MONDAY, 26 OCTOBER 1942. At his caravan at his Burg el Arab head quarters, General Montgomery had much to think about. About 300 of his 1,200 tanks had been knocked out, although most of these were recoverable, and he still had 900 left. This meant he could use them to win by sheer force of numbers. This was why he had insisted resolve was needed. They could bludgeon their way through. It was not pretty and there would be casualties, but battles were not for the faint-hearted. There was no other way.
Or was there? General Francis Tuker, for one, thought Montgomery’s battle plan had been poor. The enemy’s greatest strength had always been in the north, along the main supply routes, which suggested this was the area they were most concerned about. With this in mind, Tuker thought it made sense to strike a heavy blow with artillery in support on a narrow front in the north, around a feature or ridge that the Panzerarmee simply had to counter-attack. Whether the minefields were breached or not was irrelevant. The key was to draw in the bulk of the Axis armour in the north.
While most of the Panzerarmee’s armour and artillery was caught up with this attack in the north, Tuker would have liked to have made a second thrust simultaneously in the centre of the line, along the Ruweisat Ridge. Once the British were through, the enemy would be split in two. With most of the enemy forces distracted in the north, British armour could deal with the Panzerarmee’s forces in the south before turning into the enemy’s flanks to the north. Tuker believed that, regardless of the levels of training, once free of the minefields the sheer weight of numbers of the British armour, combined with motorized infantry, would ensure a speedy and decisive victory.
The ground around the Ruweisat Ridge was certainly better than it was in the north – it was stony, not sandy, and while there would have been dust, it would not have been as bad. Furthermore, that finger of a minefield extending west would have helped protect the British armour as it broke into the enemy positions and dealt with the southern half.
Tuker’s biggest beef with Monty’s ideas, however, was over his fire plan for LIGHTFOOT. Of the 900 field guns available, only 400 were used in support of the main thrust in the north – that is, less than 50 per cent. That meant over 500 guns were not being used in the main thrust, while more than 300 were available to support the feint thrust of XIII Corps to the south. Giuseppe Santaniello and his fellows had had a bad time of it, but he was still alive, his guns were still firing and the damage caused by those 400 guns in the north had been limited. Certainly, 750 guns, for example, would have been more effective.
Perhaps more inexplicable, though, was the way in which they were used. A central tenet of war is the concentration of force. One of the failings of the Gazala battle had been the dispersal of Eighth Army, but for all his new stamp and fighting talk, Montgomery had dispersed his fire-power not only in terms of its spread along the length of their line, but also in the way the guns were fired. Those 400 in the north were spread over 10 miles, with just 100 guns supporting each of the four attacking divisions. That meant one gun every 45 yards and, unfortunately, they were mostly firing straight ahead. A far better plan would have been to have attacked over, say, 5 miles, with 750 guns firing in concentrations and systematically sweeping the length of the proposed breech.
At Alam Halfa, Montgomery had rightly acknowledged the devastating power of artillery and air forces working in tandem. By October, however, he appeared to have forgotten some of these basic principles of concentration of fire. The overall standard of British artillery was high – they were very well trained and their skill was second to none, just as it had been by the end of the last war, but their potential had not been properly harnessed.
Nor was there any sign of a 3.7-inch gun anywhere near the battlefront, despite Oliver Lyttelton’s comments just a few months earlier. Axis bombers had not seriously threatened airfields or installations in the Delta for months and so these considerable numbers of guns were largely standing idle. Even if just half of the 200 guns in the Delta and around Cairo had been brought up to the front, they could have made a huge impact. The Panzerarmee, after all, had just 200 guns in total. Montgomery had brought much to Eighth Army, but certainly not tactical innovation or flair.
On hearing the news that the British offensive had begun, Hitler had telephoned Rommel at his sanatorium in Semmering and asked him whether he was capable of returning to Egypt. Rommel was certainly not well enough, but still checked himself out and flew straight back. He reached the front on the evening of 25 October, and from von Thoma and Bayerlein received a full briefing. All the reserves had been committed, von Thoma told him, and 15. Panzer had been counter-attacking that day. ‘They suffered heavy losses,’ von Thoma told him, ‘under the fearful artillery barrage and systematic bombing by the Royal Air Force.1 This evening, only thirty-one of their tanks are still operational. Only small supplies of fuel remain available close to the front.’
Despite this bleak report, Rommel was determined to try to push the enemy back and then stabilize the front once more. The north was clearly the focus, so he ordered his remaining armour up from the south. So too did Montgomery, who after his period of quiet cogitation in his caravan had decided that the crumbling process would continue, that artillery and the air forces would contain any Axis counter-attacks, and that he would then prepare for a new all-out assault. The southern battle was, for the moment, over. Seventh Armoured Division was taken out of the line, as was the entire New Zealand Division and over half of X Corps’ armour.
