Snapshots of War Michael Gouda
Part 9
Tuesday June 17th 1941
The third day of Operation Battleaxe. Things were not going well. Bert's group were still dug in on the ridge, but on the plain below them they could see the German Panzer IVs with their new 50 mm guns were knocking seven assorted shades of shit out of the British tanks. There were just too many of them. It was difficult to tell but the allied aircraft also seemed to be succumbing in increasing numbers to the German anti-aircraft guns as plane after plane plummeted into the sand, smoke streaming from the fuselage in an ineffectual farewell. On this third day in their heat and sweat it looked as if the attempt to relieve Tobruk was doomed to failure. "Best to get out while you still can," said Chalky. Bert agreed. But the decision was hardly up to him. The soldiers brewed some tea. The provision trucks had brought up fresh supplies of water during the night. It was then that the anti-aircraft guns found them. A high pitched whine was followed by an ear-shattering explosion creating a volcanic fountain of sand from somewhere just behind them. "Jesus," said someone, "where did that fucker come from?" "Anti-aircraft gun," suggested the sergeant. "I thought they were supposed to be fired up in the fucking air." "We're sitting ducks here." Another shell arrived and exploded just in front of their position. They were showered with sand and bits of shrapnel clattered on their helmets. A gash opened up in young Trent's cheek and blood started dribbling down his face. He scarcely seemed to notice, his eyes wide with alarm. Rifles and Bren guns were of no earthly use at this range. They waited for orders. Up the slope in front of them appeared a British tank its tracks churning the sand and climbed towards them. It was almost as if the driver could not see their heads sticking out of the trench. "He's going to run us down." Someone called in a terrified high- pitched voice but at the last moment the tank veered off to the left, its metallic tracks clanking and throwing up sand into their faces as it passed. A white face peered out of the driving slit in the front. "Bloody hell. And there's more coming." From out of the heat haze and shimmering mist more shapes materialised heading away from the front line. "It's a fucking retreat." Without waiting for orders, the men scrabbled around for their equipment and stood up to be immediately forced to duck down again as another whistling shell whined overhead and yet a third landed in the bunker next to them. "Let's get out of here," said the sergeant. "Come on, lads, it's a bit unhealthy here." The R/T muttered scratchily. "New orders, Sarge. We are to withdraw in an orderly fashion." "You heard him, lads. Get out of here while you still can." The 'orderly' withdrawal was more like a frantic riot as the soldiers scrambled out of the trench with shells whistling overhead or falling just in front. The sand thrown up cut their exposed skin like grit and the blood ran from their lacerations so that they looked as if they had been all severely wounded. There was no shelter, nowhere to hide and they raced along as best as they were able through the shifting, yielding sand. Bert was knocked flat on his face from the force of an explosion that landed just behind him but, although bruised, he did not think he had been badly wounded. "Get up," said Chalky as Bert lay there temporarily winded and wishing that the turmoil of screaming shells, explosions and splinter-like sand would finish. "You're not safe lying there." Bert crawled along for a while until he was sure he wasn't injured, then he staggered to his feet. There was someone lying flat on his face in the sand to his right. He wasn't moving. Bert stopped by him and turned him over. It was Private Trent. He was breathing, the breath coming out of his mouth in great gasps. Bert couldn't see any obvious wound except for the cut on his cheek which was still bleeding stickily. "Are you hurt?" he asked. Trent tried to speak, his mouth opening, but no sounds emerged. "Come on, lad, I'll help you along." He clasped the boy round the waist, hoisting him to his feet. Bert could smell the boy's sweat and the coppery smell of blood like old pennies. Together the three of them stumbled through the reverberating pandemonium, dust and confusion. "I'd give you a helping hand, mate, but... " Chalky said, shrugging. Bert understood and smiled his thanks. To anyone watching it would have looked like a twisted grimace. Eventually things got quieter. Perhaps the guns had fastened on to another place. The soldiers regrouped and a medical orderly took charge of what remained of Private Trent.
