Alamein: The turning point of World War Two. Iain Gale

the distinctive hum of planes. Allied planes, he thought with a feeling of comfort. His mind drifted back to Stirling, to the museum. He tried to replace Klara’s divine image with that of some regimental relic. The colours carried at the Battle of New Orleans when the regiment had been all but wiped out by the American army; the bagpipes played at the relief of Lucknow as the Argylls had marched into the city; the drum carried in the Boer War with its bullethole; the watch that had saved the life of Private Watson in Salonika in 1918.

      He wondered if there would be any similar trophies and relics from the coming battle. For a moment Samwell felt a weird sensation of abject fear mixed with pride and elation. He felt almost euphoric. He was about to take part in a battle that would surely go down in history as one of the greatest. He knew in the same instant that this too might be the defining moment of his own life. He was suddenly aware of hard breathing close by and turned to see who was with him in the trench. But he was alone and realized that the breathing was his own. He tried to calm himself. To take part in such a battle was nothing new to the regiment. Hadn’t it fought through Spain with Wellington? It was the Argylls too who had been the original ‘thin red line’ at Balaclava under Sir Colin Campbell. And they had come home with seven VCs from the Indian Mutiny.

      A fly landed on his right leg and he recoiled at its bite before flicking it off. It flew back and he swatted it hard, killing it. He looked down at the turned-up shorts, the rolled-over socks and the non-regulation desert boots that so many of his fellow officers had also adopted, including the general himself. It was an uninspiring uniform. Khaki and beige bleached to nothing by the desert sun. They were hardly the stuff of the thin red line, he and his men, certainly by their appearance. No ostrich-feather bonnets and tartan sashes for us, he thought. We are modern warriors. We fight in the colours of the desert. We are creatures of the sand and rock. Like rats, scorpions, lizards we burrow, scuttle and hide while around us the iron dinosaurs roam. It was a primeval contest, this desert war, fought on the most unforgiving terrain known to man. Yet perfect for tanks. Like a great ocean, but of rock and sand. For a few minutes his trick worked. He was in the museum again, touching the relics, the RSM telling him their history. But all too soon Klara came back to him again. Klara. Oh God. Her sweet face filled his every thought. Desperately trying to lose her, he went over again the drill they had learnt for the coming attack. They had been told to walk forward. Slowly, taking their time. It was precisely the same drill that his father had been ordered to follow commanding a platoon of the Cheshires on the Somme in 1916 and not for the first time it occurred to Samwell that it might have the same catastrophic consequences. Wasn’t Montgomery, for all his famous reforming zeal, nothing more than a veteran commander of that terrible war? Had he not learnt from its mistakes? They had been told that the barrage that was to precede them would be the greatest in all history. Rumours were that a thousand guns would open fire at once. He prayed that they would be effective.

      Then there were the mines; thousands of them apparently, laid by the Germans and Italians across the front. He knew that the sappers would be out there before them in their two-man teams, were out there now for all he knew with their new Polish mine detectors. They would mark the cleared paths with white tape. All the infantry would have to do was follow the tape. But what, he wondered, if the sappers got lost or if the tape was blown away by shellfire, or if they missed their way? Better not to think.

      There was one good thing though about their walk forward. They had been told that the pipers could play. Just as they had in 1916, he thought, and in India in 1857 and in the Crimea and at Salamanca. The news had given him a tremendous kick. Just like in the old days, he thought. Pipers at the head. No colours now of course waving in the breeze above the bonnets, but kilted pipers all the same, even in this age of mechanized war.

      He scanned the desert once again, but saw nothing. Looked at his watch. It was five minutes past four, 16.05 hours. He sighed. They had been told that the attack would go in that evening; 21.40 hours had been given as ‘H’ Hour. He reached into his sack and once again pulled out the over-printed map which showed all the known enemy positions as noted by the air reconnaissance. Any fear had subsided now and once again he felt the sensation of being present at a great event, though as an observer rather than a participant. He imagined himself as he would be in five hours’ time, advancing at the head of the platoon to the skirl of the pipes. To go into battle with the pipes – it was more than he could have hoped for.

      It must have been after seven when he awoke and realized to his horror that he had been asleep. He wondered for how long and looked about him at the other trenches and foxholes, but the men, or what he could see of them, appeared not to have noticed him, or at least not his misdemeanour. Samwell shook his head to clear it and rubbed at his eyes. He couldn’t, he reasoned, have been asleep for too long as he did not have that telltale layer of sand on his body that came when you dozed off in the desert. Nor could he feel any fresh fly bites. At the most five minutes, probably less. It was getting dark now and he began to become aware of activity about him. At last. He saw a shape, a man scurrying towards him, his silhouette marked by the distinctive Balmoral bonnet unique to highlanders; his batman, Baynes, an affable Glaswegian.

      ‘Mister Samwell, sir. There’s some hot food coming up and the CO’s doing his rounds with a sitrep, sir. Just thought you’d like to know.’ He peered at Samwell’s face and red eyes: ‘Crikey, sir, you look like you’re all in. Fit to drop off. You all right, sir?’

      ‘Of course I am, Baynes. Sand in my eyes, that’s all. Thank you for that. Better get back or you’ll miss your own scoff.’

      ‘Nothing much to miss there, sir. Desert chicken again I’ll bet.’

      ‘Ah yes. What would the British army be without its bully beef?’

      ‘Better off I reckon, sir. But I’d better not miss it. See you later sir.’

      As Baynes disappeared back to his trench, Samwell again went over the drill for the attack and then Baynes reappeared at his side. ‘Stew, sir? It’s really not that bad.’

      ‘Thank you, Baynes.’ Samwell took the mess tin and began to eat, hungrily, washing the food down with a mug of black tea. ‘No milk again?’

      ‘Sorry, sir. It’s that problem again with the purifying tablets in the water. They’ve made the milk curdle. Stinks something rotten, sir.’

      Samwell was just drinking down the last of the gravy when he was aware of a man standing above him outside the trench. He looked up.

      ‘Don’t hurry, Hugh. Finish your dinner.’

      Samwell stood up and, putting down the mess tin, climbed out of the trench and saluted his commanding officer, Colonel Anderson.

      ‘Sorry, sir.’

      ‘Well, Hugh. Ready for the off?’

      ‘Quite ready, sir. Can’t wait.’

      ‘Good. The men seem to be raring to go. Let’s keep them that way till H Hour, shall we?’

      ‘Sir. Is it true that we’re going to have pipers?’

      ‘They’ve been authorized by Division. Good idea if you ask me. Remains to be seen whether it’ll actually happen, but I’m inclined to think it might. D’you think it would help the men?’

      ‘Most certainly, sir. And it would put the fear of God into the Jerries.’

      Anderson laughed: ‘Yes, Hugh, I daresay it would. Well, we’ll see, shan’t we. Good luck. Remember to follow the tape. And walk slowly, Hugh. We don’t want to run into our own barrage do we? The Jerries won’t know what’s hit them. Just walk forward and don’t forget to collect the prisoners.’

      THREE

      4.00 p.m. Between Haret-el-Himeimat and Deir-el-Munassib Colonel Marescoff Ruspoli

      ‘Luigi. Tell me again. Why is it that you wear a spanner around your neck?’

      Lieutenant-Colonel Marescotti Ruspoli had lost count of how many times he had asked the same question in the past few weeks. Of course he knew the answer.