The Desert Falcons, page 15
“What’s that?”
“I can’t believe the blame lies where he puts it. Rommel is a gentleman and the average Jerry is a fairly meticulous observer of the Rules of War. Besides being too unimaginative to think this up. I detect the Machiavellian hand of some bright and ambitious Italian behind this. I’d wager Jerry just pinched the idea and no one at the very top of the German Staff knows about it. Although, of course, it’s quite possible that Hitler does; it’s just the sort of thing he’d thoroughly approve of. As you know, the S.S. frequently aid and abet this kind of crime, circumvent the commanders who certainly know better and would put a stop to it, and report straight to Hitler.”
There was a general murmur of agreement. Brainy chap, Charles, was the thought behind more than one crimson visage.
“Well,” he was told, “it’s up to you to get ‘em out. Work something out and let Operations have your proposal by 2000 hours.”
Hence his further consultation with the two R.A.F. squadron commanders.
“The Krauts are behaving like vultures,” said Cruttenden. “It’s going to be a pleasure to clobber them on this one.”
“Operation Vulture,” Aylwood suggested. “How about that?”
“I think the reference should be to ourselves rather than the enemy,” Stockdale objected. “How about Operation Falcon? I rather see us as birds of prey descending on the Hun from out of the blue.”
Aylwood agreed. “Good show, Charles. Perhaps Vulture is a bit suggestive of scavenging.”
“The way I feel about it,” Cruttenden said, “it ought to be Operation Wrath of God. I’m really annoyed about this one. Jerry really has pulled a shit’s trick this time.”
“I think that might meet a certain amount of opposition,” Stockdale advised. “The Chief of Staff is a keen Presbyterian. He’d think it blasphemous.”
“Operation Foxhound?” Cruttenden offered hopefully. “We’re going to hound the enemy to hell and gone.”
“Two votes to one for Falcon,” Aylwood announced firmly.
Their first plan, for a relatively straightforward clandestine assault-and-rescue by the R.S.R.S. at full strength with close support and cover by the Hurricanes and Blenheims of 123 and 456 Squadrons, had to be abandoned when Rommel attacked the Gazala Line 24 hours before Stockdale was due to lead his men into the desert.
Although the enemy onslaught carried them round the southern flank of the British and within twenty miles of the coast in their rear, the advance was temporarily stopped. For the first time Rommel’s armies met Grant tanks, which had 75 millimetre guns capable of penetrating the armour of German and Italian tanks while still out of their range. They also encountered the new 57 mm. six-pounder British antitank guns, 30 per cent superior in penetration to the 50 mm. anti-tank guns of the Germans.
On the 1st May the Axis forces were still being held west of the Gazala Line and the British began a counter-attack on the 5th. It was not until the 14th that the Allies started tumbling back past Tobruk, leaving it cut off, and over the frontier back into Egypt, to stand firm at Alamein and eventually, six months later, drive forward once again from there to final success.
However, on 26th May the situation had changed so drastically, with Rommel’s attack which anticipated the British attack by some two weeks, that the initial concept of Operation Falcon, which called for a quick sweep by the R.S.R.S. to the south and then westward to its objective, with constant protection by the Hurricanes and tactical bombing by the Blenheims of any obstacles in their path, such as enemy armour or concentrations of infantry, was seen to be too slow. The desert was now thickly populated by the enemy and the R.S.R.S. would have to follow a course so long that it would take too much time to cover; for the essence of the operation was speed, to prevent the accumulation of more V.I.P. prisoners at the wadi. A Major-General had been captured within the first 24 hours.
The new development also meant that the services of 123 and 456 Squadrons could not be guaranteed available when-ever wanted, for they would have to contribute to the all-out effort which was directed against the enemy’s main attack: particularly in the area which became known as the Cauldron, where the fighting was at its fiercest.
R.S.R.S. had already pulled out of its pleasant palm grove by the sea near Tobruk and was in leaguer at Landing Ground 115. Which in its turn could not expect to remain there much longer. That the squadron would have to fall back looked inevitable. Even the Blenheims, 10 miles to the east, could not expect a long tenure of their aerodrome.