Since the Australians were doing so well in the north, they were ordered to continue their drive. This could leave a bit of a gap, so the 51st Highland Division were moved up to cover the old Australian sector. The South Africans, left out of battle to begin with, were moved into the gap left by the Kiwis and the Scots, while Tuker’s 4th Indian, so far with nothing but a holding role, was to continue in that vein but over a long distance of some 15 miles. These moves were to be completed by the morning of 28 October.
In the meantime, 1st Armoured Division had been ordered to keep going through the northern corridor towards the tiny feature known to the Axis as Hill 28, but as Kidney Ridge to the British. And playing a key part in this continued northern drive were the men of the 2nd Rifle Brigade.
Meanwhile, Tenente Giuseppe Santaniello and his men were delighted to hear that Rommel had returned. ‘How much faith is there in that man?’ he jotted.2 ‘Why? Because we saw him pass through our batteries in his tank, in the midst of the battle. Doesn’t that tell our generals anything?’
Yet it was clear the situation was now desperate and, as far as Santaniello was concerned, it was the RAF that was the enemy’s greatest weapon. The relentlessness of the air assault was stupefying. The RAF, he thought, appeared to be everywhere. At one point, he had heard the tell-tale whistle of a Messerschmitt only to see a British fighter hurtle over, drop a bomb, then turn and head back west.
The only slight morale-boost was the sight of some Stukas appearing that evening and bombing the enemy positions. Vast amounts of tracer poured up towards them as one bomb after another dropped and exploded. His men were delighted to see them and a number jumped up out of their trenches and, as the Stukas dived, began imitating them with plunging hand movements. As they flew back over, their attack finished, the men counted them – and much to the Italians’ jubilation, on this occasion all had survived.
The gunners were in trouble, however, as there was now no infantry at all in front of them – only they and their guns were holding their stretch of the line. Santaniello had been taking his turn to keep watch – it was known that the Australians were now opposite them and might launch an attack at any moment. Then, at around 10 p.m., a message arrived that threw them into a terrible dilemma. British tanks, it seemed, had broken through the line. Panzers were due to counter-attack through their own positions, but it was now being left to the battery commanders to decide whether to stay put or withdraw back into the desert. After the officers were gathered together, they decided to remain where they were. Santaniello headed back to his fox-hole for what he called his ‘tragic and oppressive vigil’.3 ‘The RAF,’ he noted, ‘always wins!’
It was on the afternoon of 26 October that Albert Martin and his mates learned that their role as part of the Minefield Task Force was over and that they were now to take part in a night attack to capture and then consolidate one of two enemy strongpoints near Kidney Ridge. The following morning, two armoured brigades would move up and, using these strongpoints as a firm base, would then blast their way further west and sever the crucial Sidi Abd el Rahman track, which ran down the length of the Alamein Line and was a major supply route for the Axis rear positions. The 2nd Rifle Brigade were to take a feature codenamed Snipe, a mile south-west of Kidney Ridge, while the King’s Royal Rifle Corps (KRRC) would take Woodcock, a mile to the north-west.
However simple the plan may have seemed on paper, however, it was clear to Martin and all his fellows that they were very likely going to have one hell of a fight on their hands. And so it proved. They were shelled heavily during the night advance, found themselves in a firefight in which over a hundred enemy sappers caught between the Rifle Brigade and a leaguer of Axis tanks were decimated, but as dawn slowly crept over the battlefield they realized they had pushed really quite a long way into the Axis positions. In fact, they had moved into the heart of the enemy armour’s assembly area, which was massing for Rommel’s intended counterattack later that day. Their little depression in the desert was a miserably exposed outpost.
Shelling began early in the morning. The promised British armour soon came forward, but in fifteen minutes seven Shermans had been knocked out and were burning fiercely. Equipped with their 6-pounders, the Riflemen were now completely isolated, nor did they have a proper forward observation officer to direct fire or a medical officer to tend the inevitable casualties. A small party of Carriers was sent to try to find both, but one was hit and the others could make no headway at all, such was the weight of enemy fire.
As the morning wore on, it was clear the Rifle Brigade was now facing a major trial of strength. Shells screamed down on them unceasingly as their own guns answered furiously. Burning hulks of tanks, often with their mangled and charred crew nearby, already littered the ground; black, angry smoke billowed upwards and mixed with the grey fog from the smoke canisters laid by both sides. Small arms chattered while choking dust and the bitter stench of cordite, oily smoke and rubber fouled the air and made breathing difficult. ‘From the squaddies’ point of view,’ said Albert Martin, ‘the scene was one of utter confusion and mayhem.’4 He had very little idea of what was going on, except that it felt as though half the Deutsches Afrikakorps was heading straight for them.
