Seize and Ravage

by Richard Townsend Bickers

  The joke eased the tension and at once the tired men relaxed.

  ‘Jorrocks, you take the man on the right. Think the Brig will be out of your line of fire?’

  ‘I've just sighted on the Wop, sir. The Brig's safe.’

  ‘Right. Give MacIntosh your Tommygun, Sergeant. Riflemen, fix bayonets. Everyone weapons cocked and grenades ready. When I say 'Fire', Sergeant... Jorrocks... take your time, but try to shoot simultaneously. As soon as they've fired, you,’ pointing at the man with the Boys, ‘shoot: put two rounds into the turret.

  ‘As soon as the first shot is fired, the rest of us, except you, Angus, will charge down the slope. I'll yell ‘Surrender’. I'll wave you down to talk to the Wogs when I'm ready, Angus. Let's be quick, before anyone moves down there and spoils your aim.’

  Taggart eased forward a few more inches, his knees drawn up under his body, the toes of his boots trying to find a purchase on the rock. This was, in its way, the worst moment he had experienced since arriving in Libya. If the trigger fingers of the two Italians who covered the Brigadier jerked involuntarily from surprise when the first shot was fired, he would be the cause of the Brigadier's death. If that did not happen, his plan of attack might still mean death for the Brigadier. It only needed a panic reaction from any of the enemy down there to prompt one of them to shoot him, just for the hell of it.

  It was Jorrocks whose rifle, predictably, fired first. Sergeant Quested was always slower than anyone else.

  The crack of the shot and Taggart's leap forward were separated by only a split second. The soldier standing on the Brigadier's left, to the right of the Italian major, pitched forward.

  A second rifle shot followed on the instant. The other Italian holding a submachine-gun turned his head, unharmed.

  ‘Blast!’ Sergeant Quested exclaimed. ‘I thought you meant the man on the Brigadier's left, sir...’

  But Taggart was already too many yards down the hill to hear.

  The Boys thudded and the butt of the rifle gave its usual jump and painful punch to the man behind it. The Brigadier threw himself flat.

  The Italian major, who was holding a pistol, raised it and fired three shots at where the Brigadier had been standing.

  The man on his left swung his submachine-gun back at the Brigadier, pointing it at the ground where he lay.

  There were two more shots as Quested and Jorrocks fired together. The Italian soldier staggered forward under the impact of their bullets and fell on top of the Brigadier.

  ‘Surrender!’ Taggart shouted.

  The Boys fired again and the sound of the bullet hitting steel armour plate once more rang clearly through the dry air.

  The Brigadier was up and taking a few long strides towards the nearest armoured car, the middle one. He held the weapon dropped by the second Italian who had died.

  The Arabs' rifles came to their shoulders and a volley crashed out, echoing in the narrow wadi.

  One of Taggart's men fell and lay twitching and moaning.

  Taggart dug his heels into the shale down which he was sliding, and sprayed the Arabs with bullets.

  The Brigadier fired up at the crew of the nearest armoured car.

  From among the trees, two streams of tracer from a fourth armoured car that the Commandos had not seen, hidden among the trees, hit the hillside down which Taggart's party was rushing.

  From Taggart's right, Bren guns opened up as Gosland's men saw what was happening.

  From behind Taggart, the Boys rifle fired for a fourth time. The gunner had seen the hidden armoured car. He fired again. Shrieks from its crew came clearly to the ears of all three groups of Commas dos.

  The Italian major dropped his pistol and raised his hands.

  ‘Too late, ye Wop bastard,’ Macintosh howled.

  The Italian major dropped, riddled with bullets. ‘What-the-hell-did-you-do-that-for?’ Taggart panted, all in one breath.

  ‘The bastard tried to shoot our Brigadier, sir.’

  ‘I didn't know you cared! He will be touched.’

  The other Italians who had survived jumped from their vehicles and raised their hands. Each crew comprised four men and there were only five: the entire crew of one car, and one left of the crew at whom the Brigadier had fired.

  The Arabs had dropped their rifles and stood in a sullen knot.

  The Brigadier rose and dusted himself.

