by Max Hennessy
As B Squadron appeared alongside, Dodgin’s head appeared from the turret of the leading tank.
‘Bloody crowded battle,’ he shouted.
Hull-down on a slope, British tanks were exchanging shots with the Germans and shells cracked viciously over the rocky ground. The sand began to drift over the bodies of friend and enemy, while the wounded, tormented by the sun, tried feebly to fight off the flies. The sky drummed under the sound of allied aircraft, and radios were filled with the chatter of British, Australian, New Zealand, South African, Indian and Polish voices.
Up ahead, the smoke cleared a little but it was impossible to see where the enemy gun line was. Then a squadron of Bostons swept out of the sky and the long barrels of the 88s swung skywards to engage them. Immediately the tanks and guns began to bang away at them.
‘That’s a new one,’ Josh said. ‘Ground support for the air. It’s usually the other way round.’
Under the full view of the enemy on Himeimat, they clung to their congested bridgehead through the dropping fire. Shells raked the new-cut lanes through the mines and later in the day, thirty German tanks bore down on their northern flank but made no attempt to come too close and remained at a distance, hull-down, watching and waiting.
As darkness fell, Leduc held a conference in the lee of a tank, with the shells dropping uncomfortably close. Wrapped in greatcoats, against the bitter night, they kept ducking under the showers of stones and sand as he gave his instructions. As the barrage roared out again, they began to crawl forward between the green lights that marked the route. German aircraft dropped parachute flares in an attempt to find out what was happening, and a moment later shells began to fall on heavily-loaded vehicles so that the desert was like a crackling forest fire that lit up the earth for miles around. The gap ahead was clearly illuminated but everything in it was silhouetted for the enemy guns. As the tanks moved past, headquarters trucks and petrol lorries were burning fiercely, the charred bodies of their drivers still upright in their seats. In the middle of the holocaust stretcher- bearers moved bent double and a doctor and a padre walked past, upright and indifferent, looking for wounded.
On the right, tanks seemed to be going up in sheets of flame as if someone were lighting candles on a birthday cake and a little later a jeep came back with a wounded colonel in it, his eyes full of tears because he had lost half his men and many of his friends.
‘This bloody battle,’ Reeves said slowly, ‘demonstrates once again that what dominates a battlefield is the mine and the anti-tank gun. Until we get rid of the bastards, we can’t ever do what we’re supposed to do.’
That evening, in accordance with the policy of avoiding serious losses, they were withdrawn and for several days, they remained silent. The southern feint had served its purpose, keeping two armoured divisions tied up, and now news filtered down to them that the New Zealanders and the Highlanders were making progress, though the tanks were getting their usual hammering from the 88s. A German attempt at a counter-attack had ended in complete failure, however, when the RAF had spotted the gathering panzers.
‘All the same,’ Reeves said quietly, ‘it looks to me as if this famous bloody advance’s come to a dead stop, new general or no new general.’
What Reeves said seemed to be correct. Mechanised cavalry seemed as helpless against anti-tank guns as the old horsed cavalry had been against machine guns. The Eighth Army had lost more tanks than the Germans, and more officers and men, and it seemed very much as if they were losing their grip on the battle again.
As the crimson globe of the sun began to climb out of the British lines, they wondered what the new day would bring. Yet another German counter-attack in the north had been stopped and the desert by this time was a charnel house reeking with the stench of the dead. Machine-gun fire scalded the air and vision was still limited to a few yards except when the sun managed to break through to throw strange shapes and huge shadows on the drifting clouds of dust. By now the army had been struggling to break out for ten days and they were growing concerned about the shortage of petrol.
‘It’s by no means a battlefield in which the soldier’s dream o’ victory’s written in the sky,’ Dodgin observed.
