Giles enjoyed patrolling the west side of the town with his men, and quickly got to know all thirty-six of them, not least because Corporal Bates kept him so well informed. And although he tried to keep them on perpetual alert following Fisher’s warning, as the weeks passed without incident, he began to wonder if they’d ever come face to face with the enemy.
It was on a hazy evening in early April, when all three of Giles’s patrols were out on an exercise, that a volley of bullets came from nowhere. The men instantly hit the ground, and quickly crawled to the nearest building to find whatever cover they could.
Giles had been with the leading section when the Germans presented their calling card, then fired off a second volley. The bullets fell nowhere near their target, but he knew it wouldn’t be long before the enemy identified his position.
‘Don’t fire until I say so,’ he ordered as he slowly scanned the horizon with his binoculars. He decided to brief Fisher before he made a move. He picked up the field phone and got an immediate response.
‘How many of them are there, do you think?’ Fisher asked.
‘I’d guess no more than seventy, at most eighty. If you bring forward number two and three sections, that should be more than enough to hold them off until reinforcements arrive.’
A third volley followed, but after Giles had scanned the horizon, he once again gave the order, ‘Hold your fire.’
‘I’ll send up Two Section under Sergeant Harris to support you,’ said Fisher, ‘and if you keep me briefed, I’ll decide whether to join you with Three Section.’ The phone went dead.
A fourth volley quickly followed the third, and this time when Giles focused his binoculars, he could see a dozen men crawling across the open ground towards them.
‘Take aim, but don’t fire until the target is in range, and make sure every bullet counts.’
Bates was the first to squeeze his trigger. ‘Got you,’ he said as a German collapsed into the desert sand. As he reloaded, he added, ‘That’ll teach you to bomb Broad Street.’
‘Shut up, Bates, and concentrate,’ said Giles.
‘Sorry, sir.’
Giles continued to scan the horizon. He could see two, possibly three men who’d been hit and were lying face down in the sand a few yards from their dugouts. He gave the order to fire another volley and Giles watched as several more Germans scampered back to safety, like ants scurrying down a hole.
‘Cease fire!’ shouted Giles, aware that they couldn’t afford to waste precious ammunition. He looked to his left and could see 2 Section already in position under Sergeant Harris, awaiting their orders.
He picked up the field phone and Fisher came back on the line. ‘My ammunition won’t last much longer, sir. My left flank’s now covered by Sergeant Harris, but my right flank’s exposed. If you were able to come forward, we’d have a better chance of holding them off.’
‘Now that you’ve got Two Section to strengthen your position, Barrington, I’d better stay back and cover you, in case they break through.’
Another volley of bullets flew in their direction. The Germans had clearly worked out exactly where they were positioned, but Giles still instructed his two sections to hold fire. He cursed, put down the phone and ran across the open gap to join Sergeant Harris. A volley followed his trouble.
‘What do you think, sergeant?’
‘It’s a half-company, sir, about eighty men in all. But I think they’re just a reconnaissance party, so all we have to do is bed down and be patient.’
‘I agree,’ said Giles. ‘What do you think they’ll do?’
‘The Krauts will know that they outnumber us, so they’ll want to mount an attack before any reinforcements arrive. If Lieutenant Fisher brought up Three Section to cover our right flank, it would strengthen our position.’
‘I agree,’ repeated Giles as another volley greeted them. ‘I’ll go back and speak to Fisher. Await my orders.’
Giles zigzagged across the open terrain. This time the bullets were a little too close to risk that trick again. He was just about to call Fisher when the field phone rang. He grabbed it.
‘Barrington,’ said Fisher. ‘I believe the time has come for us to take the initiative.’
Giles needed to repeat Fisher’s words to be sure he’d heard them correctly. ‘You want me to lead an attack on the Germans’ position, while you bring forward Three Section to cover me.’
‘If we do that,’ said Bates, ‘we’d be like sitting ducks on a rifle range.’