  ‘Afternoon, Taggart. Where've you been? And where did you get that bloody Boys from?’

  ‘In exchange for two useless bloody mortars, sir.’

  A slow grin spread across the Brigadier's face.

  ‘Just as well, perhaps. Damned insubordinate, but apparently justifiable. I take you seized and ravaged the target?’

  Taggart heard MacIntosh mutter ‘Christ A'michty!’

  ‘As ordered, sir, plus eight German Mark Three tanks and their crews. One survivor, sir: The Italian C.O. A good type. Wounded in both legs, sir: I felt it would be unsporting to pot him, sir: sitting bird.’

  ‘I'll overlook it; this time. Well, come on, man, do something. No time to waste. What d'you intend to do with these blasted Wogs? Make up your mind. Then we've got to get cracking to Point A.’

  ‘You can get there before most of us, sir. I'm sending two of these armoured cars.’

  ‘Use them for the wounded. I'll march with the rest of you.’

  Stuart had joined them without waiting for Taggart's signal.

  Taggart turned to him. ‘Is one of these the Sheik, Angus?’

  ‘That fellow.’ Stuart pointed. ‘As a matter of fact he looks rather like...’

  ‘If you say he reminds you of your House Master, I'll put you under arrest. I don't know what for, but by God! I'll find some good reason.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, I was going to say he looks like my Greek master, when I was in the Sixth... but let it pass.’

  The Brigadier's right hand shot out and Stuart squirmed and ducked his head as he felt his left ear gripped and twisted.

  The Brigadier released him and glared, without saying a word.

  Stuart drew himself up and saluted. ‘I understand, sir.

  He took a step towards the Sheik of the Beni Mharrib and began to speak.

  ***

  The 39 survivors of X Troop, 19 of them wounded, blearily watched the Valentias land.

  Taggart had paraded them and they marched in an orderly fashion to board the aircraft, carrying their wounded.

  The Brigadier stood to one side and they gave him an eyes right as they passed. He saluted and stood at the salute until the last man had gone past.

  Macintosh, standing beside Taggart while the others climbed aboard, said quietly ‘One of these airyplanes could go back empty, sir.’

  ‘Any more morbid cracks like that, and I'll send you in it, alone.’

  Another hard bastard, thought Macintosh. Not a hard bastard though, like yon Brigadier. Just a hard bastard. And am I glad! None of us would be here, but for Captain Taggart.

  If you enjoyed reading Seize and Ravage you might be interested in Torpedo Attack by Richard Townsend Bickers, also published by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  Extract from Torpedo Attack by Richard Townsend Bickers

  One

  The new pilot, who was not new in the profession or the Royal Air Force, paused outside the squadron Adjutant's office to watch a Vildebeest take off. There was nothing special about the event and certainly not about the obsolescent biplane. Pilots have always stopped what they were doing to watch take offs and landings with critical eyes.

  The squadron commander turned from the window, through which he had also watched. It was a warm day, the window was open and Wing Commander Tregear kept being distracted from his paperwork by the sounds of aircraft coming and going. Like most pilots he was bored by office work and it was not difficult to divert his attention from it, even when, as now, it was urgent.

  His Adjutant opened the communicating door. 'Flying Officer Alden, sir.'

  'Send him in.'
Another welcome break.

  The new arrival was a little under six feet tall and looked spare despite his breadth of shoulder. His bony face, long, with a dominant nose and forceful chin, looked stubborn. The Wing Commander thought that here was a man who would readily show intolerance. Alden's deep set eyes were grey and his lips thin. He stood very straight and Tregear wondered whether this was his usual way of carrying himself. From the general look of him, it probably was. All new arrivals did their best to appear parade ground erect, but with most of them it was an effort made for the occasion.

  Tregear rose and held out his hand across the desk. 'Good morning, Alden.'

  'How d'you do, sir.' Alden had large hands with long fingers and it occurred to his new Commanding Officer that they felt as hard and strong as though they were used to gripping the loom of an oar.

  'Welcome to the squadron.'

  'Thank you, sir.'

  'Sit down.'

