by John Harris
‘Leave it alone!’ Murdoch was there. Nobody had seen him arrive but he had appeared, as though through the floor like the demon king in a pantomime. ‘There’s plenty o’ time. No need to exhaust yourselves carting heavy equipment about yet. You’ll be told when to put it on.’
His voice was oddly soft for a change, all the harshness gone, and he stopped occasionally, as they’d never seen him stop before, to exchange a word here and there, usually with the youngest men, or to offer a cigarette or a match.
Above him, they could hear a faint tuneless song coming from the bridge that sounded a little like the hymn, ‘Holy, Holy, Holy’. It was Lieutenant Carter. He was riotously happy. He was doing the thing he was trained for. He had a ship under his feet and he was going into battle. He was also a little drunk because he hadn’t been able to resist having a tot to celebrate and then another and another. But he was still capable of doing his work, if only instinctively, and the rum insulated him from fear. He was singing the “Minesweepers’ Song” --
‘Sweeping, sweeping, sweeping,
Always bloody well sweeping’
The first lieutenant, a boy of twenty, stared at him, worried and wondering if he ought to take over. But he liked Carter, for all his faults, and he knew better than to try anyway.
The talking became desultory and on every ship men merely sat and stood and leaned, smoking, waiting, busy with their own thoughts again. Grisly last-minute preparations for death were made on Umberto, and the ship’s surgeon in his ‘butcher’s overall’, stethoscope in his pocket and gauze mask dangling under his chin, was laying out an array of instruments and bottles. First-aid dressings were handed round and bundles of them stacked in odd corners about the ship. Carbide lamps were placed alongside electric bulbs, hoses drenched woodwork and splinter matting and the stacks of ammunition by the guns. Over all was the sound and feel of men preparing themselves for action - the creak of webbing and the clink of weapons, the sudden nervous cough hastily suppressed, and the thunderous silences emphasized by the bitter swearing of those fortunate enough to be busy.
A lot of them were introspective now and spoke of all sorts of private things that they wouldn’t have dreamed of disclosing to anybody at a different time - talking with unusual candour, drawing closer to one another in the harsh bowels of the ship, confiding in men they’d never spoken to before, about home and the past and what they hoped would be a future.
By the ladder, Bradshaw smoked a cigarette and read, his face dark under his helmet. Docwra was playing softly on a mouth organ as he’d done so often before in the loneliness of the Cumberland fells.
Sugarwhite’s thoughts were on his home. ‘Think of all those folk back in England worrying about us,’ he said.
Waterhouse, who was engaged in a heavy discussion on the delights of the Alexandria waterfront, turned sarcastically, his ginger hair as wild as if it had had an electric current passed through it. ‘And thingk of all the bastards who dod’t give a sod,’ he said.
A few men were swopping smutty jokes and a few more telling of the times they’d had with women. Taffy Jones, desperate to keep his mind off what lay ahead, had just finished explaining how he’d halted the invasion of England in 1940 by joining up, and was now laying it on ad nauseam about a girl he’d had in Cardiff.
‘Poor old Arienwen,’ he was saying. ‘Duw, she was a pretty girl, man. She could play the piano lovely. Used to help at the glee club. But there’s a state she was in that night, behind Geary the Emporium’s, Begging me for it she was. The moon was out and I could see it shining on her -- all white --’
‘Ghost-like?’
‘No. Not ghost-like. Soft. You know what I was thinking then?’
Tit Willow, bored to tears, lifted his head. ‘That you fancied sixpennyworth of fish and chips,’ he said.
Sergeant Bunch, who had just appeared, heard him and swung round. ‘You was supposed to be in hospital,’ he said heavily.
‘I didn’t want to miss it, Sarge.’
Bunch glared, rigid as a poker. ‘You was ordered to hospital, you dozy idle man,’ he barked. ‘An order’s an order and you’re supposed to obey it. You’re on the fizzer.’ Then the hard leathery face, marked by barrack-room brawls and years of acne as a youth, softened alarmingly. ‘How’s it go, son?’ he asked. ‘Hurt?’
‘A bit, Sarge.’
‘Like the parrot said, when it laid square eggs.’ Legs stiff, back straight, Bunch stalked off and Willow stared after him, startled, aware that it was Bunch’s way of trying to put him at his ease.
