‘Oh.’ That hadn’t been what he had meant at all.
‘One must always be prepared, in the desert.’
Sergeant-Major Blair had said that. He wondered if this girl had tea and milk and sugar, and an empty petrol can, in her boot.
‘But it is unlikely anyone will come along,’ Monique said. She opened her door and stepped out. The breeze whipped her skirt and her hair. ‘It is a delightful feeling, to stand barefoot in the desert,’ she said. ‘It robs one of one’s inhibitions.’
Fergus opened the door and got out as well. He was going to hate himself tomorrow. This evening, perhaps. But this was a here and now situation, which might never be repeated. With a woman who so obviously wanted. ‘Yes,’ he said, as he walked round the car.
Monique turned into his arms.
*
‘Oh, I say, really!’ remarked Johnny Wilkinson. Fergus didn’t know what the Colonel had done with his last twenty-four hours in Cairo — they hadn’t seen each other until they had got into the staff car for the drive back to camp — but he certainly had a hangover. Neither of them had exchanged more than a word on the bumpy journey, and they had returned to find Captain Bentley in an extremely unhappy mood.
As was the Colonel, now that he had read the report. ‘Four of my men, breaking down half of Alexandria? These people are our friends. Our allies!’
‘There appear to have been extenuating circumstances, sir,’ Fergus murmured, having read the report in greater detail.
‘What extenuating circumstances can there have been to causing a riot?’
‘Well...perhaps you should read Corporal Manly-Smith’s testimony, sir.’
Poor little bastard, he thought. Setting off for a last night on the town, and winding up with a totally unexpected situation, while he...in the desert, sand gets everywhere. But sometimes delightfully so. He had cleaned the sand from between Monique’s toes, while she had lain, half asleep and exhausted, on the back seat of the car. Her feet had dangled over the edge, then. Before, they had been separated. One had certainly been out of the door. The other had been hooked over the front seat, to brace herself. He didn’t know where his had been.
That had been quick, violent, urgent. They had both wanted, so desperately...and perhaps, he thought, for the same reasons: separation from their loved ones. Although he felt that Monique did not really love her husband. Did that mean he did not really love Annaliese? That was an unworthy thought. In any event, it was not one he was prepared to consider too deeply at that moment. Of course he loved Annaliese: he and Monique were merely ships that had passed in the night, both needing a port.
But it had been a very long night. They had driven back to Cairo in a kind of euphoric stupor, and when they had reached the hotel, she had said, ‘I would like to come up.’
So she had. No one had even raised an eyebrow. He felt that raising an eyebrow in Shepheard’s simply wasn’t done. They had shared his shower, bodies pressed against each other, and then they had dried each other, and shared his bed, pressed against each other. Room service had provided dinner; Monique had laughingly disappeared into the bathroom while it was being served, and then they had sat opposite each other, naked, while they had eaten and drunk.
Surprisingly, that was his most clear-cut memory of their time together. Making love to Monique had been too all consuming for one sense, like sight, to stand apart; it had involved all the senses rolled up together. And looking at Monique, without having that jumbled sensation, had only been possible while they had been at once sated and eating.
He had never imagined that he would ever have dinner opposite a naked woman. Just being in the company of one had always appeared an unnerving prospect. How often had he dreamed of joining Annaliese in her secret hideaway, and lacked the courage? But no courage had been necessary, with Monique; it had seemed the most natural thing in the world. So, what would he carry into battle with him the day after tomorrow? A dream of golden hair, and suntanned limbs which he had never seen? Or a memory, of equally long legs, equally suntanned, but delightfully, startlingly, white at buttocks, groin and breasts: Monique was not a nature worshipper in that sense. She was much more voluptuous than Annaliese. Her breasts could hardly be cupped in a hand, her buttocks overflowed from extended fingers. But they were tight buttocks, and there were powerful muscles in her thighs and belly, and she had never been a mother. And the hair on her mound was like purest silk.
