The Iron Stallions

by Max Hennessy

  A voice broke in on the net, young and sounding shocked and scared. ‘We shall need the doc. I’ve got a badly hit man. And one dead…’

  The Germans were still creeping past, just out of range now, half-obscured by drifting brown smoke.

  ‘…No, he’s not dead.’ The voice came again. ‘He’s moving…’

  The Mark IVs seemed to be almost past now but they had ceased firing and Josh saw yet another tank jerk and stop, its track flailing the air.

  ‘Caro Two and Three! Withdraw. Make it slowly. One and Four will cover.’

  They pulled off painfully, ammunition down, four out of the twelve tanks stopped or burning. What a bloody way to conduct a war, Josh thought. How the hell did those halfwits in Parliament expect anybody to be brave when he hadn’t the right weapons? It was a pity a few of the people who’d wanted disarmament so badly couldn’t be out here trying to sort out what their idiocy had wrought. It had been the same, he remembered, after Waterloo, after the Crimea, after the Boer War, after the last War, and it was always the military families who paid.

  The boxes on which they were relying for defence were all now under attack. So far they were holding but little pockets of troops and unarmed convoys were being snatched up by the Germans and nobody really knew where Rommel was aiming.

  At mid-morning they bumped into a dense line of enemy vehicles protected by two 88s and, plunging forward, Josh led one troop to the left in an encircling movement as the enemy vehicles scattered in all directions. One of the 88s appeared alongside, its crew trying to bring it into action, but Harbottle felled the lot with a burst from the machine gun. The crew of the other gun threw up their hands. As they halted, with the last of the German vehicles disappearing across the desert at full speed, Josh heard Aubrey’s voice, loud and excited.

  ‘Josh, I’ve got a Mark IV coming up! Shall we have a go at it?’

  ‘Let’s try, Aubrey. I’ll swan about in front to keep it busy while you nip round behind and shoot him up the arse.’

  The Mark IV was lurching slowly forward along a rise and it was about a thousand yards away as Josh’s Honey drove at an angle in front of it, not attempting concealment but moving fast enough to make shooting difficult. Halting among scrub-covered dunes, he loosed off a couple of shots and saw the German’s turret swing. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Aubrey’s tank making a wide encircling movement. There was a puff of smoke from the German gun but nothing fell near them, then they were back among the dunes where he kept popping up in a hull-down position to fire off another quick shot.

  By this time Aubrey was creeping closer.

  ‘He’s going to ram the bastard up the arse, sir,’ Ackroyd said.

  A shell threw up sand just in front of them and, as the smoke cleared, Josh lifted his head to see Aubrey’s tank not twenty yards behind the Mark IV.

  ‘Shoot the bloody thing,’ he snarled. ‘For Christ’s sake, what are you waiting for?’

  Even as he spoke, he saw the flash from the Honey’s gun. Smoke started to roll out of the Mark IV immediately, then the German’s turret opened and a hand waved a white cloth. It was followed by the rest of the crew. He reached for the microphone.

  ‘Well done, Aubrey,’ he said. ‘Carve yourself a notch on your gun barrel.’

  By afternoon it became obvious the Germans were sending their main force into the open desert south of Bir Hacheim. Four hundred tanks had come charging round the back of the more northerly positions and, refuelled and reammunitioned, the 19th were sent forward again. Yard by yard, they were once more forced to give ground and, down to nineteen tanks, they drew off, moving like zombies with weariness.

  Rommel had flung his men wholesale into the heart of the British positions, his columns spreading out like the fingers of a hand. They were now moving about between and around the boxes like a gang of intruders who had invaded a house and were prowling the corridors while all the occupants could do was lock themselves in their rooms.

  A tank clattered by, heading east, loaded with wounded men, their heads wobbling in unison like a lot of ragged red-splashed dolls, then a scout car driven by the brigade major shot past, clattering over the ruts and clumps of camel grass as it headed into the smoke to look for more wounded.

