Alamein: The turning point of World War Two. Iain Gale
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to recall it being very pleasant.’
‘It’s the most beautiful place in the world, sir. If you don’t mind my saying so. God’s own country really. Have you ever been to Mainz or Koblenz, sir?’
‘No, Monier. I’m afraid not. I’ve never been to Mainz or Koblenz.’
‘Then you’ve missed a real treat, sir. Oh, they’re fine big cities, sir. All modern bustle and fuss. But with some fine old buildings too. You’d like them, sir. I can see you there, you’d be in your element. Of course we don’t live there. We have a little house outside in the country. Little farm really, sir, just a few cows and some land for crops. But it’s enough for us.’
He poked around in his pocket and took out his wallet. Then reaching inside he produced two dog-eared black and white photographs. ‘Here they are, sir. Last Christmas that was, on leave. That’s Monika there and that’s Heidi and the little one is Hans. If I could just see them once more at home, Lieutenant. Once more. That’s all I ask.’
‘Perhaps you will, later, Monier. After our victory I’m sure that you’ll see them and then we’ll have all this behind us, eh?’
Monier nodded and smiled: ‘Oh yes, sir. That would be a nice thought. And then, sir, if I’m not being too forward, perhaps you’d do us the honour of coming to visit us on our farm. We’d make you feel quite at home.’
Ringler smiled at him: ‘The honour would be all mine, Monier. That’s a firm date. I look forward to it.’
It had been, he knew, a futile reply and as he shook Monier’s hand to wish him a pleasant goodnight, he wondered whether he would ever walk through the doorway of the little farmhouse and meet Monier’s smiling children. In truth he did not really believe that any of them had much chance of getting out of this hellhole, let alone getting back to their loved ones. But he thought that at least perhaps with Monier he had behaved creditably. Like a proper officer, the sort of man he aspired to be.
Ringler dropped down into his foxhole and stretched out in its narrow space, placing his head on the bundle of blankets that he reserved for that purpose. The combination of schnapps, Italian wine and two bottles of the hijacked Löwenbräu had addled his mind and induced a welcome sleep. He pressed his head into the soft wool and began to drift off gently into the darkness.
Hardly, it seemed, had he closed his eyes however before his dreams of Germany were cut through with a violence that made him sit up, shaking. An explosion. A huge one and not, it seemed, too far away. Ringler sat, stunned on the floor of the trench. The bang was followed by another equally massive explosion and the world felt as if it was being blown to pieces around him. He looked directly upwards. Above his head and as far as he could see, the sky was lit by the most extraordinary glow. He peered cautiously out of the foxhole towards the Allied lines and saw a flickering line of light. The desert looked as if it was on fire, shuddering with flame along the length of its horizon. Each new explosion now seemed to course right through him.
His limbs began to tremble uncontrollably and then he noticed that the ground itself was shaking. Every bang smashed into his consciousness like a huge battering ram. Thudding, relentless, sudden, awful in its intensity. Looking up again he saw a single huge shell fly above his head, towards the rear of the German lines, whistling as it went, like some terrible iron firebrand. A shiver ran up his spine and it occurred to him that to manage this the British must have countless batteries up there on their position opposite the lines. Countless batteries with which to hurl destruction at him and his comrades.
Monier came hurrying over to him, breathless and pouring sweat. He was wearing his helmet and carrying a slung MP38 machine-pistol. He crouched down at the edge of the trench.
‘Lieutenant Ringler, sir. This must be it, don’t you think so? The big one. The one we’ve been waiting for. They’re going to attack.’
‘I don’t know, Monier. Let’s not jump to conclusions.’
Quickly, Ringler pulled himself out of the trench and stood up beside Monier.
‘But sir, look.’
He pointed and Ringler followed the line of his arm back towards the rear of the German lines. He could see nothing now but a sheet of flame punctuated by fresh explosions, every second it seemed. Sometimes two or three at the same moment.
‘Oh, Christ in heaven! Yes, perhaps you’re right. Maybe this is it.’
The two men stood transfixed by the sheer enormity of the cataclysmic destruction being wrought to their rear.
Monier spoke first: ‘Poor devils, whoever’s under that lot.’
‘Just thank God it’s not us Sar’nt-Major. Where’s the signals section?’
Monier pointed to the left: ‘Trench over there, sir. I’ve stood all the men to. As much of the battalion as I can find at least.’
‘Well see if you can raise headquarters on the field telephone. Get the colonel. The adjutant. Get anyone. Find out if they have any idea what’s going on. Then find the rest of the men. I’m going to find my company.’
Five hours later and with his head aching from the endless cacophony of exploding shells, Ringler looked out across the sand from the shelter of a slit trench in the Number Ten company position and noticed that the first light of morning was finally creeping up. The sky hung heavy with thick deposits of sulphur and cordite which cast a nauseous yellow tinge in the air and seemed, he thought, almost tangible, somehow slimy. It was as if some malicious God had wiped an open sore over the beauty of the world. At last the shelling ceased, although in the distance a low rumble indicated that the fighting was continuing and as the day dawned quickly he saw the sky change colour again until it was filled with a black-brown smokescreen that hung at a uniform height across the vast expanse of what overnight had become the battlefield. The smell though remained as it had been before, the unmistakable, sweet and suffocating stench of gunpowder. Acrid and stifling, it penetrated every orifice, reaching into the lungs until you wanted to retch.
At last the sun rose, casting a more healthy light on the smoke-hung horizon. Black plumes curled up from the desert, in particular from the areas containing the Fifteenth and Twenty-First Panzer Divisions and from the heavy artillery batteries. Those he presumed had been the Allies’ major targets for their bombardment.
In his trench Ringler’s number two, a young second lieutenant named Weber, younger even than he, threw up. Ringler had a quiet word with the boy.
‘Hans, it may just be the fumes from the shelling. God knows I feel like puking myself, but we can’t be too careful. We don’t want more dysentery. Not after the last lot and certainly not at a time like this. Get it cleared up will you and then see if you can find the MO.’
He did not know where Doctor Müller was this morning. He had seen him in the night as he went from foxhole to foxhole, just making sure. It was just as well. Two of the men had become slightly delirious from the shellfire and were unable to move. It wasn’t uncommon and Ringler had never seen such a barrage as that they had experienced last night. Rumours had come in all night thick and fast.
He had finally made contact with Battalion HQ at about two in the morning. Word was that this was the big attack they had been expecting and that they should all dig in and prepare themselves for the worst. It seemed bizarre to him that they had so far managed to avoid engaging the enemy. Nor, apart from the two cases of shellshock had they suffered any actual casualties.
For the rest of the night they had struggled to get any further information and Ringler was beginning to despair when he saw Monier coming up to their position. He was covered in dust and his red-rimmed eyes gave away the fact that he had been up all night travelling from company to company with a number of runners.
‘Lieutenant, news from HQ. Staff has sent a message. Tommy’s broken through in the northern sector. We’re counter-attacking.’
‘What about the south?’
‘According