  Alden removed his Service Dress cap to reveal straight light brown hair. He wore the mauve-green-mauve ribbon of the General Service Medal, awarded for serving in various Eastern and African countries. The single wide braid ring on each sleeve was faded. He sat as erectly as he had stood, knees and feet together, cap on lap, hands on knees.

  He must make a lot of people nervous, the Wing Commander thought. He leaned back in his chair and drummed his fingers on his desk. It was a habit about which his wife teased him. She said he did it when he was tense. He became aware that he was apparently betraying tension and told himself crossly that this was absurd. A wing commander made tense by a flying officer? It was because he had a great deal of work to do, he silently reasoned. And although he loathed sitting at his desk and dealing with humph, he wanted to get on with it. The R.A.F. was mobilising for war and the group captain commanding the station, where there were two Vildebeest squadrons, was hot stuff on administration.

  The calendar on the wall showed that it was Wednesday 30th August 1939. Wednesdays were half holidays in the Services, known as sports afternoons. But there would be no half day today and probably not for a long time to come.

  Alden's personal documents had preceded him, but his new squadron commander had not had time to read them. All he knew was the salient fact that the squadron Adjutant had told him after a cursory glance. The Adj was very much occupied with other duties also. He was, anyway, and as usual, one of the pilots who had had the job wished on him as an additional function. So his appetite for paperwork was no sharper than his C.O.'s.

  'The Adj tells me you were at Cranwell.' There was a faintly puzzled look about the Wing Commander. Alden looked old enough to be a flight lieutenant by now, if he was a graduate of the Royal Air Force College and not a short service commission type.

  'I passed out in nineteen thirty-two, sir.'

  Which meant that he had entered in 1930, the Wing Commander mused, computing his age: twenty-seven.

  'Tell me about yourself.'

  'I was on Thirty-three Squadron, sir...'

  'Flying Harts.'

  'Yes, sir. Then I was posted to Sixty, in India: still on Harts.' Hence the General Service Medal. 'A year later a flock of kitehawks flew into me on take-off and I crashed. Concussion and a small hairline fracture of the skull…'

  'Those bloody kitehawks! Chap on my squadron on the Frontier in 'twenty-seven was hit by an eagle at five thousand feet: damn nearly killed him. He was invalided out. You were a bit luckier.'

  'Not much, sir: when I came out of hospital I couldn't judge heights... my line of sight was distorted... all my landings were rotten. I was down-graded medically. They told me I could stay on as an Equipment or Signals officer. Nothing doing. I joined to fly.'

  'Don't blame you. What then?'

  'I resigned my commission and came home in July 'thirty-four. I went to see my old Headmaster and he pulled strings to get me an interview at Oxford. '

  'What college?'

  'Brasenose.'

  'Ah! B.N.C. Get in?'

  'Yes, sir. I went up that October to read Law. My father's a partner in a firm of solicitors in the City and my elder brother was already in the firm. I didn't relish spending my life in an office, but it seemed foolish not to take a good opportunity, so I entered articles there.' Alden smiled faintly. 'I'd stalled off the evil moment for three years by going up to university.'

  'Where were you at school?'

  Alden mentioned a place famous for rowing.

  'Did you row at Oxford?'

  'I managed to scrape into my college boat, sir. But neither my Law degree nor rowing was the most important feature of my life while I was up. I found my eyesight had improved after a couple of years, so I went along to see the C.O. of the University Air Squadron...' Tregear mentioned a name. 'Yes, sir. He arranged a medical for me and I was passed A One.'

  Tregear looked as pleased as though this unexpected boon had fallen upon himself. 'Good show.'

  'So I joined the U.A.S... and flew Tutors.' Alden's sketchy smile this time was wry. The Tutor was a trainer.

  'Why didn't you rejoin the Service?'

  'I'd lost three years' seniority, sir. That would have limited my career prospects.'

  An ambitious type. 'You're what... twenty-seven, now?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  That was two years ago. Surely they haven't posted you to a squadron without further flying practice? Particularly as you were on bombers and we're essentially a torpedo squadron.'

  'When I came down I did four weeks' Reserve training each year, sir. They sent me on torpedo courses: Swordfish last year, Vildebeests this June.'

