The Triumph Page 18

  ‘We are not going to cancel,’ Murdoch said, sealing the third envelope on his desk.

  ‘You’ve found a replacement, sir?’

  ‘Yes,’ Murdoch said. He held out the three envelopes. ‘The two to be mailed are to be sent in four days’ time. Yours can be opened then.’

  Methuen glanced at them. One was addressed to the Right Honourable Winston Churchill, PC, the second to Lady Mackinder, and the third to Commander Methuen. ‘My God, sir,’ the Commander protested. ‘You’re not...’

  ‘I am taking a few days off to go into the country, Commander. Understood?’

  Methuen swallowed. ‘There is going to be the most utter hell to pay, sir.’

  ‘Which is why you know nothing about it. The moment you do know something about it, which will be when in four days’ time you obey orders and open your sealed envelope, you can call for all the help you can get to fetch me back.’

  Methuen gazed at him. ‘May I beg you to reconsider, General? I mean, at your age...’

  ‘You mention my age and I’ll cashier you,’ Murdoch growled.

  ‘But really, sir. Yugoslavia...’

  ‘Is apparently the only place I am going to be allowed to fight the enemy, Methuen. Beggars can’t be choosers. You just carry out my orders.’

  *

  ‘I’m sorry to bring you up to London, Lee,’ Churchill said.

  ‘It’s simply that I cannot come down to Somerset.’ He tapped the letter on his desk. ‘I assume you’ve had one of these?’

  ‘Yes.’ Lee’s face was tight. But not as tight as the Prime Minister had feared.

  ‘He’s a cunning rogue,’ Churchill said. ‘He was actually on his way out while I was on my way back. He landed in Gibraltar going east hours before I landed there coming west; our aircraft must have passed within a few thousand feet of each other at one stage. But he managed to keep his identity secret, travelling as this poor fellow Durden. He even got away with it in Cairo and Cyprus. His staff must have been sworn to secrecy too. And of course Methuen must have known his intention, even if Murdoch says he didn’t.’

  ‘Did he get to Yugoslavia?’ Lee asked.

  ‘Oh, indeed he did. The required code signal was transmitted by wireless. Murdoch usually gets where he wants to, by hook or by crook. He really ought to be locked up for his own protection. Sixty-one years old, and jumping out of aeroplanes. How ridiculous can you get?’

  ‘So what happens now?’

  ‘Now? Well, I have already issued the most peremptory order for him to return as soon as is practicable.’

  ‘Which he will ignore.’

  ‘I’m afraid that would be in character. Lee, it is essential that Murdoch’s presence in Yugoslavia be kept an absolute secret. Our mission was going to be top secret anyway, but to let it be known that we have sent a lieutenant-general, and probably our most famous lieutenant-general, to contact the Serbian guerillas would invest that theatre of war with an importance out of proportion to the rest of our war effort. I shall, of course, inform the President, in the strictest confidence, but no one else outside of us three and Murdoch’s personal staff must know; to the world he has been taken ill and is in a secret hospital somewhere in this country. Will you promise to adhere to that?’

  ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘It might be a good idea to book that hospital bed right away; he’s going to need it when I get through with him, after he comes back.’

  Churchill grinned. ‘After he’s been cashiered, you mean.’ He stroked his chin. ‘Although there’s no precedent for cashiering an officially retired general. Lee...are you really very angry with him?’

  Lee sighed. ‘Of course I’m angry with him, Winston. But I’m also very proud of him. He’s acting entirely in character, and it was that character I first fell in love with, after the Mad Mullah’s men had stopped shooting holes in him. Winston...he is going to come back?’

  Churchill rested his hand on top of hers as it lay on the desk, fingers clenched. ‘Murdoch always comes back, my dear. It is his most enduring characteristic.’

