him like Horrocks on his own merit. But it had been at Horrocks’ suggestion that he had given Lumsden X Corps and he already felt uneasy about it. Lumsden was certainly a game fellow. Lanky, dashing and with a liking for sartorial excess, he had been an amateur jockey before the war. But Montgomery disliked the arrogance that went with it. He might be a tremendous horseman and have a creditable handicap at golf, but he was not sure that the man had enough real ‘pep’ for such a plan as he had in mind. And therein, he suspected, might lie something of a problem.
Ducking beneath the low lintel of the pillbox, difficult even for his diminutive frame, Montgomery entered with Poston as ever close behind. ‘Freddie? Ah, there you are.’
De Guingand stood and saluted then grasped a thick sheaf of papers from his desk. ‘Sir. I have the latest sitrep here. I was just coming to find you and hand it over.’
Montgomery stared at him and a brief smile flickered across his face. He shook his head in a fatherly manner. ‘Don’t be silly, Freddie. You ought to know by now. You know I never read any papers when I can get the person concerned to tell me himself. Put all that bumpf away. See if you can find General Leese and ask him to dine with me. Oh, and why don’t you join us? Shall we say seven o’ clock? Outside my caravan. Don’t be late.’
Their frugal meal began at precisely seven o’ clock. But the food was of no great consequence to Montgomery. They sat within a large tent of mosquito netting into which the flies had still managed to gain access and dined as was his habit on bully beef and lemonade. But he was more concerned with the words of his corps commander and chief of staff. Leese went on: ‘As I was saying, I toured the positions today, sir. The men are mad keen, especially the Highlanders. They know they’ve got the Australians and New Zealanders on their flanks. They say they feel safe, sir. That’s the extraordinary thing really. They’re so remarkably confident. Never seen the like. And they really understand the plan.’
Montgomery smiled and tugged at his earlobe. ‘Thank you, Oliver. That’s most reassuring.’ He turned to de Guingand: ‘How d’you find the food, Freddie? Not a patch on what you sampled in Alexandria, I’ll bet.’
De Guingand laughed: ‘No, sir. I’m afraid you’re right. But it’s really not bad don’t you think?’
‘Where were you, the English Speaking Union?’
‘Yes, sir, it’s always a safe bet.’
‘How was it, the town? As confident as Leese’s men?’
‘More so, sir. It’s a different place from two months ago. They really seem to believe that the threat has gone.’
‘It has, Freddie. All we’ve got to do now is prove them right, gentlemen, isn’t it?’
The others smiled and Montgomery stood. They followed suit as he placed his hat on his head.
‘Now I think I’ll turn in. You, Oliver?’
‘I rather thought I’d watch the barrage, sir.’
‘As you will then. But what you think you’ll see I don’t know and whatever good do you suppose you’ll do?’
‘None, sir, of course.’
‘Quite. None whatsoever. You know that there is absolutely nothing you can possibly do now which will influence the battle. Your job, Oliver, is to get to bed early so you’re fresh in the morning. You must be on top form. This battle is sure to be full of shocks and you will have to take them.’
Leese nodded: ‘Yes, sir. Perhaps I should reconsider.’
‘I think you would be wise to do so. And now I really must get to bed so, gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me.’
He turned and walked up the few steps to the caravan. At the top he looked back. ‘Remember, Freddie. Any developments, be sure to wake me instantly.’
Montgomery twisted the door handle and entered the small wood-clad room. It was surprisingly cool. He closed the door behind him, removed his hat and ran his hands through his thinning hair. He sat down and stared at the floor. It was good. Leese’s report had backed up all that Freddie had told him. Everything was in place, the men were spoiling for a fight. It was all running to plan. But, he wondered, what will the situation be when I have taken 10,000 or 20,000 casualties and have lost a hundred or two hundred tanks?
He dismissed the thought. There was no going back now. Everything was ready. They must attack and force the issue. ‘D’ Day and ‘H’ Hour were set. Within half an hour the terrible barrage would begin, heralding perhaps the most important battle of the war to date. And he was its master. If he won he would be lauded and rewarded. But should he fail both the politicians and the people would vilify him. This then was to be the test of all the years. This was to be his chance.
He opened his diary and took up the pen that lay permanently beside it. ‘The enemy knows that we intend to attack and has been strengthening his defences. On our side we have the initiative and a great superiority in men, tanks and artillery and other materiel. We also have an army in which the morale is right up on the top line, and every officer and man knows the issues at stake, knows what is wanted, and knows how the battle will be fought and won.’
Every man might know, he thought, but only he had the ultimate responsibility. He might delegate and inform but ultimately the decisions were his alone.
He continued to write in the diary and as he did so wondered how posterity would evaluate his words. There would be bloodshed. Much of it. There was no way of avoiding that. And in the end a battle won here would save many more lives and might help to finish the war.
He wrote: ‘The battle will be expensive as it will really become a killing match.’ And as soon as he saw the words, he thought of their true meaning. How many men would they lose? 10,000 men, 20,000? He wrote again: ‘I have estimated 10,000 casualties in this week’s fighting…’
All that they needed now, he thought, was good weather. That and perhaps just a modicum of good luck.
SIX
7.00 p.m. Near El Alamein railway siding Josh Miller
He opened the dusty, dog-eared book and read the passage again, savouring the beauty of the lines. Xenophon was such a beautiful writer, he thought, interspersing his information with passages of real poetry. In the two years that he had been studying the classical historians at Harvard, Josh Miller had learnt to distinguish between their styles until he was able to spot them blind. Xenophon’s account of the Battle of Cunaxa between Cyrus’s Greek mercenaries and his brother’s Persians had always held him spellbound and here, in this endless desert which he supposed might with a small stretch of the imagination resemble the battlefield in Babylon it seemed even more real. He read on: ‘They all wore helmets, except for Cyrus who went into battle bare-headed. It was now midday and the enemy had yet to come into sight. But in the early afternoon dust appeared like a white cloud and after some time a sort of blackness extending a long way over the plain…far from shouting they came on as silently as they could, calmly, in a slow, steady march.’
Imagine that, he thought. Coming on into battle in a slow, steady march. Having to keep your body from breaking into a run, or running away, as the arrows and the spears began to rain down upon you. It occurred to him that he was for the first time in his life sitting in what would soon he presumed become another battlefield, surrounded by so many thousands of modern-day warriors. The thought sent a shiver down his spine. He steadied himself, placing a strong, muscular hand palm-down on the rocky ground on which he was sitting.
They had parked the Dodge ambulance at a crossroads of the coastal road that ran into the west and the southern track that had been christened Springbok Road in honour of the South Africans who now held most of its length from their Australian comrades near the sea down here into the desert.
Miller gazed out towards the west, towards the enemy and thought about the men who lay out there in their trenches and foxholes. Men from Germany and men from Italy.