Date: Mon, 4 Apr 2011 15:25:06 +0100
From: Michael Gouda <michael@tanyardbank.plus.com>
Subject: Snapshots of War (Part 9)

Snapshots of War
Michael Gouda

Part 9

Tuesday June 17th 1941

The third day of Operation Battleaxe. Things were not going well.
Bert's group were still dug in on the ridge, but on the plain below
them they could see the German Panzer IVs with their new 50 mm guns
were knocking seven assorted shades of shit out of the British tanks.
There were just too many of them. It was difficult to tell but the
allied aircraft also seemed to be succumbing in increasing numbers to
the German anti-aircraft guns as plane after plane plummeted into the
sand, smoke streaming from the fuselage in an ineffectual farewell. On
this third day in their heat and sweat it looked as if the attempt to
relieve Tobruk was doomed to failure.
"Best to get out while you still can," said Chalky.
Bert agreed. But the decision was hardly up to him. The soldiers
brewed some tea. The provision trucks had brought up fresh supplies of
water during the night. It was then that the anti-aircraft guns found
them. A high pitched whine was followed by an ear-shattering explosion
creating a volcanic fountain of sand from somewhere just behind them.
"Jesus," said someone, "where did that fucker come from?"
"Anti-aircraft gun," suggested the sergeant.
"I thought they were supposed to be fired up in the fucking air."
"We're sitting ducks here."
Another shell arrived and exploded just in front of their position.
They were showered with sand and bits of shrapnel clattered on their
helmets. A gash opened up in young Trent's cheek and blood started
dribbling down his face. He scarcely seemed to notice, his eyes wide
with alarm. Rifles and Bren guns were of no earthly use at this range.
They waited for orders. Up the slope in front of them appeared a
British tank its tracks churning the sand and climbed towards them. It
was almost as if the driver could not see their heads sticking out of
the trench.
"He's going to run us down." Someone called in a terrified high-
pitched voice but at the last moment the tank veered off to the left,
its metallic tracks clanking and throwing up sand into their faces as
it passed. A white face peered out of the driving slit in the front.
"Bloody hell. And there's more coming." From out of the heat haze and
shimmering mist more shapes materialised heading away from the front
line. "It's a fucking retreat." Without waiting for orders, the men
scrabbled around for their equipment and stood up to be immediately
forced to duck down again as another whistling shell whined overhead
and yet a third landed in the bunker next to them.
"Let's get out of here," said the sergeant. "Come on, lads, it's a bit
unhealthy here."
The R/T muttered scratchily. "New orders, Sarge. We are to withdraw in
an orderly fashion."
"You heard him, lads. Get out of here while you still can."
The 'orderly' withdrawal was more like a frantic riot as the soldiers
scrambled out of the trench with shells whistling overhead or falling
just in front. The sand thrown up cut their exposed skin like grit and
the blood ran from their lacerations so that they looked as if they
had been all severely wounded.
There was no shelter, nowhere to hide and they raced along as best as
they were able through the shifting, yielding sand. Bert was knocked
flat on his face from the force of an explosion that landed just
behind him but, although bruised, he did not think he had been badly
wounded.
"Get up," said Chalky as Bert lay there temporarily winded and wishing
that the turmoil of screaming shells, explosions and splinter-like
sand would finish. "You're not safe lying there."
Bert crawled along for a while until he was sure he wasn't injured,
then he staggered to his feet. There was someone lying flat on his
face in the sand to his right. He wasn't moving. Bert stopped by him
and turned him over. It was Private Trent. He was breathing, the
breath coming out of his mouth in great gasps. Bert couldn't see any
obvious wound except for the cut on his cheek which was still bleeding
stickily.
"Are you hurt?" he asked.
Trent tried to speak, his mouth opening, but no sounds emerged.
"Come on, lad, I'll help you along." He clasped the boy round the
waist, hoisting him to his feet. Bert could smell the boy's sweat and
the coppery smell of blood like old pennies. Together the three of
them stumbled through the reverberating pandemonium, dust and confusion.
"I'd give you a helping hand, mate, but... " Chalky said, shrugging.
Bert understood and smiled his thanks. To anyone watching it would
have looked like a twisted grimace.
