Freefall

by Robert Radcliffe

Wearily Theo set off once more, following now familiar paths up through the trees, two mules in tow. After twenty minutes and with daylight fading, he reached the clearing Spender’s platoon had held earlier. But although shooting was audible down the slope, the clearing itself was deserted. Then a coppery glint caught his eye, and looking down he saw a trip-wire inches from his boot. For seconds he could only stare in groggy fascination, then he stepped gingerly back. Immediately a burst of gunfire erupted from across the clearing.

  ‘Halt!’ an angry voice demanded. ‘Wer ist es?’

  ‘I... Nicht schiessen, um, verdammt!’

  ‘Who is it?’ the voice insisted in German.

  ‘27th Schützen,’ Theo shouted back. ‘Of course. Who else?’

  ‘Gott, Mann. You nearly got your arse shot off.’

  ‘Well... Be more careful next time!’

  A finger to his lips, he reversed the muleteers from the clearing, carefully retraced his steps and found another route down, following the sounds of shooting, now more sporadic in the gathering dusk. Finally he heard the murmur of voices, and, recognizing them as English, emerged through bushes to find a group of Paras clustered behind a rock. Standing in their midst, stuffing his pockets with grenades, was Lieutenant John Timothy.

  ‘Ah, Trickey, good to see you. Just in time.’ ‘I... What?’

  ‘You’ve got .303 ammo, I hope. Christ, you’re as white as a sheet.’

  ‘It’s nothing, um, yes, on the second mule.’

  The men fell on his supplies. They were stripped of their packs and webbing, he noted, each wearing only battledress and smock, and a beret instead of a helmet. Their bayonets were fixed to their weapons. ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘Jerry machine-gun nest.’ Timothy pointed through the trees. ‘MG34s. Behind those rocks down there. Moved in half an hour ago, been a blasted nuisance since.’

  ‘You’re going to attack it?’

  ‘No choice. It’s got half of A Company pinned down.’

  Theo peered, briefly glimpsing a helmet moving behind rocks.

  ‘The aim is to surprise the buggers,’ Timothy murmured. ‘Care to join us?’

  ‘I, well, of course, if you want.’

  ‘Only joking. Stay here and keep your head down, this shouldn’t take long.’ He cocked his Sten gun. ‘All right, lads? Let’s get it done!’

  And with that six men leaped from cover and hurled themselves down the hill. Theo watched in horror. A frontal assault, on machine guns, like Scottish boys in a French lane. Seconds later confused shouts and frenzied shooting broke out, including the crump of grenades and deadly clatter of the MG34s. Then screams could be heard rising above the gunfire, tortured, high-pitched, and he closed his eyes. A few seconds more and the screaming was fading to silence.

  Back at the CP he recounted the facts to Frost. ‘Four killed. Four taken prisoner. Two MG34s captured, brand-new and undamaged, with ammunition and tripods. A Company is already using them.’

  ‘Good grief. And not a man lost?’

  ‘No, sir. The, um, buggers were surprised.’

  ‘I’ll bet they were. Where are the prisoners?’

  ‘I took them to the dressing station. We’ve quite a number there now.’

  ‘Yes, and rumour is they’re not all crack troops, which is encouraging.’ He glanced at Theo. ‘You OK?’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Look a bit pasty. Caught something in Algiers maybe?’

  Clare had seen him off. It seemed an aeon ago. Stay safe, Theo.

  ‘It’s nothing. Flu or something. I’m fine.’

  ‘Good. Feel up to one more job?’

  He didn’t. And even as Frost requested, and he accepted, and the rain began to fall, something solid settled in his stomach. Like resignation.