Wednesday June 25th 1941 Another meeting at Wormwood Scrubs with the same personnel as before.
The major was reading aloud from a document he held in his hand. "The attack began on June 15th and achieved some initial success, but on the following day progress was slow, and further advance was checked by enemy counterattacks. By the morning of 17th June, losses in tanks and the generally unfavourable situation made it clear that the attack had failed. The order to withdraw was given, and the British forces retired to their original area. That was the 7th Armoured Division at Sidi Omar." "A bad business," said the general. " Are there any more details of our losses?" "As far as can be ascertained, sir, British casualties totalled about 960 men. Of 90 cruiser and about 100 infantry tanks which began the battle, 27 cruisers and 64 Infantry tanks were lost. The Royal Air Force lost 36 aircraft. Enemy losses are obviously harder to estimate. It is thought that the Axis forces sustained about 800 casualties, mostly Germans. They had 12 tanks destroyed and about 50 damaged, and they lost 10 aircraft." The general looked even more grave. His hand holding the spoon to stir his tea shook noticeably. "The British failure of Operation Battleaxe was attributable to the haste with which it was mounted, the lack of opportunity to train the troops with new equipment, and the lack of tactical training, especially in armoured units. Co-operation between air and ground forces also left much to be desired. The Axis defenders occupied exceptional positions and showed marked skill in handling their anti- tank weapons and in staging counterattacks. It is clear to the British that a much greater effort will be required if the Axis forces are to be eliminated from North Africa." "The War Office has been very candid," said the colonel. "The document is of course Top-secret, and will not be for publication," said the major. "I think it may be intended as a reproof to us for our lack of success with the Juan Perez fiasco." "Damned bad show that," said the general, sucking his tea through his moustache. He looked at Carlisle as if he had been personally responsible for the failure of the plan. "We could hardly have expected the man to be run over by a van before he could communicate with his masters, sir," said Carlisle. "Our operative played his part excellently. The plan would have worked - except for extraordinary bad luck." The general looked as if he had an unpleasant taste in his mouth. Clearly even the mention of the 'operative', and what he had had to do, was distasteful to him. He puffed on his pipe as if to sanitise the whole affair. The Major looked up. "I understand General Wavell is to be replaced very shortly, probably sent to India." "Who is the replacement likely to be?" asked the general . "It needs a younger man," said the captain, his tea duties accomplished. "Someone with flair and new ideas. A worthy opponent to Rommel." "Rumour has it that it is to be General Sir Claude Auchinleck," said the colonel. The major looked astonished. "His whole career has been in the Far East . What does he know about the realities of desert warfare?" he asked. "A fine man," said the general, disapproving. "It is not up to us to criticise the powers that be." The portrait of the King looked down benignly from the wall.
Monday June 23rd 1941 A bright afternoon in June. Summertime. The sunlight warmed the London streets and people walked as if there was no war, as if nations were not poised to destroy each other. As if innocents weren't being exterminated. As if soldiers on all sides weren't being killed at the behest of their leaders. For an afternoon, it seemed, there was an atmosphere of peace and Peter and William walked through the West End of London. The newspaper man on the corner of the Strand and Aldwych was shouting: "Hitler attacks Russia". Peter bought an Evening Standard and they hurried down Lancaster Place to Waterloo Bridge. There they caught a bus back to Granby Street. Over tea with Theresa and Jean they read the paper and discussed the implications. "What can it all mean?" asked William. "It means," said Peter, "that Hitler has gone mad. He's attacked Russia. He has gone east rather than west. And surely the Russian bear will growl a little at such betrayal." "So Britain is saved?" Jean suggested. "I don't know. For the time being perhaps. It depends on how long the Russians can hold back the German Panzer columns. They swept through France with little hardship, you remember, as we all found out to our cost. And Norway. Belgium and the Netherlands. It is certainly, though, a reprieve for old John Bull." "You mean, the invasion won't happen?" asked William. "Well maybe not as soon as we feared," said Peter, smiling at his friend. "I don't understand why he has done it," said Theresa. "Hitler always planned to go East to find what he called 'Lebensraum' living room for the Germans," said Peter. "I don't expect you have read the book he wrote in 1924, Mein Kampf. Tedious stuff most of it is, but I had to study it at University. I learnt off by heart one paragraph because I thought it was significant. 'We are taking up where we left off six hundred years ago. We are putting an end to the perpetual German march towards the south and west of Europe and turning our eyes towards the east. However, when we speak of new land in Europe today, we must principally bear in mind Russia and the border states subject to her. Destiny itself seems to wish to point the way for us here.'" Tea at Granby Street had become almost a regular event since that first time. Theresa seemed to have developed a real liking for Peter and had almost badgered William to get his friend round at least once a week. There was a sudden great bustle at the back door and Adele and Mavis arrived, chattering to each other and of course late for tea. While they took off the coats, Teresa had to cut some more sandwiches and there was only fish paste at which Adele turned up her nose.
