Desert Raiders

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.

1

‘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 being knocked unconscious by the explosion, he had regained his senses as he was carried on a stretcher through a series of explosions to the Regimental Aid Post a few hundred yards away. Placed on the ground in a large tent between men worse off than himself, including those classified as Dead On Arrival, he had to wait his turn while the harassed doctors and medics assessed the injuries of those being brought in, carried out emergency surgery, including amputations, and passed the casualties along the line.

Reaching Greaves and Reynolds, they found that the former had broken his left leg and the latter had suffered serious perforations of the stomach from shell fragments. Greaves’s leg was put in a temporary splint, Reynolds’s stomach was temporarily bandaged, then both were placed with other wounded men in an ambulance and driven to the Main Dressing Station in a white-painted stone building in an area being torn apart by the shells of enemy tanks and dive-bombing Stukas.

Lying on a real bed in a large, barn-like room converted into a makeshift hospital ward, receiving warm smiles from the RAMC nurses, Greaves nevertheless could not shut out what was going on around him: essential first-aid and medical treatment, including blood transfusions, the removal of shell splinters from bloody limbs, and even more complicated amputations and other operations. It was a grim sight, made worse by the moaning and screaming of men in terrible pain.

Greaves’s broken leg was reset and encased in a proper plaster, then, even as Reynolds was being wheeled into the surgery for an operation, Greaves was picked off his bed, placed on a stretcher and carried out of the building, into another ambulance. He was then driven to the harbour of Tobruk where, under cover of darkness, he was casevacked – casualty evacuated – in a small boat to one of the four destroyers anchored in the harbour. Those swift vessels, he knew, were the lifeline to Tobruk, running the gauntlet of Stukas under cover of darkness to bring food, ammunition, letters, and reinforcements to the besieged harbour town, as well as shipping out the casualties.

While crates of supplies were being lowered on slings down one side of the destroyer, Greaves and the other wounded men were hoisted up the other and carried down on their stretchers to the sick bay located deep in the crowded, noisy hold. There they had remained until the ship reached Alexandria, when they were transferred from the ship to the present hospital. After a minor operation to fix his broken leg, Greaves had been transferred to the recuperation ward where he had been given a bed right beside his fellow lieutenant, David Stirling, who was recovering from a bad parachute drop.

The hospital was pleasant enough, surrounded by green lawns bordered by fig and palm trees where the men could breathe the fresh air while gazing at the white walls and bougainvillaea of Alexandria, as well as the blue Mediterranean stretching out beyond a harbour filled with Allied destroyers. Yet a hospital it remained, with all the boredom that entailed, and Greaves and Stirling had passed the time by swapping stories about their experiences, the former in Tobruk, the latter along the Cyrenaican coast, and speculating on the outcome of the war and how best it might be won. Stirling was a man who liked conversation and was brimful of energy. Greaves liked him a lot.

‘The problem with Rommel,’ Stirling said, taking up a favourite theme, ‘is not that he’s invincible, but that we’re going about him the wrong way.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Well, for instance, take those raids we made with Laycock along the coast of Cyrenaica. Bloody disasters, practically all of them! Why?’

Greaves thought he knew the answer. He and the energetic former Scots Guards officer had been members of 8 Commando, posted to General Wavell’s Middle Eastern Army with other commandos on attachment to ‘Layforce’, the special unit formed by Colonel Robert Laycock to mount raids against the Axis forces in Rhodes, Crete, Syria, around Tobruk, and all along the coast of Cyrenaica. However, after a series of disasters which were blamed on a chronic shortage of manpower and equipment, Layforce was disbanded and the men and ships used for other, presumably more fruitful, missions.

‘Bad weather,’ Greaves began, echoing his own thoughts. ‘Shortage of manpower and…’

‘No! That’s damned nonsense cooked up by MEHQ to save face. The raids were disasters because we took too many men, inserted by orthodox means – in other words, by sea – and so couldn’t keep ourselves hidden; usually being observed well in advance of the raids by Axis reconnaissance planes. The Krauts or Eyeties on the ground were therefore waiting for us to arrive, all set to cut us to pieces and send what was left of us packing. The very idea of using up to 2000 men for raiding parties landing by boat is ridiculous. Impossible to keep such an op secret. Just begging for trouble.’

‘We’re back to your idea of hitting the enemy with small groups of men rather than whole regiments.’ Greaves said, completing his packing, tightening the ropes of his rucksack, and glancing along the ward, his eyes settling on a pretty RAMC nurse, Frances Beamish, whom he hoped to get to know better once he was on convalescent leave in Cairo. ‘It’s become an obsession.’

