Take or Destroy!

by John Harris

  Gagging on his words, he gestured ahead and the party pounded across the patch of grass to the trench. Among the Germans was an elderly sergeant who was crouched with his head pressed against the earth, waiting for death. Dazed by his third wound, Amos couldn’t bring himself to drive a bullet between the thin shoulders and instead he jabbed the German with the muzzle of his gun and indicated that he should shove his hands in the air.

  As they grabbed the mortar and headed back to the houses, with the two surviving Germans, the men on the top of the Boujaffar started firing once more and, even as they stumbled back into shelter, Amos was hit in the face yet again. He spun round, his jaw broken, his tongue shredded, and fell with a crash into the room where the girl was crouching.

  As he sprawled on his back on the wet floor, Sidebottom bent over him and dragged out his field dressing. Amos feebly waved it away but he couldn’t speak and as Sidebottom stared down at him, he saw the girl crawl to the broken fountain with the enamel jug and begin to fill it. Pulling open the field dressing he silently handed it to her and, dipping it into the jug, she knelt on the swimming tiles alongside Amos and began to bathe the blood from his face.

  The silencing of the mortar brought some relief for Hockold’s party, but the 47 across the harbour had got their range perfectly now and the buildings were literally falling apart about their ears.

  A group of German sailors led by a young ensign burst out of the barracks further along the waterfront and rushed at them, yelling. Hockold shot the officer and his slender body bowed backwards while his feet were still moving forward. But they were moving more slowly now, almost as though they were feeling their way in the dark, and as they came to a stop, the youngster half-turned and went down with a crash on his side, to roll over, one hand groping at the air. The yells of his men became reedy and shrill as the rush died away.

  But Willow had been wounded now, and as Stooge Smith returned from carrying him to the first-aid station in the bunker a shell from the 47 sent him flying into the debris.

  Crouching, watching his party dwindle, sweating with anxiety, the whole of his body cold in spite of it, Hockold glanced at his watch, wondering how Devenish was getting on.

  Devenish was beginning to grow worried. He had set his charges on Andolfo, Guglielmotti and Cassandra and the acid in the time pencils was already working away. He had only twenty minutes left but it had become impossible by this time to get to Giuseppe Bianchi. She was further away from the other three ships than he’d expected and it was by no means certain that she would go up with them.

  To make matters worse, a machine-gun below the Boujaffar was now firing through the thinning smoke across the harbour into the space between the first three ships and Giuseppe Bianchi. Some of the bullets were hitting the mole, and Devenish had been half-blinded by flying chips of stone. As he lay on his face blinking away the grit, he was hit in the backside by a ricochet which gouged a large piece of flesh from his right buttock.

  ‘Sergeant,’ he called to Bunch. ‘Could we shut that machine-gun up across the harbour?’

  ‘Yessir!’ Bunch said. ‘Shut the machine-gun up.’ He paused. ‘Unfortunately, sir, there’s them other nasty bastards at the end of the mole, and every time we try to move they poop off at us. We got to knock them out first.’

  The fight by the ships could be seen clearly from the POW compound and, while Sotheby was trying to make up his mind how to tackle the gun above him, it switched its aim from the Bab al Gawla and began to fire at the mole just beyond the stem of the Giuseppe Bianchi.

  ‘It’s about time we got cuck-cracking with that bub-bub-bub-bloody thing, Sergeant,’ he said to Berringer. ‘The bub-bastard’s only up there.’

  Berringer grinned. During training he had come to regard Sotheby with the affectionate regard of an elder brother for a willing but rather stupid junior, an attitude which had changed during the voyage to Qaba to one of irritation at his nervous fidgeting. Now he was beginning to feel a warm glow of genuine comradeship for him because Sotheby had discovered he could do things if he tried; his nervousness was slipping away from him as if it had been a cloak, so that he became concise, clear-thinking and fearless.

  ‘We lost Keely and three men wounded at the compound, sir,’ he said. ‘But we’ve picked up nineteen prisoners with German and Italian weapons who seem keen to have a go.’

  ‘Ought to be bub-bags,’ Sotheby said. ‘Come on.’