  'And you've had no more trouble with your eyes?' 'No, sir. I think it was the strong sunlight in India that caused the problem. On top of the concussion and skull fracture, of course.'

  'Who was your squadron commander on Thirty­three: Squadron Leader...?' Tregear mentioned another name. At the time to which he referred, light bomber squadrons were commanded by squadron leaders, not wing commanders as they were later in the decade.

  'Yes, sir.'

  'And on Sixty?'

  Alden told him.

  'An old friend. We were on Hundred Squadron together in 'twenty-seven, flying Woodcocks.'

  Alden knew his R.A.F. history. The Woodcock was the first of Hawker's many fine single-seat fighters; culminating recently in the Hurricane. In the between wars R.A.F. it was not uncommon for pilots to fly both fighters and bombers.

  'I hope I'll run into him again, one day, now that it looks as though I'm back in the Mob, properly, for a long time.'

  'You almost certainly will: he's Senior Air Staff Officer at Group.'

  Alden looked pleased. He knew, also, that Tregear would be discussing him shortly on the telephone with the S.A.S.O. He welcomed it. He was sure his old C.O., now group captain, would give him a good chit... if one could give a chit verbally...

  'That's good news, sir.'

  'Well, wars throw up all manner of opportunities; apart from accelerated promotion.' For a moment Death entered the room. The Wing Commander gave a rueful smile. 'You might find your loss of seniority more than compensated for if the war that is obviously about to start goes on as long as most of us think it will; and decide to stay on when it's all over.'

  If I'm still alive, thought Alden. He knew that the same thought was in his C.O.'s mind. 'Could be, sir.'

  Politeness prompted the concurrence. Privately, Alden had no intention of resuming his Service career. It would be a waste of five years' hard study. Grinding out his life at a London solicitor's desk was not for him, either. The stale air of a big city had stifled him. He had read for the bar at the same time as qualifying as a solicitor, and eaten his dinners. He was now a barrister of Lincoln's Inn. In his Long Vacs from Oxford he had spent months in France, Spain and Germany; and attended Berlitz classes in London to learn the languages in the shorter vacations: easy, as his home was in Hertfordshire.

  He loved flying above all else, but had steeled himself to accept its loss as a profession;
it could still be a hobby: he was determined to be able to afford it. He had prepared himself with Law and languages to be an international lawyer. Travelling the world would be some compensation for losing the comradeship and physical excitement that made up life in the Service he loved.

  Wing Commander Tregear had instantly placed him in a niche marked 'Ambitious'. Alden was aware of this. He was sensitive, intelligent and perceptive, and had read it in his Commanding Officer's eyes. He doesn't know the half of it, Alden thought. I'm going to be the most successful international lawyer in the world; and the richest: I'll buy my own aircraft and fly myself to my appointments everywhere in Europe, even I have to use airlines to go further.

  'Good. Well, you'll be useful to the squadron and I'm glad to have you.'

  Thank you, sir. I'm very pleased to be here.'

  Amusement at this tact and courtesy creased Tregear's amiable face. 'Even to fly the Vildebeest and not the Hart?'

  'I loved the Hart, of course; but I find torpedo work fascinating.'

  'We do quite a lot of bombing as well. Anyway, the old Beest is obsolescent, as you know. We'll soon be reequipping with Beauforts.'

  'I know nothing about the type, sir.'

  'None of us does, much; except that it's a tricky brute: which will make it all the more interesting to fly. You'd better get along to the mess and unpack before lunch. How did you get here, by the way?'

  'I drove down, sir.'

  The Wing Commander had seen a sober-looking dark blue Hillman Minx drive past a few minutes before the Adjutant showed the new arrival in. It seemed to him a sensible sort of car which fitted Flying Officer Alden's character.

  Alden went into the hangar, along one wall of which the squadron offices were built. He cast his eyes over the four Vildebeest Mk IV torpedo-bombers that were being given major services. He filled his lungs with the familiar and affectionately remembered smells of aeroplanes: fabric dope and paint, oil, petrol, warm metal, rubber shock cords. He was home again. It made him feel twenty years old once more and standing in the hangar of his first squadron.