Alamein: The turning point of World War Two. Iain Gale
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a small village near Vicenza and had volunteered for the army aged sixteen back in ’33. But that had been a lifetime ago. Now he passed the hours with his head buried in whatever reading matter he could find. Mostly he liked the Italian lyric poets. But when he couldn’t get them any popular magazine would do. Particularly Cinema, the new movie magazine. Film stars and directors were an especial passion. There was very little about Italian film that Visconti did not know.
Mautino nodded: ‘Right, Guido. You’re quite right. That was the end of it.’
Ruspoli added: ‘You know the reason for that though, don’t you? So that the Brits wouldn’t know we were here. That was fair enough. We have a reputation, boys. It was tough though for the lads after going through so much to earn them.’
‘Now they’re just exhausted, sir. Men are being relieved not from wounds but from sheer physical exhaustion.’
Ruspoli was reflective: ‘How long have you been here, Carlo?’
‘Same time as you, Colonel, since June.’
‘Since June, and tell me how much action have we seen since then?’
‘Enough, Colonel.’
‘Certainly enough. Do you remember our first time in action here?’
‘Could I forget it? July twenty-second. We’d only been disembarked for a few hours. We lost so many they had to make one battalion out of two. And we’ve been here ever since, waiting for the British to attack.’
Visconti looked up, tearing his concentration away from the torments of Dante’s second circle of hell. ‘Oh, I meant to tell you, sir. While you were on sick leave, Captain Camino had a direct hit on his dugout by a mortar bomb. He’s fine but was concussed for four days.’
Mautino spoke again: ‘Sir, have you noticed anything?’
‘What?’
‘Well, it’s long after 4.15 and the British haven’t fired at us.’
He was right. Every day for the past two months at precisely 4.15 a salvo of four huge 88mm shells had arced their way across the sky and crashed into the Italian position.
Ruspoli looked at his watch: 4.45. ‘Something’s up. Guido, get Benezetti and radio Brigade HQ. Tell them that something’s not right. We haven’t been fired on. Ask them if they know anything.’
‘I read the intelligence reports, sir. Heavy movements of troops again on the Telegraph Track, the Red Track and the Water Track. Point is we’re in the centre of the line. We also know who we’re facing over there. The British Fiftieth Division. Mainly light infantry with a few Greeks and the Free French.’
Ruspoli stood up and peered down the trench at his men who were slouching, exhausted, against the sides. They may, he thought, be descended from Caesar and Scipio but these men have no resemblance to any ancient warriors. I know they can fight though. It’s just making sure their morale holds up. For once, he wondered whether new uniforms might help after all.
He turned to Mautino: ‘We’re fighting in rags, Carlo. No more than rags. Can’t we get on to Division and ask for more uniforms?’
‘We’ve tried, Colonel. But we just keep being told that they’re coming.’
Visconti smiled: ‘Like everything else in this damned war. It’s on its way. On its way. The reinforcements. The new tanks. The gasoline, the rations. It’s all on its way. But it just never gets here, sir.’
Ruspoli tried to inject a high note. ‘You know that when the Duce was out here in July, he stayed for three weeks longer than he needed to.’
‘Yes I know, sir. But he took his white horse with him when he went. We might have had a few nice steaks out of that.’
‘Very funny, Guido. But I know what you mean. I’m as loyal as anyone to the Duce but I’m fighting for Italy. We all are. And the men can see what’s going on. The Germans are using us as cannon fodder. Even the hardline fascisti are beginning to wonder.’ Ruspoli shook his head. ‘Look. I command the bravest men in the Italian army. Of that there’s no doubt. But how can we send them into battle unclothed and unfed? And seriously, Carlo, how do you think we can fight tanks? What weapons do we have?’
‘With the magnet bombs the Germans have given us?’
‘That’s it. And with Molotov cocktails. The only way to use either of them is to get close enough to a tank to attach the bomb or throw the bottle. What that means is that I’m expected to sacrifice one man for every tank.’
Visconti spoke: ‘You have to admit it’s a reasonable ratio. Montgomery’s only got five hundred tanks. We’ve got one and a half thousand men.’
Mautino grimaced: ‘Ever the realist, Guido.’
‘Cui exhibetis vos servos ad obediendum, servi estis eius.’
‘What?’
‘“When you obey someone like slaves, you become his slaves.” It’s a quote. Romans. The Bible. That’s what’s happened here with us and the Germans.’
‘Don’t exaggerate, Guido.’
Another voice spoke as they were joined by another officer, Captain Maurizio Polini, a tall thin man with a beak of a nose. He brushed sand from his clothes and unwound the scarf from his face then took a swig of precious water from his canteen. ‘Sir. Gentlemen. If you ask me you can forget our problems with the Germans. The desert’s our real enemy. More dangerous than the Brits even.’
Mautino looked at him: ‘Been out again, Maurizio?’
‘On patrol just short of the depression. Couldn’t see a thing. No sign of the British. But then again they come and go as they please. They’re like ghosts.’
Visconti, who had been reading his book looked up: ‘It’s the heat I can’t stand. Forty-three degrees. Non-stop all day. It just saps away your energy. How can we fight like that?’
Mautino spoke: ‘Then at night it’s freezing. Below zero. It’s the devil’s own country. Your Dante would know it.’
Caporale Santini had returned now from directing the new intake to their company commanders and joined in with the officers in the informal manner that they had become used to, particularly in the elite band of brothers that was the Folgore; the other ranks treating their superiors with just enough deference, the officers looking on the men as underprivileged younger siblings.
‘The water’s foul, sir. You must agree. We never have fruit or vegetables. Tinned food and biscuit, that’s it. And they might say it’s for safety, but you know the real reason the rations come up at night? So we can’t see the flies that are already inside them.’
‘It’s an old joke, Luigi.’
‘But seriously, sir. It’s no surprise that we all have dysentery or something worse.’
Ruspoli detected that perhaps they might have gone too far. ‘Think yourself lucky, boys, that we only have the shits. General Ceriana’s got colitis. Did you know that? They say he’s very ill.’
‘Perhaps another camel will wander into the camp. Beats me how the last one got through our minefield.’
‘Didn’t you hear, Carlo? You must have been away on attachment. The British had cleared a path through it in the night. Five metres wide. We had to get the mobile sappers out to re-lay the whole damn thing.’
‘But you ate the camel?’
‘Of course. It made a very tasty ragout. Didn’t we save you any?’
Mautino shook his head. ‘It wouldn’t have kept. But I’m sorry to have missed it. Perhaps another one will come.’
Santini spoke: ‘If it does, sir, then