The Sand Panthers (13 page)

Standing with his staff next to his caravan, Montgomery felt the sudden shock of silence. For the first time since he had arrived in the desert, there was absolute silence. Not a gun, not a rifle fired.

It was a beautiful night. The desert was bathed in white moonlight, outlining the hundreds of tanks and trucks waiting for the battle to begin. Here and there a soldier stood next to his vehicle, cigarette cupped carefully in his hand, staring to the front, where the Germans lay waiting for them.

For once in his life Montgomery was nervous. It had taken him nearly twenty-five years of service to get this far in the Army. Now all that effort, all that preparation, all that heartache and self-sacrifice could be destroyed in a flash if this battle went wrong. He had enemies enough in London; they wouldn’t give him a second chance. He
must
win at El Alamein!

The minutes ticked by. Nine o’clock passed. Across the way Horrocks came out of his caravan. He seemed his usual happy self. Nine-thirty! There was not much time left. Montgomery said a quick prayer. Ahead of him the men at the vehicles were tossing away their cigarette ends – they glowed like fire-flies in the sand – and were clambering into their cabs.

Suddenly the whole sky to his front blazed with light. For what seemed a long time, there was no sound. From left to right, as far as he could see, the dead-white lights flickered and danced soundlessly. Then the sound of 1,000 guns firing hit him an almost physical blow in the face, so much so that he reeled back, repelled by that tremendous overwhelming noise.

His mood of reverie vanished in a flash. He tried to picture what Stumme at the receiving end of that murderous barrage must be thinking at this moment. He must know now what was coming. How ready was the German commander to tackle him when the barrage ceased and the troops began to move forward into the battle? Could he pull it off?

He turned and walked back to his caravan. His staff followed automatically. Behind him the enemy line began to glow here and there, indicating that a German gun position had been hit and was burning. Montgomery did not look back, although Brigadier Dennis, the commander of 30th Corps’ artillery, was crying out loud with passionate enthusiasm, ‘Oh, I say – good shooting! ... Bang on, chaps, really bang on!’

Instead he stopped at the door of his caravan and said to his Chief-of-Staff, General Francis de Guigand, ‘Freddie, I think I’ll turn in now.’

‘And the battle?’ the burly staff officer asked, a little surprised at his Chief’s intention, although he knew Monty of old.

Montgomery’s eyes twinkled in the ruddy glare of the barrage. ‘The battle, Freddie?’ he asked. ‘That thing – that thing will take care of itself. Good night.’ With that, the General mounted the stairs to his bunk and waiting glass of hot milk, as if he had not a care in the world.

The Battle of El Alamein had begun!

*  *  *

Waiting tensely in the doorway of the street in which she had her apartment, Slaughter saw the faint-pink fluttering on the horizon. Jerry must be getting a bashing on the front, he told himself, but he had more important things to concentrate on. Up the street, a flash of blue light broke the blackout. It flicked on and off three times. It was the signal he was waiting for. The SAS troop was in position.

‘Come on,’ he whispered urgently to the boy.

The boy stuck the goad sharply into the donkey’s backside and with a grunt, the awkward brute moved into the alley. The two of them, dressed in the rags of the fellaheen, started to wander down, knocking at each door in turn and bawling out the wares they had to sell.

As Slaughter had anticipated, more curses were directed at them than doors opened. It was the reception he wanted. Up the road the woman’s butler would hear the racket and not attempt to activate the alarm system when they came level with her door.

They reached the American woman’s house. He nudged the boy; ‘Ready?’ he whispered urgently out of the side of his mouth.

The boy who had taken to the swift, ruthless murdering of the last few days as if he had been born to it, nodded.

Slaughter stopped in front of the back door and raising his head, bellowed at the top of his voice in best pedlar style.

‘Go away!’ an irritated voice exclaimed from the kitchen. ‘Go away, you black pig!’

Slaughter howled again, praising the cheapness of his wares, which it broke his heart to give away at such prices when he already was a poor man with an ailing wife and six starving children to support. Suddenly his heart leapt. The trick was working. Through the poorly blacked-out door, he could see a chink of light. Then came the sound of heavy boots approaching the door. Slaughter looked at the boy. He was already in position, knife held close to his chest.