  Gradually the battle broke into separate parts. As the few new Grants were knocked out, the vulnerable Honeys had to go in again, darting into the smoke to place their puny shells at close range. The pounding and grinding of tank and tyre treads had churned up the sand for days now and as the wind got up a sandstorm started, blowing across the endless miles of the desert with a dry burning heat as if an oven door had been opened. Fine as face powder, choking and blinding, the sand crept into nostrils and eyes and was ground by the teeth. It spread over food and drink and chafed as it rested on the collar and stuck to the sweat on the skin. Weird shapes came out of the whirling dust to blaze away with machine guns; visibility dropped to fifty yards, then to twenty, and finally to nothing. Peering westwards, exhausted by the force of the gale, their hair matted with the dust, their eyes bloodshot, their skin flayed by the flying sand, they battled against sleep.

  A towel wound round his face up to his goggled eyes, Josh walked across to headquarters in a roofed-over trench. The sand was blowing clean through it, coating the maps with thick dust and settling in the folds of clothes.

  ‘We’re down to fourteen undamaged tanks,’ the Colonel said, his face strained with exhaustion. ‘If they keep coming they’ll simply chew us up.’

  Late at night the storm began to die. The desert took shape again and the half-buried wrecks began to emerge once more. For a while there was silence as they took stock of things. Nearby a regiment of Grants was refuelling while the Honeys waited to keep the enemy at bay. Then it was the turn of the Honeys and the drivers whipped off the engine covers and unscrewed the caps of the tanks as the petrol lorry backed up.

  Then a gun barked, then another, until the banging had increased to a barrage. As they waited, wondering what was happening, they saw trucks racing to the rear and the increasing sound of shell-fire. More vehicles appeared, first in pairs, then in dozens, then in scores, all heading east.

  ‘I think we’d be wise to get out of here,’ Josh said.

  Coloured German Very lights kept bursting in the dark sky, and there were flashes and crashes as retreating British lorries ran into minefields. In no time there were half a dozen vehicles blazing just to the south of them. German aircraft were overhead now, bombing indiscriminately, and all round them tracer bullets were arcing into the air. Near Tobruk a wall of ack-ack was going up and, judging by the noise, the place was being heavily hammered.

  The radio crackled and Josh lifted the microphone.

  ‘Father to Caro Leader. Father to Caro Leader. The Panzers are on the move again, Josh. They’re directly in front of you. You should be able to see them at first light.’

  The only thing Josh could think was how in God’s name could anybody tell.

  The much-vaunted box system had only managed to split the British armour because, while everybody knew it was essential to keep the tanks together, as the boxes had screamed for help small packets of tanks had been sent to their assistance and the Germans had knocked them out in small packets. In the confusion, the brigadiers had lost sight of the whole picture and, as always, the responsibility had fallen on the individual tank commanders.

  In an attempt to get within range, Josh led a headlong charge against the German positions which in a few minutes had become a massacre. All round him tanks seemed to be going up in flames. As they were demolished, the survivors fled for the safety of the guns, and the Germans were halted in their tracks in their turn.

  ‘Oldest tactic in the world,’ Josh said grimly. ‘Little brother’s attacked by a footpad and runs to big brother who’s waiting round the corner with a cudgel. Unfortunately, the advanta
ge every time’s with the Germans because our bloody cudgels are too small.’

  One after the other, they heard British squadrons reporting heavy losses and it was the Germans who were charging now. Isolated, Winder and the rest of his squadron lost, Josh moved through the smoke, looking for help with only Aubrey as companion.

  ‘Perhaps we’re the only people left alive,’ Aubrey said.

  Cut off from the guns and supply vehicles, they milled around until a clang close by brought Josh’s head round. Aubrey’s tank had been hit by a shell coming from God alone knew where and as the first wisps of smoke appeared, the turret flew open and Aubrey scrambled out, followed by his crew. Running across to Josh’s tank, they scrambled aboard and clung on as it lurched eastwards.