‘Shut up, Bates.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Sergeant Harris thinks, and I agree with him,’ continued Giles, ‘that if you bring up Three Section to cover our right flank, the Germans will have to mount an attack, and then we could—’
‘I’m not interested in what Sergeant Harris thinks,’ said Fisher. ‘I give the orders and you’ll carry them out. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Giles said as he slammed down the phone.
‘I could always kill him, sir,’ said Bates.
Giles ignored him as he loaded his pistol and attached six hand grenades to his webbed belt. He stood up so that both platoons could see him, and said in a loud voice, ‘Fix bayonets and prepare to advance.’ He then stepped out from behind his cover and shouted, ‘Follow me!’
As Giles began to run across the deep scorching sand with Sergeant Harris and Corporal Bates only a stride behind him, he was greeted with yet another volley of bullets and wondered how long he would survive against such overwhelming odds. With forty yards still to cover, he could see exactly where the three enemy dugouts were situated. He snatched a hand grenade from his belt, removed the pin and tossed it towards the centre dugout, as if he was returning a cricket ball from the deep boundary into the wicketkeeper’s gloves. It landed just above the stumps. Giles saw two men fly into the air, while another fell back.
He swung round and hurled a second grenade to his left, a definite run-out, because the enemy’s firepower suddenly dried up. The third grenade took out a machine gun. As Giles charged on, he could see the men who had him in their sights. He took his pistol out of its holster and began to fire as if he was on a shooting range but this time the bullseyes were human beings. One, two, three went down, and then Giles saw a German officer lining him up in his sights. The German pulled the trigger just a moment too late, and collapsed on the ground in front of him. Giles felt sick.
When he was only a yard from the dugout, a young German dropped his rifle on the ground, while another threw his arms high into the air. Giles stared into the desperate eyes of the defeated men. He didn’t need to speak German to know they didn’t want to die.
‘Cease fire!’ screamed Giles, as what was left of 1 and 2 sections quickly overwhelmed the enemy positions. ‘Round them up and disarm them, Sergeant Harris,’ he added, then turned back to see Harris, head down in the sand, blood trickling out of his mouth, only yards from the dugout.
Giles stared back across the open terrain they had crossed and tried not to count the number of soldiers who had sacrificed their lives because of one man’s weak decision. Stretcher bearers were already removing the dead bodies from the battlefield.
‘Corporal Bates, line up the enemy prisoners in threes, and march them back to camp.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Bates, sounding as if he meant it.
A few minutes later, Giles and his depleted band headed back across the open ground. They had covered about fifty yards when Giles saw Fisher running towards him, with 3 Section following in his wake.
‘Right, Barrington, I’ll take over,’ he shouted. ‘You bring up the rear. Follow me,’ he ordered as he led the captured German soldiers triumphantly back towards the town.
By the time they reached the Majestic Hotel, a small crowd had gathered to cheer them. Fisher returned the salutes of his brother officers.
‘Barrington, see that the prisoners are interned, then take the lads off to the canteen for a drink; they’ve earned it. Meanwhile, I’l
l report to Major Richards.’
‘Can I kill him, sir?’ asked Bates.
17
WHEN GILES came down for breakfast the following morning, several officers, some of whom he’d never spoken to before, went out of their way to shake hands with him.
As he strolled into the mess, several heads turned and smiled in his direction, which he found slightly embarrassing. He grabbed a bowl of porridge, two boiled eggs and an out-of-date copy of Punch. He sat alone, hoping to be left in peace, but a few moments later three Australian officers he didn’t recognize joined him. He turned a page of Punch, and laughed at an E.H. Shepard cartoon of Hitler retreating from Calais on a penny farthing.
‘An incredible act of courage,’ said the Australian on his right.
Giles could feel himself turning red.
‘I agree,’ said a voice from the other side of the table. ‘Quite remarkable.’
Giles wanted to leave before they . . .
‘What did you say the fellow’s name was?’