Someone started singing, the same song for the hundredth time - ‘I don’t want to be a soldier. I don’t want to go to war . . .’ and slowly everybody began to join in softly. Then the Welsh element changed it to a hymn. They seemed to have been singing hymns on and off every bit of the way, Taffy Jones in the lead parts whenever he could check the squirming in his stomach.
‘I wish they’d try something more cheerful,’ Sugarwhite said. ‘Or even just have a fight.’
It was Waterhouse - dogged, irrepressible, profane and riotous - who stopped it.
‘Ringg the bell, verger,’ he sang in a high pitched nasal falsetto you could have threaded a needle with, ‘Ringg the bell, ringg! Till the fuckin’ coggregation condescedd to singg . . . !’
Even the Welsh couldn’t defeat Waterhouse and in the end they took the hint. But the interruption smacked of blasphemy to Sugarwhite, and now didn’t seem to be the time or the place for offending God. ‘Think we’ve got a chance?’ he asked.
‘I don’t give a monkey’s either way,’ Waterhouse yelled and Sugarwhite looked quickly at him, trying to make out whether he really was unconcerned or only putting on a brave face. Bradshaw was still reading, holding a tiny book in his hand, and Waterhouse removed his helmet and ran a hand through his ginger thatch so that it stood up like an old yard-brush.
‘I wish I was like ‘im,’ he said. ‘Standig there as ‘appy as a budgie on a kitchen table. What is it you’re readig, Bulstrode?’
Bradshaw looked up. ‘Omar Khayyam.’
‘What’s that? A dirt book?’
‘It’s not an “it”. It’s a “he”. A Persian poet.’
‘Cad you read Persian?’
‘It’s a translation.’
‘Why are you readig it?’
‘Because it’s the smallest book I’ve got and it goes in my blouse pocket.’
‘Is that the only reason?’ Sugarwhite asked.
‘It’s as good as any I can think of.’
‘Aren’t you worried?’
Bradshaw lifted his head. ‘Of course I’m worried, you bloody oaf!’
Sugarwhite was puzzled. ‘You don’t show it.’
‘Well, I could smear my emotions all over the bulkheads, but I don’t think anybody’d enjoy it, do you?’
Sugarwhite frowned. ‘I wonder why we don’t?’ he said. ‘I’m shit-scared really.’
Bradshaw’s smile widened. ‘That’s pride, old son. You’re concerned with what your friends might say, and they feel the same because of what you might say. That’s what makes the army tick. It’s what makes all armies tick.’
They were still staring in bewilderment at Bradshaw when Bunch appeared. ‘Right-oh, darlings,’ he said. ‘Time to put your party dresses on.’
As they entered the swept channel in the minefield the talk on the bridge died.
‘This is what they call the moment of truth, isn’t it?’ Hardness said.
Though there was no announcement, the news soon travelled below. A few eyes swept round the ill-lit hold but no one made any comment. Hearts began to beat so hard they hurt the chest and, noticing that his fingers were trembling, Taffy Jones hid them between his thighs as he sat near the ladder. Sweat trickled at his armpits, and the thin slash of fright he’d felt earlier came again, icy against his flesh so that he felt sick. He stared round at the other men, his throat dry, wondering if they could tell he was afraid. They showed no sign of it and he knew that even if they
could they’d never judge him.
They were all tense despite their chatter. Only the card players, absorbed in their game, seemed not to have noticed.
‘Five bob,’ Rogers grunted.
‘I’m in,’ Eva said.
‘Me, too.’
‘Your five an’ up three.’
‘Raise five.’
‘I think you’m bluffin’, me dear.’
On the RAF launches on the port side of Umberto, the collapsible rubber dinghies were being inflated, making even less room for the overcrowded men, while the extra petrol tanks fitted on deck were being emptied to reduce the risk of fire. Someone started handing out burnt cork and tins of dark makeup. It smelled of olive oil and cocoa, with a bit of something extra that seemed like carbon and was probably lamp-black.
‘Faces and hands,’ Rabbitt said. ‘Make sure you’re well covered. It might save your life.’
Waterhouse dropped on one knee. ‘Mammy!’ he began to sing at the top of his voice. It sounded like ‘Babby.’
