The End of the Beginning E-Book

Malcolm Archibald

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

The North African desert, 1942. Recovering from his injuries, Lieutenant Douglas Tulloch returns to the Lothian Rifles just as the tide of war shifts.

With Rommel’s forces pressing deep into Allied territory, the British are pushed to their limits and the Lothians find themselves outgunned and struggling to hold the line. The morale of Tulloch's unit is crumbling, and he must rebuild trust among his men while navigating a war that seems increasingly hopeless.

As the men prepare for a defining battle at El Alamein, personal encounters with the enemy force Tulloch to question not only his adversaries, but also the cost of his duty.

A gripping story of courage, leadership and the brutal reality of warfare, THE END OF THE BEGINNING is the third book in Malcolm Archibald's series of historical war novels.

Leseprobe

The End of the Beginning

Tulloch at War

Book 3

Malcolm Archibald

Contents

Glossary

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

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

About the Author

Copyright © 2025 Malcolm Archibald

Layout design and Copyright © 2025 by Next Chapter

Published 2025 by Next Chapter

Cover art by Lordan June Pinote

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author’s permission.

For Cathy

“CUIMHNICHIBH NA SUINN NACH MAIREANN MAIRIDH AN CLIU BEO GU BRATH”

“Remember the heroes who are no more: their renown will live for ever.”

Taken from the memorial to the Cameron Highlanders, Scottish National War Memorial, Edinburgh Castle.

“Now this is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end. But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning.”

Winston Churchill

Glossary

Alex: Alexandria, Egypt

Blighty: Great Britain

Blue, the: The desert

Bundook: Rifle

Conchie: Conscientious Objectors: men who refused to fight on religious or conscientious grounds.

Decko: Look

Doover: Dugout

Duffy: Fight, skirmish

Get tae: Go away!

Get to Freuchie: Go away!

Gin ye daur: If you dare.

Glasshouse: Military prison

Gorgie Road: Street in Edinburgh near Heart of Midlothian’s football ground

HE: High Explosive

Hibees: Hibernian, an Edinburgh football team.

Jildi: Quickly

Jock: Scottish soldier

Just the Job: Very good

Kip: Sleep

L.P: Listening Post

LRDG: Long Range Desert Group

NCO: Non-Commissioned Officer: men above the rank of private but below officer rank.

O.P: Observation Post

On the trot: Deserting

PBI: Poor Bloody Infantry

Pongo: Royal naval term for a soldier.

Portee: Truck with six-pounder gun mounted on the back. The gun can also be dismounted for ground fire.

Quad: Vehicle used to tow artillery

RHA: Royal Horse Artillery

RSM: Regimental Sergeant Major

Rummel them up: Shake them up; disturb them

Saint Barbara: Patron saint of artillerymen

Scrappy: Scrap metal merchant

Sangar: Simple fortification built of loose stones.

Stonk: Artillery barrage

Stour: Dust, dirt.

Wallahs: People

ChapterOne

WESTERN DESERT, EGYPT, MAY 1942

Four Platoon rose, some crouching, others moving quickly as Tulloch ran, zig-zagging, for the Italian position. The hill steepened further as he advanced, so he leaned forward for purchase on the slope. To his right, Hardie was leading a dozen men, with Atkins fifty yards to his left. Tulloch heard the insane chatter of another Italian machine gun, saw a man stagger and felt something smash against his shoe.

They’ve hit me.

Tulloch looked down and felt another thump as if somebody had punched him in the ribs. He glanced down, grunted in surprise, and collapsed.

“Sir!”

Lieutenant Douglas Tulloch of the Lothian Rifles shook himself awake, escaping from the recurrent nightmare that haunted his dreams. “I’m awake,” he said.

“You’re duty officer, sir,” Private Hood reminded, standing at attention beside the cot. Middle-sized and slight, Hood was a veteran soldier who tried to be an efficient batman.

“Thank you, Hood.” Tulloch swung himself off his cot and buckled on his belt. He checked his revolver was loaded and turned his boots upside down to ensure no scorpions were lurking inside. Although Hood had cleaned and polished the boots the previous evening, a trickle of sand emerged. Sand was everywhere, on every surface, every bite of food, in everybody’s hair, ears and in the air, carried by the ever-present wind.

Tulloch slipped outside the tent, with the desert sky scattered with stars and a scimitar moon low on the horizon. Most of the battalion was resting, with only the sentries on duty. Tulloch saw the outline of their steel helmets against the sky and heard their muttered comments as they huddled into greatcoats against the cold of the night. The old sweats were accustomed to the plunging temperatures that marked the dark hours, but the difference between night and day always surprised the replacements, men who had not yet got their knees brown.

Tulloch saw a flare rise far to the north and heard a brief stutter of artillery, quickly stilled. Silence returned, save for the soft hiss of wind and sand.

Captain Muirhead, a hard-bitten veteran who commanded C Company, nodded briefly on his walk to his dugout. “It’s all yours, Tulloch. Nothing to report.”

Tulloch watched Muirhead slide under the sandbagged entrance of his dugout and stepped to the duty sergeant.

“Anything happening, Paterson?”

Sergeant Paterson, a relative newcomer from Easthouses in Midlothian, saluted. “All quiet, sir. We had some shooting to the north, but nothing serious.”

“Thank you, Paterson,” Tulloch replied. He dismissed the recurring nightmare of his final day at the Battle of Keren and began his rounds. The Lothian Rifles were twenty miles behind the lines, acting as a mobile reserve in case the Axis powers broke through the Allied position at Gazala.

Lieutenant Kennedy, another relatively new addition to the Lothians, stiffened to attention as Tulloch approached.

“There’s no need for that, Kennedy,” Tulloch told him. “We’re the same rank, dammit. Anything to report?”