Mavis was introduced to Peter and immediately began to ogle him, fluttering her eyelashes at him in such an obvious way that William was embarrassed. Jean, hair freshly blonde, wearing a blue dress to match her eyes, gazed at Peter with something that looked almost akin to hero-worship. "He's very clever," she said. Theresa gave her a dig in the ribs. "You'll embarrass the man," she said, but Peter just looked smug and, in an attempt to put him in his place, William went over the top. "Oh yes," he said, "he's been to university you know in Paris and he speaks lots of languages, French, German, English and of course Dutch." Mavis flashed a look at Adele who nodded. "We have a piece of paper," said Mavis, "with some writing on it - in a foreign language. I wonder if you know what it is." She went out to where she had hung her coat in the hall and returned with a folded piece of what looked like pink blotting paper. When she had unfolded it they all peered at the curious writing. "You have to hold it up to the mirror," said Adele and when they did so, they saw: 'Sag Lotte, daß ich sie liebhabe und sobald alles vorbei ist werde ich mit ihr zurück nach Wiesbaden gehen, wo wir 1936 zwei so glückliche Urlaubswochen verbracht haben.'
"Sag Lottie dab ick sigh.... " said Mavis reading from the start. "What language is that?" "Looks a bit like German," said Jean. "My Sam used to know a bit of German. Isn't Wiesbaden a town in Germany?" Peter hesitated for a fraction of a second then said, "It is German," He pronounced the sentence properly. "It means 'Give my love to Lotte and tell her that, as soon as all this is over (I assume the person means the War), I'll take her back to Wiesbaden where we spent such a happy two weeks on holiday back in 1936.' Wiesbaden is a spa town in Germany, a bit like Cheltenham or Harrogate." "There I told you," said Mavis. "He's seeing another girl, sending his love to this Lotte, spending his holidays with her." "It might be his sister or a cousin or anyone," said Adele. "You'll have to ask him." Adele beckoned her close so that they couldn't be overheard by the others. They carried on the conversation in a low tone. "How can I? He'll know we've been looking at his private papers." "A blotter is private papers?" "You know what I mean," said Adele. "Anyway it's obviously over if it all happened in 1936 - that's five years ago." "Did you know he could speak German? That he'd been in Germany?" Adele shook her head. "I told you he was a spy." "Don't be silly." But Adele looked worried. At the table amidst the debris of teacups and cake crumbs, Jean said, "That Mavis is after him you know." "I don't think so. She's just a young girl," said Theresa. "Perhaps he likes young girls." "Surely he's much too sensible to be interested in that age group. I don't think he paid her much attention at all." Jean sighed. "It doesn't look as if he's paying me much attention either. I suppose he isn't ... " "Isn't what?" But Jean wouldn't say. They looked over to where Peter and William were sitting on the settee in earnest conversation, heads close together. "I recognise the writing," Peter was saying. "I'm sure I do. I think it's Charlie's. How on earth did your sister and her friend get hold of it?" "You should have said it was Russian or something," said William. "Put them off the track." "Jean identified it. She knew Wiesbaden. This is most worrying. You'll have to find out where your sister's friend got it from. I only hope they don't get suspicious and start trying to find things out." "I'll ask Adele," promised William. "Try not to make it sound too important," said Peter.
