Inferno - Max Hastings [89]
WAVELL BEGAN the Middle East war with 80,000 troops under his command. By the time Auchinleck, his successor, launched Operation Crusader in November 1941, he fielded 750,000, albeit most committed to garrison, logistical and support tasks across the theatre. After pushing Rommel back to El Agheila, the British anticipated a lull, and set about refitting their armoured units. But the Axis forces, having escaped destruction, regrouped with remarkable speed. When Pietro Ostellino emerged from the long and bloody Crusader mêlée, “I had the pleasant surprise of finding my kit, which I thought had fallen into English hands. It was aboard a truck which managed to escape the enemy encirclement. I finally got to sleep on my camp bed. I was in tatters after ten days without even washing my hands. I got rid of all the dirt as well as lice—some of these are still with me, but a little petrol should get rid of them. Clean, I feel a new man.”
Most of the Axis army shared Ostellino’s reinvigoration. On 21 January 1942, the British were rudely surprised when Rommel launched a new offensive, with devastating effect. Within three weeks he advanced almost 300 miles eastwards before familiar logistical problems obliged him to halt. Neil Ritchie, now the Eighth Army’s commander, set about creating strong defensive positions—the so-called Gazala Line, based upon brigade “boxes” protected by mines and wire. He intended Rommel to dissipate his strength assaulting these, at which point he would commit British armour, as usual superior in numbers, to press his advantage.
This gambit failed miserably: Ritchie had failed to study his enemy’s commitment to deep penetration and flanking operations. When Rommel attacked on 26 May, Ritchie’s “boxes” proved too widely separated to provide mutual support. For some days a Free French brigade staunchly defended the southernmost, at Bir Hacheim, but was then forced to withdraw. German armour manoeuvred with its usual skill: “We could never fire more than a couple of shots at any one tank before it was hidden by dust and the Germans were keeping just outside our range,” wrote a frustrated British tank officer. Then his squadron was ordered to charge. “Ten to one we don’t make it,” muttered a tank commander. He noted the look of disgust on his loader’s face as the man thrust another round into the smoking breech—he had been married a few weeks before leaving England. “I felt sorry for him.” Then they began to fire: “Driver left-halt. Two-pounder traverse right—steady, on. Three hundred, fire!” Within seconds of their own shot, in the words of the tank commander,
there was a tremendous crash. I felt a sharp pain in my right leg, heard the operator groaning, and said, “Driver, advance.” Nothing happened. The shell, an 88mm, had exploded in his stomach … At the time I realised only that the engine had stopped, the Tannoy internal communication set had broken down, air was escaping from the high pressure pipes and clouds of acrid smoke were coming up from inside. It all happened in a moment. Then we were out of the tank and running towards another one. It was our squadron leader, who had stopped to rescue us; my gunner was already on the tank, the operator had disappeared on another, but I could only hobble because my leg wobbled uncontrollably beneath my weight. I was terrified they would go without me. The Germans shelled me as I ran. The ground opened up at my feet and I staggered as the blast struck me, but I was not hurt. I hurled myself onto the tank, dizzy and exhausted