The following day, however, Leduc appeared in a hurry. ‘Ninth Armoured’s taken a hammering,’ he said. ‘They were given orders to break out at all costs and their regiments now look like a couple of squadrons. But Monty’s still confident. 1st Armoured are to continue the pressure towards Tel el Aqqaqir, widening the funnel the New Zealanders have made to launch us through. We’re to move to Tel el Eisa to come under the command of 10th Corps. You’d better get cracking.’
As they moved up, the dust-fog was so thick tank commanders had to shine torches rearwards for the following tanks to keep in touch. As the sun rose, it lit the horizon like an enormous gunflash but it failed to disperse the mist and the drifting smoke and dust. It was just possible to see the slim white minaret of the mosque at Sidi Abd el Rahman but beyond the smoke and the wreckage it was impossible to make out what was happening. From the radio reports it seemed that the German tanks were counter-attacking again and it was even possible to see the squat black shapes coming in serried lines from the north-west and west. As the battle within a battle died, news began to arrive of enormous German and Italian tank losses.
Throughout the following hours they waited impatiently.
‘This day don’t appear any more auspicious than any o’ the others,’ Dodgin remarked.
By this time, tempers were fraying. The physical and nervous strain was beginning to tell and bleary-eyed men were snatching meals wherever and whenever they could. Josh couldn’t remember the last time he had slept properly.
‘There’s only one consolation,’ Aubrey observed. ‘It’s beginning to look as if we can’t lose the battle, which at least makes a change.’
Josh said nothing, wondering how long the strain could be kept up. 1st Armoured could make no headway, the South Africans had come to grief in the minefields, and 8th Armoured had been stopped by the 88s. By this time the tank men were beginning to wonder where their replacements were coming from. And, even though they knew that up ahead German tanks were going up in flames and men were reeling from the furnace of the battle, they could see no end to the dog-fight. Nobody was moving. Rations were unappetising. Water was short. And the flies were worse than ever, as if the blood that was being spilt had brought them from every corner of Africa.
Then, suddenly, quite unexpectedly, they heard the Germans were withdrawing. There had been a fall in the amount of noise from ahead and gradually it became noticeably quieter. Finally Leduc arrived in a jeep. ‘Stand by,’ he said. ‘It seems to be happening.’
For a little longer they waited, gnawing at biscuits and marmalade, then they saw the brigade major’s jeep approaching at full speed.
‘We’re off,’ he said. ‘The New Zealanders are moving up through 2nd Armoured, and we’re going with them. When we’re in open country, we wheel right to the coast to cut the line of retreat.’
As they waited for the word to go, news came in that the Highlanders and the Indians had finally broken through and that nothing lay ahead. Suddenly the guns seemed to die and there was quiet apart from the distant crackle of small-arms fire.
As the word finally came, they no longer moved with the wary approach of the beginning of the battle but at speed. The desert was littered with scattered and burning debris. On every side lay the wreckage of a broken army and a tremendous exhilaration filled them. It was the end. Suddenly they all knew it.
As they pressed ahead, they ran into the remnants of an Italian Division which fought without hope and, overwhelmed, threw down their arms and fled. The southern flank lay wide open.
Everything began to pour after them – everything – staff cars, ambulances, water carts, signal vans, rear workshops and casualty clearing stations, al
l racing to get in front, to be part of the tremendous victory they suddenly realised they had won. Nobody knew where their headquarters were and nobody gave a damn. Rommel, the myth, the ever-victorious, had been out-thought and out-fought and the panzers were running down like an unwound clock for lack of petrol.
A mass of vehicles appeared and, as Josh began to worry whether there were tanks hidden behind them, he became aware of a startling change. First one white flag appeared, then another, then more and more until the whole column was a mass of waving banners. Small groups of men began to move out hesitantly, then larger groups until they couldn’t believe their eyes and even suspected a trick. But it was no trick. The enemy was surrendering in droves.
The battlefield was strewn with broken equipment, tattered uniforms, piles of empty shell and cartridge cases. The loot was enormous, pistols or automatics for everyone, brilliant dress uniforms gorgeously emblazoned, jewelled swords, silver and gilt belts, leather equipment, vast quantities of Italian money, and – more important – huge stocks of food such as they hadn’t seen for months.