Stirling laughed. ‘What’s a man without an obsession? How do you think I ended up in this hospital? By trying to prove a point! You don’t use large groups of men, which are bound to attract attention. You use small groups of no more than four or five and insert them as invisibly as possible. If you land them well away from the target area, letting them hike the rest of the way, they can really take the enemy by surprise. That’s the point I was trying to prove – and that’s how I ended up in this damned hospital, wrapped up like an Egyptian mummy, as stiff as a board.’

Greaves had heard the story before. Learning that another former Layforce officer, Captain ‘Jock’ Lewes, Welsh Guards, had acquired fifty static-line parachutes offloaded in Alexandria, Egypt, for shipment to India, Stirling had charmed the taciturn but adventurous Welshman into joining him in experimental jumps with the chutes. Unfortunately, he and Lewes made two of the first jumps from a Valentia, an aircraft quite unsuitable for this purpose. To make matters worse, both men lacked the experience required for the task. After tying his static line to the legs of a passenger seat, because the Valentia did not have the proper overhead suspension for the static lines, Stirling jumped out the wrong way, snagged and tore his ’chute on the tailplane, dropped like a stone and practically crashed to the ground. He was lucky to be alive. In the event, he had been knocked unconscious by the fall and came to in the Scottish Military Hospital, badly bruised and with two damaged legs. Now, after weeks of treatment and exercise, he was, like Greaves, about to leave for a period of convalescence.

‘Look,’ he said, lifting a clipboard off his still opened rucksack and waving it dramatically in the air, ‘I even wrote some notes on the subject. Want to hear them?’

‘I’m all ears.’

Stirling grinned. ‘The Germans and Italians,’ he read, ‘are vulnerable to attacks on their transports, vehicle parks and aerodromes along the coast. However, plans to land the 200 men of a commando for such raids against a single target inevitably destroy the element of surprise when their ship has to be escorted along the coast – a high risk in itself for the Navy.’

‘I agree with that,’ Greaves interjected, recalling many of his own doomed ventures with 8 Commando along the coast around Tobruk, when the boats had been attacked by Stukas or Italian fighters.

Stirling nodded, then continued reading. ‘On the other hand, landing five-man teams with the element of surprise could destroy about fifty aircraft on an airfield which a commando would have to fight like blazes to reach. Such a team could be inserted by parachute, submarine or even a disguised fishing boat. They would then approach the enemy by crossing the Great Sand Sea, south of the Jalo and Siwa oases, which Jerry doesn’t have under surveillance. By making the approach from that unwatched flank, moving overland under cover of darkness, the element of surprise would be total.’

‘Makes sense to me,’ Greaves said, ‘except for one problem. The Great Sand Sea presents enormous difficulties of navigation and survival. I don’t think we could cross it.’

Grinning like a schoolboy, Stirling held his forefinger up in the air, calling for silence. ‘Ah, yes!’ he exclaimed. ‘But that problem’s already solved. I’ve been hearing stories about a little-known unit called the Long Range Desert Group, composed mostly of old hands from Major Ralph Bagnold’s desert expeditions of the 1920s and 30s. It’s now being used as a reconnaissance and intelligence-gathering unit that operates in the desert with the aid of ten open-topped Chevrolet lorries. Those men know the desert like the back of their hands and could be used as a taxi service for us. We parachute in, make our raid against the enemy, then rendezvous with the LRDG at a preselected RV and get driven back to base by them. I think it would work.’

‘Sounds fair enough,’ Greaves said. ‘The only problem remaining is to keep your newly formed group under your own command. I think it should be separate from the main body of the Army and devise its own methods of training.’

‘I don’t think the top brass would wear that,’ Stirling said, placing the clipboard on top of the other gear in his rucksack and tightening the rope to close it up.

‘Well,’ Greaves said, smiling automatically when he saw Nurse Beamish coming along the ward towards him, ‘tell them you want the raiding force to come under the Commander-in-Chief Middle East. In real terms that doesn’t mean a damned thing – the raiding party would soon get conveniently lost in that command and you’d have virtual autonomy over your own men.’ He grinned at Stirling. ‘Naturally that presents you with another problem: how on earth do you persuade them to let you do it?’

‘Oh, I think I can manage,’ Stirling replied deadpan. ‘I’ve already written a detailed memorandum on the subject for the attention of the Commander-in-Chief Middle East Forces. Once he’s read it, I’m sure he’ll agree.’