The ideal arrangement would have been to detach 456 Squadron to L.G.115, but servicing the aircraft meant moving too many men and too much equipment. The fighter and bomber wings had been sited only ten miles apart to make communication easy and Cruttenden drove the short distance for meetings with Aylwood and Stockdale.
From L.G.115 to Wadi Kala Atik was about 200 miles in a south-westerly direction. A cautious approach going well south to ensure rounding the extreme right wing of the enemy advance would add another 50 miles, and some further distance would have to be covered in continuing past the objective in order to attack it from the least expected direction and take it in the rear from the west.
Among the obstacles were unknown areas of soft sand which could reduce the rate of travel to ten miles a day, and minefields. In soft sand steel channels had to be put under the wheels of vehicles so that they could be driven forward a few yards at a time. The first indication of a minefield was usually a fatal accident.
Stockdale explained his plan. “I’m going to divide my force into two parties, to take advantage of the fact that although the wadi is deep into the desert it is only 80 miles from the coast if one can reach it from here.” He pointed on the map to the Gulf of Sidra, which made a deep indentation in the coastline 250 miles west of Tobruk and well south of Benghazi. “If we can go ashore near Mersa Brega it’s a fairly short dash to the target, and on good going. There’s a road to start with, then a motorable track and finally hard sand. It’s 250 miles behind enemy lines, so there’s very little enemy strength or movement around there.”
“How d’you propose getting round to Mersa Brega?” asked Aylwood.
“That’s up to the Navy.”
“What do we do?” Cruttenden asked.
“Obviously the land party which will have to drive the vehicles to our operational area can’t have conspicuous air cover; it would advertise them. But they’ll need surveillance and constant recce of the area to make sure they don’t run into trouble. When we tackle the wadi we’re counting on you to cover our withdrawal. And open the way for us if necessary. We want to go in by stealth, but if we can’t you’re going to have to blast the place open for us.”
“How big are your two parties?”
“The assault force has to be small to avoid attracting attention. I’m leaving one officer and five men behind with my H.Q. vehicles and caravan. That leaves 29, at our present strength. I’m going by sea, with Moreau and eight men. When we land we’re going to have to acquire an enemy armoured car. One of our own vehicles will meet us: it’ll have to be the Italian scout car, with two men and a Breda. The rest of the squadron, seven jeeps, each with a driver and gunner, and the three-tonner with a driver and two, carrying spare petrol and so on, will be under Ted Lytton’s command, to make an immediate second attempt if we fail. They will R.V. with us at the wadi and give covering fire when we break out with the prisoners. Once we’ve got the prisoners out we’ll rush them back to the coast and get them away by sea. That’ll need only a jeep and one captured vehicle. The rest can scoot off into the desert and make their way back as well as they can, with some cover from you chaps.”
“It’s a hell of a job for 29 men,” Aylwood observed.
“It couldn’t be done any other way.”
“Suppose you’re sunk on the way round?” asked Cruttenden.
“The land party will have to do it all. But I hope we aren’t, because we’re going to need the vessel to take the prisoners off. It’s the only way to do it: we can’t risk taking them across the open desert or trying to air-lift them. If the Jebel were closer we might try to reach it and hide, but there’s too much desert to cross before we get there.”
Cruttenden pursued his point about the dangers of a sea passage: “You wouldn’t consider getting hold of some more jeeps and a 30 cwt. and sending both parties by land?”
“I think we must divide our risks. Also I want to get the Navy involved as closely as I can: if they have to ferry us round the corner, and choose the spot where they put us ashore, and we get friendly with them during the time we’re on board, they’ll have more enthusiasm for the job than if they only have to pick up a party of total strangers and give them a ride home. They would feel they were being done out of their fair share of the fun, for one thing.”
“What sore of boat d’you want?” asked Aylwood.
“A submarine, I hope: the alternative is an M.T.B., and despite their speed I don’t think we could avoid being seen.”
“And the best of British luck: I hope you don’t suffer from claustrophobia; I’ve never fancied being locked up in a tube under a couple of hundred feet of sea. Particularly not with depth charges popping off around the place. It’ll take years off your life, old boy.”