When they were all looking like nigger minstrels, they once more checked their weapons and braced themselves again as they’d braced themselves the night before and on the night of the postponement. Speculation and fear galloped through their minds and they felt cumbrous under their kit.
Faintly they heard telegraphs jangle and felt the shudder of the engines become different so that they knew their speed had changed. Then the tannoy crackled. ‘All hands muster at disembarkation stations.’
Bradshaw sighed and put away his book. Near the stern of ML 138 Lieutenant Swann moved his shoulders under his webbing. ‘You ready, chaps?’
Nobody answered because they all knew there was no hurry, and it was only Swann getting up his own wick.
‘No panic when we get ashore,’ Swann continued. ‘Just keep together and keep your eyes on me.’
‘Any minute now,’ Belcher whispered, ‘ ‘e’s goin’ to start whizzin’ round in ever-decreasin’ circles and finally disappear up his own fundamental orifice.’
There was an explosive cackle of laughter and Swann whirled. ‘Who’s that? Who’s that laughing?’
Nobody answered and he calmed down, jerking at his equipment and fingering his moustache.
‘Make sure you’ve got all your equipment,’ he nagged again. ‘Cigarettes out. No smoking.’
Belcher turned to the dour ex-fisherman, Comrie, as he stubbed out his fag-end. ‘Do you smoke after you’ve had a bit with your bird?’ he asked.
‘Ah dinnae ken,’ Comrie said with an unexpected flash of wit. ‘Ah’ve never looked.’
There was another cackle of laughter so that Swann looked angrily about him, convinced he’d got a lot of idiots to look after. Nobody seemed to be taking the thing seriously except him.
5
The first shots were fired at 2347 when the Germans became aware of our approach.
There had been several reports of enemy bombers approaching Qaba, so nobody imagined that the noise they now heard out to sea had any special significance. Despite the depredations of the desert force, there was still enough flak at the airfield and on the outskirts of the town to keep the Tommies high. Fears of a raid were confirmed, however, when Fighter Control at Ibrahimiya telephoned them to expect trouble, and the alarm bells began to ring.
‘Achtung! Alarm! Fliegerwarnung!’
The guns began to swing and the soldiers assembled at their posts, their officers shouting orders. Among them was Private Bontempelli, holding his rifle by the muzzle, its butt trailing behind him in the dust so that it looked curiously harmless. He was chiefly concerned that one of the aeroplanes would get off course and drop one of its bombs not on the airfield where it belonged but on the spot where he happened to be standing. He often wished he could be taken prisoner - painlessly, of course. In fact, he once had been a prisoner - in June - but before they could be put in the bag, the tide had turned again and a whole crowd of Afrika Korps lorries had swept round the group, taking the British guards prisoners instead and freeing the disgusted Bontempelli so that he was now back with a gun in his hand and expected to stand up to a charging Scot or a New Zealander or an Australian or a Gurkha, or one of the other barbarians the British employed to fight their wars.
Standing on the roof of the Boujaffar Hotel, Colonel Hochstatter stared at the waning moon. With him were von Steen, Nietzsche, Wutka and Hrabak. Below them were Tarnow and a sergeant, with two telephone orderlies who were waiting by their instruments. Round the harbour area they could see men running, and caught occasional faint flickers as lorries passed with shaded headlamps.
Hochstatter stared at the sky, and wondered again how his wife and two young daughters were faring in far-off Dusseldorf. He hadn’t heard from them for months now and it seemed years since he’d seen them. Von Steen’s thoughts were on his career. A man with a stiff leg hadn’t much future at sea, and in any case, German naval activity at that moment seemed to be dwindling rapidly.
Wutka was watching the stars again and deciding that when the war was over he’d probably take up astronomy. It was a subject he knew nothing about but here in Qaba and in the dusty North African desert the stars had always fascinated him - perhaps because they seemed the only dust-free things he could see. Hrabak’s thoughts were much simpler. His old wounds were hurting and all he wanted was to sit down.
The sound of the aircraft became louder and Hochstatter’s head turned nervously as the telephone rang on the floor below.