While recognizing Stirling’s boldness, Greaves was struck by his naïvety. ‘Are you joking?’

‘No,’ Stirling replied. ‘Why would I joke about it?’

‘If you submit that memo through normal channels, it will almost certainly get buried by a staff officer and never be seen again.’

‘Which is why I’m going to deliver it personally,’ Stirling said with a big, cocky grin.

Greaves was opening his mouth to reply when Nurse Beamish, petite, with black hair and green eyes, stopped between him and Stirling, smiling warmly at each in turn but giving most of her attention to Greaves, who had flirted relentlessly with her during his stay here.

‘So you two are ready to leave,’ she said.

‘Yes, dear,’ answered Stirling.

‘Corporal,’ Nurse Beamish corrected him.

‘Yes, dear Corporal,’ Stirling replied.

‘Where do you plan to stay in Cairo?’ Nurse Beamish asked of Greaves.

‘Shepheard’s Hotel.’

‘Oh, very nice!’ the nurse said, raising her eyebrows. ‘My own leave starts on Friday, but I’m restricted to a miserable leave camp. Perhaps I’ll give you a call.’

‘That would be delightful,’ Greaves said. ‘I look forward to it.’

Nurse Beamish smiled, nodded at Stirling, then turned away and walked off, her body very pleasantly emphasized by her tight-fitting uniform.

‘I think you’ve made it there, old son,’ Stirling said. ‘That woman is keen.’

‘I hope so,’ Greaves said softly, and then, after a pause: ‘You’re not really going to try delivering that memo personally to the C-in-C, are you?’

‘Who dares wins,’ Stirling said.

Lieutenant Greaves picked up both rucksacks from the beds, waved goodbye to the other patients, then followed Stirling. In an instant the Scotsman was on his crutches and out of the hospital to catch a taxi to the station for the train to Cairo.

2

While Stirling went off to the British Embassy to collect the key to his brother’s rented flat in Cairo’s Garden City quarter, where he would be staying, Greaves booked into the opulent Shepheard’s Hotel, which was off-limits to other ranks and used mainly as a place where officers could meet their lady friends. Once booked in, Greaves shucked off his desert clothes, drank whisky while soaking in a hot bath, then shaved and put on his dress uniform. In fact, though Stirling did not know it, Greaves had a date that same evening with Nurse Beamish and would, when the time came, be wearing an immaculately tailored bush jacket and slacks. He was wearing his dress uniform for the sole purpose of escorting the cheeky Stirling to MEHQ in his bold attempt to take his memorandum personally to the Commander-in-Chief. While Greaves was of the opinion that Stirling did not stand a chance, he could not resist the opportunity of going along with him to see what transpired.

Dressed, Greaves drank another whisky by the window while looking out on the great sprawl of Cairo, with its bustling pavements, open-fronted cafés, shops, bazaars and its white walls strewn with red peppers and purple bougainvillaea, covered in green vines and shaded by palm trees. Here many of the women still wore black robes and kept most of their face covered; the men dressed in jellabas and sandals. Around tables in the cafés, some of which were directly below, the men drank coffee, smoked hashish pipes, played backgammon and talked noisily all day, ignoring the soldiers swarming up and down the pavements, hotly pursued by filthy, screaming bootblacks. It was a dreadfully noisy city, with radios blaring out shrill music and high-pitched singing, trams clattering to and fro, horse-drawn gharries clattering over loose stones, water gurgling from pipes and splashing onto the streets, and cars, including many military vehicles, roaring and honking in a never-ending traffic jam. It was also, as Greaves knew, a smelly city, but the closed window spared him that.

When he heard a knocking on the door, which was unlocked, he turned away from the window and told the visitor to enter. Stirling entered on crutches, his head almost scraping the top of the door frame. After kicking the door closed behind him, he crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed, leaning the crutches against the bed beside him.

‘I’ll be glad to get rid of these things,’ he said. ‘What’s that you’re drinking?’

‘Whisky.’

‘Just the ticket,’ Stirling said. While Greaves was pouring him a drink, Stirling glanced around the room. ‘A nice hotel,’ he said without irony.

‘I think so,’ Greaves replied.

‘I notice it’s conveniently located almost directly opposite Sharia il Berka,’ Stirling continued, referring to the Berka quarter’s notorious street of brothels.