“Nothing at all, sir,” Kennedy said.

“I’ll take over now,” Tulloch said. “You grab some kip while you can.” He watched as Kennedy marched away, his boots crunching across the sand.

Tulloch sighed, wondering if this damned war would ever end. It was May 1942, and they had been fighting since September 1939, nearly three years. Britain and her allies had campaigned in North and East Africa for the best part of two of these years. The Allies had cleared the Italians from Eritrea, Somaliland and Abyssinia but had less success with the Western Desert, where supply lines mattered as much as the quality of the men and their equipment.

After pushing the Italians back from Egypt and deep into Libya, the Allies split their forces to cope with the Axis invasion of Greece. The result had been a disaster on both sides of the Mediterranean. The Axis forces pushed the understrength Allies from Greece and Crete and forced them out of Libya. However, there was some brightness in the gloom as the Allied defence of Crete decimated the German airborne forces, and the Australians held Tobruk for months against fierce Axis attacks. An Allied counterattack combined with a breakout had relieved the town and regained the initiative.

The balance swung to the Allies as they pushed the Axis forces westward across the desert. When their supply lines were at full stretch, the Axis, under the de facto command of Erwin Rommel, held the Allies and successfully counter-attacked. Now, both armies faced each other across an arid stretch of sand. The Allies, now under Lieutenant General Ritchie, prepared to meet Rommel’s next attack.

Tulloch mounted a small ridge, lifted his binoculars and peered west. He knew the defended Gazala Line lay between him and the Axis forces, but there was always the possibility of a raiding force striking an unwary camp or the Luftwaffe or Regia Aeronautica – the Italian Air Force – coming to bomb and strafe.

“Empty,” Tulloch murmured. “There are no aircraft engines and no sound of vehicles.”

“What was that, sir?” Paterson asked.

“Nothing,” Tulloch said. “Nothing is happening here. We are all alone.” He smiled, still fighting his tiredness. “What did Keats say?

O Solitude! if I must with thee dwell,

Let it not be among the jumbled heap

Of murky buildings; climb with me the steep,

Nature’s observatory—whence the dell

Its flowery slopes,

Its river’s crystal swell.”

“Yes, sir,” Paterson replied doubtfully. “We could do with a river here.”

“We could,” Tulloch agreed and continued his slow patrol of the battalion’s perimeter.

Ritchie had opted for a linear defence from the town of Gazala southwards, some thirty miles west of Tobruk. The outermost defences were tens of thousands of mines stretching from Gazala inland to Bir Hacheim, about fifty miles to the south. Behind the mines, the Allies waited in defensive Boxes, the old redcoat squares of Waterloo on a massive scale, replete with barbed wire, machine guns, and anti-tank artillery.

Behind the defensive Boxes, the British armour waited in reserve. Undergunned compared to their Axis opponents, they would pounce on any enemy breakthrough.

The Lothian Rifles’ camp was twenty miles further to the east. After enduring the campaign in France that ended at Dunkirk, fighting with O’Connor’s early offensive in Libya, and facing the Italians at Keren, the battalion had remained in reserve to retrain and replace its casualties.

“Lieutenant Tulloch!” Colonel Hume emerged from the gloom. Tall, supremely fit, and with a neat moustache, he was fully dressed with a pipe in his mouth.

“Yes, sir?”

“I’m holding a conference in my tent at ten hundred hours.” Hume looked wide awake despite the hour. “We’re also expecting a new draft of officers and men tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir,” Tulloch said.

Hume walked away, intent on inspecting the battalion’s defences. Tulloch checked the sentries, recognising most by name. The Lothians had been re-equipped since the battle of Keren with two six-pounder anti-tank guns, one three-inch and three two-inch mortars, and a Vickers machine gun on one of its six universal – Bren gun – carriers. Some old faces had gone, and many new men who trickled in had yet to settle, but the officers and NCOs strove to maintain the old regimental spirit.

Tulloch eyed the two anti-tank guns as they sat under their camouflage netting with their crews nearby and a single bombardier as sentry. The Lothians had trained the gunners to respond to any tank attack on the battalion. Each six-pounder had a Bedford QLT three-ton lorry as portee, with the driver ready to rush to the point of danger, but they could also be dismounted and fired from the ground. Three men operated each gun, with one loader, one layer, and one firing. The portee also carried a Bren gunner for self-defence. Tulloch had observed the six-pounder on the range, watching it rear up when it fired, digging the spades at the end of the trail deep into the ground.

“They’re more powerful than the old two-pounders,” Captain Muirhead had noticed Tulloch’s interest. “With the Germans using Mark IV Panzers now, the two-pounders are largely ineffective.”

“I’m glad to have the six-pounders in the battalion,” Tulloch said.

“Me too,” Muirhead agreed. “We’ll be facing the Germans again soon.”

“Yes, sir,” Tulloch nodded.

After the British defeat in France, a few high-placed staff officers doubted the Lothians’ fighting ability, but they had proved themselves in General O’Connor’s campaign in late 1940 and again in Eritrea. Now, with Rommel gathering strength for a forward surge, the Lothians would face the Axis army of Germans and Italians. Tulloch hoped he was ready for the challenge.

Tulloch raised his binoculars and peered to the west as dawn lightened the sky at his back. The desert night had been cold, but already he fancied he felt the first of the furnace heat that would torment the day and bring sweat to every man in the regiment.

A solitary aircraft hummed overhead, heading westwards, and Tulloch wondered if it was a British plane flying to bomb the enemy or an Axis plane returning from a similar mission over Egypt. He did not care, provided it left the Lothians alone.

The battalion’s perimeter was secure, with standing and mobile patrols, and the men were alert at the anti-aircraft Bren guns. Tulloch was satisfied that most replacements had bedded into the Lothians and were ready to return to the war.