Ackroyd, who seemed an expert on loot, advised them. ‘Their chocolate’s good,’ he said. ‘It’s supposed to make you randy. All it does to me is make me sick.’
‘What we want,’ Winder said, ‘is more war with the Wops.’
‘What I want,’ Josh said, ‘is a bath.’
‘Do you know what I’m going to do when I get home?’ Dodgin asked. ‘I’m going to turn on every bloody tap in the ’ouse and just listen to the water runnin’ away.’
They were weary beyond belief, filthy, unshaven, caked with dust and exhausted, their socks gluey masses, their necks and legs chafed by the sand and dust they’d stirred up.
‘I’m just trying to decide,’ Aubrey observed, ‘at what range my odour becomes offensive and how far away I should stand from my friends.’
As they halted they didn’t even bother to leaguer. Every abandoned tank had bottles of chianti inside; Italian pyjamas were seized, with Italian flags and champagne; almost every man sported an Iron Cross from a stock that had been found. They all knew the old routine was ended. North Africa would never be the same again.
‘You know what’ll ’appen,’ Dodgin said. ‘Now that we’ve won the war for ’em out here, they’ll send us ’ome to win it for ’em there.’
A vast column of prisoners trudged by with doped rhythmic steps. The inevitable dust rose in a great cloud from their feet as they plodded along four abreast, an endless crocodile stretching to both horizons. They were unkempt and dirty, their steel helmets over their eyes to break the force of the wind, and curiously the exultation the victors felt vanished at the sight of them, because they too had known hunger, wounds and defeat, and were just as bearded, fatigued and tacky-socked.
Nearby a small group of men were tending the last of the wounded and collecting the dead as they lay in their ungainly postures just where they had fallen among the scattered equipment. They watched them silently and for a moment the only sound in the desolation was the chirping of crickets and the rattling of torn paper caught in the thorn bushes. Then Reeves spoke.
‘You know,’ he said slowly, ‘all the time, I thought it would be me.’
Part Three
One
After two years abroad, Josh found England smaller and less well kept, but its heart didn’t seem to have changed, and its fields, its trees, its hedges looked greener than ever. His mind was full of Braxby because Jocelyn’s letters had been little more than notes for some time and singularly lacking in warmth.
It was afternoon when he arrived and as his car stopped in the drive, a woman appeared in the doorway carrying a tray bearing several mugs of tea. She seemed a little awed by his rank and side-stepped shyly.
‘Morning tea?’ Josh enquired cheerfully.
‘Just the staff,’ she said. ‘Mr Davis, the inspector, takes his in the morning room just off the hall.’
Welcomed by the frenzied dogs, Josh stood for a moment in the doorway. The house was silent and, a little awed by the thought of being home, he sat on the monk’s chest opposite the portrait of his grandfather. In his childhood it had been the one thing that had always stopped him as he entered the house and now, for the first time, he realised how much like the old man he looked.
Rising, he put his head into the library. Everything was in its place, the skirting board, the picture rail, the door and the windows still wearing the old brown paint of his grandparents’ day. Curious to see where the tax inspector took his tea, he went into the morning room. Davis was sitting by the window, drinking from one of the best china cups and, noticing at once that there were new curtains, he wondered if Davis had made it possible to obtain them.
‘Tea break?’ he asked.
Davis, a good-looking man in his forties with a well-made body that was running to fat, jumped to his feet. ‘I’m running the show here,’ he said. ‘Inspector of Taxes.’
‘Couldn’t knock a bit off mine, could you?’
Davis smiled and nodded at Josh’s uniform. ‘I tried to get into the Army, too, but they said someone had to look after the country’s finances.’ He gave a little laugh as if he’d spent all the war explaining why he wasn’t in uniform. ‘I was very disappointed.’
