Soldier G: The Desert Raiders

  SOLDIER G: SAS

  THE DESERT

  RAIDERS

  Shaun Clarke

  Contents

  Prelude

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Discover other books in the SAS Series

  Prelude

  ‘It’s one helluva sight to behold,’ Lieutenant Derek ‘Dirk’ Greaves said, shading his eyes with his hand. ‘Very impressive indeed.’ The camp was located just outside Mersa Brega, in Libya’s vast Cyrenaica Desert. It was a sprawling collection of tents, lean-tos, makeshift huts and caravans overflowing with the men of the 7th Armoured Division and Selby Force, 4th Indian Division, 6th Australian Division, Royal Electrical and Mechanical Engineers (REME), Royal Army Medical Corps (RAMC), sappers, a Cypriot labour battalion and the hundreds of ragged Italian 10th Army soldiers packed into POW cages near the southern perimeter. Though holding a vast array of artillery and tanks, the camp was also protected by British infantry divisions spread out in a defensive line consisting of a series of ‘boxes’ – slit trenches for the infantry, gun pits for the artillery – surrounded by barbed wire and minefields, though these were far away, well spread out, and out of sight. The camp itself, Greaves noticed, was ringed with the 25-pounders of the Royal Horse Artillery, an equal number of British six-pounders, Bofors anti-aircraft guns, stone sangars manned by teams equipped with Bren guns and 0.5-inch Browning machine-guns, and even some captured Italian 75mm and 79mm guns to be manned by infantrymen, signallers, orderlies and cooks if battle commenced. It also contained what appeared to be hundreds of armoured vehicles. All dispersed evenly behind the line, these included the M3 Stuart light tanks of the 8th King’s Royal Irish Hussars, the Grant tanks of the Royal Gloucester Hussars, the Matildas of the 7th Royal Tank Regiment, the Bren carriers of the 9th Rifle Brigade, and Marmon Herrington armoured cars. Beyond the perimeter, on all sides, Greaves saw nothing but the ‘blue’ – the soldiers’ term for the desert – stretching away to the dust-wreathed horizon under a brilliant azure sky. By night the desert was freezing cold, but during the day the heat was fierce, shimmering up off the desert floor, hurting the eyes, making the sweat flow and leading to short tempers and fist fights. Tempers were also sparked off by the constant dust, blowing every second of every day and night, covering everything, filling the throat and nostrils, getting into food and drink and even sleeping bags, and which swirled in moaning clouds and drifted over the plains of rocky ground, soft sand and gravel. The dust also charged the metal parts of vehicles with electricity, shorting out the engines, often stopping the vehicles altogether and giving the men electric shocks. Even worse were the flies, thousands of them, all enormous, attacking eyes and ears, dropping into the tea and bully beef, the tinned ‘M and V’ (meat and vegetables), into the herrings and tomatoes and dehydrated potatoes, buzzing noisily, frantically, all day long, and making a visit to the ‘thunderbox’ to answer the call of nature a veritable endurance test. As for the freezing nights, though there was some respite from the flies, an alternative torment came in the shape of lice, bugs and cockroaches and, if a soldier became too careless, poisonous scorpions. All of these drove the men crazy and led to frayed tempers. Last but by no means least of their torments was a constant and hellish thirst. The water, which had to be transported laboriously from Cairo or Alexandria, was warm, salty, distilled sea water that just about kept them alive while failing dismally to assuage the unrelenting dryness of their throats. Foul to drink on its own, it was more satisfactory in a brew-up, though even then its high salt content curdled the tinned milk and filled the mugs with soft, disgusting curds. The tea was more refreshing than the water, but even that failed to quench their thirst.

  In combination with the heat, dust, and insects, the thirst may have contributed to some of the men’s crazier antics. Having just completed their spectacular rout of the Italian 10th Army, the Tommies were flush with victory and displayed it in the way they dressed. A company commander of the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders wore an Italian brigadier’s uniform with sea boots; British troops of the 2nd Armoured Division boasted Australian slouch hats, a bersagliere’s plumed hat, or the regalia of Blackshirt colonels; soldiers of the 9th Australian Division bore captured Italian pistols, with binoculars slung rakishly around their necks, as well as wearing the ceremonial gold-braided tunics of Italian officers instead of their own plain army jackets. In general the men preferred Italian uniforms, usually obtained by bartering with the POWs, to their own.