The sergeant put his head through the hatchway to the roof. ‘Sie kommen, Herr Oberst! The Luftwaffe say it looks like a big raid. Radar’s picking up hefty signals from the north-east.’
‘Warn the gunners,’ Nietzsche snapped and the sergeant nodded and disappeared.
There were shouts among the buildings below them and Hochstatter stared at the flickering horizon to the east.
‘I’m glad it’s the airfield,’ he observed.
Von Steen frowned. He had an inexplicable feeling that it wasn’t the airfield.
The drone of the aircraft grew louder and Hochstatter’s head went back.
‘Almost overhead,’ he said. ‘Coming in from the sea.’
The guns were still silent and the searchlights had not yet opened up, and it wasn’t until the first missile came whistling down to explode fifty yards from a parked Junkers 52 that Ibrahimiya finally came to life. As the men started to run, the first of the flares filled the sky with a white eerie light. The guns began to bark and the searchlights snapped on, probing with their silver beams. An aeroplane was caught in the over-spill of light like a small fish and flickering pin-pricks began to sparkle round it. At once it began to take violent avoiding action, the anti-aircraft shells following it as it went into a dive.
Despite the warnings of a heavy raid, the Tommies seemed to be approaching only in ones and twos and small groups from widely dispersed directions. Then a nervous Flakartillerie corporal and his men, manning an isolated gun position on the eastern perimeter of the airfield, saw parachutes. They appeared briefly in the glow of the searchlights, then disappeared; then another two or three were seen, then more and more. Hurriedly counting, and adding a few for good measure in his panic, the corporal reached for the telephone.
‘Fallschirmjager!’ he yelled into the mouthpiece. ‘Paratroops!’
The telephone in Hochstatter’s office shrilled again, and the sergeant called up to him.
‘Sir!’
Hochstatter almost fell down the stairs, and in a moment Nietzsche heard his voice.
‘Paratroops? Where?’
‘We have them on the airfield,’ the Luftwaffe colonel at Ibrahimiya yelled. ‘We need every man you can spare!’
Hochstatter also began to shout. ‘I have no men to spare! I have instructions from headquarters to maintain a strong hold on this place!’
‘Look -’ the Luftwaffe colonel’s voice was harsh ‘ - if they land men here, you might as well go out of business!’
Hochstatter put
the telephone down and signed wearily to Nietzsche.
‘Send them the Italians.’
As the few lorries they could muster rolled to a stop near the Roman arch, Private Bontempelli decided that fighting parachutists was something that just didn’t appeal to him. He didn’t enjoy the thought of being hurt and he hated loud noises. He’d once been in a gun position at Bardia when the gun had fired, and it was as if someone had crammed his head inside an oil drum and tossed in a hand grenade.
He could hear Sottotenente Baldissera and Sergente Barbella shouting now, and on an impulse he turned abruptly into the shadows and headed for the latrines.
From the ships they all heard the drone of aircraft.
‘Thank God the RAF’s on the dot,’ Hockold said, realizing for the first time that since the operation had started he had hardly thought about death. Preoccupation with Cut-Price had driven it from his mind and he forced himself to concentrate on what he had to do so that it would stay that way.
Below him in the hold, Taffy Jones was also trying desperately not to think too much about death and had succeeded in starting a heavy argument, involving everybody near him, on whether you could dodge the army by failing the medical through drinking too much alcohol, eating too little food and having too little sleep.
‘When I took my medical,’ Bradshaw said blandly, ‘the chap next to me couldn’t do the necessary when they told us to fill the test tubes. I offered him some of mine. He was pleased to accept.’ Bradshaw smiled. ‘I considered it a very comradely action.’
As usual it stopped the argument dead, and Taffy was just searching his mind for something else to get them all going again when the first of the RAF’s bombs went off on the airfield. As the searchlights snapped on, against their pale glow the men on the bridge could see low-flying cliffs and even the shape of buildings. They could pick out the Mantazeh Palace on the headland and the square outline of what they knew from the mock-up to be German headquarters.
A shaded light winked from Umberto, and Horambeb closed up on her port side. On the starboard side, LCT 11 also closed in until she was swinging in the wash from Umberto’s bows and the helmsman was having difficulty steering her. On HSL 116, Lieutenant Collier caught the signal too, and signed to the officer in command.