Eventually things got quieter. Perhaps the guns had fastened on to
another place. The soldiers regrouped and a medical orderly took
charge of what remained of Private Trent.


Wednesday June 25th 1941
Another meeting at Wormwood Scrubs with the same personnel as before.
  The major was reading aloud from a document he held in his hand.
"The attack began on June 15th and achieved some initial success, but
on the following day progress was slow, and further advance was
checked by enemy counterattacks. By the morning of 17th June, losses
in tanks and the generally unfavourable situation made it clear that
the attack had failed. The order to withdraw was given, and the
British forces retired to their original area. That was the 7th
Armoured Division at Sidi Omar."
"A bad business," said the general. " Are there any more details of
our losses?"
"As far as can be ascertained, sir, British casualties totalled about
960 men. Of 90 cruiser and about 100 infantry tanks which began the
battle, 27 cruisers and 64 Infantry tanks were lost. The Royal Air
Force lost 36 aircraft. Enemy losses are obviously harder to estimate.
It is thought that the Axis forces sustained about 800 casualties,
mostly Germans. They had 12 tanks destroyed and about 50 damaged, and
they lost 10 aircraft."
The general looked even more grave. His hand holding the spoon to stir
his tea shook noticeably.
"The British failure of Operation Battleaxe was attributable to the
haste with which it was mounted, the lack of opportunity to train the
troops with new equipment, and the lack of tactical training,
especially in armoured units. Co-operation between air and ground
forces also left much to be desired. The Axis defenders occupied
exceptional positions and showed marked skill in handling their anti-
tank weapons and in staging counterattacks. It is clear to the British
that a much greater effort will be required if the Axis forces are to
be eliminated from North Africa."
"The War Office has been very candid," said the colonel.
"The document is of course Top-secret, and will not be for
publication," said the major. "I think it may be intended as a reproof
to us for our lack of success with the Juan Perez fiasco."
"Damned bad show that," said the general, sucking his tea through his
moustache. He looked at Carlisle as if he had been personally
responsible for the failure of the plan.
"We could hardly have expected the man to be run over by a van before
he could communicate with his masters, sir," said Carlisle. "Our
operative played his part excellently. The plan would have worked -
except for extraordinary bad luck."
The general looked as if he had an unpleasant taste in his mouth.
Clearly even the mention of the 'operative', and what he had had to
do, was distasteful to him. He puffed on his pipe as if to sanitise
the whole affair.
The Major looked up. "I understand General Wavell is to be replaced
very shortly, probably sent to India."
"Who is the replacement likely to be?" asked the general .
"It needs a younger man," said the captain, his tea duties
accomplished. "Someone with flair and new ideas. A worthy opponent to
Rommel."
"Rumour has it that it is to be General Sir Claude Auchinleck," said
the colonel.
The major looked astonished. "His whole career has been in the Far
East . What does he know about the realities of desert warfare?" he
asked.
"A fine man," said the general, disapproving. "It is not up to us to
criticise the powers that be."
The portrait of the King looked down benignly from the wall.

Monday June 23rd 1941
A bright afternoon in June. Summertime. The sunlight warmed the London
streets and people walked as if there was no war, as if nations were
not poised to destroy each other. As if innocents weren't being
exterminated. As if  soldiers on all sides weren't being killed at the
behest of their leaders. For an afternoon, it seemed, there was an
atmosphere of peace and Peter and William walked through the West End
of London.
The newspaper man on the corner of the Strand and Aldwych was
shouting: "Hitler attacks Russia". Peter bought an Evening Standard
and they hurried down Lancaster Place to Waterloo Bridge. There they
caught a bus back to Granby Street.
Over tea with Theresa and Jean they read the paper and discussed the
implications.
"What can it all mean?" asked William.
"It means," said Peter, "that Hitler has gone mad. He's attacked
Russia. He has gone east rather than west. And surely the Russian bear
will growl a little at such betrayal."
"So Britain is saved?" Jean suggested.
"I don't know. For the time being perhaps. It depends on how long the
Russians can hold back the German Panzer columns. They swept through
France with little hardship, you remember, as we all found out to our
cost. And Norway. Belgium and the Netherlands. It is certainly,
though, a reprieve for old John Bull."
"You mean, the invasion won't happen?" asked William.