  The hard armoured coating round the British had been worn away and the infantry, at the mercy of the German tanks, had become not an asset but a liability, and the order to abandon the Gazala line was not unexpected. Bumping and heaving, the convoys began to lurch to the coast road, a long procession of vehicles driven by angry disappointed soldiers. Previously they’d known they were short of men and weapons, but this time there had seemed to be sufficient, so what in God’s name were the people back in Cairo doing?

  It was the blackest period in two years of fighting. The coast road, the lifeline to safety, was under shellfire already and everybody drove flat out. Ambulances filled with wounded jostled for position with armoured cars, Jeeps and travelling workshops. During the day they tried to keep apart but after dark they moved bonnet-to-tailboard without lights of any kind.

  The line had broken and Rommel was triumphant from one end of the front to the other. El Adem fell, then Sidi Rezegh and EI Duda, and finally Gambut where headquarters was situated. Then, because the Germans were gathering for the final assault on Tobruk, tanks were swung north to try to relieve the pressure. They were too late. The Germans had pierced the perimeter and, as men ran from one place to another seeking cover, the wave of German vehicles went in.

  Both sides were exhausted. They had fought each other to a standstill and the sandy wastes and rocky rises of the desert were littered with smashed vehicles, black tangles of unrecognisable wreckage and broken weapons, scattered about with abandoned clothing and equipment and the windblown letters and photographs of the dead. Everywhere the land was scarred with the blunt shapes of shattered tanks, their insides smeared with a plaster of human flesh and blood, their open turrets displaying the roasted bodies of their crews. They belonged to both sides, which, like heavyweight boxers after a gruelling fight, had now retired to their respective positions to gather breath for the next round.

  In Cairo it looked different. The men in the desert knew they had been outwitted tactically but in spirit they were far from defeated. But behind the lines the feeling began to grow that the next attack would mean the fall of Egypt. For two years the British Empire had poured every man, tank, gun and vehicle it could spare into the one place where they could face the enemy since the fall of France. The loss of Egypt would carry the Germans to India and those people who expected the German tanks to come roaring through the streets from the west were trying to get visas to take them to Palestine, and the eastbound trains were jammed. Smoke hung over the British Embassy where they were burning huge quantities of documents and there were more bonfires on a patch of land near GHQ. Women were being hurried on to south-bound trains while officials were being warned to be ready for immediate evacuation. General Ritchie, who had replaced Cunningham, was sacked in his turn and, as the 19th watched the west, Josh looked round at the thinned ranks. Most of A Squadron were prisoners, caught in a swirl of Mark IVs which had destroyed their tanks and rounded up their crews, and the Regiment had a narrow look about it.

  They stood around drinking tea, all of them dog-weary and sick of battle, a group of haggard, bearded, red-eyed men, their noses peeled by the sun, their lips cracked by the wind. They’d all seen sights that would have been horrific to men not inured to horror.

  Ormonde was running the show from the Colonel’s truck while Rydderch was in Cairo pleading for something bigger and better armed than a Honey. Reeves looked worn out and Pallovicini, a slim sensitive youth with dark Italian eyes, looked like a caricature with his features sharpened by lack of sleep. Ackroyd was thin-faced and bleak-eyed, while a slight wound on the back of Josh’s hand refused to heal so that he went about with it swathed in squelchy, blood-soaked bandages. Around them the desert was littered with bodies and wherever they went, surrounded by the sickly-sweet odour of death, they were hounded by flies gorged on the dead and so gross and aggressive they had to cover every mouthful of food as they ate.

  ‘It appears to me,’ Josh said grimly, ‘that that was a battle we ought not to have lost.’

  ‘Then why did we?’ Winder asked.

  ‘Friction de guerre, I suppose.’

  A red-eyed Aubrey, considerably leaner than the Aubrey Josh had known in Braxby, lifted his head wearily. ‘What’s that?’ he asked.

  ‘Dodgin frowned. ‘Grit in the works,’ he growled.

  ‘I suppose they’ll still send us out for another chukker tomorrow, though,’ Reeves said. ‘As a battle I didn’t think much of it. I just hope the Brigadier didn’t pay much for it.’