“Sir?” Hood was waiting when Tulloch returned to his billet. “The colonel has a meeting at ten, sir.”

“Thank you, Hood,” Tulloch said. Most privates would welcome the post of officer’s batman as it relieved them from attending many of the most tedious parades, but Hood seemed slightly resentful.

“Your number one uniform is ready, sir,” Hood said.

“I don’t think I’ll need it,” Tulloch said, not wanting to wear his best uniform for a mere colonel’s gathering. He grabbed something to eat, used some of his meagre allowance of water to shave and sluice some of the desert dust from his face, and marched to the meeting.

Colonel Hume looked over his officers, smiling grimly. They stood outside, with Hume balancing in the body of a universal carrier to slightly elevate him above the others. Tulloch surveyed his fellow officers. Captain Muirhead, commanding C Company, was experienced and approachable. Major Brownlow, the second-in-command of the battalion, commanded HQ Company with quiet authority. Lieutenant Hardie had a history in the King’s African Rifles before he joined the Lothians. Erskine was an unarmed combat expert, and Captain Kilner of B Company was a greying veteran of the First World War. At the back, justifying their lowly status, were the subalterns, including the slightly nervous Lieutenant Kennedy and the quiet Lieutenant McGill of the Motor Pool.

Tulloch realised that the colonel was talking and gave him all his attention.

“Well, gentlemen, you all know the situation. Rommel is knocking on Egypt’s door, and we don’t want him to enter.”

The officers nodded.

“General Ritchie has formed a defensive line southwards from Gazala, and this time we will be part of it. The general has attached us to Fifty Div, the Northumbrians, one of the finest fighting divisions in the army, so we’re in good company.”

“I remember them from France in 1940,” Tulloch said. “They fought the Germans to a standstill and sent them packing at Arras.”

“Good lads, the Geordies,” Kilner agreed.

“We leave at oh two hundred hours tomorrow,” Hume said. “Most of us will use the battalion’s transport, and the brigadier will supply trucks for the remainder. Have your men ready, gentlemen.” The colonel began to fill his pipe. “We also have the last of the new drafts arriving today. Ensure they feel welcome, Tulloch.”

“Yes, sir,” Tulloch said.

Hume struck a match and lit his pipe. “Dismissed.”

“Here we go again,” Captain Muirhead murmured as they strolled away. “Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more.”

“Let’s hope we don’t have to close up the wall with our Scottish dead,” Tulloch continued the Shakespearian theme.

“Let’s hope not,” Muirhead agreed with a wry smile and a sidelong glance.

Tulloch spent an hour writing a long letter to Amanda, the girl he had barely met but with whom he corresponded regularly. He told her they were moving up the line without adding any details that the censor would block out. Tulloch knew that Amanda would understand. He was unsure how he felt about Amanda or if their relationship would outlast the war. At present, peace seemed too distant for Tulloch to contemplate, yet writing to Amanda was therapeutic and always left him smiling.

Tulloch knew Britain would never surrender, yet the Axis powers were advancing on all fronts, from Russia to Egypt and Burma to the Pacific. Singapore had fallen, the Japanese were completing their conquest of Burma and threatened India, yet Malta held out, and Britain clung on defiantly to Egypt, the Middle Eastern oilfields, and the lifeline of Suez. The United States and the USSR had joined the Allies, and although both were reeling under powerful blows, they had tremendous potential. The outlook was bleak rather than hopeless.

Tulloch finished his letter and hesitated over the signature. Damn it all, this may be the last letter I ever write her, he thought, and put “With my love, Douglas.” Supremely daring, he added two Xs, folded it quickly, and slid it into an envelope. As he was unsure where Amanda was based, he addressed the letter to her home address in Meigle, Perthshire, and handed it to Hood to put in the post bag.

I can’t allow myself to think of Amanda. I must concentrate on the war.

“Sir!” Hood stood at attention. “The new draft has arrived, sir.”

Tulloch nodded and stood. “Sergeant Drysdale!” he shouted to his platoon sergeant. “You’re with me!”

Ten men stood in the centre of the Lothians’ camp, looking around them at the confusion as the battalion prepared to move to the front. A tall officer wearing the insignia of a lieutenant stood with them.

“Welcome to the Lothian Rifles,” Tulloch said, nodding to the lieutenant. “I am Lieutenant Tulloch. Sergeant Drysdale will take you men to Captain Erskine’s D Company. You,” he addressed the lieutenant, “will come with me.”

The men looked raw, some with sunburned faces, except for a lean, tanned corporal who inspected Drysdale and Tulloch through musing eyes.

While Drysdale marched the men away, Tulloch shook the lieutenant’s hand.

“I am Lieutenant Rutlane,” the new officer introduced himself. Taller than Tulloch, he had darting grey eyes and the bearing of a guardsman.

“You’ve arrived at the right time,” Tulloch told him. “We’re short of officers and going up the line tonight.”

“I heard that,” Rutlane said. He looked westwards. “We’ll be facing Rommel, then.”

“Probably,” Tulloch agreed. “If Rommel attacks.”

Rutlane nodded. “Rommel will attack. Nothing is more sure.”

“Then we’ll push him back,” Tulloch said.

“I hope so,” Rutlane replied.

Tulloch escorted Rutlane to the colonel, who greeted him with a firm handshake. “Welcome to the Lothians, Rutlane. I’m putting you in Captain Erskine’s D Company. I’m sorry we’re a bit rushed just now; blame that nasty wee man, Hitler.”

“I will, sir,” Rutlane said. “Where is D Company?”

“Over to the left. Come on; I’ll take you. Lieutenant Tulloch has his men to organise. You can tell me all about yourself as we walk. Carry on, Tulloch.”