  It was back up the hill. To C Company, who were to launch an attack right away. An enemy detachment had occupied the road between 1st and 2nd Battalions, cutting them off. Holding the road was the brigade’s main objective, and the brigadier wanted it back, fast, before the enemy could establish itself. One company each from 2nd and 3rd Battalions was to carry this out, simultaneously from opposite sides of the road. Frost was in radio contact with his old rival Stephen Terrell in 3rd Battalion, but not with John Ross. Theo must ascend the hill and brief him on the plan. As quickly as possible.

  Frost looked at his watch. ‘It’s nineteen hundred now. I’ll radio Terrell and fix the attack for twenty hundred. Does that give you enough time?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Theo rubbed his neck. ‘Maybe not with mules.’

  ‘No mules, no supplies, no weapons. Travel light and fast. Here, take this.’

  Theo looked down. Frost was holding out his pistol. ‘Sir?’

  ‘It’s an old favourite of mine. Just in case. Remember Bruneval?’

  Theo hefted the pistol, which felt cold and heavy in his hand. The same gun he’d been ordered to kill Charlie Cox with. ‘I remember.’

  The rainstorm started in earnest as he was setting out, thrashing the trees into wild motion and hissing like surf, erasing routes, confusing paths and deceiving his senses. In minutes he was off track and panicking, his clothes drenched and his boots huge with mud. He couldn’t see, couldn’t hear, couldn’t navigate, each step felt clumsy and threatening, as though every bush hid a trip-wire, every rock a German. He paused, gasping, searching blindly and gripped by child-like terror. Like fleeing the tanks in France. Or in the blizzard with his great-grandfather. It is fear and inaction that kills, Theodor. He struggled on, scrabbling at rocks and roots, hauling up through the mud only to slither back down again. Thirty minutes passed, forty, he couldn’t tell, he knew only that men’s lives depended on him. His chest heaved, he felt giddy, his limbs heavy and useless like lead. Horatio, what do we do? He pressed on, gradually making ground; he breasted a rise, traversed a ridge, then tripped and stumbled headlong into a gulley. Its sides were steep, and he tumbled helplessly, rolling over and over like a corpse, until crashing to the bottom. There to rest in a stream, stunned and winded, feeling the icy water trickle over him like oil. ‘I can’t, Great-grandfather,’ he gasped, ‘I can’t do it.’ Fever gripped his head, every limb ached, he tasted blood on his tongue. He rolled sideways, hauling himself to the bank, to lie and rest in the mud. For ever. And there, staring up at the hissing canopy of leaves, his gaze fell upon the tape.

  Either of the other two battalions – green for 1st or red for 3rd – and he would never have seen it. Why yellow? he’d asked Frost. Because it stands out better! And there it was, a ghostly strip of hope in the darkness, like a thrown lifeline, snaking up the side of the gulley. Clutching it tightly he hauled himself to his feet and began climbing one final time. In a while the tape led him around the hillside and up towards Spender’s old position, from where he was able to reorientate himself. Five minutes after that he staggered into C Company.

  *

  Of the following hour he remembered only fragments. Like images at a picture show.

  Beginning with a rain-drenched scene with Ross:

  ‘Thank you, Trickey. You’d best get back to the CP. Colonel Frost will—’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘They were mine before they were yours.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘C Company. I joined them a long time... right at the beginning.’

  ‘Trickey...’

  ‘I’m coming too. You won’t stop me.’

  Then a long slithering descent, mesmerized by the back of the man ahead. Squelching mud and the click of kit. Down on all fours, creeping to a road. Lying in a ditch, waiting for the off. ‘You laddie, know how to arm a Gammon?’ A nudge, someone pointing, shadows moving. The rumble of nearby motors. Star shells bursting suddenly, blue and red, fizzing as they fall. The signal! Scrambling up, everyone together, everyone screaming. Waho Mohammed! Flashes and thunder, gunfire and grenades. Grey figures running, Frost’s pistol kicking in his hand. Sten guns crackling, bayonets flashing.
Dazzling yellow as the Gammons burst. A Para on the ground, his hands at someone’s throat. Rivers of fire as fuel tanks blow. Whistles and cheers as the grey men flee. A figure on fire, writhing at his feet. Hilf mir!