  This sartorial excess, Lieutenant Greaves had noticed, was complemented by a great deal of high spirits, including the indiscriminate firing of enemy rifles and pistols, exploding Thermos bombs, a lot of showing off in captured enemy vehicles, collecting wild dogs as vicious pets, bartering with Italian prisoners, betting on organized scorpion fights, hunting gazelles and other desert animals. There was a surprising indifference on the part of most officers to such undisciplined, and often dangerous, activities.

  Lieutenant Greaves, formerly with the Scots Guards, now 8 Commando, was there for only two days as an observation officer from the Middle East Headquarters (MEHQ) in Cairo and due to fly back the following day from Tobruk. Though he understood the men’s high spirits, he did not approve of their behaviour. The scorpion fights, in particular, were a particularly vicious form of blood sport in which someone would dig out a circular shallow in the sand, pour petrol around the edge, set fire to it, then place two scorpions inside the ring of fire. The heat of the flames would drive the scorpions wild and they would viciously fight one another – so much so that often one of them would inadvertently sting itself fatally with its own tail. Another sport, equally unsavoury, was hunting desert gazelles, which the men would pursue in trucks, firing at the unfortunate creatures with their rifles. While the deaths of the animals had the undeniable merit of supplementing the men’s rations, Greaves viewed it as yet another barbaric activity spawned by a combination of victorious excitement, post-victory boredom, and a general lack of discipline.

  Since the start of the British offensive in December, these men, including the 4th Indian Division, had resolutely pushed back the Italian forces in Egypt, stopping their advance at Sidi Barrani, taking Sollum, capturing Bardia with 40,000 Italian prisoners, and then Tobruk, and finally, after two months of relentless fighting, cutting off the main body of the Italian Army at Beda Fomm, with approximately 130,000 enemy troops captured. Now, in the closing days of March 1941, aware that advance elements of General Irwin Rommel’s Afrika Korps, including the 15th and 21st Panzer Divisions, had recently arrived in Tripoli and, supported by the Italian mechanized Ariete Division, were advancing across Cyrenaica, the men, still torn between high spirits and boredom, were in no mood for the necessary discipline of camp life.

  Greaves would put this into his report when he returned to MEHQ, where the staff officers, known contemptuously as the ‘gabardine swine’ because their uniforms were made of that material and the Tommies thought they had an easy life, were anxiously biting their nails over the arrival in Tripoli of Rommel and his Afrika Korps.

  Greaves could understand the Tommies’ contempt for the staff officers back in Cairo. Life there was certainly much easier and, in some cases, even luxurious. And yet, while he was supposed to be going back on an RAF Hudson
transport the following day, he realized he would prefer to stay in the desert. A man who thought of himself first and foremost as a soldier, not as an officer, he was experiencing the frustration of the born soldier with no war to fight.

  Even as he stood there beside one of the Bofors anti-aircraft-gun sangars, contemplating the vast, seemingly empty plains of the desert in the dimming afternoon light, he saw a long, thin cloud building up where the blue sky met the earth on the eastern horizon.

  ‘Looks like a sandstorm coming,’ he said to Major Gervase Reynolds, 3rd Hussars, one of the Regiments of the 7th Armoured Division.

  ‘I hope not,’ Reynolds replied, tugging distractedly at his handlebar moustache. ‘Bloody dreadful things. Make you feel you’re being buried alive and bugger up everything. Absolutely the worst thing about this damned place, which has many bad things.’

  ‘It certainly looks like a sandstorm,’ Greaves said as he squinted into the heat haze, surveying the distant horizon beyond El Agheila. The cloud was taking shape as an elongated band of darkness that spread higher and ever wider as it advanced across the flat, sun-scorched plain.

  ‘No wind,’ Major Reynolds observed. ‘Not the slightest breeze, Captain.’