Having delivered the replacements to D Company, Sergeant Drysdale was busy with Tulloch’s Four Platoon. He ensured each man had his quota of kit and weapons, every water bottle was full, and Corporal Borthwick did not clash with the volatile Private Hogg.

“Everything all right, Sergeant?” Tulloch asked.

“Yes, sir,” Drysdale replied. “The lads are ready.”

Is anybody ever ready for war? Tulloch wondered.

ChapterTwo

GAZALA LINE, WESTERN DESERT, MAY 1942

They moved out in the dark of night, a long convoy of fifteen-hundredweight and three-ton trucks packed with silent, sleepy men. The veterans knew what lay ahead, while the replacements were apprehensive, wanting to ask but nervous about the replies.

After only a few minutes, the dust made it impossible for anybody to talk, as sand seeped into every opening. It entered ears and noses, eyes and mouths. The veterans protected their rifle barrels and mechanisms with old socks or any other handy piece of cloth, but still, the sand penetrated. The men sat with bowed heads as the trucks rolled and banged across the desert in a long, monotonous convoy. Everybody hoped wordlessly that enemy aircraft would not find them.

Tulloch sat beside Townsend, the driver, a taciturn man with a cigarette seemingly permanently attached to his lower lip. The convoy moved slowly, with Townsend keeping his gaze on the vehicle in front and sand billowing and coating everything. Townsend used the wipers to clear the sand from the windscreen, so he peered forward through an arc of nearly clear glass fringed by thick, browny-yellow.

Outside the narrow beam of the shaded headlights, the desert was dark and mysterious. Tulloch stared out the side window, wondering what the future would hold. He had not been in action since he had been wounded at Keren the previous year, and his convalescence had been longer than he expected.

Every mile brought the Lothians closer to the enemy and the real possibility of death or hideous wounds. Of the two, Tulloch preferred the former. The idea of lying in agony for hours or days and remaining crippled and dependent on others was worse than death.

Tulloch started as the truck hit a bump in the road. The men in the back voiced their disapproval with a chorus of dissent, mixed with some choice obscenities aimed at the driver.

“Sorry, sir,” Townsend apologised. “I didn’t see that hole.”

“I am sure there is worse ahead,” Tulloch replied. “Keep one eye on the road and the other on the vehicle in front.”

“Yes, sir,” Townsend replied.

The convoy trundled on, with the road progressively rougher and more traffic gathering around them. Tulloch heard the rattle-clank of tanks in the distance and prayed they were friendly, not some of Rommel’s Afrika Korps. He glanced at the now-lightening sky and hoped the RAF provided air cover, for the Luftwaffe and Regia Aeronautica would lap up a column of soft-skinned vehicles on a desert road.

The convoy halted as a red band of dawn stretched across the eastern horizon. The drivers cut their engines, and silence fell, oppressive after the internal combustion growl. When the dust settled softly around them, Tulloch heard the men talking in the back of the truck.

“Wait here,” Tulloch ordered. “I’ll see what’s happening ahead.”

Sliding from his seat, Tulloch found himself stiff after hours in the same position. Movement was a relief as he strode forward up the interminable convoy, where concerned men, officers and NCOs were engaged in the same business. Other men took the opportunity to ease cramped limbs or empty complaining bladders, so Tulloch pushed through a crowd of khaki-clad soldiers.

“What’s happening?”

Young Lieutenant Kennedy, his face peeling and sun-raw, shrugged. “I don’t know, sir. The truck in front stopped.”

Tulloch pushed on to the head of the convoy. “What’s happening?”

Captain Muirhead stood beside the leading truck, scanning the western horizon through his binoculars. “We heard a rumour there were German tanks ahead,” he said calmly. “The colonel sent Erskine and a couple of carriers to check.”

Erskine was an ex-Royal Scot with experience in the Holy Land before the war.

“God help the Germans if Erskine finds them, sir,” Tulloch said. “He’d tear off their tracks with his bare fists.”

Muirhead smiled without humour. “We don’t know how long Erskine will be with us, Tulloch. He’s a bit derring-do for ordinary infantry.”

Tulloch peered across the dark and seemingly limitless desert. “It would be a shame to lose him.”

“It would,” Muirhead agreed, “but he was talking about joining one of these irregular formations, the SAS, Commandos or the Long Range Desert Group.”

Tulloch nodded. “He would certainly fit in with these lads,” he agreed. “I hope we keep him for a while yet.”

“So do I,” Muirhead lowered his binoculars. “Each intake gets younger and less experienced than the last. We need all the quality officers and men we can get.” He nodded to the southwest. “That dust cloud is approaching fast, Tulloch; that will be Erskine now.”

Erskine pulled up in the leading carrier. “There’s nothing out there,” he said. Sun-browned and athletic, he looked more like a film star than a typical Scottish soldier with his Clark Gable attitude and moustache. However, Tulloch knew the carefree attitude concealed a ruthless streak.

Colonel Hume appeared from behind a truck, pipe in mouth. “Very good, Erskine. We’ll move on. Get the men back aboard.”

“Back on the buses, lads!” Tulloch ordered Four Platoon. “All aboard for Princes Street or Gorgie Road for Hogg!”

When Four Platoon responded with dark humour, obscenity, and complaints, Tulloch knew all was right with his men. He would start to worry when British soldiers failed to grouse.

The convoy restarted five minutes later, driving with the rising sun behind them and the enemy somewhere in front. They passed a formation of British armour, light Crusaders armed with two-pounder popguns. The crews had spread camouflage netting over each tank, and sentries stared at the sky for enemy aircraft. The Lothians greeted them with cheerful jeers, to which the cavalry responded with pointed insults.

Tulloch felt his stomach tighten. He was going back into action. His now-healed wounds began to ache as if he needed a reminder of what was ahead.