Monday June 23rd 1941 (evening) Nights seemed to be so much more peaceful now. Though of course the German forces were just over the Channel and had occupied the Channel Islands, part of Britain, the fact that so much of the enemy effort seemed to be directed to the East - and Russia, meant that air raids were much less frequent. The nightly treks to the Underground had become the exception rather than the rule. William would have liked to have gone to see Peter that evening , but mindful of his promise to find as much information as he could from Adele about the message, he had stayed in and now the three of them, Teresa, Adele and William, sat in the living room listening to the wireless and probably all wishing they were somewhere else. Mavis had gone home to change before work and Auntie Jean was away for the night visiting her parents who lived in Muswell Hill. Adele would be going to work too later in the evening so William knew, if he was going to find out anything about the German message, he would have to broach the subject soon. His own day had been long and he was tired. Mr Pemberton had been down from Head Office in Slough, and William had been showing off his skill at riveting and brazing until the bits of metal had danced before his eyes and he felt the blue arc light of the welding torch would burn holes in his retinas even through the protective goggles. He looked at his mother. Theresa sat in her armchair, hands in her lap, listening to the music played by Jack Hylton and his Orchestra - 'We'll Meet Again' played on lots of violins. She looked relaxed and somehow fulfilled. There was peace in her face; it was something under the surface which seemed to shine through, even though the worries and cares of wartime stress were still there. He looked across at his sister in the other chair. Though obviously younger, there was something of the same look about her. William wondered about this. One tended to take close relatives for granted, did not peer at them too closely, their features were too well-known to need examination - but he had never noticed this affinity, this special resemblance before. He wondered if it had always been there or, if not, what might have caused it. "Adele," said William, and stopped, realising he wasn't sure how to go on. "Um," said Adele, looking up. "That was interesting, at teatime, you know, the message in German." "Uh huh," said Adele unhelpfully. "I was wondering who might be writing in German to someone in Germany." "You know what curiosity did to the cat," said Adele. This was going to be difficult but unexpectedly Theresa joined in. "Where did you get the blotting paper from, dear?" she asked. Adele hesitated. It was obvious that she didn't really want to talk about it but, on the other hand, she wouldn't snub her mother in the same way as she was quite prepared to snub her 'little' brother. "It was someone at work," she said. "One of the girls?" asked Theresa. "The way it referred to Lotte, I thought it was a man writing it." "Well actually it was," said Adele, finally making up her mind to come clean. "It was Mr Leverton, one of the bosses. I've been seeing him, you know, apart from work, at the Palais, actually. And we found the paper in his office." "But it was a private letter," said Theresa, her tone, mildly reproving. "I didn't want to take it," said Adele, "but Mavis - you know how she is, her nose into everything. I couldn't stop her - and then I wondered what it was. The words were so strange when we looked at them in the mirror." Mr Leverton, thought William, a boss at the Woolwich Arsenal, so it couldn't have been the Charlie whom MI5 knew about. The handwriting must just have been similar enough to fool Peter. William felt relieved. After Peter had warned him about Charlie, he didn't want to think of Adele becoming involved with someone like that. "And what are you going to do now?" asked Theresa. Adele shrugged. "I'd prefer to leave it alone - but Mavis....." she let the sentence fade away. "Anyway," she said, suddenly getting up. "I must go. It's getting late." "Would you like a cup of cocoa before you go?" asked Theresa. Adele shook her head. "What about you, William?" "I'd prefer a bottle of beer," said William, who had developed a liking for it after visiting pubs with Peter. "Listen to big boy, Bill," said Adele, "drinking beer now." "There isn't any in the house," said Theresa. "I could go to the off-licence," said William. "They'll still be open. And I'll be able to walk big sister to the tram stop, to make sure she doesn't get robbed along the way." "Huh," said Adele loftily, and put on her coat. "You're not old enough," said Theresa. "They won't serve you." "I bet I can," said