"Well maybe not as soon as we feared," said Peter, smiling at his
friend.
"I don't understand why he has done it," said Theresa.
"Hitler always planned to go East to find what he called 'Lebensraum'
living room for the Germans," said Peter. "I don't expect you have
read the book he wrote in 1924, Mein Kampf. Tedious stuff most of it
is, but I had to study it at University. I learnt off by heart one
paragraph because I thought it was significant. 'We are taking up
where we left off six hundred years ago. We are putting an end to the
perpetual German march towards the south and west of Europe and
turning our eyes towards the east. However, when we speak of new land
in Europe today, we must principally bear in mind Russia and the
border states subject to her. Destiny itself seems to wish to point
the way for us here.'"
Tea at Granby Street had become almost a regular event since that
first time. Theresa seemed to have developed a real liking for Peter
and had almost badgered William to get his friend round at least once
a week.
There was a sudden great bustle at the back door and Adele and Mavis
arrived, chattering to each other and of course late for tea. While
they took off the coats, Teresa had to cut some more sandwiches and
there was only fish paste at which Adele turned up her nose.
  Mavis was introduced to Peter and immediately began to ogle him,
fluttering her eyelashes at him in such an obvious way that William
was embarrassed.
Jean, hair freshly blonde, wearing a blue dress to match her eyes,
gazed at Peter with something that looked almost akin to hero-worship.
"He's very clever," she said.
Theresa gave her a dig in the ribs. "You'll embarrass the man," she
said, but Peter just looked smug and, in an attempt to put him in his
place, William went over the top. "Oh yes," he said, "he's been to
university you know in Paris and he speaks lots of languages, French,
German, English and of course Dutch."
Mavis flashed a look at Adele who nodded. "We have a piece of paper,"
said Mavis, "with some writing on it - in a foreign language. I wonder
if you know what it is." She went out to where she had hung her coat
in the hall and returned with a folded piece of what looked like pink
blotting paper. When she had unfolded it they all peered at the
curious writing.
"You have to hold it up to the mirror," said Adele and when they did
so, they saw: 'Sag Lotte, daß ich sie liebhabe und sobald alles vorbei
ist werde ich mit ihr zurück nach Wiesbaden gehen, wo wir 1936 zwei so
glückliche Urlaubswochen verbracht haben.'
  "Sag Lottie dab ick sigh.... " said Mavis reading from the start.
"What language is that?"
"Looks a bit like German," said Jean. "My Sam used to know a bit of
German. Isn't Wiesbaden a town in Germany?"
Peter hesitated for a fraction of a second then said, "It is German,"
He pronounced the sentence properly. "It means 'Give my love to Lotte
and tell her that, as soon as all this is over (I assume the person
means the War), I'll take her back to Wiesbaden where we spent such a
happy two weeks on holiday back in 1936.' Wiesbaden is a spa town in
Germany, a bit like Cheltenham or Harrogate."
"There I told you," said Mavis. "He's seeing another girl, sending his
love to this Lotte, spending his holidays with her."
"It might be his sister or a cousin or anyone," said Adele.
"You'll have to ask him."
Adele beckoned her close so that they couldn't be overheard by the
others. They carried on the conversation in a low tone. "How can I?
He'll know we've been looking at his private papers."
"A blotter is private papers?"
"You know what I mean," said Adele. "Anyway it's obviously over if it
all happened in 1936 - that's five years ago."
"Did you know he could speak German? That he'd been in Germany?"
Adele shook her head.
"I told you he was a spy."
"Don't be silly." But Adele looked worried.
At the table amidst the debris of teacups and cake crumbs, Jean said,
"That Mavis is after him you know."
"I don't think so. She's just a young girl," said Theresa.
"Perhaps he likes young girls."
"Surely he's much too sensible to be interested in that age group. I
don't think he paid her much attention at all."
Jean sighed. "It doesn't look as if he's paying me much attention
either. I suppose he isn't ... "
"Isn't what?" But Jean wouldn't say.
They looked over to where Peter and William were sitting on the settee
in earnest conversation, heads close together.
"I recognise the writing," Peter was saying. "I'm sure I do. I think
it's Charlie's. How on earth did your sister and her friend get hold
of it?"