“Trouble over there, sir,” Townsend said quietly, nodding to the north-west.

Tulloch saw the flashes briefly lighting the horizon, indicating explosions, although he could not tell whether they were bombs or shell bursts. Above the engine’s growl, he heard a Bren gun’s steady, controlled rat-a-tat-tat. “Two miles away,” he estimated.

“Yes, sir,” Townsend agreed laconically.

The convoy slowed, heading more south than west, and came to a gradual halt. Sand and dust rose around them to slowly dissipate. The distant gunfire ended, and when the drivers turned off their engines, the silence pressed down on them.

“Debus, lads!” Muirhead’s calm voice sounded from ahead. “We’re on foot from here!”

The Lothians jumped from their trucks, looking about them at the flat, featureless terrain.

“We’re in the middle of bugger-all,” Hogg’s harsh voice sounded. “Why the hell do we want to fight for this?”

“It’s better fighting here than in a civilised country,” Innes, one of the platoon’s two Bren gunners, replied. “There are no civilians to get in the way.”

“There are no pubs either,” Private Elliot said. “And no women.”

“You and your bloody women,” Smith said. “How is it that it’s always the ugly men who hunt for skirts.”

“The good-looking ones don’t have to hunt,” Corporal Borthwick replied. “Do we, Cattanach?”

Cattanach, one of the quietest men in Four Platoon, smiled without replying.

“This way, lads,” a tanned subaltern from the Durham Light Infantry marched up to the Lothians. “Keep to the taped path, please. There are minefields on either side.”

The Lothians passed the information from man to man, with the NCOs giving ferocious warnings of the fate of any man who strayed.

“If you step on a mine,” Sergeant Drysdale snarled, “you’d better pray that it kills you clean because otherwise, I’ll have you parading around the desert in full kit until you die of old age!”

Tulloch marched his platoon forward, with the sun already hot and the dust rising from the feet of seven hundred men. Some stumbled and swore; others marched silently or spoke to their neighbours. They kept to the taped path, with the newer men watching the surrounding minefield, half expecting to see metallic horns or other signs of the horrors below the sand.

A shell exploded a hundred yards away, raising a tall column of yellow sand. The veterans marched on; the replacements ducked and looked around, trying to hide their embarrassment. Nobody commented on the replacements’ behaviour. Everybody had once been a recruit and knew the struggle to fit in. Every experience helped the recent civilians become soldiers fit to fight the forces of evil.

“You’re here, Lothians,” the Durham subaltern stopped at a series of slit trenches and sandbagged dugouts. “The engineers did a good job, and we’ve left the trenches nice and tidy for you.” He gave a tired grin. “You Jocks will no doubt want to add a few touches of your own, maybe tartan wallpaper or portraits of Robert Burns.”

“No doubt,” Captain Muirhead replied dryly. “We’ll have to take down your pictures of slag heaps and rows of back-to-back brick houses.”

“Touché,” the Durham man replied. “Well, sir, the best of luck to you.”

“And to you,” Muirhead replied.

Colonel Hume ordered each company to its position, with Muirhead’s C Company, of which Tulloch’s Four Platoon was part, on the left flank and regimental headquarters a quarter of a mile further back. Major Brownlow accepted his near-administrative role without complaint.

“The enemy is out there, somewhere,” Muirhead said. “Thirty-odd miles away. There is probably some Italian officer or German tank commander peering towards us right at this minute, wondering who they’ll face in their next attack.”

“Probably, sir,” Tulloch agreed.

Muirhead allocated positions to his platoons, with Four Platoon on the left and Five on the right. The officers had a dugout in the centre, and Muirhead placed his Brens on the flanks to give crossfire if the enemy should attack.

“Sir!” Second Lieutenant Thompson, new to the battalion, hurried to Muirhead. “Colonel Hume’s compliments, sir, and could all the officers join him at 10.00 hours.”

Muirhead eyed the subaltern gravely. “Thank you, Thompson. Please tell the colonel that we will be there.”

As the NCOs arranged the men, Colonel Hume addressed the officers.

“Here are the dispositions of the Gazala Line. Pay attention so we know who our neighbours are. The 1st South African Division is on our right flank, gentlemen. They did well in East Africa but are short of equipment. We’re attached to the 50th Northumbrian Div, holding the Boxes here, with the 150th Brigade of the 50th holding the Sidi Muftah Box. The 2nd South African Division is in Tobruk, and Lieutenant General Strafer Gott is in overall command of our section of the line.”

Tulloch nodded; it was important to know who guarded the flanks. He knew little about the South Africans but was happy to be brigaded with the Northumbrians, sturdy men and stubborn fighters.

Hume continued. “On the extreme left, the Free French Brigade holds Bir Hacheim. We don’t know how they will fight, but I suspect they will be keen to prove themselves against the Germans. There is also a second line of manned Boxes behind us, and our armour is waiting to pounce on any enemy who slides between the Boxes.”

The officers nodded approval, with a few taking notes. Overall, Tulloch thought the defensive arrangements were sound.

“Return to your companies and dig in,” Hume ordered.

When Tulloch returned, Sergeant Drysdale had Four Platoon well in hand, with the slit trenches manned and Bren guns ready. The battalion’s six-pounders were dug in, with the crews adding sandbags and calculating ranges ahead of them.

Tulloch toured his platoon, with his feet making no noise on the soft sand, and he heard the men talking to one another.

“What’s that bastard doing here?” Private Hogg’s grating voice rang out clearly through the background noise.

“What’s who doing here?” Innes asked.

“That corporal, the new one in D Company. What’s he doing here?” Hogg pointed towards D Company’s position with a broad, stubby finger.

“That’s Corporal Russell,” Innes said as he cleaned his Bren gun. “He was wounded in Crete and transferred to us from the Argylls. Do you know him?”

