Friday 23 October

      ONE

      9.00 a.m. Forward HQ, Eighth Army Burgh-el-Arab, El Alamein Freddie de Guingand

      The stage was set. The players were waiting in the wings. They had rehearsed to the last detail and Montgomery, he knew, was now fully satisfied that they were ready. Yesterday the General had addressed the men, or their officers at least. Everyone down to lieutenant-colonel, from all three corps had been there. De Guingand had never heard his commander talk with more confidence. It would be, Montgomery had told them all, a ‘killing match’, a ‘dog-fight’ that would last for as many as ten days, or even twelve.

      De Guingand had been surprised by the vehemence of the rhetoric. They must all, Montgomery had said, be imbued with a burning desire ‘to kill Germans’.

      ‘The German’ he had told them, ‘is a good soldier and the only way to beat him is to kill him in battle.’ Even the padres, Monty had joked, should kill Germans: ‘one per weekday and two on Sundays!’

      That of course had provoked a real roar of laughter from the officers. And that de Guingand knew was all part of the commander’s aim. Morale was of the essence:

      ‘Morale is the big thing in war, gentlemen. We must raise the morale of our soldiery to the highest pitch; they must enter this battle with their tails high in the air and with the will to win. And win we shall, my friends. Of that I am in no doubt.’

      De Guingand looked at the map spread out before him on the table. Surveyed for one last time the positions of the Divisions, the Brigades. Hoped to God they had got it right. For all their sakes. He moved his eyes across to the right of the map, to where on the table lay the piece of paper containing the typewritten message which had been circulated that morning to all troops serving with Eighth Army. De Guingand glanced at it once again and a paragraph caught his eye:

      ‘The battle which is now about to begin will be one of the decisive battles of history. It will be the turning point of the war. The eyes of the whole world will be on us, watching anxiously which way the battle will swing.

      We can give them their answer at once, “It will swing our way.”’

      His eye travelled down the page:

      ‘Let us all pray that “the Lord mighty in battle” will give us the victory.’

      De Guingand peered out of the tent at the endless desert, filled as it was with men and machines frantically going about the business of war. Well, he thought, this was it then. The die was cast and there was nothing that he or anyone else could do about it now. He felt a sudden realization of the responsibility that rested on his shoulders. Montgomery might be the commander, but he knew that it was only through him that those commands must be channelled and that should he make but one mistake; misinterpret one order…

      Monty’s penultimate words echoed in his mind:

      ‘Let no man surrender so long as he is unwounded and can fight.’

      It was hardly Shakespeare. But something in those words gave him real comfort and he hoped that the men would share in that. The general had ended with a simple message: the sooner they won, the sooner they could all go back home to their families. But de Guingand knew only too well, as he knew did Montgomery, that no matter how hard any man might fight, no matter how many Germans he might kill, there was nothing any of them could do that would guarantee that they would make it back home and not end their