William. "I've done it before." Theresa shook her head but raised no more objections. It was still fairly light though dusk was falling. British Double Summertime ensured that it was light late and thus that the farmers and the Land Girls could carry on working in the fields until up to 10 o'clock. William and Adele walked to the tram stop. "What did you really think about this Leverton bloke, you know, your boss?" asked William, greatly daring and expecting to get his head bitten off, but Adele seemed to have calmed down. "Mr Leverton?" she said, "I don't know. Mavis thinks he's the spy. I quite like him. He's a smashing dancer!" William almost laughed. He couldn't imagine the gruff, almost perennially surly, Charlie doing anything as frivolous as dancing. But Adele must have seen his smile because she froze up and they finished the walk to the tram stop in silence. William didn't wait for the tram to arrive. The Goat and Compasses with its off-sales department was a further half mile down the road and he would have to hurry if he wanted to catch it open. As it was the barmaid with the curly hair and inviting bosom was just about to put up the 'Closed' sign when William pushed open the door. "Can I get a bottle of Bass?" he asked, putting on as deep a voice as he could. "It isn't too late it is it?" She looked him up and down and for a moment William thought she was going to refuse him. Then she smiled "Course you can, dear," she said, "and if you like to 'ang on for 'alf- an-'our while I wash up in the bar, you can 'ave me as well." She gave a laugh at his spreading blush. "I like a big strong lad like yourself." "Just the beer tonight, love," he said, recovering an element of cheek. "Perhaps you on top of the beer might be a bit too much for me." She laughed again and took his money. William walked back along the road. As he passed a telephone box the thought struck him that he should phone Peter and tell him about Mr Leverton, relieve his doubts that the letter had been written by Charlie, but there was no answer to the ringing. William wondered where Peter had got to. Oh well it wasn't that important; he would tell him tomorrow. It has quite dark by then, cloud covering, and then letting through, a half moon, and William had to pick his way carefully to avoid tripping over kerbstones and bumping into street lamps which no longer functioned. He was startled to hear the wailing sound of the siren, howling out of the night; there hadn't been an air raid for a couple of weeks. He hurried down Windmill Road to the turning which was Granby St. As he reached the corner and turned up towards his house, he heard the droning sound of an aircraft. Searchlights were sweeping the sky and suddenly one caught the plane, a silver cross in the white beam. The other three converged and the plane was held in the confluence, the lattice work of light. William thought that the plane was flying south, on its way back home, perhaps detached from the other planes - for they usually travelled in a pack - from a raid somewhere up North. The ack-ack guns sounded, sharp cracks and puffs of smoke were caught in the beams. They were close but hadn't got a hit. The plane started to weave, trying to escape the net of searchlights. It seemed to be going very slowly, William thought, perhaps it hadn't dropped its bombs, was still heavily laden. Just as that thought struck him, he saw the silver bombs fall, one after the other, tumbling for a second in the lights before disappearing downwards into the darkness. He paused waiting and then heard the explosions, the first from somewhere up North, Camden Town perhaps, then nearer and nearer as the bombs landed and blew up. Suddenly he realised he was very exposed but there was no air raid shelter immediately close and he crouched down in the lee of a brick garden wall. Then an enormous crash which hurt his ear drums and a punch of blast which picked him up and threw him down onto the pavement ten feet away. The breath knocked out of him, his back hurting from its contact with the ground, elbows grazed and bleeding, he lay there wondering if he was badly hurt. There was another crunching report from somewhere further south and then silence - except for the ringing in his ears. He shook his head and tentatively got to his feet. Helpfully the cloud cleared and the moonlight showed him the way through the dust which hung in a fringe across the road. He looked towards his house. It wasn't there. There was the gap where the Fosters had been and then just a pile of rubble with the remains of the staircase still fastened to the wall which was Jean's house. And Mum was somewhere under that rubble of bricks and tiles and cement and wood.
End of Part 9