“Aye, I know him,” Hogg said. “He’s trouble, Innie, major trouble on two legs. You keep well clear of Corporal Rab, bloody Russell.”

Innes shook his head. “You don’t like corporals, do you, Hoggie? You don’t get on with Corporal Borthwick either.”

Tulloch moved on before he heard Hogg’s opinion of Corporal Borthwick. He wondered how Hogg could have met an Argyll corporal, for the Lothians and the Argylls had never been brigaded together. He shrugged and dismissed the incident from his mind. Such grievances were the small change of any battalion, and it was unlikely that Hogg would have many dealings with a corporal in a different company.

When Tulloch entered his dugout, Hood had his living quarters ready and produced a meal on his Benghazi Cooker, a contraption made from half a fuel can filled with petrol-soaked sand.

“Welcome home, sir,” Hood said.

“Thank you, Hood.” Tulloch saw his equipment and possessions arranged neatly beside the sandbags, while the corrugated iron roof also had a protective three-deep layer of sandbags. In an uncertain world, his new home was as safe as anywhere along the line.

At noon, the men ate bully beef and drank tea without milk, while Tulloch accompanied Sergeant Drysdale as they checked and strengthened the platoon’s defensive barbed wire. The Durhams had left him a chart of the local minefields, showing their extent and the safe passages through.

“The Durhams know their stuff,” Sergeant Drysdale commented. “The safe passages are all doglegs, with Brens covering them. Unless the enemy also has a plan of our minefields, they’ll take casualties.”

“We’ll patrol tonight, Sergeant, and get to know the area better.”

“Yes, sir,” Drysdale agreed. “Do you think Rommel will attack?”

“Yes,” Tulloch said. “It’s not a matter of if, Sergeant, and more of when.”

“Aye,” Drysdale said. “He’s made himself a reputation, has our Rommel.”

Tulloch glanced at his sergeant. “He’s certainly made himself a talking point, Drysdale.”

“All the boys know his name,” Drysdale agreed, “maybe more than we know our own generals.”

“He’s only one more man to fight,” Tulloch said.

“Aye, that’s all he is, sir,” Drysdale agreed.

They toured the perimeter and learned about their surroundings, stopping to look around them every few moments.

The defensive Box held three British battalions, the Lothians and two from the 50th Division, plus Royal Artillery, Royal Engineers, and a small hospital, well-marked with a red cross. Each dugout had a corrugated iron roof covered with sandbags for protection against anything other than a direct hit.

Wires connected each dugout, with rattling tin cans at the end. If the enemy attacked one dugout, the occupants pulled the wire to alert the next in line.

“It’s a bit primitive, sir,” Drysdale said, “but effective unless the enemy cut the wire.”

In front of the Lothians’ positions, the engineers had laid a three-hundred-yard-deep perimeter of mattress wire—flattened barbed wire—within an extensive minefield. The engineers had marked every zig-zag gap in the mattress wire with white tape and had gap-covering parties ready for outgoing British patrols.

“What’s the system here, lads?” Tulloch asked a group of engineers working under the direction of a serious-faced sergeant.

“You tell us when you’re taking a patrol out, sir,” the sergeant replied. “We lift the mines along the taped path and cover the gap with a Bren and rifles until the patrol returns, and then we replace the mines.”

“I see; thank you, Sergeant,” Tulloch said. He knew that engineers seldom received the praise they deserved. They were often in the most dangerous areas, unheralded, working under fire as they handled explosives, built bridges, and ensured the infantry and armour could do their work.

“I hope there are anti-tank mines as well as anti-personnel in that field, sir,” Sergeant Drysdale said. “If Rommel decides to come through here with his Afrika Korps, our two wee six-pounders won’t hold them for long.”

Tulloch nodded. “The Royal Artillery is also here, and their twenty-five pounders are effective, and we have British armour in reserve.”

“Yes, sir,” Drysdale said. “Our tanks are too light, and most are undergunned. Their shells bounce off the German armour, and Rommel’s Panzers knock us out like ducks at a shooting gallery.”

“Not like the days when we advanced with O’Connor,” Tulloch replied.

“If we had kept going, sir, Rommel would never have got a foothold in Africa,” Drysdale said. “We’d have been hammering at Sicily’s door rather than waiting to repel the Afrika Korps.”

“Maybe so,” Tulloch agreed. “But our intervention in Greece delayed the German attack on Russia, so they did not reach Moscow before winter.” He stopped. “However, our job is to deal with the situation we have rather than what might have been.”

“Yes, sir,” Drysdale said.

“Sir!” Second Lieutenant Thompson ran up and nearly skidded to a stop. “Colonel Hume wants you, sir!”

Tulloch raised his eyebrows. “Was that the message, Thompson?”

“Yes, sir.” Thompson pulled himself to attention. “Colonel Hume requests that you attend him at your earliest convenience, sir.”

“That’s better, Thompson,” Tulloch said. “Always be accurate when delivering messages. It was a slovenly message that led to the Light Brigade’s charge at Balaclava and cost us hundreds of lives.”

“Yes, sir,” Thompson said, making Tulloch feel like a middle-aged schoolmaster rather than a junior officer in his twenties.

“Tulloch,” Colonel Hume was studying a plan of the battalion’s defensive perimeter. “Take Four Platoon on outpost duty tonight. The Durhams tell me they have two proper outposts half a mile into the desert. I want our OP surveyed and manned twenty-four hours a day. Ensure it is fit for us.”

“I’ll soon find out, sir.”

Hume gave his wry smile. “I’m sure you will, Tulloch.”

ChapterThree

GAZALA LINE, WESTERN DESERT, LIBYA, MAY 1942

The engineers gave Tulloch a reassuring nod as he arrived at the gap in the minefield. “Keep to the marked path, Lieutenant, and remember the password when you return.”