  By this time the released prisoners of war were streaming round the back of the town. As they slipped through the vineyards and orchards and turned into the Shariah Jedid they saw the whole street was lit up by Jacka’s burning warehouses.

  It was possible to get by, however, and in groups they began to edge down on the other side of the road and between the trees. But the Germans were still firing at Hockold’s party from the naval barracks and the ruins of the Boujaffar and, as the prisoners burst from behind the mosque, several of them were hit. The rest immediately bolted for shelter to await an opportunity to reach the mole.

  As they flung themselves down near the mud huts, Taffy Jones under the hand cart lifted his head. He was holding his steel helmet on with both hands as though afraid the top of his skull would fly off, his rifle had disappeared and the haversack of ammunition he’d been carrying had long since been snatched up and used elsewhere. Half-delirious, he clawed at the earth, ignored by the men around him who tried not to look at him in the humiliation of his fear.

  The firing was still intense and the mole was being flayed by bullets, but one after another the prisoners crossed the road and began to drop over the sea wall and down the slip, past Gleeson’s still-burning tank and Carter’s ruined LCT. Taffy watched them go with agonized eyes, his mouth hanging open, his knuckles white with tension as he gripped his helmet. His mind drove him to follow them but his limbs were like water.

  By now the prisoners were picking their way over the rocks and mud to where Horambeb lay. It meant a chest-deep wade at the end but most of them didn’t object to that and the first of them were already beginning to scramble aboard Umberto, where petty officers crammed them below.

  The ship’s funnel was a wreck by this time but the mast had been chopped away and dragged free. The first lieutenant had also cleared the dead and wounded from the shambles of the bridge and got it functioning again; but men were propped everywhere along the decks and in the passageways, packing the mess and holds while the stretcher-bearers pushed past them. Alongside, ML 146 was still drifting away in flames, but Lieutenant Dysart had got MLs 138 and 147, both looking like colanders now, their planks holed and splintered, attached by their bows to Umberto’s stern, ready to haul her off into deep water the moment the signal came to cast off.

  When Sotheby and his party reached the huts near the 75, they could see men busy about it behind the barbed wire. As they watched, the gun cracked again and they saw a shell burst on the corner of the stone warehouse on the mole. There was also a machine-gun firing from just in front of it, keeping up a stream of bullets across the harbour to pin down Devenish’s party.

  ‘Ready?’ Sotheby whispered.

  There were nods.

  ‘Right, get the bub-buggers.’

  They were through the wire before the gun crew knew what was happening. Men appeared, only to be cut down, and Sotheby himself burst through the door of a hut marked Hauptmann und Batteriefuhrer, where Captain Schoeler was screaming into the telephone to the naval barracks for help.

  The German had his revolver in his hand and he fired automatically as Sotheby appeared so that he spun round, flung aside by a heavy bullet scoring his rib cage, and fell to the floor. But before Schoeler could fire a second shot he was almost cut in two by a burst from Sotheby’s Sten that tossed him across a folding table, one end of which collapsed and deposited him on top of Sotheby, while the telephone still squawked in his hand. Struggling up with difficulty, Sotheby snatched up what papers he could find and, stuffing them into his pocket, stumbled outside again.
By this time it was all over. The crews of both the 75 and the machine-gun were all dead or dying, at the cost of one dead prisoner of war, three wounded commandos and a nasty gash over Sotheby’s ribs.

  Berringer stared at him. He was bent double, his blouse was soaked with blood, his face a crimson mask.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, sir,’ he said in alarm.

  ‘S’all right,’ Sotheby said cheerfully. ‘Not as bad as it looks. What’s the damage?’

  Berringer told him, then pushed an undersized German forward, his hands clasped on top of his head.

  ‘Also one prisoner, sir. What do we do with him?’

  Sotheby managed a grin. ‘Too small to keep,’ he said. ‘Throw him back.’

  His eyes were darting about as they talked. Although the 75 was silent, a machine-gun across the harbour was now firing down the length of the mole and they could see Bunch and Devenish and the rest of the ship’s party crouching under a cluster of lights behind a group of oil drums.

  ‘Any gunners here,’ Sotheby asked.

