Take or Destroy! (7 page)

Hockold drew a deep breath. ‘As of now, you are Number 97 Commando,’ he said, and waited with bated breath for a bolt of thunder and lightning from Combined Operations HQ to strike him down because he had no authority whatsoever as yet to give them such a title and it had only been agreed on as a temporary means of giving them an identity.

There was a moment’s silence then Bradshaw grinned. ‘Detribalized, by God,’ he said, and there was another buzz of muttered conversation. They weren’t sure whether to be pleased or not, but in most of them there was a feeling of relief. A few were even happy, because it meant they were on their way. In a few breasts like Lieutenant Swann’s, glory even lit a small lamp.

To one or two others - like Private Fidge - the announcement brought a quiver of alarm. This was something he hadn’t expected. When the buzz had gone round that they were going to South Africa, his day had been made. There was no conscription in South Africa and all you had to do was get on a train to Johannesburg and call yourself Cronje.

Hockold was speaking again.

‘I’ve looked at your records,’ he was saying, ‘and I notice some of you have been out here since the war started. That’s a long time, but if it’s any consolation, so have I.’

Well, that’s something, they thought grudgingly. At least he wasn’t some toffee-nosed puff from Cairo who hadn’t yet got his knees brown.

‘We’re here to train,’ Hockold went on. ‘For a special operation that could have a great deal of influence on the battle which we all know is brewing up out here. We don’t have long so it’s going to be tough and you’re going to have to work hard.’ He jerked a hand at the silent figure standing just to his right, and everybody’s eyes switched direction. ‘This is Major Murdoch, and it’ll pay you to give attention to what he says. It might save your lives.’

They all took a good look at Alexander Mackay Murdoch who stared back at them with his cold yellow eyes. He had dressed for the occasion and he looked like a walking armoury. He wore his kilt and, in addition to a Highland dirk honed to razor sharpness, he carried a .45, a .38, and a sniper’s rifle with a telescopic sight with which he’d shot more than one man in Spain. They didn’t like the look of Murdoch, and Murdoch didn’t like the look of them. The advantages were all on Murdoch’s side, of course, because he knew he could do something about them, while they knew they couldn’t do a damn thing about him.

Hockold was speaking again, searching his mind for something funny to say that would jerk them out of their apathy. ‘I expect you to do as you’re told,’ he went on. ‘And do it well because we want to pull this thing off and win ourselves VCs.’

He was pleased to hear a distinct laugh this time. You didn’t go out and get a VC because they looked nice on your coat. VCs were usually handed over at Buckingham Palace to your widow or your bereaved mum.

He paused. ‘I can’t tell you yet when it’ll be,’ he said. ‘Or where it’ll be, or what it’s for. But I
will
see that you do all know before we leave, because no one can do anything well unless he knows
what
he’s supposed to do. There’s just one snag -’

‘ ‘Ere it comes,’ Waterhouse said.

Hockold sensed the waiting hostility and went on quickly. ‘From now on, just to prove you’re no longer what you were, we’re going to separate you all.’

Sugarwhite’s eyes flicked to Waterhouse’s. Waterhouse looked at By. In similar fashion, the Argylls looked at the Gordons, and the Gordons looked at the West Yorkshires, and the West Yorkshires at the Royal Sussex. The look went right round the-whole crowded half circle.

Hockold continued mercilessly, accepting that Murdoch, who had suggested the move, had the experience to know what was best. ‘Regimental loyalties are no longer important,’ he said.
‘The only thing you think of now is this unit.’
He gestured at the small group of commandos under Sergeant Jacka. ‘Ask these chaps. They know what I mean. There will be two of them in each tent to encourage and advise. Otherwise, no tent will be made up exclusively from any particular regiment. That’s all. Training will start tomorrow.’

While they were still gaping, startled, shocked and disgusted, Hockold stepped from the box, thankful it was done. He turned to the sergeant-major with a forced smile. ‘It’s all yours now, Mr Rabbitt,’ he said, trying to drum up another joke to break the silence that hung over the gathering like the kiss of death. ‘Let t’battle commence.’

A training programme was organized and naval vessels were earmarked for the task.

As Colonel Hockold was dismissing his men from his mind, Colonel Hochstatter was busy examining his. His conclusion was much the same as Hockold’s.

‘They’re a pretty mixed lot,’ he said. ‘And there aren’t many of them.’