‘Quite so,’ Greaves replied solemnly. ‘That’s where the other ranks are commonly to be found with a much lower class of lady than you’ll find in this building.’

‘Such as Nurse Beamish.’

Greaves grinned. ‘Let us pray.’ He handed Stirling the glass of whisky.

‘Are you ready to leave?’ Stirling asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Good. Let’s go.’ Stirling polished off the whisky in one gulp, handed the glass back to Greaves, picked up his crutches and awkwardly balanced himself between them.

‘How much longer will you need those things?’ Greaves asked.

‘I can actually walk without them,’ Stirling replied, ‘but for short distances only. Then my legs start hurting. However, I should be finished with them in a week or so. Well, let’s get at it.’

They left the room, took the lift down, crossed the lobby and went out of the hotel. Immediately, on the pavement outside, they were assailed by the bedlam of Cairo: blaring music, clattering backgammon pieces, the babble of conversation; the clanging and rattling of trams with conductors blowing their horns; and the roaring and honking of cars and military vehicles of all kinds, including the troop trucks of the Allied forces. To this deafening cacophony was added the growling and occasional screeching of the many aircraft flying overhead. They were also assailed by the city’s many pungent aromas: sweat and piss, tobacco and hashish, petrol and the smoke from charcoal braziers and exhausts; roasting kebabs, kuftas and ears of corn; rich spices and flowers.

‘The Land of the Four S’s,’ Greaves said, waving his hand to indicate the busy road and pavements, which were packed with Arabs in jellabas, women in black robes and veils, grimy, school-aged bootblacks, and the troops of many nations, most of them swarming through the city in search of a good time. ‘Sun, sand, sin and syphilis.’

‘You can think about those while you take your pleasure,’ Stirling replied. ‘For now, let’s stick to business.’ He turned to the jellaba-clad hotel doorman and spoke one word to him: ‘Taxi.’

‘Yes, sir!’ the doorman said in English, flashing his teeth and waving his hand frantically even before reaching the edge of the pavement.

Less than a minute later, Greaves and Stirling were sitting in the back of a sweltering taxi, heading for Middle East Headquarters.

As Greaves soon found out, even on crutches Stirling was both agile and adroit. When the taxi dropped them off at the main gates of MEHQ, he attempted to bluff his way in by pretending he had forgotten his papers and hoping that the sight of his crutches would dispel any doubts the guard might be harbouring. The ruse did not work, and although perfectly polite and sympathetic, the guard was adamant that Stirling could not enter without proper papers.

Unfazed, Stirling thanked the guard, turned away, manœuvred himself on his crutches to one end of the long double gates, then glanced up and down the road, ostensibly looking for another taxi. But, as his nod indicated to Greaves, he had noticed that there was a gap between the end of the guardhouse and the beginning of the barbed-wire fence, and clearly he intended slipping through it when the guard was not looking.

His chance came within minutes, when the guard was leaning down, his back turned to Stirling and Greaves, to check the papers of some officers in a staff car. As soon as the guard turned away, leaning down towards the side window of the car, Stirling dropped his crutches, waved to Greaves, then led him through the gap.

‘Act naturally,’ he said to Greaves while gritting his teeth against the pain of his unsupported legs and trying to walk as normally as possible. ‘Behave as if you belong here.’

Feeling an odd excitement, like a naughty schoolboy, Greaves followed Stirling across the field to the main building of MEHQ. Just as Stirling reached it, one of the guards called out to him – either he had recognized him or seen his crutches in the road – ordering him to return to the main gate. With surprising alacrity, considering the state of his legs, Stirling ignored the guard and hurried up the steps to enter the main building, with an excited and amused Greaves right behind him.

Once inside, Stirling marched resolutely, if at times unsteadily, along the first corridor he saw, searching for the office of the C-in-C. Before he found it, however, he heard the guard behind him, asking in a loud voice if anyone had seen two 8 Commando officers enter the building.

Immediately, Stirling opened the first door he saw, which was marked ‘Adjutant-General’. He came face to face with a startled Army major, who demanded to know what the hell he was doing bursting in unannounced. As Stirling was trying to explain who he was and what he wanted, the major, who turned out to be one of his old instructors from Pirbright, where Stirling had done his basic training, recognized him and became even angrier.

‘Still acting the bloody fool, are you?’ he climaxed after a lengthy tirade about Stirling’s unorthodox behaviour, past and present. ‘Well, not in this office, you don’t. Get out of here instantly!’

Greaves backed out first, followed by Stirling, who was, to his amazement, grinning broadly.