  Greaves sucked his forefinger and held it up. ‘Damn it, you’re right,’ he said. ‘No wind at all.’ Continuing to stare across the dazzling plain, he saw the cloud growing and still advancing at what he estimated was about thirty miles an hour. Then a series of black dots appeared in the sky above the horizon, distorted in the heat haze, but growing fatter by the second, racing forward above the duststorm until, in under half a minute, they took shape as winged birds.

  Greaves realized they were not birds when he heard a familiar, distant rumbling sound.

  ‘JERRY!’ someone suddenly bawled behind him.

  As the distant rumbling grew louder, the silhouetted birds became a squadron of German Ju-87 Stuka dive-bombers, all heading straight for the camp.

  ‘Damn it!’ Reynolds exclaimed. ‘He’s right! We’d better take cover.’

  Even as Greaves recognized the enemy aircraft and, like Reynolds, hurled himself down behind the stone wall of a 25-pounder emplacement, the air-raid sirens wailed and the men in the laagers roared instructions at one another, frantically preparing their Bofors anti-aircraft guns. Jeeps and Bren-gun carriers roared into life and raced this way and that, churning up clouds of sand, as some of the men, arriving late, raced after them to jump aboard or get hauled up by their mates. The many troops in the tents poured out to grab weapons and helmets, then rushed to find cover in the defensive trenches around the perimeter. Others burst out of the latrines, some still pulling up their trousers.

  Greaves and Reynolds hurled themselves down behind the nearest sangar wall as the first of the Stukas reached the camp, primitive, ungainly and with swastikas clearly marked on their fins, and peeled off to begin their dive-bombing.

  The Bofors gun in the sangar exploded into action with a deafening roar, jolting dramatically as it belched fire and smoke, forcing Greaves to cover his ears with his hands as sand and gravel whipped up by the backblast swept hissing across him. The other anti-aircraft guns began roaring at the same time from all around the perimeter as the Stukas, which had been growling softly in an almost slumberous manner, screeched loudly, making their first attacks, their machine-guns firing as they descended. The bombs exploded nearby with a catastrophic roar and Greaves felt the earth shake beneath him as some Stukas screeched directly overhead before climbing above the pall of smoke. A lot of Tommies opened up with their .303 rifles and Mark 6 Webley pistols, adding their staccato snapping to the general bedlam.

  ‘Fat lot of good that’ll do!’ Greaves shouted to Reynolds, who was crouched beside him, removing his hands from his ears and shaking his head to remove the dust from his ears.

  Reynolds glanced at the men firing rifles and pistols, then tweaked his walrus moustache and grinned. ‘It’ll do the men good. Make them feel less helpless. That’s a good sign, old boy.’

  The Stukas were slow in flight but extremely fast when diving, the pilots fearlessly holding their course, ignoring exploding flak and streamers, and not levelling out until they were practically scraping the ground, when they would release their bombs, wobbling visibly as the load was dropped. Then they would straighten up and ascend steeply, back through the black clouds of flak and criss-crossing tracers, gaining velocity even as the bombs were exploding around the British positions.

  ‘Courageous buggers!’ Major Reynolds bawled. ‘Got to hand it to them, old boy. The Jerry pilots are admirable. I …’

  He was cut short by a series of explosions that tore up the ground nearby, creating a mushroom of swirling soil, gravel and debris, including large rocks and sandbags from the wall of a nearby sangar. The screaming of an injured Tommy daggered through the general clamour but was swiftly blotted out by the even louder bellowing of the British six-pounders, Bren guns and 0.5-inch Browning machine-guns, and the captured Italian 75mm and 79mm guns. The gun positions were hurriedly being manned by infantrymen, signallers, orderlies and cooks, most of whom were stripped to the waist, gleaming with sweat, and were gradually being covered in a film of dust and sand as swirling smoke obscured them.

  ‘The tanks!’ Reynolds bawled, rising himself to his knees and jabbing his finger to the front.

  Sitting up, Lieutenant Greaves saw the Mark III and Mark IV tanks of the Afrika Korps Panzer divisions emerging from a billowing cloud of dust, spread out over half a mile, followed by motorized infantry and six-wheeled armoured cars.

  ‘God, there’s a lot of them!’ Greaves exclaimed.

