Fat lot those bastards know!’
Spitting in the sand, Wheeler stomped off to supervise the activities of his men. Greaves and Reynolds did the same with their own men before taking cover behind their jeep. They had barely done so when German infantry broke through the wire a mere hundred yards away and surged forward through the moonlit darkness.
‘JERRY!’ someone yelled again.
A British lieutenant with a corporal and five troopers rushed out to meet the Germans, charging against heavy machine-gun fire. Two of the troopers went down, convulsing as the bullets struck them, but the others managed to reach the first of the advancing Germans, killing some with their bayonets before succumbing themselves to bayonet and bullet. The rest of the Germans then rushed through the gap, ghostlike in the smoke-filled darkness, followed by the tanks, which headed straight for the British gun positions, located three miles inside the perimeter.
About forty tanks managed to get through before the Tommies could bring up enough men to engage the enemy infantry and gunners who were trying to bring their guns through the gap. The Tommies shot up their crews before they could get into action and the Aussies, fierce fighters as always, did the same along the barbed-wire perimeter.
One German was trapped on the wire, bent belly-down over it, screaming in agony. ‘Put that bastard out of his misery!’ one of the Aussies shouted and another, not hesitating, rammed his bayonet down through the soldier’s spine, slamming him deeper into the barbed wire so that he kicked convulsively before he was silenced for all time. The Aussie withdrew his bayonet with a jerk, then dropped to his knees, raised his rifle to his shoulder and started firing again at the advancing Germans, ignoring the bloody, twisted corpse on the wire beside him.
‘Those Aussies are impressive,’ Greaves said. ‘I’m glad they’re on our side.’
‘Damn right,’ Reynolds replied.
After the tanks went through, the gap was closed and no German guns or infantry got past the Tommies or Aussies.
‘Let’s get back to the defensive line,’ Reynolds said. ‘Leave the men to mop up here.’
While the medics raced out to the closed gap to tend to the dead and wounded, Greaves followed the major to his jeep, climbed in beside him, and was driven away from the perimeter, following the three-mile route taken by the Panzers. As the tanks could only travel at thirty miles per hour, the jeep soon caught up with them and Reynolds raced boldly between them, determined to reach the British defensive line before the Germans. He had just driven up over the crest of a low hill, giving a clear view of the British six- and 26-pounders, when the tanks behind him opened fire and one of the first shells came whining down to explode with a mighty roar.
Greaves heard the roar of the explosion, felt the blast hammering at him, then was picked up and spun in the air, before falling through a great silence. He smashed into the ground, bounced up and rolled over it, then blacked out.
Regaining consciousness, he found himself on a stretcher, being carried back through more explosions, geysering soil, sand and gravel, to where the big guns were belching fire and smoke. Laid down on the ground beside Reynolds, who was on a stretcher and covered in blood, Greaves, whose lower half was numb, was forced to watch the ongoing battle without being able to take part in it.
While he had been unconscious the Panzers had continued their advance, firing their 55mm and 75mm guns, with the tracers illuminating the darkness like neon lights. When the tanks were about 700 yards from the British gun positions, the gunners fired on them with their 25-pounders and anti-tank guns, about 100 rounds per gun, which temporarily stopped them again. Then the British tanks moved out to engage them and, with luck, push them back a second time.
Two of the heavy enemy tanks tried to get around the British flank. One was hit by a 25-pounder shell and exploded, breaking down as it tried to struggle back. The other fired and hit the British 25-pounder and its crew, causing dreadful carnage before making its escape with the other tanks.
After knocking out seven of the Panzers with their 25-pounders, the gunners eventually turned them back for good. Escaping through the gap they had created when they broke into the perimeter, the German tanks left pursued by a hail of shells and bullets from the Tommies who had taken command of the gap.
A sudden, startling silence reigned until, as if only slowly realizing that they had won, the gun crews clapped and cheered.
Still stretched out on his stretcher and not able to move, Greaves felt a spasm of panic, then groping carefully, discovered that he had broken his left leg and badly bruised the other, but was otherwise not seriously hurt or permanently injured. Glancing sideways at Reynolds, he saw that although covered in blood, he seemed fairly perky.
‘Are you OK?’ he asked.
‘Lots of blood from shrapnel wounds in the thigh,’ Reynolds replied with a cheerful grin. ‘Looks much worse than it is, old chap.’
‘Well, we certainly appear to have given Jerry a good hiding,’ Greaves said, wanting to sound as cheerful as Reynolds looked.
‘We did,’ the major replied, ‘but I wouldn’t call it a victory. Tobruk is now surrounded by the Germans and in a state of siege. This could last for months.’
Greaves tried to sit up but passed out from the pain. He dreamt that he was relaxing on the deck of a ship with a cool breeze blowing across the open deck and cooling the sweat on his fevered brow.
Regaining consciousness a few hours later, he found himself lying on a stretcher on the open deck of a British destroyer heading from Tobruk to Alexandria. Glancing sideways, he saw Reynolds, now swathed in clean bandages and still relatively lively.
‘Rommel,’ Major Reynolds murmured as if continuing a conversation with himself. ‘He’s a formidable enemy.’
‘We can beat him,’ Greaves said quietly.
‘I agree,’ 24-year-old Lieutenant David Stirling said, packing his rucksack on his cluttered bed in the Scottish Military Hospital in Alexandria. ‘Rommel’s a brilliant general, a man to respect, but he can be beaten.’
‘And doubtless you know how to do it,’ Lieutenant Greaves replied sardonically, knowing that Stirling was a man who loved soldiering and was full of ideas. Born in Scotland of aristocratic lineage – his father was General Archibald Stirling of Keir – young Stirling was a bit of an adventurer, passionately fond of hunting, shooting and mountaineering, as well as being devoted to the Army.
‘Of course,’ Stirling replied with enthusiasm. ‘I’ve been studying the subject for weeks. Saved me from going mad in this bloody place and kept the marbles…’ He pointed to his head with his index finger. ‘…well polished. Know what I mean, Dirk?’
‘Yes,’ Greaves said, also packing his rucksack, for he, too, was finally leaving the hospital. ‘If a man spends too much time in bed, his brain tends to rot.’
‘Too right.’
Having been in hospital for over six weeks, Greaves understood the dangers of chronic boredom. He had managed to get through his own first few weeks by dwelling on how he came to be there, although it was rather like reliving a bad dream.
After