There was the rattle of a chain being released. Slaughter increased his wailing. The boy tensed. A bolt was drawn back. The door opened slightly. A yellow light sliced into the blue gloom of the blackout.

‘Son of a poxed-up whore, why are you disturbing the peace of honest men –’

The butler’s words ended in a thick grunt of pain, as the boy’s knife struck him in the chest. The bowl of steaming white beans which he had been eating dropped from his lifeless fingers and shattered on the tiled floor. ‘Quick!’ Slaughter urged.

The boy jammed his heel into the dying man’s guts and the butler dropped with a gasp like the air hissing out of a punctured tyre. Slaughter whistled shrilly. The SAS men, thick woollen stockings over their boots, ran noiselessly down the street. Within seconds, they were in the back of the house, which was heavy with the smell of spiced cooking.

Hastily the men, strung out in single file, weapons at the ready, moved down the long dark passage which linked the servants’ quarters. They emerged into a large round hall, decorated with modernistic paintings and Arab wall rugs. From above there came the sound of several voices.

Slaughter jerked his revolver upwards. ‘Remember I want the woman alive,’ he ordered.

Pressing themselves into the shadows close to the wall, the SAS men started to mount the winding stairs. Slaughter, bringing, up the rear, licked suddenly dry lips. He must get that woman! There could be no slip up now. She was the last link in the chain. Once he knew what the damned American woman knew, he would have the whole rotten bunch of them by the short and curlies. The great revolution would be over before it had ever begun.

Slaughter started. A door had opened above them. The buzz of voices grew louder. The SAS men halted as one. They pressed themselves deeper into the shadows. Slaughter felt his heart racing madly. If they were spotted now, the woman would have a chance of escape. But luck was on their side. Whoever had opened the door, closed it again without seeing the dozen men biding in the shadows only a handful of yards away.

They made the top of the stairs without any further difficulty. Slaughter nodded to the boy again. He knew perfectly what he was to do. While the SAS men grouped themselves on either side of the door under Slaughter’s direction, he posted himself directly in front of it.

‘Now,’ Slaughter whispered.

The boy knocked three times on the door in the Egyptian servant fashion and without waiting for a call to come in, he opened it and stood there, as if surprised, pushing the door even wider open with the side of his right foot.

‘Who the Sam Hill are –’ a woman’s voice cried in English.

Slaughter did not give her time to finish. ‘GO!’ he commanded. The desert veterans tumbled through the door, pushing the boy to one side. Inside the little group of young men, some in the uniform of the Egyptian Army, sipping green tea scented with mint, scattered in alarm.

A very dark Captain, who might have been Sudanese, grabbed his .38. The SAS corporal was quicker. His sten chattered, its racket deadened by the silencer. The Captain’s shirt flushed with blood and he slammed against the wall, his intestines spilling out, fat, grey and palpitating like a hideous snake.

The sight was enough for the rest of the plotters.

Faces contorted with horror, they raised their hands, while the woman was sick into the brass spittoon.

Slaughter had no mercy. Shoving through the ashen-faced Egyptians, stepping over the Sudanese slumped on the floor, he grabbed hold of her fluffy yellow thatch and dragged her face up from the spittoon. ‘Look at me, you bitch!’ he commanded hoarsely.

Pomme stared up at the Major, her face deathly pale under the mask of rouge, the vomit wet on her lips. ‘Why…why are you so cruel?’ she asked thickly.

He slapped her across the face with his free hand. ‘I’m asking the questions here, you whore’, he roared with simulated rage, knowing that the raddled woman would only respond to brutality.

Pomme stared from Slaughter’s face to that of the boy who was watching the Englishman’s treatment of the woman with undisguised admiration and she realized instinctively what the relationship between the two of them was. ‘Does it give him a charge too if you belt him before you f –’ she began with a trace of her old spirit.

Viciously Slaughter struck her again. Her head slammed to one side. When she turned her head to him once more, there was a thin trickle of blood curling down from her right nostril; and her eyes were full of fear.

Slaughter knew she was ready to talk.

‘Alexandria!’

Schulze grunted in answer to von Dodenburg’s announcement.