  One more kick of the pistol.

  *

  ‘It’s malaria all right,’ the MO told Frost later. ‘We’ve got him on quinine and hydrates. Let’s just hope it’s the PV strain and nothing more deadly.’

  He spent forty-eight hours unconscious on a 16th Field Ambulance cot, deliriously unaware of the brigade’s struggle for survival on the hills around him. He missed how time and again the three battalions were attacked, yet prevailed, how they lost ground by day, only to steal it back by night, how the rain never stopped, driving them to the brink of despair yet bringing mudslides and misery on to an enemy forced always to fight uphill. How valour became routine: 3rd Battalion clearing the road every night; 2nd Battalion capturing a hundred prisoners in a day; 1st Battalion’s cooks and clerks grabbing weapons to fight off an assault; 16th Field Ambulance refusing to move from the field of battle, the better to help its victims. How they held out far longer than anyone could have asked or expected, yet still it wasn’t enough. And how, with casualties at unsustainable levels, supplies running out and reinforcement impossible, the order was finally given to pull everyone out.

  Almost everyone.

  ‘Sorry, lads, he stays here with the too-sick-to-move.’

  ‘The fuck he does, he’s coming with us, ain’t you, Trickey boy?’

  Gradually he became aware of an argument. He was suspended, head lolling, between the arms of two burly Paras smelling of mud and cigarettes. Barring their way was a medical officer in surgical hat and apron.

  ‘No. He stays. He’ll be well looked after. By tomorrow, God willing, he’ll be in a proper hospital.’

  ‘A Jerry hospital though, Doc, and we can’t have that. Nor would he want it.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘What d’you say, Trickey boy? Do you want to tag along with us or stay here with the too-fucked-to-move?’

  ‘I... please... tag...’

  ‘There you go, Doc, all settled.’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  The brigade pulled out at dusk, each battalion making its own way to a rendezvous twelve miles west on high ground near the town of Nefza. 2nd Battalion’s escape route was along the river using the rain and darkness for cover, but barely had they set off than the Germans sensed the retreat and began shelling from behind. The river too was deeper than anticipated and swollen with rain, so the Paras found themselves wading chest-high in fast-flowing water thick with mud and branches. Struggling for footing, several lost balance and were washed away, still more became separated, blundering through the darkness never to be seen again, while many, particularly those at the rear, were caught by shellfire. Theo found himself among this rear cohort, half swimming, half drifting, dragged and carried along by a succession of C Company Paras while bullets stung the water and exploding shells flung surreal pillars of white high into the air. Leading them was Dickie Spender, who kept everyone together and moving with a commentary of jokes and rhymes.

  ‘This river’s called Oued el Madene, did you know?’ he called out cheerily. ‘Which of course is Arabic for Shit Creek.’ And when a shell smacked into the muddy bank nearby but failed to detonate: ‘Thud. In the mud. Another dud. Thank Gud!’

  The long night dragged on. The battalion made slow progress, strung out along the river in a snake-like procession, rifles above heads. At dawn Frost, anxious to make better time, led them from the water to continue along the railway. The rain stopped, a steaming sun rose, the temperature soared and the Paras were soon pouring sweat. And all the while the sounds of pursuit were never far behind. Men dropping too far back fell from sniper fire, and artillery and mortar shells continued to explode all round; meanwhile Theo became mesmerized by the wooden railway sleepers, convinced he was ascending a long ladder towards distant mountains of green. Sure enough by noon these dream-like peaks had crystallized into reality: three pointed hills Dickie christened the Pimples.

  ‘Our new home sweet home, chaps.’

  ‘And what happens there?’ someone asked wearily.

  ‘We turn and stop the enemy!’

  ‘Oh. Yes. Of course.’