Somehow, Josh didn’t believe him. He gestured at the tea cup. ‘Do you always take your tea in here?’
‘It’s a little habit we got into.’
‘Well–’ Josh smiled ‘–I’m afraid it’s a luxury you’re going to have to forgo because I shall be taking mine here for a while. I live here.’
Leaving Davis looking red-faced and confused, as he returned to the hall he heard a clattering on the stairs and saw two small figures hurtling down. As they reached the bottom, they stopped dead, suddenly tongue-tied and shy. They seemed to have grown enormously in the last two years.
Kitty looked scared but managed a wet peck at his ear. He smiled at Rosanna.
‘Do you kiss?’ he asked. ‘Or are you too big?’
Rosanna’s face was glowing. ‘Not likely,’ she said. ‘I like kissing. Specially you.’
As Josh bent, she kissed his cheek, then suddenly flung her arms round his neck and hugged him, almost throttling him. Determined not to be left out, Kitty clung to his leg. Touched by their pleasure at seeing him, he knelt and swept them into his arms.
‘It is nice to have you ’ome,’ Rosanna crowed, her face split in a gap-toothed grin.
‘What happened to your teeth?’ Josh asked.
‘Fell out.’ Her grin widened. ‘You’ve got a different badge on your shoulder.’
‘Yes. They made me a lieutenant-colonel.’
‘Why?’
‘The brigadier got himself made a major-general so the colonel had to be the brigadier. That left his job free, so they gave it to me.’
‘And what’s that ribbon?’
‘It’s called a DSO.’
‘Were you brave?’
‘They seemed to think so.’
‘That’s two you’ve got, because you had that little purple white one afore.’
Josh smiled. ‘I’ve got something for you both,’ he said.
The presents consisted of dresses and underwear he’d bought in Tunis. They were French and held them spellbound.
‘Frilly knickers,’ Rosanna said, awed.
‘Where’s Jocelyn?’ Josh asked.
‘She’s gone.’
‘Then who’s looking after you?’
‘Me.’ The voice came from the top of the stairs and Josh saw his mother standing there.
He ran up to her, two at a time, and kissed her. ‘Mother, what’s happened? Where’s Jocelyn?’
‘She left, Josh.’ His mother looked older and tired. ‘She felt she had to.’ She gestured at the library. ‘I think you’d bette
r sit down and have a drink, dear.’
In the library, he poured drinks and turned to her.
‘She left several days ago,’ she said. ‘When she heard you were coming home. It wasn’t all that unexpected. She let me know so I could take over the children.’
‘But I thought you were occupied with the Red Cross.’
‘There are plenty of younger women for that job, dear, and I find I’ve grown rather attached to them. In fact, I think you’re going to have to bend your mind a bit to their future, because they’re going to find it hard going back to the East End after Braxby.’
Josh didn’t answer and she hurried on, pushing past the awkward subject of Jocelyn. ‘By the way,’ she said. ‘Your cousin Konstantin’s in this country. In American Army Intelligence. He tried to get into the United States Air Force but it turned out he was colour blind. Perhaps it’s as well, because the air forces are having dreadful casualties. Everybody seems to have suffered.’
‘I’ll bet Uncle Robert hasn’t.’
His mother smiled. ‘No, dear. And, I might add, he’s still dropping hints about this house.’
Josh was silent for a moment, then he lifted his head. ‘Why did she leave, Mother?’
‘I don’t think she could face you.’
‘A man?’
‘Of course.’
‘That chap who runs the tax office here?’
His mother sighed. ‘Well, perhaps he started it. But I suppose you mustn’t blame Jocelyn too much, dear. This wasn’t the place for her. It never was. She was bored. She missed London and people. She just wasn’t a sticker. She redecorated the morning room, then she seemed to lose interest, and when the bombing stopped she started going back to London for week-ends. But the week-ends eventually became weeks and once even a month. I’d been coming here a lot, long before I finally took over.’