Major Nietzsche, who had called the parade, shrugged. ‘Qaba’s not very big,’ he pointed out. ‘And after all the Luftwaffe’s responsible for the airfield.’

He glanced at Captain Schlabrendorff, for an outline of the anti-aircraft position. Schlabrendorff was none too confident. ‘The town’s ringed by guns,’ he said. The whole area’s covered by heavy and light flak. Unfortunately, if they get into trouble in the desert, they’ll take them all away.’

Hochstatter looked at his lists. ‘A few guns,’ he said. ‘A few engineers, a few gunners, and a few transport men, together with eighty-seven experienced grenadiers. Two hundred and fifty-three altogether. Tarnow -’ he swung round in his chair to the signals officer ‘- did you inform army headquarters of our needs?’

Tarnow’s cold face was impassive. ‘As strongly as I could.’

Hochstatter stared again at his lists, and finally at the map of Qaba and its defences. ‘Wutka,’ he said, looking up. ‘We must have your engineers.’

Wutka’s head rose. Like Hochstatter, Nietzsche and Hrabak, he was there to recover from injuries received in battle, and he limped badly and was always glad to sit down. He was also overworked, sick of the war, sick of Qaba, even sick of Adolf Hitler. ‘Not a hope,’ he commented flatly.

‘There must be.’ Hochstatter pushed across the signal that had come in from army headquarters. ‘We must have more strong-points, road blocks, wire barriers, mines and booby traps.’

‘My men can’t do guard duties
and
build strongpoints,’ Nietzsche said.

‘And my men can’t repair damaged harbour walls and transport supplies
and
stand in for
your
men,’ Wutka snapped back.

Hochstatter sighed. He liked to consider himself a civilized soldier and a believer in
Krieg ohne Hass
- war without hate. But while, on the whole, the units of the German army in North Africa managed to leave acrimony out of their dealings with the British, they found it hard to leave it out of their dealings with the Italians and each other.

‘You must try,’ he said patiently.

‘We’ve tried,’ Nietzsche growled.

‘Then you must try harder. We must have your men. If only for a few days.’

Wutka frowned. ‘Very well,’ he agreed. ‘You can have thirty. But I’d like it in writing.’

‘I’ll see that you get it. Veledetti, how many can
you
spare?’

Captain Veledetti’s brown eyes moved unhappily. He already considered he had barely enough to patrol the perimeter of the prison compound and he was afraid that if he had less the prisoners would break out and murder him as he slept.

‘Ten,’ he suggested warily.

‘Come, Veledetti.’

‘Twenty, then.’

‘That’s better. Hrabak?’

‘I can let you have thirty,’ Hrabak said. ‘But I must have them back the minute we get transport.’

Hochstatter nodded. ‘Von Steen?’

‘Twenty,’ von Steen said. ‘Not one more, or the whole operation of the port will come to a stop.’

‘Twenty then,’ Hochstatter said. ‘That makes three hundred and fifty-three engaged purely on defence. Tarnow, ask army headquarters if we can’t borrow from Tobruk. What about guns?’

Schoeler, the artilleryman, looked up. ‘Zohler got a smashed-up Mark III from 15th Panzers. We’re digging it in now. It can’t be repaired and won’t move and he had to tow it into position, but the turret can be cranked. He’s also got two old British tanks armed with two-pounders.’

‘Is that all?’

‘The panzers are sitting on everything they have,’ Schoeler said. ‘In case they have to be cannibalized for spares. They’re expecting to need them before long.’

Hochstatter frowned. ‘Aren’t they all getting a little worked up about this big attack?’ he asked.

Nietzche shrugged. ‘This time they seem to think they need to.’

‘What about tank men?’

‘Zohler sent down fifteen and an officer. All convalescents!’

‘Himmelherrgott!’
Hochstatter gestured wearily. ‘Have we nothing but the halt, the blind and the lame? I just hope that the British are having the same difficulties we are.’

As it so happened, they were - as the explosive mixture crammed into the tented camp at Gott el Scouab indicated.

At that precise moment in time, the camp was chiefly notable for the sullen atmosphere that hung over it. Most of its inhabitants were moving about with frowning faces and saying very little. Hockold watched them from the doorway of his headquarters, a drab wooden hut which, following a raid by the Luftwaffe in July, didn’t even stand erect but leaned at an angle. Amos and Watson were behind him, Amos sitting at the desk working at a training programme Murdoch had written out, Watson staring at the tent lists and wondering if the idea of separating everyone from his friends had been a good one.