  ‘Where’s Brigade now?’ Aubrey asked.

  ‘God knows. Brigade certainly doesn’t.’

  Josh sighed and tossed the dregs of his tea to the ground. ‘From my limited experience,’ he said, ‘it strikes me that we aren’t going to win the war out here until we get someone who knows what to do, what he wants, and how to go about getting it.’

  Aubrey gave him a tired smile. ‘It’d be nice if we could,’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ Josh agreed. ‘It would. I wonder what he’ll be like.’

  Eight

  He turned out to be a slightly built man with cold eyes and a nose like a probe. In France in 1940 he had been anything but popular, and it was said he regularly insisted on all staff officers under forty-five parading in full marching order with rifles and running miles to keep them fit. Whether it was true or not, it set up little ripples of gleeful excitement as they thought of the self-satisfied people who enjoyed the fleshpots of Cairo.

  The new man didn’t look much like a commander. He wore a jersey instead of a bush jacket and, instead of the normal peaked dress cap with its red band that most senior officers favoured, preferred a tank corps beret which endeared him to his armoured troops at once. He wasn’t even a desert veteran, but since so many desert veterans had made a hash of things, perhaps it wasn’t a bad idea to bring in somebody from outside who might see things differently.

  ‘Chap called Montgomery,’ Rydderch said. ‘Has a habit of sacking brigadiers and telling the other ranks what he wants them to do and why.’

  Josh’s first impression of the new general was of a thin ascetic face. Already they had learned that he neither drank nor smoked and had cut himself off from most of the normal diversions of life, but that he possessed the ruthless determination of a missionary competing against the forces of darkness, which was exactly how he regarded the Nazis. He believed in drastic surgery and a few of the senior officers who had been unwise enough to support the box system or got rid of tanks in penny numbers were replaced by newer, more aggressive men, among them Brigadier Leduc.

  With his arrival, the Eighth Army recovered its spirit. The things it had lacked had been a clearly defined purpose and a genuine leader; and Montgomery had one and had the look of the other.

  The troops took him to their heart at once. He was a showman who went around wearing caps with two badges, which he adjusted according to the men he was going to meet. When he harangued them like an Old Testament prophet, a few of the old school considered it rather bad form but Montgomery was cleverer than they realised and gave the impression that the Eighth Army was not under orders from Cairo or even from London but w
as an army on its own, an independent striking force that he was going to lead into the desert before long – not to hold Rommel but to knock him for six clean out of Africa.

  If it was a little schoolboyish for some tastes, to the men from the back streets who made up the ranks it was something they could understand. And what pleased the armoured men was that this time they were going to attack not in full daylight but by night, and instead of the armour bearing the brunt of the guns and the minefields, this role was to be undertaken by the infantry, the aircraft and the artillery.

  ‘You know,’ Josh said to Reeves, ‘I have a feeling that this time we might pull it off.’

  For the first time in months, there was a clear air of confidence abroad and time at last to think of letters home.

  Josh’s mother wrote, praying that he was well and safe, and giving him all the news from Braxby.

  ‘The house at least is alive under the influence and noise of those two dreadful children,’ she wrote. ‘They are at last learning how to behave, how to speak without swearing, and are a total delight. What a pity they aren’t your own.’

  Jocelyn’s letter contained no reference at all to the children, and she was chiefly concerned with the fact that one wing of the house had been taken over by the Inland Revenue, who’d been evacuated to Braxby.

  ‘They’re well enough behaved, of course,’ she wrote, ‘chiefly because they’re either too old or too unfit to be anything else. They’ve taken over part of the stables for their files and stacks of documents and you’ll be happy to know they’re paying a pretty sound rent. Their inspector, a man called Davis, goes out of his way to be pleasant and if nothing else it pays the bills.’

  The letter had the usual rushed look about it and ended, ‘Yours, Jocelyn.’ It seemed abrupt and lacking in affection but he assumed that she was busy. Braxby was a big place and needed a lot of attention.