  ‘Too many,’ Reynolds sighed. ‘They must have broken through our defensive boxes, forming a wall between them and us, which means the boxes won’t be able to help us now.’ He turned away from Greaves and bawled for the nearest radio operator to come and join him. When a sand-smeared 4th Armoured Division corporal with a No 11 wireless set had crawled up to Reynolds, the latter grabbed the wireless mouthpiece, contacted the tank commander of the Royal Gloucester Hussars and told him to move out. Still holding the wireless mouthpiece, but with the switch turned off, he looked back to the front. ‘Let us pray,’ he whispered.

  As falling shells exploded between the German tanks, the enemy’s 55mm and 77mm guns opened fire, creating a curtain of smoke and fire. With the British guns responding in kind, the noise was truly hellish and made marginally worse when the Grants moved out between the gun pits and sangars, to engage the Germans on the open ground beyond the perimeter.

  The Panzers emerged from their own smoke with pennants fluttering from wireless aerials and their treads churning up sand, gravel and billowing clouds of dust. Assuming hull-down positions, they blasted the Grants, which were advancing with their 37mm and 75mm main guns firing at once, creating another nightmarish curtain of fire-streaked, streaming smoke.

  The battle was awesome, like the clash of dinosaurs, the tanks obscured in the swirling smoke and boiling sand resembling hunchbacked, fire-spitting beasts. But it was a battle in which the odds were distinctly against the British, who were greatly outnumbered and lacked the practised skills of the Germans. The advancing Grants were soon stopped in a gigantic convulsion of erupting soil, swirling smoke and raining gravel, many of them exploding internally, others losing their treads, the rest peppered by 55mm and 77mm fire, which also cut down the men trying to escape.

  ‘Oh, my God,’ Greaves said to Reynolds. ‘It’s a slaughter.’

  Major Reynolds responded by switching on the wireless mouthpiece and ordering the Bren carriers to move out. As the Grants were exploding, bursting into flames, shuddering and belching oily black smoke, with the survivors clambering down from the turrets, some on fire and screaming dementedly, the Bren carriers moved out to give them cover. While the Bren guns roared, spraying the German tanks and the infantry moving up behind them, the Tommies firing their .303s and M1 Thompson sub-machine-guns on the move from the open-topped armoured
vehicles. Unfortunately, they too were slaughtered by the Panzers’ guns, many falling right out of the carriers and slamming into the sand.

  The British gun batteries then unleashed a heavy concentration that made the German Mark IIIs and Mark IVs withdraw slightly. But they did so only long enough to let their infantry move against the flank exposed by the advance of the British Bren carriers. Reynolds immediately called up the Northumberland Fusiliers, who soon arrived with their heavy guns and temporarily plugged the gap, allowing the survivors of the Bren carriers to make their way back inside the perimeter as darkness fell.

  ‘Incoming message for you, Major,’ the radio operator said. Reynolds listened to the earpiece, then handed it back to the corporal and turned to Greaves. ‘We’re pulling out, Lieutenant. Back to Tobruk. Let’s get up and go.’

  With the German tanks temporarily withdrawn, they were able to evacuate the camp under cover of darkness. Soon the tanks, Bren carriers, armoured cars, Bedford trucks, jeeps and marching men formed a vast column on the road leading back through the desert to the harbour town of Tobruk. Unfortunately, with too many units on the move at the same time, there was an almost palpable sense of panic, with many men abandoning the all too frequently stalled trucks and running to get on others without bothering to check what was wrong with theirs. Other vehicles were abandoned when they ran short of petrol – even though there were many three-ton trucks loaded with petrol passing by on either side. This, too, was a sign of growing panic.

  Eventually, however, without being fired on by the German big guns or dive-bombed by the Stukas, the men found themselves inside the perimeter of Tobruk, mingling with the Aussies, who directed them to numerous positions along the wired perimeter, between gun pits and slit trenches. The tanks and trucks were lined up behind the wire to afford further protection.

  ‘You’ve got to hold that position at all costs,’ Major Art Wheeler, 6th Australian Division, said to Reynolds. ‘That’s the order I’ve just received from the gabardine swine. Fat lot those bastards know!’