When he’d first arrived in Egypt, like everybody else who’d left England in the dark days of 1940, he’d never expected to go home again because he’d thought the war would go on for ever.

It had made the pain of being separated from his wife all the worse and for a long time he’d just accepted that he must be grateful simply for having known her. Now, however, with the old piratical days of 1940 and 1941 gone, the desert filling up with armed men, and the certainty growing that this time they really
were
going to knock the enemy out of Africa, the longing to go home had become an agony and he was impatient to finish the job.

‘Think it’ll work?’ he asked.

Amos lifted his head. ‘It’ll work,’ he said confidently. ‘By tonight they’ll be swopping fags.’

At that moment they were swopping nothing but uncomplimentary remarks about their new commanding officer.

‘Fuddy bugger, isd’t ‘e?’ Private Waterhouse was yelling, a gormless, untroubled grin on his face. ‘Proper cobedian. Let t’ battle commence, eh? What a lot o’ drippingg. It makes me fair roll od the bloody groud.’

On the whole they were in complete agreement. Gott el Scouab was clearly a bigger hell-hole than No. 2 Transit and the vastness around was oppressive, limitless and awful. Sand seeped into everything, a fair proportion filling their socks, while the brooding sun stuck their shirts to their backs with a board-like consistency and made their necks raw with the gritty dust.

‘If this is the commandos,’ Sugarwhite observed, ‘we should have joined the chain gang.’

They were all set for a good grumble, but Murdoch didn’t give them that long and sent the sergeants and corporals round the tents to chase them out. They came unwillingly because they were still feeling they’d been cheated, and Murdoch stared contemptuously at them as they turned up in dribs and drabs.

‘When I say I want y’on parade,’ he said in his quiet low voice, ‘I mean I want y’on parade - now!’ His voice remained quiet but there was something deadly in it now that made them uneasy. ‘I’m a commando. You
want
to be commandos. Well, the fairst thing you’d better learn is discipline -- without question. Contrary to what Errol Flynn would have you believe, toughness isnae bashing another chap’s head in. Toughness is keeping on going when everybody else has stopped. And
that
depends on stamina, temperament, will - and discipline. Well, we cannae change your characters or make you stronger than you were born. But we
can
give you discipline.’

He paused and the yellow gaze flickered across their faces as what he’d said sank in. ‘I was in Abyssinia and Spain,’ he went on. ‘So I ken what I’m talking about. Yon Abyssinians and yon Spanish were brave enough but they didnae savvy much aboot discipline and it was that that did for ‘em. With a bit o’ discipline -- a couple of commandos or the Fairst Black Watch, for instance -- we could have seen off both Mussolini
and
Franco, and then Hitler might no’ have bothered to go to war.’

As he stopped to draw breath, there were no funny comments because they all knew that what he said was the truth. ‘So!’ he ended. ‘I shall be doing everything you’re doing, as will all the other officers and sergeants, so you’ve no need to think you’ve got it tough.’

A few glances were exchanged and Murdoch went on. ‘You’re fully trained soldiers,’ he said, his foxy eyes gleaming behind his glasses. ‘When I’ve finished with you, you’ll be
fit
fully trained soldiers - with courage, physical endurance, initiative, resource, activity, self-reliance and an aggressive spirit towards the war.’

‘Jesus!’ Waterhouse let his breath out in a bleat of horror.

‘In the words o’ Garibaldi - ‘

‘Wha the hell’s Garibaldi?’ Keely muttered.

‘Some bloody Eyetie ice-cream merchant,’ Belcher pointed out. ‘Shut up.’

‘- you’ll know
“fame, sete, marcie forzate, battaglia e morte.”
Churchill puts it a different way. “Blood, sweat an’ tears,” he called it. There’ll no’ be much red tape, but there
will
be bull, because a clean soldier’s a good soldier and it’s all only normal infantry training. A wee bit quicker and a wee bit harder, to make you persevere, when the time comes, right to the end. Any man can cover seven miles an hour if he wishes - even out here. It’s our job to see that you
do
wish.’

There were a few shocked looks but Murdoch seemed impervious.

‘Most o’ what you do, therefore,’ he continued, ‘will be done at the double, carrying heavy weights. When you’ve finished you’ll be better men, and when you leave here every one of you will walk on the earth as if he owns it. To the Germans he will have to face, he will be as a wolf is to a lamb. Now, who are the engineers?’