir. Whew! I'm winded.’

  ‘Let's go, lads.’

  Stuart stood up and waved the troops on. There was a single rifle shot from the top of a run of wall still standing, and he felt a blow on the left hand, which was still raised. He glanced at it and saw that he seemed to have fewer fingers than usual.

  Then the whole troop had gained the cover of the pile of smashed stones and splintered wood where Sergeant Quested crouched beside the German he had killed with his knife. Stuart noticed that Quested had the Schmeisser and a bandolier of ammunition for it slung over his left shoulder.

  ‘Hang on a minute, chaps, while I put a field dressing on this hand.’

  God! It was starting to hurt like hell.

  ‘I'll do it for you, sir.’ Corporal Lewis reached for the pad and bandage Stuart held. He sounded concerned. None of his men had ever seemed to care much for him: but that was before Bir Faarig and the D.Z. Stuart thought it might even be worth losing a finger to earn such respect.

  ‘We'll go straight in as soon as Lewis has done this, Sergeant.’

  ‘Yessir. We're all ready.’

  But so were the enemy, for a grenade came whistling overhead and a Breda chattered no more than 20 yards away.

  Taggart, taking his men ahead of Gosland's section, felt the blast from Corporal Owen's skilfully arranged explosions. A shock wave of air first dealt him a buffet that almost tore the steel helmet off his head and pushed him hard against a boulder beside which he was crouching. Next there was another gust of hot wind that brought sparks and smoke, burned small holes in the sleeves of his battledress blouse, and seemed about to suck his eyes from their sockets.

  He had the Boys gunner with him, and ordered him to fire two rounds into the sagging gates. The gates crashed down.

  ‘Now the tanks.’

  Two of the tanks were on fire, the explosive having burst their petrol tanks. The Boys gunner put three rounds into each of the others and they heard the clang as every one hit.

  Men were pouring out of the gate. Two Brens opened fire. Taggart and his H.Q. group ran forward and dropped behind a tump which had been denuded of its few bushes and camel scrub. Tracer from a Breda came tearing past. A few seconds later a second Breda opened up on them and they were pinned down by the crossfire.

  ‘We've got to get in there quickly, Sergeant Major.’ ‘Shall I try to work round to the one on the right, sir?’

  ‘Hang on a minute: here comes Corporal Irwin.’

  A tank had lurched out of the fog of smoke and dust. Its gun began to swing towards the fort. Its machine gun traversed towards one of the Bredas and small flames licked from its muzzle. The Breda ceased fire. The 57mm gun steadied and there was a loud report, accompanied by a gout of flame at its muzzle. A section of wall by the gate tower fell in.

  Taggart made ready to move. ‘Hang on here, a minute.’ He made a quick dart to his left, where the tank was passing slowly, and jumped onto it. As it advanced, he was able to see over the fallen stones behind which the other Breda stood. He fired a burst from his Tommygun and saw the two machine-gunners die.

  A fire raging along the wrecked wall flared as a fresh quantity of timber collapsed into it. Taggart, taking advantage of its light, waved to his men and shouted ‘Come on.’ He dropped off the back of the tank, and, with the rest of his party, followed it as it butted its way through and over heaps of debris.

  The enemy had quickly realised what the tank was about and bullets constantly spanged against it and whined as they ricocheted. But there was no weapon in the fort that could penetrate it.

  There were more survivors of the explosions than Taggart had expected. Knots of men in German field grey and Italian grey-green kept emerging from the darkness and the slowly thinning haze of smoke, sand and the d
ust from the huge stones which still fell intermittently from the wall.

  Taggart saw a German run forward holding a stick grenade and start clambering onto the tank. He shot him, and the man slid off, but his grenade rolled under the tank's right track and exploded. The tank veered to the right, jerked on for a few yards and halted, its front half inside the wall.

  It became the immediate target for heavy fire from machine-guns. Taggart's group, crouching in its lee, was unable to move.

  Amidst the ruin and noise, the confusion and the darkness in the fort, Pennati was shouting himself hoarse in his efforts to bring some order into the panic, to organise a defence that would hold out until help arrived. The telephone lines had been destroyed. The walls of the signals room had collapsed, killed the men on duty and wrecked the equipment. The noise of the fighting, the glare of the flames and flashes of gunfire would be seen and heard, even if only by Arabs, and reinforcements would eventually be sent. The fort was surrounded and he had no serviceable transport, anyway: so there was no hope of sending a messenger to Tripoli.

  Walls and roofs had collapsed onto barrack rooms. Half his men were dead or injured. The Germans had suffered as badly. It was only seven minutes since the wall had been blown down, and already most of those who had survived that had been killed or wounded. He had no idea how big the attacking force was. From the ferocity of the fire on all sides, he judged the defenders to be outnumbered by two or three to one. At first he had hoped that the Germans would be able to board their tanks and blast the enemy out: but there were no tanks left.

  He had no idea where Hauptmann Moelders was: not dead, for he had heard him bawling orders. Presumably he was somewhere among the litter of ruins, directing his own men in defence.

  Pennati, a submachine-gun in his hands, accompanied by his company sergeant major, picked his way among the broken masonry. He saw his second-in-command lying dead, shot from somewhere out there in the darkness, by British bullets. His other officers had rounded up as many of their own platoon members as they could find. He posted them on this or that side of what remained of the fort and prepared himself for several hours' siege.