The enemy armour was, in fact, trying to mount its counterattack and so was moving across their front to engage the British tanks of the 1st Armoured Division. Waking to find the Riflemen set up with their 6-pounder anti-tank guns was therefore a big blow to Axis intentions. Clearly, the panzers needed to deal with this particular thorn and in quick order. German and Italian tanks now started moving directly towards Snipe, but the gunners fired back and soon eight more panzers were hit. The Riflemen were suffering too, however. By mid-morning, only thirteen guns were still in action, while six of their Carriers were also now burning furiously.
A lull followed, but then, around 1 p.m., a number of Italian tanks attacked from the south-west. There, the Riflemen were now very low on ammunition, so only one of the 6-pounders could be brought to bear. Six enemy tanks had been knocked out when Lieutenant Toms made a dash for it in a Jeep, speeding across Snipe to one of the destroyed guns; he collected some more shells, then sped back in time to feed three more rounds to the sergeant manning the gun. One after another, the three remaining Italian tanks were hit.
Later in the afternoon, British armour once more pressed forward and suddenly a number of panzers again moved directly across the front of the northern side of Snipe. Albert Martin, watching this, could scarcely believe their luck. They could hardly miss, and nor did they: nine more panzers were knocked out and, although two further 6-pounders were destroyed, by half-past five the panzers were beginning to withdraw.
The battle at Snipe was not over yet, however, because now a further fifteen panzers attacked from the south-east, towards where Albert Martin was stationed alongside three guns, each with no more than ten rounds. Waiting until the German tanks had ground their way to within 200 yards, the Riflemen then fired. Three panzers were hit and came to a standstill amidst thick smoke and flames. Martin and the other Carrier crewmen fired at the enemy tank men as they bailed out of the burning hulks, then a third tank was struck by a 6-pounder round and began backing away before suddenly erupting into flames. When a further two brewed up, the remaining nine panzers withdrew, pulling back into hull-down positions. From there, they continued pounding the Snipe position, but by now dusk was falling. Soon after, darkness descended once more, and at 10.30 p.m., their ammunition spent and with no sign of the promised relief, the Riflemen pulled back, taking with them the lone 6-pounder still capable of firing.
‘Is it possible, I wonder,’ noted Martin, ‘to put into words the emotions of soldiers who have now reached safety after long hours when death or a crippling wound could happen in a second, any second, during those interminable hours?5 The usual words of pleasure, relief, happiness, thankfulness, are totally inappropriate. Substitute bewilderment, incomprehension, drained, numbed or disbelief.’
Left behind were the remains of seventy tanks and self-propelled guns. Just seven of these were British. At Snipe itself, the dead were surprisingly few: fourteen and one missing. They lay where they had died, next to the smashed guns and discarded ammunition boxes, the piles of spent shell cases and contorted remains of Bren Carriers. Through the night, Axis troops managed to recover some of their tanks, but by morning thirty-two wrecks remained, of which twenty-two were German panzers. Snipe had proved that experienced and well-trained troops were invaluable. It also proved once again that in the desert war a high-velocity gun was the most important weapon.
Those on the ground also had much for which to thank the Allied Air Forces. As 21. Panzer had been trying to form up for their counter-attack that morning, they had been repeatedly carpet-bombed. ‘Our best effort yet,’ noted Tommy Elmhirst, ‘with our two light bomber wings putting in 200 sorties and hitting enemy panzer divisions while they were trying to concentrate for an attack.’6 Billy Drake and his 112 Squadron had been in action throughout the day, shooting down an Italian Macchi 202 on one sortie and escorting bombers. Their air superiority was almost total, their attacks relentless, and the effect they were having was devastating and demoralizing, as Giuseppe Santaniello, for one, was all too aware. ‘The RAF always wins,’ he wrote in his diary for the second day in a row.
By nightfall on the 27th, it was clear Rommel’s counter-attack had failed; what’s more, he had used up precious fuel in the attempt and lost far too many panzers. There had been some successes, and there would continue to be more: the following day, for example, the entire 4th Royal Sussex Regiment was overrun at Woodcock and 342 taken prisoner. But the Australians were still pressing forward along the coast, the crumbling was continuing and the Panzerarmee was slowly but surely being ground down.
The battle Montgomery had planned had not worked out as he had intended, but the pattern was much as he had expected: cussed, bloody attrition, in which fire-power, both from the artillery and especially the Air Force, slowly but surely ground down the enemy.
On the morning of 29 October, General Alexander and Dick Casey, the Minister of State, visited Montgomery at his Tac HQ at Burg el Arab – prompted by anxious messages from London about rumours of Monty withdrawing troops. Alexander managed to have a quiet mano-a-mano talk with his Army commander, who was preparing the next phase of his assault, which he had codenamed SUPERCHARGE and which he hoped would end the battle. The plan was much the same as LIGHTFOOT: a night-time infantry attack supported by a barrage and with the bulk of his armour, now refreshed once more, following behind and then passing on through. This time, however, the punch was only 3 miles wide and there were no longer so many mines to clear. This meant more guns could be brought to bear as well, which was going to please General Tuker.