She had smiled, then laughed, at the moment of orgasm. And a great many other moments besides. She was a widow. Like Annaliese, but she had not forgotten how to live. Annaliese should smile more often. But would she smile at the moment of orgasm?
‘Hm,’ Wilkinson commented, having glanced at Bert’s statement. ‘I suppose they were pretty upset.’
‘And we are going to need every fit man when we move out,’ Fergus pressed. ‘We have too many on the sick list as it is.’
‘I take your point. But it is still reprehensible, the habit of this army of heading for the nearest town looking for women the moment they have a pass. I mean, suppose we had started looking for women the moment we got to Cairo, eh?’
‘Very reprehensible, sir,’ Fergus agreed.
‘Very good, Major. They will have to be punished. A fortnight’s loss of pay and privileges. And Manly-Smith to be reduced to the ranks.’
‘With respect, sir, Corporal Manly-Smith is a very able tank commander.’
‘He can command a tank as a private for the next few weeks. Let him earn those stripes back.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Fergus said sadly.
*
‘Bloody hell,’ Payne grumbled.
‘You should grumble,’ Bert told him. ‘I’ve lost my stripes.’
Mr Bloody Adjutant Mackinder, he thought. My friend! One day, he thought. One day...
But for now it was necessary to concentrate as the regiment roared and rattled along the coast road that led from Alexandria to the wire, as the border was called. They made a long column, sixty tanks and some thirty trucks, and the dust settled on them and over them and behind them. They were at last going back to war.
‘Christ, what a country,’ Griffiths remarked.
There certainly was not a lot of feature to it. To the right there was the sea, and to the left there was the desert, flat and monotonous. They rumbled through various villages, all of which had unpronounceable names: Dikheila, Bahiq, Hammann, Alamein, Diraziya. They passed Roman ruins at a place called Taposiris.
Beyond Alamein the road, which had been following the coast in a roughly south-westerly direction, turned north-west, still following the coast — they were rounding the sides of a huge shallow bay. When they stopped for lunch their guides informed them that the enormous, impassable Quattara Depression lay to their south, leaving this coast road the only possible way for a military column to reach Libya — or for the Italians to reach Alexandria.
But that afternoon the country became more dramatic, with high ground rising away to their left — the Libyan Plateau, they were told — and well before dusk they came upon the army. A very small army, less than thirty thousand men, British, Australians and Indians, making up roughly two divisions. There was also a small park of tanks, to which the regiment was directed.
‘Now that you are here, gentlemen,’ Brigadier Jock Campbell said to Wilkinson and Fergus, ‘we have an armoured brigade. Welcome to Mersa Matruh.’
*
‘All well?’ Fergus paused for the twentieth time in his inspection of the tanks.
Bert and his crew came to attention. ‘All well, sir!’
‘We will move out at midnight. Get some sleep while you can.’
‘Yes, sir!’
‘It’ll be good to be back in action, eh, Private Manly-Smith?’
‘Yes, sir!’ And maybe you’ll get your head shot off, you lousy bastard.
‘A chance for you to get your stripes back,’ Fergus told him. ‘You will, you know.’
‘Yes, sir!’ No thanks to you
, you ass-licking shit.
Fergus passed on. He felt a sense of pleasant excitement. On several counts. In just over two weeks it would be Christmas. It would be very odd to spend Christmas in this dust and sand, while even if it was cold enough for a sweater once the sun set, and a blanket at night, there was no possibility of snow. Even on the North West Frontier Christmas had been a time for snow and fires; here they would be bathing in the sea.
If they were bathing at all. In front of them were odds of at least five to one. Yet the army was quietly confident. And behind them was all Egypt, waiting for their victory. Monique Deschards, waiting more than most. But he should not be taking the thought of Monique Deschards into battle. If he thought about anyone other than the enemy, it should be Annaliese.