  They arrived at dusk and began to dig in. Another cold night passed beneath the stars, then next morning they were roused early, only to be told to pack up again.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Unfamiliar faces began appearing among them. ‘And who the hell are you buggers?’

  ‘We’re Leicesters, of course! Here to relieve you, so sod off!’

  Another six-mile march rearwards brought them to their billet, an abandoned tin mine outside Nefza. The place was deserted and eerily silent, furnished only with rusting machinery and running with rats, but, too weary to care, the Paras flopped down along the dusty corridors and fell into exhausted slumber. When they awoke it was to the miraculous rumble of NAAFI lorries outside bringing hot food and drink, cigarettes, fruit, chocolate, blankets, clean uniforms, fresh weapons and ammunition. There was even a mobile shower unit, and medics, too, to tend their many sick and injured. Safely concealed within the mine and with the sounds of battle reassuringly distant, for three days they rested and fed and bathed and fed some more. Theo’s malaria slowly abated; he began taking nourishment and an interest in his surroundings and situation. A hundred and fifty from 2nd Battalion, he learned, had been lost killed or captured, a third of their strength.

  ‘How do you feel?’ Colonel Frost asked on the third morning.

  ‘A little groggy, sir, but I’m fine. What’s the gen?’

  ‘We’re supposed to be pulling back to Algiers for some much-needed leave.’ Frost sighed. ‘But the Leicesters are taking a pounding. And can’t hold out much longer.’

  ‘So when do we go back in the line?’

  ‘Tomorrow. Leave will have to wait. Again. Think we can handle it?’

  ‘I’m sure of it.’

  *

  The next day 2nd Battalion rejoined the rest of the brigade on the Pimples for the last phase of what was the Battle of Tamera. Well concealed on a wide wooded ridge a mile ahead of them was a formidable enemy force heavily supported by tanks on the ground, fighters in the air and heavy artillery hidden among rocky outcrops to either side.

  ‘Their position gives them complete command of the coast road west.’ Frost briefed his officers. ‘If they control that they control northern Tunisia and we can’t have that. Eisenhower himself says they’ve got to be driven off.’

  ‘Do we know who “they” are?’ John Ross asked.

  ‘Panzer Grenadiers, apparently,’ Frost replied warily. ‘Among others. Crack lads, Witzig Regiment so I’m told.’

  ‘Sheep-shaggers then.’

  ‘I thought it was bears. You know, for the hats.’

  ‘Bearskins aren’t made from real bears, you knob!’

  ‘They jolly well are! I’ve a chum in the Grens.’

  ‘Well, don’t let him near your sheep.’

  ‘Bunch of girls, the lot of ’em!’

  At ten o’clock that night they crossed the start line. 1st Parachute Brigade led the attack backed by an infantry brigade on either flank, a battalion of Moroccan Goumières for good measure and an entire division of artillery in support. Climbing up through the darkness behind a creeping artillery barrage was a new experience for most and it both impressed and awed them. The non-stop shriek of shells overhead, the retina-scalding flashes, the concussion and the thunder, the thick rolling smoke. Gradually they ascended, the going slow and painstaking: tapes had to be laid to guide followers, mines had to be marked and skirted, pockets of resistance dealt with, and soon the battalion was becoming strung out and fragmented; worse still the barrage was creeping too far ahead, leaving them exposed and vulnerable. Frost tried to maintain contact by radio but as the barrage passed clear of the enemy positions the Germans sprang to life, and fighting broke
out in all directions. They began taking casualties, and capturing prisoners too, further slowing progress. He was unsure of his own position, let alone those of his forward units. Elements of A Company entered a clearing only to find themselves amid enemy positions. Wild shooting erupted, grenades flew, fighters ran shouting in all directions before, badly outnumbered, the Paras hastily doubled back into cover. Elsewhere B Company blundered into a minefield and became stuck. Theo was sent forward to help guide them back out. Then towards dawn Frost reached what he believed was their objective for the night, a narrow plateau atop a hill with the enemy ridge right ahead. The position had been vacated by Germans, so already featured dug-outs, foxholes and even some abandoned weapons. Reassembling his battalion around him, he ordered them to dig in and make ready.