Giles took a spoonful of porridge.
‘Fisher.’
Giles nearly choked.
‘It seems that Fisher, against all odds, led his platoon over open terrain and, with only hand grenades and a pistol, took out three dugouts full of German soldiers.’
‘Unbelievable!’ said another voice.
At least Giles could agree with that.
‘And is it true that he killed a Hun officer and then took fifty of the bastards prisoner, with only twelve men to back him up?’
Giles removed the top of his first boiled egg. It was hard.
‘It must be true,’ said another voice, ‘because he’s been promoted to captain.’
Giles sat and stared at the yolk of his egg.
‘I’m told he’ll be recommended for a Military Cross.’
‘That’s the least he deserves.’
The least he deserved, thought Giles, was what Bates had recommended.
‘Anyone else involved in the action?’ asked the voice from the other side of the table.
‘Yes, his second in command, but I’m damned if I can remember his name.’
Giles had heard enough and decided to let Fisher know exactly what he thought of him. Leaving his second egg untouched, he marched out of the mess and headed straight for the ops room. He was so angry that he barged in without knocking. The moment he entered the room, he sprang to attention and saluted. ‘I do apologize, sir,’ he said. ‘I had no idea you were here.’
‘This is Mr Barrington, colonel,’ said Fisher. ‘You’ll remember that I told you he assisted me in yesterday’s action.’
‘Ah, yes. Barrington. Good show. You may not have seen company orders this morning, but you’ve been promoted to full lieutenant, and having read Captain Fisher’s report, I can tell you that you’ll also be mentioned in dispatches.’
‘Many congratulations, Giles,’ said Fisher. ‘Well deserved.’
‘Indeed,’ said the colonel. ‘And while you’re here, Barrington, I was just saying to Captain Fisher, now that he’s identified Rommel’s preferred route into Tobruk, we’ll need to double our patrols on the west side of the city and deploy a full squadron of tanks to back you up.’ He jabbed the map spread out on the table with his finger. ‘Here, here and here. I hope you both agree?’
‘I do, sir,’ said Fisher. ‘I’ll set about getting the platoon in place immediately.’
‘Can’t be too soon,’ said the colonel, ‘because I have a feeling it won’t be long before Rommel returns, and this time he won’t be on a reconnaissance mission but leading the full force of the Afrika Korps. We must be lying in wait and be sure that he walks straight into our trap.’
‘We’ll be ready for him, sir,’ said Fisher.
‘Good. Because I’m putting you in charge of our new patrols, Fisher. Barrington, you will remain second in command.’
‘I’ll have my report on your desk by midday, sir,’ said Fisher.
‘Good show, Fisher. I’ll leave you to work out the details.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Fisher, standing to attention and saluting as the colonel left the room.
Giles was about to speak, but Fisher quickly jumped in. ‘I’ve put in a recommendation that Sergeant Harris should be awarded a posthumous military medal, and Corporal Bates should also be mentioned in dispatches. I hope you’ll support me.’
‘Am I also to understand that you’ve been put up for a Military Cross?’ asked Giles.
‘That’s not in my hands, old fellow, but I’m happy to go along with whatever the commanding officer sees fit. Now, let’s get down to business. With six patrols now under our command, I propose that we . . .’
After what had become known by 1 and 2 sections as ‘Fisher’s Fantasy’, everyone from the colonel downwards was on red alert. Two platoons patrolled the western edge of the town, one on, one off, night and day, no longer wondering if, only when, Rommel would appear over the horizon at the head of his Afrika Korps.
Even Fisher, in his newly elevated state as hero, had to appear occasionally on the outer perimeter, if simply to maintain the myth of his heroic deed, but only long enough to be sure everyone had seen him. He would then report back to the tank squadron commander, three miles to the rear, and set up his field phones.