"You should have said it was Russian or something," said William. "Put
them off the track."
"Jean identified it. She knew Wiesbaden. This is most worrying. You'll
have to find out where your sister's friend got it from. I only hope
they don't get suspicious and start trying to find things out."
"I'll ask Adele," promised William.
"Try not to make it sound too important," said Peter.


Monday June 23rd 1941 (evening)
Nights seemed to be so much more peaceful now. Though of course the
German forces were just over the Channel and had occupied the Channel
Islands, part of Britain, the fact that so much of the enemy effort
seemed to be directed to the East - and Russia, meant that air raids
were much less frequent. The nightly treks to the Underground had
become the exception rather than the rule.
William would have liked to have gone to see Peter that evening , but
mindful of his promise to find as much information as he could from
Adele about the message, he had stayed in and now the three of them,
Teresa, Adele and William, sat in the living room listening to the
wireless and probably all wishing they were somewhere else. Mavis had
gone home to change before work and Auntie Jean was away for the night
visiting her parents who lived in Muswell Hill.
Adele would be going to work too later in the evening so William knew,
if he was going to find out anything about the German message, he
would have to broach the subject soon. His own day had been long and
he was tired. Mr Pemberton had been down from Head Office in Slough,
and William had been showing off his skill at riveting and brazing
until the bits of metal had danced before his eyes and he felt the
blue arc light of the welding torch would burn holes in his retinas
even through the protective goggles.
He looked at his mother. Theresa sat in her armchair, hands in her
lap, listening to the music played by Jack Hylton and his Orchestra -
'We'll Meet Again' played on lots of violins. She looked relaxed and
somehow fulfilled. There was peace in her face; it was something under
the surface which seemed to shine through, even though the worries and
cares of wartime stress were still there.
He looked across at his sister in the other chair. Though obviously
younger, there was something of the same look about her. William
wondered about this. One tended to take close relatives for granted,
did not peer at them too closely, their features were too well-known
to need examination - but he had never noticed this affinity, this
special resemblance before. He wondered if it had always been there
or, if not, what might have caused it.
"Adele," said William, and stopped, realising he wasn't sure how to go
on.
"Um," said Adele, looking up.
"That was interesting, at teatime, you know, the message in German."
"Uh huh," said Adele unhelpfully.
"I was wondering who might be writing in German to someone in Germany."
"You know what curiosity did to the cat," said Adele.
This was going to be difficult but unexpectedly Theresa joined in.
"Where did you get the blotting paper from, dear?" she asked.
Adele hesitated. It was obvious that she didn't really want to talk
about it but, on the other hand, she wouldn't snub her mother in the
same way as she was quite prepared to snub her 'little' brother.
"It was someone at work," she said.
"One of the girls?" asked Theresa. "The way it referred to Lotte, I
thought it was a man writing it."
"Well actually it was," said Adele, finally making up her mind to come
clean. "It was Mr Leverton, one of the bosses. I've been seeing him,
you know, apart from work, at the Palais, actually. And we found the
paper in his office."
"But it was a private letter," said Theresa, her tone, mildly reproving.
"I didn't want to take it," said Adele, "but Mavis - you know how she
is, her nose into everything. I couldn't stop her - and then I
wondered what it was. The words were so strange when we looked at them
in the mirror."
Mr Leverton, thought William, a boss at the Woolwich Arsenal, so it
couldn't have been the Charlie whom MI5 knew about. The handwriting
must just have been similar enough to fool Peter. William felt
relieved. After Peter had warned him about Charlie, he didn't want to
think of Adele becoming involved with someone like that.
"And what are you going to do now?" asked Theresa.
Adele shrugged. "I'd prefer to leave it alone - but Mavis....." she
let the sentence fade away. "Anyway," she said, suddenly getting up.
"I must go. It's getting late."
"Would you like a cup of cocoa before you go?" asked Theresa.
Adele shook her head.
"What about you, William?"
"I'd prefer a bottle of beer," said William, who had developed a
liking for it after visiting pubs with Peter.
"Listen to big boy, Bill," said Adele, "drinking beer now."
"There isn't any in the house," said Theresa.
"I could go to the off-licence," said William. "They'll still be open.
And I'll be able to walk big sister to the tram stop, to make sure she
doesn't get robbed along the way."