  7

  El Alamein, 1942

  ‘Gentlemen,’ Sir Claude Auchinleck had said at the end of July, standing before a huge map of north-western Africa. ‘We have been outgunned and outdriven by Rommel once again. But he has reached the end of his resources, for the time being, and we are being replenished every day. So, here we are, and here we are going to stand until we are ready once more to attack. The plans for this are well laid, and if we have lost Tobruk, the RAF intends to do as much damage as possible to the enemy lines of communication by raiding as far back as Benghazi.

  ‘But we can expect Rommel to come again, because he must, before we are ready. If he cannot beat us, decisively, before our reinforcements arrive, he cannot beat us at all. So this time his attack must fail. I wish to leave no one in any doubt about this. Our position is a strong one, if defended with determination. It is only thirty-five miles from the sea, here at Alamein, to the Quattara Depression. This doesn’t give even Rommel too much room for manoeuvre, and those entire thirty-five miles have been sown with minefields. I have no doubt that he will find his way through the mines; our objective must be to cut him to pieces when he does.

  ‘Now the key to the position, apart from the presence of the Depression on one flank and the sea on the other, is these three ridges.’ He began to touch the map with his wand. Way down in the south, overlooking the Depression, is Hunter’s Ridge. Approximately twelve miles north-east of Hunter’s Ridge, and thus actually behind our position, is the Alam al Halfa Ridge. Both of these are natural defensive positions. But the best position of all is this one, the Ruweisat Ridge.’ Again he touched the map.

  ‘You’ll see it lies in the very centre of our position, ten miles due south of Alamein Village. It is two hundred feet high, and steep sided.

  ‘Now then, gentlemen, in addition to the front before Alamein, where we are organized in great depths, we are going to hold Ruweisat in strength: I am allotting the First Indian and the Second New Zealand divisions, together with the Seventh Armoured Division. As I propose to hold nothing south of that, not even Hunter’s Plateau, you will observe that I am deliberately giving Rommel a good deal of desert to play with. I hope, and believe, that he will do just that. He will never chance his precious panzers on a frontal assault on the Alamein position. He will undoubtedly do as he has done before, and seek to utilize the desert flank. He will find his way through the minefields between Ruweisat and Hunter’s, because his probes will tell him that the front there is lightly held. When he is through he will discover that it is not held at all, and he will make one of his great swings to the north. He will not attack Ruweisat, because he will be able to see as well as anyone how strong it is, and how well defended. He will seek to go further east, but because Alam al Halfa is another natural obstacle, he will seek to swing up to the north between Ruweisat and Alam. That is the moment when the Seventh Armoured Division, debouching from Ruweisat in the south, will catch the Afrika Korps in the flank and hopefully bite it off.’ He had paused for a last time to look over their faces. ‘I have to tell you, gentlemen, that I intend to command this battle personally, and that there will be no retreating from the positions I have outlined. Good day to you.’

  *

  That had been in July, and when Rommel had attacked, only a few days later, things had turned out very much as Auchinleck had predicted. Fergus had entered the battle with some misgivings. The fall of Tobruk had had a stunning effect on the already low morale of the army. The fact that Auchinleck himself was to command, and that he had chosen probably the strongest natural position in North Africa to do so, had been encouraging, but against that had been the news that kept seeping up the railway from Alexandria, of wholesale preparations for evacuation, of wholesale panic as well.

  And above everything lurked the suspicion in the minds of the armoured units that their tanks and their guns were inferior to those of the Germans. A battle, and a victory, were ve
ry badly needed.

  There was no victory, but after a week of hard fighting the Afrika Korps had been checked and hurled back. The battle, known as the Battle of El Alamein (and later renamed the First Battle of El Alamein), was fought according to the General’s plan, and at the appropriate moment Fergus and the dragoons roared down the slope of Ruweisat, with the rest of the division, indeed catching the panzers in the flanks. There had been another glorious melée, with brew-ups in every direction, and as usual, at close quarters the cruisers had done very well. But they had not routed the enemy, who withdrew in good order behind their mobile anti-tank screen, and when the British sought to press home their advantage, the eighty-eights once again took a frightful toll. However, Rommel had realized that this time the Allies intended to hold their positions no matter what it cost, and he was not going to break through without prohibitive losses; he had pulled his troops back out.