Behind them in the cover of the wadi, the tired Wotan troops ate their midday meal, their vehicles concealed from any prying British aircraft by the Egyptian Army three-tonners. To their front the green of the Delta was laid out like a carpet. Beyond lay Egypt’s second largest city. After two weeks of burning desert, it looked very alluring, with its gleaming white buildings, faintly moving palms and eucalyptus trees, and orderly gardens.

It also looked, to von Dodenburg at least, very frightening. Lying there in the hot sand staring at Alexandria through his glasses he felt himself overcome by a sense of pessimistic foreboding. In spite of the heat of the day, he shivered involuntarily.

‘Anything wrong, sir?’ Schulze asked.

‘Must have been a louse running across my liver,’ von Dodenburg answered. He put his binoculars back in their case and rolling over on his back, stared at the men. Soon they would begin painting out the iron crosses on their vehicles for the journey through the city towards the barracks. Mingled as they would be with the Egyptian vehicles, with their crews in the same sort of khaki and stripped of German insignia, they would pass as Egyptian Army troops. Once they reached the objective, they would break out their swastika recognition panels to let the civilians know who was really attacking the British barracks. According to the American woman, the revolutionaries would have a camera man hidden in one of the brothels nearby to make a photographic record of the attack. The photos would appear in every paper in Egypt the next day.

Schulze looked at von Dodenburg uneasily. ‘If you’ll forgive me saying so, sir, you’ve got a face like forty days’ rain. Problems?’

Von Dodenburg nodded glumly. ‘Yes, Schulze there are. All I know of the set-up down there in the city is what I have heard from the woman and the Egyptians, and I am not happy with an op based on second-hand info. I can’t risk those boys back there on a half-assed job like this. I need more gen before I attack that barracks.’

‘You mean you would like me and that other dum-dum, Matz, to have a look for you, sir,’ Schulze said, a grin on his big face.

Von Dodenburg’s face remained grim. ‘You understand the risks you’ll be taking, Schulze,’ he said.

‘I’ve been in more dangerous whorehouses, sir,’ Schulze said easily. ‘Those buck-teethed Tommies’ll have to get up early to nab Mrs Schulze’s little boy.’

Von Dodenburg laughed with relief. ‘All right, you big rogue – and thanks. Good, this is the way I suggest you do it. Get rid of the Wotan armband and your badges of rank. In that khaki you won’t look any different from the Tommies themselves. You can use one of the Egyptian trucks to get you into the town without attracting any attention.

‘My plan is to move in as soon as it’s dark. The blackout should keep most of the civvies off the streets. If we are stopped, the Egyptians can – I hope – talk us out. I intend to attack at midnight.’

Schulze nodded his understanding. ‘And where do we fit in, sir?’

‘You’ll go in an hour before I do. You will recce the area of the barracks. You know what to look for. If you have the least suspicion that things are not what they should be, you will warn me.’

‘How, sir?’

Von Dodenburg’s eyes twinkled momentarily. He had a shrewd suspicion that it was Schulze who had shared Pomme’s bed during her night at the oasis. ‘Like this. The American woman has a radio hidden in her apartment – the Egyptian Major will give you a street map and how to get to the place, fourteen Rue de Gaza. If you see anything you don’t like, signal me immediately. But remember Schulze, don’t take any risks. If the Tommies capture you, they might well take it into their heads to shoot you as a spy.’

Schulze hardly heard the warning. His mind was full of the woman. ‘Don’t worry about me, sir,’ he said gleefully, his eyes gleaming, ‘let me just find that ape-shit Matz and get on my way!’

*  *  *

The two Wotan men in the shabby Egyptian Army three-ton truck reached Alexandria just after dark. It was full moon, and the city was lit by a smooth white light that lay on the buildings like a powdering of frost. The suburban streets were very quiet, as von Dodenburg had predicted they would be, and the few civilians about took no notice of the truck; they had seen enough of them in these last three years of war.

Using the map, Schulze directed Matz at the wheel round the town centre and into the quieter streets of the suburbs where the barracks were.

It was very cold and the sky was rich with the silver glare of the stars. The narrow alleys, no wider than corridors, were completely empty, so utterly so that they had the spookiness of a long abandoned house. Here and there too, he noted that doors had swung open to reveal no light from within the dark wells of houses, as if the population had hurriedly packed a handful of belongings and fled. Even the odd hairless pi-dog, shivering in the gutter, was silent.