"Huh," said Adele loftily, and put on her coat.
"You're not old enough," said Theresa. "They won't serve you."
"I bet I can," said William. "I've done it before."
Theresa shook her head but raised no more objections.
It was still fairly light though dusk was falling. British Double
Summertime ensured that it was light late and thus that the farmers
and the Land Girls could carry on working in the fields until up to 10
o'clock. William and Adele walked to the tram stop.
"What did you really think about this Leverton bloke, you know, your
boss?" asked William, greatly daring and expecting to get his head
bitten off, but Adele  seemed to have calmed down.
"Mr Leverton?" she said, "I don't know. Mavis thinks he's the spy. I
quite like him. He's a smashing dancer!"
William almost laughed. He couldn't imagine the gruff, almost
perennially surly, Charlie doing anything as frivolous as dancing. But
Adele must have seen his smile because she froze up and they finished
the walk to the tram stop in silence.
William didn't wait for the tram to arrive. The Goat and Compasses
with its off-sales department was a further half mile down the road
and he would have to hurry if he wanted to catch it open.
As it was the barmaid with the curly hair and inviting bosom was just
about to put up the 'Closed' sign when William pushed open the door.
"Can I get a bottle of Bass?" he asked, putting on as  deep a voice as
he could. "It isn't too late it is it?"
She looked him up and down and for a moment William thought she was
going to refuse him. Then she smiled
"Course you can, dear," she said, "and if you like to 'ang on for 'alf-
an-'our while I wash up in the bar, you can 'ave me as well." She gave
a laugh at his spreading blush. "I like a big strong lad like yourself."
"Just the beer tonight, love," he said, recovering an element of
cheek. "Perhaps you on top of the beer might be a bit too much for
me." She laughed again and took his money.
William walked back along the road. As he passed a telephone box the
thought struck him that he should phone Peter and tell him about Mr
Leverton, relieve his doubts that the letter had been written by
Charlie, but there was no answer to the ringing. William wondered
where Peter had got to. Oh well it wasn't that important; he would
tell him tomorrow.
It has quite dark by then, cloud covering, and then letting through, a
half moon, and William had to pick his way carefully to avoid tripping
over kerbstones and bumping into street lamps which no longer
functioned. He was startled to hear the wailing sound of the siren,
howling out of the night; there hadn't been an air raid for a couple
of weeks. He hurried down Windmill Road to the turning which was
Granby St. As he reached the corner and turned up towards his house,
he heard the droning sound of an aircraft.
Searchlights were sweeping the sky and suddenly one caught the plane,
a silver cross in the white beam. The other three converged and the
plane was held in the confluence, the lattice work of light. William
thought that the plane was flying south, on its way back home, perhaps
detached from the other planes - for they usually travelled in a pack
- from a raid somewhere up North. The ack-ack guns sounded, sharp
cracks and puffs of smoke were caught in the beams. They were close
but hadn't got a hit. The plane started to weave, trying to escape the
net of searchlights. It seemed to be going very slowly, William
thought, perhaps it hadn't dropped its bombs, was still heavily laden.
Just as that thought struck him, he saw the silver bombs fall, one
after the other, tumbling for a second in the lights before
disappearing downwards into the darkness. He paused waiting and then
heard the explosions, the first from somewhere up North, Camden Town
perhaps, then nearer and nearer as the bombs landed and blew up.
Suddenly he realised he was very exposed but there was no air raid
shelter immediately close and he crouched down in the lee of a brick
garden wall.
Then an enormous crash which hurt his ear drums and a punch of blast
which picked him up and threw him down onto the pavement ten feet
away. The breath knocked out of him, his back hurting from its contact
with the ground, elbows grazed and bleeding, he lay there wondering if
he was badly hurt. There was another crunching report from somewhere
further south and then silence - except for the ringing in his ears.
He shook his head and tentatively got to his feet. Helpfully the cloud
cleared and the moonlight showed him the way through the dust which
hung in a fringe across the road. He looked towards his house. It
wasn't there. There was the gap where the Fosters had been and then
just a pile of rubble with the remains of the staircase still fastened
to the wall which was Jean's house.
And Mum was somewhere under that rubble of bricks and tiles and cement
and wood.

End of Part 9