We got back to base about twenty minutes before dawn. Marshall Montgomery was waiting for us in the regimental headquarters. It was once a small hotel on the outskirts of El Alamein. It looked like a fairly nice place. The cacti were in bloom, birds had just begun to sing. Monty asked us if we wanted a drink. I asked for a whiskey, as did Jennings. Pyre is a teetotaler. Screws up with his magic focus. Poor lad, just water. Navittas only drinks sparingly. But rum's his drink. Petersen got a schnapps. Who the hell orders a schnapps in the British army? I gave him a frown, but that's the least of my worries.
Monty's got questions. How many tanks, secondary targets, prisoners. I answer him with at least five tigers hit by the RAF, and about two or three tank companies, mainly stugs and panzer III's and IV's. Fuel stores were hit, as you well know. I tell him unabashedly about Petersen's fuckup. He looked at Petersen, and frowns, then started speaking. “As you well know here son, we are the front line. The enemy is often too close to us. Every now and then, they have patrols about. We need to snag these patrols. Find out what jerry is up to. Find out what Rommel's thinking. If we know what he is thinking, well then we will know what his mistakes are. I didn't see what you saw. Nobody can say that they did. Just be aware that there are larger things at foot. That way, all the bad times will be over. And stay over. Understand, lad?”
Petersen nodded. He had the look on his face like some dog with its tail between its legs.
When we got out of the debriefing room I started hearing some sirens. Then the ground shook. I looked outside and saw a gout of flame coming out of a crusader tank that had been hit. The stukas were tearing the camp apart. I ran to the nearest bunker. The dawn son was in my face, so it was hard to see. The stukas were coming for another pass. The bofors weren't doing much to them. What the hell was taking the RAF so long?
I finally made it to the bunker. The Stukas had stopped shooting. Probably going round for another pass. A brief respite, at least. I went prone under a table near the door. Most of my body fit. The dawn sun made things... somewhat clearer through the dust and smoke. The regimental headquarters took a heavy hit. I tried getting up, but before I could a 30mm round exploded overhead. Part of the ceiling fell on my legs. They were not broken. But that didn't help me much. There was nothing I could do. Nothing I could do. Nothing I could do...
The medic had a flashlight in my eye. That's what woke me up. He told me to stay calm. I tell him they aren't broken. He yells at a few of the boys, and they all get ready to heave these pieces of concrete off of my legs. I ask him how long I was out. He says about thirty minutes. Probably shock. My back hurts. He tells me that's the least of our worries. Jerry's hit the RAF, he says. He gives me a bit of morphine, and the boys just give it a good heave. I started screaming a little, but the morphine took hold, and well... it just didn't seem to matter anymore.
In the stupor between the bunker and the triage tents, there was a lot of shouting. People kept on saying Monty. Something about Monty. My abdominal muscles contracted and the medics rushed into the tents, and laid me down next to a burn victim.
It was night when I came to. My legs were burning. I don't mean that figuratively. They were burned. I hadn't been hit by incendiaries... had I? I crunched up on my abdominals, gritting my teeth as I did. I took off the sheets and looked at my legs. They were indeed burned. “Cauterized.” Pyre tells me, a cigar firmly clenched in his jaw, soot rimming his face and dusty, black hair. “I saw you were losing too much blood. Had to do it fast. It's gonna be rough. Especially if we have to move. Which is bloody likely. Those bastards hit Monty.” He pointed to the man beside me. This small husk of a man. His face was blackened, singed. His moustache burnt off, along with the rest of his hair. He might be screaming if not for the morphine. Speaking of morphine...
“I'll give you a shot. You'll need it.”
I tell him to wait a moment. I remembered something. “What's the business of those Japs in your homeland?” He smiles at me grimly. “fleet's a write-off. Americans aren't pleased. They might well be drawn into the war.” As I lay in bed, and the needle took hold, I just looked over at the calendar.
October 13th, 1942. One month until my birthday. One month until I'm 36.
----
So, very long stretch between updates. Delay was more a result of editing troubles than of writing troubles. will be more frequent updates from now on. probably one more update this week, then back to the schedule. German part indefinitely suspended. don't have editor to help with that. so maybe that will come into being at some other point.
Til then,
Carpe Diem.