“I’m not looking forward to it but there’s no alternative. Now let’s have a look at this plan Bellazzi drew of the fort. He doesn’t know where the prisoners are held, but they must be in the central block, which contains the officers’ and senior N.C.O.s’ quarters and the Orderly Room. That means we’ve got to get past the outer wall and the main gate. Some of the garrison live in the caves and quarries, so I’m hoping you’ll be able to attend to them. We ourselves must create as little disturbance as possible and try not to get involved in a big shooting match.”
Cruttenden said, “It seems to me your big problem is going to be the armoured cars. Especially the big eight-wheeled jobs.”
“They’re going to get special treatment. And I’m not going to let their C.O. get away this time: he was lucky at Bir Zayid because that blasted goat got in our way. I’ve got plans for him.”
“You mean this type Major Dussel?”
“Yes, he’s an all-round menace. We’ve got to fix him.”
FOURTEEN
The captain of H.M. submarine Nasturtium stood on the casing abaft the conning tower and regarded the foreshore and docks of Mina Salim with disfavour. His long, pointed nose twitched at the harbour odours. His long, pointed ears quivered at the harsh, loud voices of Arab stevedores who seemed unable to work without incessant talk and whose conversations were conducted at a shout. His long, pointed head was lowered in contemplation of his long, narrow feet. For within his white pipeclayed size 13 shoes reposed the cause of much of his jaundiced outlook on life: his left foot needed all the room a size 13 afforded, whereas his right could have fitted comfortably into a mere 10.
The reason for this peculiarity was a shell splinter which had sliced off a large part of the toes on his right foot when his boat was surprised on the surface by an enemy destroyer. One consequence was a difficulty in maintaining his balance, which made him the most unequilibrated officer or rating in the whole Mediterranean Fleet. Lieutenant Crebbin was always falling over. On one occasion he had stumbled against the lower end of the periscope and knocked out all his top front teeth, with the result that he now sported an ill-fitting set of false ones which affected the clarity of his speech and further disfigured features in the original mould of which Nature had been none too kind.
Crebbin was a brooding man of 28 nursing the grievance that, as a pukkha Dartmouth product, he should by now be at least a lieutenant commander. He came from an undistinguished naval family in which three generations had already served without attaining any rank higher than commander. Having been caught by the Navy at the age of 13 and put through the mill of deep indoctrination at Dartmouth, followed by service as a midshipman with its customary subjection to the strict rule of the Sub-lieutenant of the Gunroom, entailing frequent beatings with a dirk scabbard until the age of 18, he had absolutely no time at all for those whom he considered to be masqueraders in the King’s uniform: by which he meant any non-regular officer of the Royal Navy, Royal Air Force or Army. Non-regular Ratings and Other Ranks he accepted as necessary cannon-fodder who could quickly enough be trained to do their duty under proper command; for the short time they would be required. He regarded all officers of the various Reserve, Auxiliary and Territorial forces as thoroughly improper commanders of men. Mere amateurs, charlatans even, who did not really merit the King’s Commission. If the Services had to make use of them at all he felt that they should be suffered on a sort of half-commission.
His reaction to the news that he was about to play host to a major commanding a non-regular unit of bizarre conception and grotesque manner of operating, together with a lieutenant (a Frenchman, at that) and eight O.R.s, was one of most reluctant compliance instead of the enthusiastic participation for which Stockdale had ingenuously hoped. When Lieutenant Crebbin, D.S.C., R.N., learned that this major had less than three years’ service, apart from some fooling about in the Yeomanry, he lost his balance and had to clutch the guard rail. When he saw that the fellow wore a beard, a privilege he jealously regarded as the unique prerogative of the senior Service, he swayed, entangling his asymmetrical feet as he started involuntarily on the bridge of the conning tower when first setting eyes on the embarking party of soldiery. It was as well that he had climbed up here, he thought. The shock of seeing that lot would have sent him sliding off the slippery casing and straight into the foul harbour water.