  One of the ex-prisoners stepped forward. ‘Sir! Corporal Jacques, Northumberland Hussars, Anti-Tank Regiment, RA.’

  ‘Could you knock out that bub-bastard on the mole,’

  ‘Couldn’t miss, sir, at this range. They’ve already jacked her up.’

  ‘Right. Get cracking.’

  The hussar examined the gun for a few moments. Then, aided by Sotheby’s men, he squatted in the gunlayer’s position, his eye against the rubber eye-piece of the sight. The barrel shifted.

  ‘Bang on, sir.’

  ‘Right, bub-bung one up the spout.’

  Still crouched alongside Andolfo, Devenish saw Sotheby’s shell explode on the gun position at the end of the mole. Men were flung into the water and the gun barrel drooped. The machine-gunners, numbed by the blast, stopped firing and for a moment there was silence. Bunch jumped to his feet at once.

  ‘Bayonets, lads,’ he roared.

  Private Jumpke saw them coming and didn’t wait. He flung down his rifle and leapt into the harbour. Coming to the surface, he was surprised to see how different everything looked from down there and how big the ships seemed from water level. Stray bullets were splashing into the sea alongside him, and he decided it might be wiser to get the hell out of it. Treading water, he wrenched at his equipment and let it slide from his shoulders. Then, hampered by his heavy boots, he began to head slowly across the harbour towards the beach where he could see HSL 117 still burning, watched by the surviving members of its crew on the cliffs below the POW compound.

  As the firing from the end of the mole stopped, Devenish picked up the bag of charges and struggled on to Giuseppe Bianchi. A glance at his watch showed that he had just less than a quarter of an hour before the charge on Andolfo exploded. They were clearly not going to get everybody away because in ten minutes Umberto would start hauling off.

  His behind hurt and his leg was stiff and he was already feeling a little weak and shocked. The Germans had already started unloading Giuseppe Bianchi, so that they didn’t have to knock out the wedges to open the hatch and Bradshaw and a few others were already wrenching at the canvas covers. As the planks were flung aside Devenish moved forward, but his leg gave way and he stumbled and fell to the deck.

  Bunch looked at him. ‘You going to manage, sir?’

  Devenish winced and Bradshaw stepped forward. ‘How about me helping, sir?’ he asked.

  ‘Can you?’

  ‘They keep telling me I’m intelligent.’

  ‘Right. We’ll make it a three-quarters-of-an-hour charge. Then, if she doesn’t go up with the others, she might take a few Jerries with her.’

  Supporting Devenish, Bradshaw climbed into the hold and began to heave boxes aside to find a spot where the charge wouldn’t easily be discovered.

  ‘In here, sir,’ he said. ‘There’s a pipe.’

  With Bradshaw’s help, Devenish strapped a nine-pound plastic charge behind the pipe and a second to a valve. It took longer than they’d expected and Bradshaw began to glance at his watch.

  ‘Shan’t be long,’ Devenish said as he pushed the detonators into the plastic and attached the time pencils.

  Sotheby, his face a mask of drying blood, seemed to have the bit between his teeth now. ‘Actually, Sergeant,’ he said, ‘we’re doing so bub-bloody well, it seems a pity to stop. There’s another gun down there beyond the Mantazeh Palace. It’s playing hell with that party round the Roman arch. See any reason why we shouldn’t knock that bastard out, too?’

  Berringer grinned. By this time he would have followed Sotheby anywhere. ‘Let’s go, sir.’

  ‘How long have we got left?’

  ‘Six minutes, sir.’

  ‘Shouldn’t take us more than fuff-four.’ Sotheby turned to the RAF corporal humping his bag of charges behind him. ‘Can you sort this bub-bugger out, Corporal?’ he asked.

  ‘Easy, sir.’

  ‘Okay. Get cracking.’

  As the anti-tank gunner opened the breech of the 75 and the RAF man began to set his charge inside, Sotheby led his men down the slope of the escarpment below the gun position. From the wide expanse of dusty ground to the west of the POW compound, they could see the 47 by the palace knocking pieces off the buildings on the seaward side of where the Roman arch had fallen, while machine-gunners in the naval barracks and in the shops and buildings round the German headquarters prevented any further forward movement. A few stray bullets from Hockold’s group were thumping into the trees, but they were having to keep their heads down and their firing was sporadic.