  But as the grey dawn strengthened into daylight, he realized he was gravely mistaken. The plateau was not atop the hill but far beneath it, and still a considerable distance from the enemy ridge. And though the terrain dropped away on three sides, favouring the defender, dense woodland surrounded it, providing cover to the attacker. Furthermore, the clearing was much smaller than he’d realized in the darkness, and his battalion too closely bunched, offering an easy target to mortars and artillery. Nor, it turned out, was it completely unoccupied by the enemy, and even as he surveyed the situation in dismay, several sleepy infantrymen in grey crept from their foxholes yawning and stretching, only to find themselves staring down the barrel of a British rifle.

  Their position was dire, the only option to attack, right away, uphill through the woods. Swiftly the order went round: Battalion will advance in battalion formation. All round the clearing Paras made ready, loading weapons, pocketing grenades, adjusting packs, fixing helmets. Theo stood alongside his commander, sweating and giddy, his rifle like lead in his hands, but ready, and when Frost finally took out his hunting horn and blew the charge, he felt the adrenalin surge in his veins like fire and stepped eagerly forward with the others. C Company led, Ross and his men sprinting forward and upwards into the trees. B Company lit out to the right while A and HQ Companies followed through left and centre. Soon they were deep in the woods and making good progress up the hill; then the sounds of battle being joined broke out ahead. Theo instantly recognized the heavy rattle of MG42s above the crack of British weapons, mixed with light machine guns and rifle fire. This was no haphazard or panicked defence by the Germans, this was disciplined and methodical shooting from a strong force moving purposefully down towards them. Suddenly Witzig men began appearing through the trees: advancing, kneeling, shooting, advancing again, unhurried and systematic. C Company caught the brunt, diving for cover, returning fire as best they could, but was quickly overwhelmed by sheer numbers and firepower. Machine guns, machine pistols, rifles, grenade launchers, mortar, even a flame-thrower appeared flinging a giant tongue of molten fire through the trees. Theo felt the heat of it and dived behind a boulder, while nearby foliage crackled to cinders. He smelled petrol and smoke, then risked a glance round his boulder, rifle raised. The flame-thrower was moving on but the forest ahead was now thick with flitting figures in grey. He glimpsed one, aimed, fired and it vanished; he saw another, a man with a grenade launcher, and fired again. Nearby he saw a Para blown apart by a mortar shell, another lying dead, his battledress black and smouldering, and a third spinning to the ground as he was struck. Many others were scurrying for cover. One rose to throw a grenade but a machine gun cut him down. Then he heard the trill of a piccolo and saw Spender’s section jump to their feet and charge into the trees. A Bren-carrying Para stepped from cover and fired a burst, but a moment later he too was crumpling to earth. Theo leaped out, grabbed him under the arms and hauled him into cover, while bullets zipped through the trees and a blizzard of leaves and branches fell from overhead. B Company joined the fray from the right, but the Witzigs were everywhere now and still coming on. Soon close-combat fighting was breaking out, men shooting at point-blank range, knives and daggers flashing, boots kicking and rifle butts bludgeoning, all accompanied by animal yelling and the blood-chilling screams of the injured. Theo fired his last round at a Witzig throwing a grenade, then saw another crouching over a Para, his hands at his throat. Reversing his rifle he leaped forward and swung it at the German’s head, feeling the stock splinter as the man’s neck snapped. The German slumped, the Para beneath him squirmed free, then simultaneously two cries began rising above the melee: ‘Zurück!’ from the Germans and ‘Back!’ from Frost, followed by blasts on his hunting horn. They were drawing apart, he realized, both sides were falling back to regroup, separately and simultaneously, as if on a signal.