  The Eighth Army was more relieved than jubilant. If they were at last beginning to feel that they had a position which could be defended, and a commander who was determined to defend it, they also knew there was no way they could take the offensive and beat the enemy while he could destroy their tanks at a ratio of two to one.

  Yet Auchinleck had every reason to be satisfied, and to look forward to that accretion of strength, mainly those three hundred Sherman tanks promised by the Americans, which, with their seventy-five millimetre guns and their heavier armour, would be superior to anything possessed by the panzers, and would hopefully neutralize the eighty-eights. Fergus was therefore utterly surprised when, only a week after the battle had been concluded, and while the regiment were still seeing which of their tanks could be restored to working order — and he was still composing letters of condolence — the General appeared in his leaguer, which was still on Ruweisat Ridge.

  ‘At ease, gentlemen,’ he told Fergus and Bentley and the padre, Captain Long. ‘I just dropped in to say goodbye.’ They stared at him in consternation.

  ‘I am being replaced as GOC Middle East by General Alexander,’ Auchinleck explained.

  ‘But why, sir?’ Fergus asked.

  ‘I would say because I have not yet beaten Rommel conclusively, which is what the armchair politicians in England consider I should have done.’

  ‘Where are you going?’ Bentley asked.

  Auchinleck’s smile was bitter. ‘Oh, I am to command what might be called the Middle East East, as opposed to the Middle East West. That is to say, Iran and Iraq. It is felt that for one man to be responsible for the whole area is too much.’

  ‘But...both you and General Wavell were in command of the whole area,’ Fergus protested.

  ‘Our masters have changed their minds. One could almost say they have come to their senses. Well, gentlemen, I will repeat the words I used when I took up this command. As I regretted that General Wavell had not been allowed to finish the job he had begun with so much distinction, I regret not being allowed that opportunity myself. But I would like you to know how much pleasure it has given me to command you, and I know that you will give General Alexander the same loyal service as you gave me.’

  He shook hands with each of them, and Fergus felt a lump in his throat. ‘May we ask who is going to command the Eighth Army, sir?’

  Auchinleck smiled. ‘Now, that is good news. General Gott is moving up from Thirteenth Corps to the army command. If any man can beat Rommel it will be Strafer Gott.’

  That was the first week in August. Within two days General Gott had been killed in an air crash while surveying his extended new command. General Ramsden assumed temporary command, and then the army waited, once again with dwindling morale, uncertain as to what was going to happen next. But at last news was received that their new commanding officer was arriving.

  *

  The regiment had been given a few days’ rest and relaxation behind Alamein — they could easily regain Ruweisat at the first sign of any new move from Rommel — and although it was early in the morning the troopers were already bathing with a crowd of Australians and South Africans, who were responsible for the line in front of Alamein itself. Their officers were breakfasting, and enjoying mail from England, such of it as was enjoyable.

  Harry was missing, believed killed! Fergus had never known his younger brother all that well. He had been close to leaving Wellington when Harry, five years his junior, had first gone there. Then their paths had separated, and if he had looked forward to having his baby brother in the regiment, eventually, that prospect had disappeared with Harry’s determination not to become involved in military matters. Fergus remembered being angry about that mainly because he had observed how upset Dad and Mom were. After that there had been no contact between them at all. Harry had even been in Paris, scribbling away at his interminable novels, when the war had started and the BEF, including the regiment, had gone to France — but he had never come up to see his brothers, and when the going had got rough he had escaped to the States. Fergus remembered thinking, jolly good riddance.

  Now the poor little blighter, having belatedly tried to make amends by joining the American Marines as that country had been drawn ever closer to war with Japan, had got himself killed. His life, in Fergus’s opinion, had been a disaster.