“The challenge is Gin, and the reply is Whisky,” Tulloch replied.

“That’s right,” the engineer said. “Don’t get it wrong. My boys can get a little jittery at night and tend to fire if they’re in doubt.”

“I’ll remind my sergeant,” Tulloch said.

Four Platoon followed Tulloch through the gap, with the men careful not to walk at the edge beside the minefield. Sergeant Drysdale acted as rearguard, wordlessly shepherding the men, watching the horizon for tell-tale flashes of artillery and listening for enemy aircraft.

Once through the minefield, Tulloch used a compass to navigate across the desert, hoping Drysdale could keep the replacements with the main body. He had trained them in night patrolling, but crossing an empty and relatively safe desert was far different from patrolling when the enemy could be waiting in ambush. He glanced over his shoulder, saw his men in an extended formation with nobody missing, and moved on.

After a quarter of a mile, Tulloch heard the rattle of a Vickers machine gun further north and saw explosions light up the sky.

“Somebody’s hit trouble,” Private Oldham, one of the replacements, murmured.

“As long as they keep it over there,” Private Weeks, another new man, replied.

“Keep the noise down,” Sergeant Drysdale grunted. “Sound carries at night.”

Tulloch saw the outpost’s squat shape under the glimmer of the stars and sighed with relief. He had a nightmare vision of wandering about all night until he blundered into the enemy lines and led his men into captivity.

“Here we are, lads,” Tulloch whispered. The OP consisted of deeply dug trenches, with sandbag emplacements for all-round defence. “I want a Bren at each corner, ready to have crossfire on every angle. Put the three-inch mortar in the centre, with Smith and the Boys anti-tank rifle facing west.” The Boys was a clumsy weapon and virtually useless against modern tanks, but, properly used, could disable a German halftrack or an Italian armoured car. “The rest of you, distribute yourselves evenly around the perimeter except Corporal Borthwick and two men. I want you in the listening post two hundred and fifty yards further out.”

“Yes, sir,” Borthwick was a crusty veteran who knew his job. He chose two men from his section. “Hogg, Cattanach; you’re with me.”

Tulloch agreed with Borthwick’s choice. Hogg was the best soldier in C Company to have on one’s side if there was a duffy, while Cattanach was a steady, quiet man. Tulloch knew that Borthwick did not like Hogg, but the corporal would choose him for his military skills rather than his friendship.

“There’s a landline from the listening post to the telephone here,” Tulloch said. “Keep your voice down and report anything you hear.”

“I will, sir,” Borthwick said expressionlessly.

“Off you go, then,” Tulloch said. He disliked sending men into danger, but manning a listening post was a corporal’s job.

Four Platoon settled down. Tulloch reminded them to only talk in whispers and not to smoke, for a man’s voice travelled hundreds of yards in the brittle air of the desert, and the smell of tobacco would alert any enemy patrol.

The desert was quiet, lit by the stars above and the occasional flash and crump of a distant shell. Tulloch toured his men, ensured they were in position, and returned to his dugout. Waiting was part of a soldier’s task. For every hour in action, he knew he would spend hundreds of hours waiting, yet it was the action people remembered. The intense, adrenaline-fuelled moments when life and limb hung on a slender thread, fear battled with courage, and duty competed with sense and self-preservation.

The machine gun chatter started again up north, brief and disturbing. The insane clatter of an Italian Breda 37 joined the heavy thudding of a Vickers. Some of the platoon’s novices looked up, grabbed their rifles, and peered north. The veterans either ignored the sound or opened a lazy eye, checked to see if they were involved, and returned to sleep. They knew that sleep was a precious commodity to snatch whenever possible. Only the sentries remained alert.

“I’ll try to sleep,” Tulloch told Hood. “Wake me if anything happens.”

“Yes, sir,” Hood replied. He was in his early twenties but displayed a row of medal ribbons.

Although Tulloch closed his eyes, he could not sleep. Returning to the front brought back a host of memories of past events. He tried to look composed and relaxed but was glad when the buzz of the telephone from the listening post demanded his attention.

“What is it, Corporal?”

“There’s lots of movement out here, sir. I can hear engines passing out to the west.”

“Which direction?” Tulloch asked.

“They’re from the north and heading south, sir.”

“I’ll come out.” Ordering Sergeant Drysdale to take command, Tulloch crawled to the listening post. The position was little more than a saucer scraped in the ground, with a single deep slit trench under a sandbag-covered corrugated-iron roof.

“Can you hear them, sir?” Borthwick asked when Tulloch slid into the trench.

Tulloch nodded. The distant grumble of engines was distinct, although he was unsure which direction the vehicles were travelling. “I’ll go closer,” he said. “Hold the fort for me.”

“Yes, sir,” Corporal Borthwick said. “Should you not take somebody with you?”

“I’m quieter alone,” Tulloch said, sliding out of the listening post.

The sand was harsh under his hands as Tulloch crawled forward, compass in hand. When a betraying gust of wind shifted the clouds to allow the moonlight to come through, Tulloch felt very exposed and vulnerable, like a black beetle crawling up a white-painted door. He froze for a moment and moved slowly across the arid surface. He remembered the geography books he had perused as a schoolboy, which portrayed the desert as endless sand dunes with strategically placed oases complete with palm trees and the ubiquitous Arabs on camels. The featureless, drab reality was nothing like the romantic image.

Tulloch checked his watch. He had been crawling for ten minutes, and the engine sounds were slightly louder. Tulloch stopped and scanned the west through his binoculars. He saw a faint gleam on the horizon, not in sufficient clarity for him to be sure, but he suspected it was the reflection of shaded headlights on the shifting cloud.