*
‘There they go,’ Wilkinson commented. The senior officers waited by the command truck, which contained such things as a desk and a wireless operator, as well as their batmen and endless cups of tea. Now they all raised their heads to look up at the darkness above them, which had suddenly been filled with the drone of aircraft as the RAF prepared to deliver the first blows of the battle. A few moments later they listened to the crump-crump of bombs — the Italian lines were only a few miles away. Then the whole night exploded, as the army’s own artillery opened fire, and were joined by the squadron of warships off the coast. These had moved up as soon as it was dark, and now the flashes of their big guns could clearly be seen. The Italian position became an inferno of flame and noise.
‘Rather good to be on this end of it,’ Bentley commented.
Wilkinson was checking his watch. ‘Time, gentlemen. Now remember, markers have been laid down. And when we move forward, follow the guides through the minefield. There is a passage through; some Italian tanks were seen using it yesterday. That’s our way. No straying. Good hunting.’
The captains returned to their squadrons, Wilkinson and Fergus boarded the command truck. This would be the first time he had gone into battle in a truck, Fergus thought; he would far rather have been in a tank. But he would never sit in a tank, in combat, again, except if, as colonel, he might lead his men into the fray: he would not be actually commanding the tank. And that presumed he would indeed be colonel, one day. It was an odd feeling that so important a part of his life was behind him.
‘The regiment will move out,’ Wilkinson told the telegrapher, who immediately relayed the command. The tank engines had already been started, and now they clanked ponderously forward. All around them was noise and creaks and bangs, but the sound of the army moving into position was muffled by the explosions in front of them.
The flaps of the truck were up, and Fergus could look left and right, at the three squadrons, and at the truck loads of Indian infantry, the Eleventh Division, which were accompanying them. They were to take up their position before the village of Nibeiwa, which reconnaissance had suggested was the least heavily defended portion of the Italian line, and where that telltale gap in the minefield had been spotted. Theirs was the responsibility for the breakthrough. It really was an imposing sight, he thought. The three squadrons were spread out, Bentley’s A Squadron in front, Allack’s B Squadron to the right, and Romerill’s C Squadron to the left. Inside this vast moving, armoured laager were the trucks, those of the regiment — command vehicles, supply vehicles, vehicles containing the mechanics whose job it would be to repair any damaged tanks or trucks, medical vehicles, cookhouse vehicles — as well as the infantry transport. As they moved away from the road, sand clouded into the air and began to settle everywhere, making visibility very poor. As it grew lighter, the Italians would certainly know they were coming.
Fergus realized that it was indeed growing lighter; the self-inflicted sand storm had temporarily ceased as the regiment came to a halt at its appointed position. In front of them the barrage continued, but now it was a matter of checking watches again.
‘Regiment will advance at oh seven hundred,’ Wilkinson transmitted. Fergus wondered if he should not have uttered the regimental prayer at this moment, but Johnny Wilkinson was not a man for dramatic gestures. Now that there was no possibility of a change in orders, the Colonel jumped from the command truck and ran forward to join A Squadron, leaving Fergus in charge of the support echelons. It was galling, but it went with the job of adjutant.
He continued to look at his watch, and to left and right as well. The brigade lay in a shallow depression, surrounded by hills. The hills themselves were occupied by advance parties of the Indians, who no doubt could see the Italian position. Beyond the hills, on their right, the rest of the army was already in action; the barrage had been lifted to fire at the Italian south and rear, and the rattle of rifle and machine-gun fire, as well as, occasionally, the shouts of the troops, could be heard. That was the holding attack, designed to pin down the main Italian force. While they cleaned up. Oh six fifty. Oh six fifty five. Oh six fifty eight. Oh six fifty nine. The adrenalin was flowing now, as well as the sweat.
‘Oh seven hundred,’ Wilkinson said, over the wireless.
Fergus leaned out of the command truck and fired his verey pistol into the air. The light glowed even in the morning sun, as the shell curved over the regiment and dropped back to earth. Several others were let off at the same time, and at that moment the barrage ceased.