  But what was he to say about his own? Annaliese was definitely unhappy. She felt that Lee and Philippa didn’t like her. Apparently they were always criticizing her clothes and her habits. It really was an impossible situation for a girl like Liese to be in, he felt. As a German she could hardly go out and get a job, although as the widow of a British officer she could hardly be called an enemy alien. She was having the worst of all worlds, with no prospect of marriage while the war dragged on, and especially while this stalemate continued in Africa. Yet Mom appeared to be behaving as kindly to her as ever, and had even bought her a secondhand motor car so that she could be more mobile — within the range of her petrol coupons. He didn’t know who to believe.

  On top of all that was a letter from some brigadier in Cairo, informing him that a group of his men had been observed on the streets of the city improperly identified; they had not been wearing their regimental flashes. Would he kindly see that this did not happen again. Ye gods, he thought, what a way to fight a war.

  He folded the letters into his breast pocket, looked up, and watched a staff car bouncing along the road to divisional headquarters. Fifteen minutes later a bugle played assembly. Men raced from the sea, hastily dragging on at least their shorts, while their officers looked for orders or the enemy.

  A tank — one of his tanks, Fergus realized — had been parked in the centre of an uncluttered area, and towards this the men were being directed. They formed a vast, muttering, uncertain group, totally confused. Their officers felt their way through them and stood in front, to watch the staff car return from Corps Headquarters and draw up beside the tank. In it were several high-ranking officers, including the Acting Army Commander, General Ramsden, his Chief of Staff, General Sir Francis de Guingand, and Thirtieth Corps Commander, General Sir Oliver Leese. But all eyes were upon the somewhat slight figure who was first from the car, and who then climbed up the side of the tank and leaned against the cupola. He looked over his amazed audience, and they looked back; he was very casually dressed — but for the gold braid on his cap it would have been difficult to tell he held any rank higher than captain.

  He waited, and slowly the shuffling and muttering ceased. Then he spoke, in a high, clear voice. He tapped the tank on which he stood. ‘I have been told that the Germans have better machines than this. I am here to tell you that is utter rubbish. A tank is only as good as the man who commands it. Just as a rifle is only as good as the man who is firing it. No better, and no worse. You...’ he pointed at them. ‘Every man of you, is worth two Germans. Don’t forget that.’

  He paused to let that sink in, and Fergus suddenly felt the adrenalin begin to flow. Why hadn’t he thought of telling his men that? So what if it wasn’t true? If they believed it, they would m
ake it come true.

  ‘My name,’ the General announced, ‘is Montgomery, and I am your new Commander-in-Chief.’

  He paused to let that sink in too. ‘Let me tell you now,’ he went on, ‘that standing here today, I am the proudest man in the British Army. The fame of the Eighth Army is renowned wherever fighting men gather together. You are the best soldiers this nation of ours possesses — and that means you are the best soldiers in the world. Your deeds testify to that. You have fought, and won, time and again. Where you have been driven back, you have always recovered to fight, and win, again. Well, you are never going to be driven back again.’

  Another pause, and Fergus glanced to left and right. Not a man was moving, but every face seemed to glow; for too long they had received criticism instead of praise.

  ‘My mission,’ Montgomery said, ‘and yours, is to hit that man Rommel for six, clear out of Africa.’

  This time there was a rustle; it was very nearly one of applause.

  ‘It will be difficult,’ Montgomery told them. ‘He is a capable soldier. All Germans are capable soldiers. It is in their blood. But we are fighting for a cause, and we have a mighty ally on our side: the great Lord above. He will not fail us, and we will not fail him, any more than we will fail each other. As of this moment, the Axis forces in North Africa are doomed. I want every man to be certain of that. Dismissed!’

  The men stared at him for a moment longer, then someone — Fergus recognized the voice as belonging to Bert Manly-Smith — shouted, ‘Three cheers for the General! Hip-hip...’

  The hurrahs raced skywards, and Montgomery smiled, and saluted.

  ‘Some speech,’ commented the padre.

  ‘Words are cheap,’ Bentley pointed out. ‘What did you think of him, Fergus?’