Another five minutes, Tulloch decided and began crawling again. He stopped as something scampered across the ground before him—a small creature, perhaps a mouse or a jerboa. He waited until the animal was clear and moved on, less cautious as his confidence grew.

As long as I don’t meet a snake or a scorpion.

Tulloch stopped again and peered ahead. He heard the high purr of an aircraft above the growling traffic.

That’s far enough. I don’t know if the enemy has patrols out.

Tulloch counted the number of muted headlights that passed in a five-minute period and crawled back faster than he had on the outward journey. After ten minutes, he looked up, hoping to see the listening post. The wind had shifted the cloud back over the moon, so the desert was darker. Tulloch saw only the level plain, shifting slightly as the wind ruffled the top layer of dust and sand.

I followed the compass bearing out. If I follow the opposite bearing back, I must find the L.P.

Tulloch slowed, inspecting the ground ahead. He knew the dangers. He might crawl around the desert for hours until the daytime sun burned him or a German or Italian patrol captured him. At the worst, a jumpy British sentry could mistake him for an enemy and shoot him.

The ground was slightly disturbed ahead, with a darker patch blocking the lowest stars. Tulloch realised with sudden relief that he had come across his outward track. He silently prayed thanks and crawled towards the listening post, hoping he remembered the correct password.

“Gin!” he whispered.

“Whisky,” Corporal Borthwick replied, and Tulloch slid into the trench. He saw a scowling Hogg lowering his rifle and wondered how close he had come to being shot.

“You’re right, Corporal,” Tulloch said. “There is definitely movement out there. I’ll report that to the colonel. You stay here for another half hour, and I’ll send out your relief.”

The journey back to the outpost was equally nerve-wracking. Tulloch knew that the Lothians’ sentries would be tiring as the night eased towards dawn when the Germans usually launched raids or attacks. The Germans seldom fought at night, giving the Allies more freedom to roam around no-man’s land.

Tulloch passed the message to Major Brownlow at battalion HQ, keeping his voice down. When he replaced the telephone receiver, he felt he had done a good night’s work, and Four Platoon had done their duty.

“Heading south, were they?” Colonel Hume asked when Five Platoon relieved Tulloch’s men in the outpost.

“That’s what I estimated, sir,” Tulloch replied.

“How many?” Hume asked.

“It’s hard to say, sir. I only heard the engines and saw what I thought were the reflections of lights on the clouds. My estimate was twenty vehicles every five minutes, so I’d guess quite a lot, sir. At least a brigade and maybe more.”

Hume tapped his fingers on the travelling desk. “All the same engines or different types?”

Tulloch pondered for a moment. “Different types. Some were heavier than others.”

“I’ve already alerted the brigadier,” Hume said. “No doubt he’ll advise the RAF to have a look, but I’ll send out a couple of patrols as well. Hardie will take the morning’s patrol and you the afternoon. Grab some sleep, Tulloch, and leave at 13.00 hours with two carriers.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Patrol to the west and see what you can find.”

“I will, sir,” Tulloch said.

“It’s an observation patrol,” the colonel reminded. “Don’t contact the enemy unless they see you first. Information is more important than a few German corpses.” He paused for a moment, “Or ours.”

“I understand, sir,” Tulloch said.

Tulloch ensured his men ate before they left on patrol. In the Lothians, every officer and man ate the same hard tack—solid and tasteless biscuits—and bully beef, which slopped out of the tin in a semi-liquid state to be immediately furred by flies. Colonel Hume did not believe in favouritism when the battalion was at the front, in the Blue, as the men called the desert.

Water was rationed to half a gallon daily, with two pints for drinking and the remainder for washing and shaving. In the Lothians, every section cooked for itself, and on the very odd occasions when tinned pineapples came onto the menu, the men acted as though it was Christmas.

At quarter past twelve, Tulloch toured Four Platoon, placed an ascorbic acid tablet on every man’s tongue, waited until they swallowed it, and moved on to the next in line. The officers could trust most men to swallow the vitamin C tablet, but every unit had a proportion of the stupid or the plain bloody-minded who would refuse purely because it was an order from above.

“You’d better down that pill, Elliot,” Sergeant Drysdale growled. “I don’t want you catching scurvy to get sent home to Blighty. You swallow it like a good lad, or I’ll have you running around the desert in full kit with your rifle held aloft until you’ve worn a hole so deep the kangaroos will be popping up to see you!”

Knowing Drysdale was not joking, Elliot swallowed.

“That’s my lad,” Drysdale said with a smile. “Always willing to do your duty for King and Country.”

Tulloch checked his two Bren gun carriers, ensured they had ammunition and water, and loaded maps on each.

“Come on, lads,” he said. “Watch out for enemy aircraft and patrols.” He had Hood as his driver and Innes with his Bren. The second carrier held Smith with his Boys anti-tank rifle and the truculent Hogg, with Corporal Borthwick in command.

“Best of luck, sir,” the engineer sergeant shouted and stepped aside as Hood negotiated the barbed wire and the minefield before heading into the Blue.

Travelling in the daytime was even more risky than patrolling at night, Tulloch thought as he headed west. He kept his carriers a hundred yards apart and drove slowly to raise as little dust as possible. Dust plumes could be seen for miles, attracting unwelcome attention from enemy patrols or aircraft. An open universal carrier had little protection against an enemy plane.

With the carrier’s crews ready behind their guns, Tulloch watched the surrounding desert for tell-tale dust. After ten minutes, he glanced behind him. Except for the glint of sunlight on barbed wire, there was no sign of the defensive Box. The desert could be empty.

“What’s that, sir?” Innes gestured to the north. “It looks like a tank.”

“Stop the carrier!” Tulloch signalled for the second carrier to halt and keep watch while he examined the vehicle through his binoculars. “It’s a Panzer Mark Three,” he said, “but I think it’s dead.”