The tanks roared forward, following the markers which had been laid down during the barrage. Dust and sand rose into the air, and the morning was filled with screaming noise. Bentley’s squadron was into the gap and their two-pounder cannon were barking to left and right, followed by the other two squadrons; the trucks were now halted, their crews preparing rifles and machine guns just in case of a setback. But there was not going to be a setback. Presumably the enemy were firing too, somewhere. Fergus saw a tank burning in the distance and, levelling his binoculars in an effort to see whose it was in the swirling gloom, realized it was Italian. Then he saw another.
‘Regiment will turn north,’ Wilkinson said.
Now they were out of sight in the haze, and the battle could only be followed by the voices on the wireless, but clearly the flanking attack had been a success; the Indian infantry brigade was now moving through the minefield, looking for their Italian counterparts.
‘Bring support forward, Major Mackinder,’ Wilkinson commanded.
Fergus gave the order and the trucks advanced, in single column, through the gap in the minefield. Now some of the dust had settled, and he gazed at a scene of utter destruction, with some twenty tanks burning or already burnt out. Those of their crews who had managed to get out in time stared at him with their hands held high. He ignored them.
But not far beyond there were many more Italians, a vast crowd which he estimated as at least five hundred. They were walking towards the minefield, unarmed, with their hands either in the air or clasped on the backs of their necks. And guarding them was a single steel-helmeted British soldier, stockings slipped down to his ankles, cigarette hanging out of one corner of his mouth, fixed bayonet gleaming on the end of his rifle.
‘Supply to Command,’ Fergus said into the wireless. ‘Would I be right in assuming we have won a victory?’
‘You would be correct,’ Wilkinson replied. ‘The Italians are in full retreat; those who have not surrendered. But we have been ordered to pursue. Let’s have your trucks up here, Fergus.’
*
Incredibly, the regiment had lost not a single tank, had suffered not a single casualty.
‘First battle I have ever been in and had no work to do,’ remarked Surgeon Captain Lewis.
‘They just didn’t seem to want to fight,’ Captain Allack said, joining the senior officers for a cup of tea.
‘Well, let’s head west,’ Wilkinson said. Even he was looking elated. ‘Next stop, Tobruk.’
It was indeed, virtually. The troops called the operation the Desert Gallop. The attack had commenced on Monday, 9 December, Sidi Barrani itself was occupied on Wednesday. The following Tuesday, the 17th, Sollum and
Fort Capuzzo were captured, with another twenty thousand prisoners. After a brief break for Christmas, the advance was resumed, and Bardia surrendered on Sunday, 3 January 1941. This time forty-five thousand Italians laid down their arms, and a hundred and thirty tanks were taken. And on 27 January General O’Connor’s army entered Tobruk.
By then it had long been apparent that the only enemy worth worrying about was the desert. But the desert was a formidable foe. The armour was required to lead the gallop to keep harassing the Italians and never give them time to create a new defensive position — presuming they had any idea of doing that. But this approach meant that the regiment advanced as a single tactical unit, often out of touch with other elements of the army for days at a time. Thus they moved with what they could carry in their trucks. Food consisted of bully beef, marmalade, biscuits and tea; there was no variety. Water consisted of a gallon per head a day; from this had to be found every drop one required to drink, to shave, and to wash. The approaches to this problem were varied, and occasionally remarkable; there was, of course, no possibility of requiring any man to look like a soldier on parade. Thus while shaving was universally demanded, washing was not. At the same time, washing was necessary, because the sand got everywhere. Some men endeavoured to ignore it. Some contented themselves with merely rinsing face and hands and between the legs. Others carefully washed a small portion of their body every day, because if the sand was most unbearable in the crotch or the anus or armpits or around the face —anywhere related to hair or an orifice — it was intensely irritating even on the arms and legs, especially when those arms and legs were heavily sunburnt. But the water was never sufficient. The inside of each tank stank like a lair.
And the sand did not only attack human beings. That was incidental. It also found its way into every moving part of every vehicle. Breakdowns were frequent, and the mechanics were kept busy often twenty-four hours a day. Several of the trucks had to be abandoned simply because they ran out of spare parts, but the tanks were kept going by sheer determination.
The Triumph Page 8