He should have been grateful that Stockdale, to temper the trauma which he knew the first sight of his band of cut-throats always occasioned, had made them all get their hair, and their beards if they wore them, trimmed and put on their smart blue berets with the R.S.R.S. badge of a camel against a flash of lightning crossed with a sub-machinegun, all mounted on a base formed by a dagger. They had polished their badges until they shone like a guardsman’s buttons, and one and all felt they had done the Webfeet proud.
Stockdale, regarding his temporary home from the quayside, felt a qualm. He had met the submarine’s captain at a briefing conference at Combined H.Q. and not failed to register his stony, if stunned, disapproval. However, he was used to the stiff-necked regulars of the Army and Navy, who were in unfavourable contrast with the breezy friendliness of R.A.F. regulars, epitomised by Cruttenden, Aylwood and their respective group captains. He thought that at least there must be some good in this pale-faced, spindly submariner, since he had won a Distinguished Service Cross.
He had been assured that the lieutenant knew how to handle his boat and if anyone could get him safely ashore with his small force and take them off again accompanied by the liberated V.I.P. prisoners, it was Crebbin. A gnarled four-ring captain who had also attended the briefing had privately assured him: “I served with young Crebbin’s father, old Crabby Crebbin, in the old Bellerophon in the last show: Crabby went down with his ship, the old Hector, in ‘seven-teen. This boy’d do the same without batting an eyelid.” Not with me on board he won’t, I hope, thought Stockdale. He would have preferred a more reassuring, if less stirring, testimonial. His optimism was even further undermined when the same informant confided, after his third pre-lunch pink gin, “Young Crebbin: father, grandfather and great-grandfather all lorst at sea. What d’you think about that, hey?”
“Terrifying,” Stockdale told him. “Have the Crebbinses outraged some ancient maritime hoodoo, perhaps?”
“Hoodoo? You mean the old Hindu, don’t you? Mine-sweeper on the Singapore Station in twenty-three. Knew her well.”
Stockdale gave up. He hoped he could propitiate whatever gods seemed to have set fatal trip-wires for Crebbin and his kin. He was not reassured when, preceding him along the companionway to the officers’ quarters, his host appeared to stumble over a rivet and flopped heavily onto the wardroom sofa.
They had embarked in the dusk for the sake of security and were due to sail immediately after dinner, in full dark. There were altogether five officers in the ship’s company, so the addition of Stockdale and Moreau increased the crowding of the little wardroom by 40 per cent, an influx instantly noticeable in such a cramped space. The sergeant, corporal and six troopers crammed into the forward end of the boat did not inflict so much inconvenience on the sailors, although room had also to be found for three inflatable boats; two to be used for the landing and three for the recovery. Stockd wondered gloomily whether, in their usual crisp, matter-of-fact way the planners had assumed that although two would be needed to get his party ashore, three would be enough to bring them and the rescued back again as there were bound to be fewer of them.
They had roughly 550 miles to travel, which meant 72 hours on board. In fact it would be longer, because they dare not make their landing until after 10 p.m. The submarine would surface for six hours after sunset to charge her batteries. Eighteen hours submerged at a stretch in enemy waters was not an attractive prospect to anyone who had never done it before. Stockdale had found his R.A.F. friends’ gallows humour on the subject of depth charge attacks in bad taste; but couldn’t help smiling ruefully to himself as he recalled their boisterous warnings: he was about to find out the truth of what they had only surmised.
Crebbin looked up from the sofa, smacked his dislodged upper set back into place with a practised flick of his hand, and said “I hope you’re both going to be comfortable with us.
Stockdale heard Moreau murmur “Mon dieu, quel optimiste,” and thought that really, by the looks of him, that was about the last thing one could call this pallid but frighteningly resolute-looking young Commanding Officer who would hold their lives in his hands for the next six or seven days.
Leutnant Horst Affen had a cushy job and well he knew it. He had been among the 3,000 parachutists who dropped into Allied-held Crete on 20th May 1941. Altogether 22,000 German airborne troops landed on the island, which was held by 28,600 British, Australians and New Zealanders, with almost an equal number of Greek troops. Within 11 days the Germans had conquered Crete, and their men who fought there were probably the toughest they had.