The Desert Fox chose April 11th, 1941 to begin his assault on Tobruk. The British and Australians couldn’t have fought more bravely when defending the perimeter against the German onslaught. But as the months passed and supplies of food and ammunition began to run low, few doubted – though it was never voiced – that it could only be a matter of time before the sheer size of Rommel’s army would overwhelm them.
It was a Friday morning, just as the desert haze was clearing, that Lieutenant Barrington scanned the horizon with his binoculars and focused on rows and rows of German tanks.
‘Shit,’ he said. He grabbed the field phone as a shell hit the building he and his men had selected as their observation post. Fisher came on the other end of the line. ‘I can see forty, possibly fifty tanks heading towards us,’ Giles told him, ‘and what looks like a full regiment of soldiers to back them up. Permission to withdraw my men to a more secure position where we can regroup and take up battle formation?’
‘Hold your ground,’ said Fisher, ‘and once the enemy’s within range, engage them.’
‘Engage them?’ said Giles. ‘What with, bows and arrows? This isn’t Agincourt, Fisher. I’ve got barely a hundred men facing a regiment of tanks, with nothing more than rifles to protect ourselves. For God’s sake, Fisher, allow me to decide what’s best for my men.’
‘Hold your ground,’ repeated Fisher, ‘and engage the enemy when they come within range. That’s an order.’
Giles slammed the phone down.
‘For some reason best known to himself,’ said Bates, ‘that man doesn’t want you to survive. You should have let me shoot him.’
Another shell hit the building while masonry and rubble began to fall around them. Giles no longer needed binoculars to see just how many tanks were advancing towards them, and to accept that he only had moments left to live.
‘Take aim!’ He suddenly thought of Sebastian, who would inherit the family title. If the boy turned out to be half as good as Harry had been, the Barrington dynasty need have no fear for its future.
The next shell hit the building behind them, and Giles could clearly see a German soldier returning his stare from the turret of his tank. ‘Fire!’
As the building began to collapse around him, Giles thought about Emma, Grace, his father, his mother, his grandfathers, and . . . The next shell brought the entire edifice crashing down. Giles looked up, to see a large piece of masonry falling, falling, falling. He leapt on top of Bates, who was still firing at an advancing tank.
The last image Giles saw was Harry swimming to safety.
EMMA BARRINGTON
1941
18
EMMA SAT ALONE in her hotel room reading The D
iary of a Convict from cover to cover. She didn’t know who Max Lloyd was, but she was sure of one thing: he wasn’t the author.
Only one man could have written this book. She recognized so many familiar phrases, and Lloyd hadn’t even bothered to change all the names, unless of course he had a girlfriend called Emma whom he still adored.
Emma turned the last page just before midnight, and decided to make a phone call to someone who would still be at work.
‘Just one more favour,’ she begged when his voice came on the line.
‘Try me,’ he said.
‘I need the name of Max Lloyd’s parole officer.’
‘Max Lloyd the author?’
‘No less.’
‘I’m not even going to ask why.’
She began to read the book a second time, making pencil notes in the margin, but long before the new deputy librarian had started, she had fallen asleep. She woke around five the next morning, and didn’t stop reading until a prison officer entered the library and said, ‘Lloyd, the warden wants to see you.’
Emma took a long, lazy bath, and considered the fact that all the information she’d been trying so hard to discover had been available for a dollar fifty from any bookstore.
Once she was dressed, she went down to breakfast and picked up a copy of the New York Times. She was taken by surprise as she turned the pages to come across a review of The Diary of a Convict.
We should be grateful to Mr Lloyd for bringing to our attention what is happening in our prisons today. Lloyd is a gifted writer with real talent, and we must hope that now he’s been released, he will not put down his pen.
He never picked it up in the first place, thought Emma indignantly as she signed her bill.
Before going back up to her room, she asked the receptionist to recommend a good restaurant near Doubleday’s bookstore.
‘The Brasserie, madam. It has a first-class reputation. Would you like me to book a table for you?’
‘Yes, please,’ said Emma. ‘I’d like a table for one at lunch today, and another for two this evening.’