  ‘Up alongside the bub-barracks,’ Sotheby said. ‘Then behind the palace. Get the bastards in the rear. Don’t stop for anything.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  ‘Okay! Go!’

  The twenty-odd men still with Sotheby scrambled to their feet and started running. Almost immediately, they were spotted by a machine-gunner on top of the naval barracks and two of them went down at once. But those still on their feet had reached safety alongside the wall and crouched out of sight. Unsighted, the German sailors dragged their gun along the roof to the eastern end of the barracks and, as Sotheby’s men made their second dash, three more of them fell. But there was no stopping the rest of the party who hurtled round the side of the palace and across the stretch of concrete to crash into the 47 from the rear. Three Mills bombs were tossed ahead of them, and, as the flash and roar subsided, they went in with bayonets. The last gun worrying Hockold stopped firing.

  There were nineteen of them still on their feet but as Berringer looked round, panting, he realized Sotheby wasn’t among them.

  They found him by the corner of the palace. Slowed down by his wound, he’d been caught by the machine-gun just as they’d dived out of sight and he was huddled on his face, muttering to himself with pain. He knew he’d been more seriously hit this time but he was glad he’d gone to Qaba. He had a feeling that he’d achieved something for once and probably done enough to have avenged his father. Without realizing it, he had begun to cry with the emotions welling up through his hurt and had put his face against the earth so that no one should see his tears.

  Berringer moved him gently and, as Sotheby lifted his head, he saw his wet cheeks. Squeezing his shoulder, Berringer bent over him.

  ‘Where did it get you, sir?’ he asked.

  ‘I dunno.’ Sotheby pressed his face against the concrete again in his misery. ‘All over the shop, I think.’

  As they turned him over, Berringer noticed his right leg was twisted at an unusual angle. ‘Shin, sir,’ he said. ‘Nasty one there. There’s another on your hip, too. Mebbe chipped a bit off the bone.’

  Sotheby’s eyes rolled up wretchedly. ‘Will I die, Sergeant?’

  Berringer managed a reassuring laugh, and at that moment a flash of white on the slopes above the compound lit their faces and they heard the crash of the explosion.

  ‘That was the gun going up, sir,’ he said.

  ‘Five,’ Sotheby
murmured. ‘We’ve gone nap.’

  Berringer grinned. ‘You were bloody terrific, sir.’

  Sotheby managed a twisted smile and tried to explain that it was the thought that somebody had to do it that had driven him on. ‘Somebub -’ he stuttered. ‘Somebub -’ But he was so embarrassed by Berringer’s praise, the tears came again and his stammer became so unmanageable he had to give up.

  Berringer rose and jerked a hand at the men huddled in a group by the wall of the palace. ‘You lot,’ he snapped. ‘Get a door off its hinges. Quick-sharp.’

  ‘We taking him with us, Sarge?’ one of them asked.

  ‘Yes,’

  ‘I thought they said we wasn’t to take no wounded.’

  Berringer glared. ‘Did they? Well, we’re taking him.’

  There were three minutes left when Bradshaw climbed to the deck of Giuseppe Bidnchi behind Devenish.

  ‘Right, sir. Better get going.’

  With Bunch half-carrying, half-dragging the RAF man down the gangway, Bradshaw began to replace the planks on the hatch. It was heavy work, but he got them into position and was heaving the tarpaulin back when Bunch shouted to him.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Bradway, you dozy idle man,’ he yelled, stiff as a poker among the smoke and flying bullets. ‘Umberto’s off!’

  ‘You go, Sarge,’ Bradshaw said. ‘I’ll just fix this so they’ll not look inside.’

  Bunch lowered Devenish down to Horambeb and willing hands hoisted him to the deck of Umberto. Staring anxiously down the mole, the first lieutenant turned to the yeoman of signals alongside him. ‘Anything from them yet about withdrawing?’ he asked.

  ‘No, sir.’

  The first lieutenant stared down the mole again. ‘There are a hell of a lot missing,’ he said.