This tighter, more focused plan, was pretty much the right one, but Alexander was concerned that Monty was intending to send it through the Australians to the very north of the line. Alexander was Ultra-cleared and decrypts had indicated that the German 90th Light Division, having been held in reserve, was arriving in this very same part of the line. Alexander had made a point of not interfering with Montgomery’s plans – it was not his role to micro-manage, after all – but did now suggest that his Chief of Staff, Dick McCreery, have a quiet word with Monty’s COS, Freddie de Guingand, and gently try to persuade the Army commander to change his mind. The trick to making him do so was to try to make Monty believe the idea had been his all along. It worked. ‘I decided,’ wrote Montgomery later, ‘that I would blow a deep hole in the enemy front just to the north of the original corridor.’7 Alexander was relieved; it was, he thought, the key decision of the battle. At any rate, he wrote to Churchill the following day, assuring him all was well.
Meanwhile, the three great armadas of Operation TORCH were now at sea. The Bowles twins, as well as Bing Evans, were part of the first wave, making its way from England, while the third was crossing the Atlantic.
Since Major-General Mark Clark’s return from Algiers, he had barely stopped as last-minute plans were put in place. He also found he was much in demand to tell the story of his daring mission. On 29 October, he and Eisenhower went to visit King George VI, who wanted to say goodbye before they flew to their new Gibraltar headquarters for the invasion. ‘I know all about you,’ the King told Clark.8 ‘You’re the one who took that fabulous trip. Didn’t you, by the way, get stranded on the beach without your pants?’
Clark had also made arrangements to transport Général Giraud from southern France to Africa. He appeared to be co-operating, although insisted an American submarine pick him up. The US Navy did not have one in the Mediterranean, but it was agreed an American naval officer could, for the purpose of the trip, be put in charge of the Royal Navy submarine HMS Seraph, whose crew had done so well taking Clark et al. to and from Algiers.
Meanwhile, messages continued to flow from Robert Murphy, still in Algiers. He had not yet spoken with Darlan’s agent, but, he reported, Darlan had told Vichy officials that there was little chance North Africa was about to be attacked. That was definitely a good sign.
Perhaps inevitably, there was a glitch. On 1 November, a message arrived from Murphy saying that Giraud, with Mast’s backing, was insisting he could not now leave France until 20 November. Murphy was going to suggest to Roosevelt that TORCH be delayed.
This, was, of course, completely out of the question at this late stage and with the armadas already out to sea. Murphy was told that TORCH would go ahead come what may and that the submarine would wait for as long as was needed for Giraud. The next day, 2 November, Clark and Eisenhower lunched with Churchill then boarded a train to Bournemouth. Just as they were leaving, a message arrived with good news. Giraud would board the submarine waiting for him right away; they would meet in Gibraltar as originally planned. ‘We set off,’ noted Clark, ‘in an optimistic mood.’9
Back in the Western Desert, on 1 November Operation SUPERCHARGE was preceded by another blistering aerial assault by the RAF over Axis positions around Tel el Aqqaqir along the Rahman Track. This was where most of the Axis armour was concentrated. For seven hours they pummelled the enemy. Their efforts produced six massive explosions and a number of fires. They also hit the Afrikakorps Advanced HQ, wrecking their telephone communications system. Oberst Fritz Bayerlein reckoned they were attacked some thirty-four times that afternoon. ‘The sky,’ he noted, ‘was simultaneously filled with hundreds of British fighters, while innumerable fighter-bombers strafed our supply vehicles moving up the coast road.’10 They reckoned they had just 90 panzers and perhaps 100 Italian tanks left. Eighth Army had over 800.
The opening barrage of SUPERCHARGE began at 1.05 a.m. on Monday, 2 November. Albert Martin and the 2nd Rifle Brigade were once more in the Minefield Task Force, and pretty unhappy about it too; after Snipe, they felt they’d earned some relief from the fighting. They emerged from the chaos, dust and congestion at around 9.30 that Monday morning, the din of battle shrieking overhead and booming in front of them. They then took up position with their Carriers and a new batch of 6-pounders just north of the Tel el Aqqaqir trig point.
Around half an hour later, the Sherwood Rangers and the rest of the 8th Armoured Brigade also rumbled clear of the minefields, although there was so much smoke and dust they struggled to work out where they were. Major Stanley Christopherson, recovered already from his wounds and back leading A Squadron, paused to ask some gunners. They couldn’t help, but did offer him ‘a most acceptable’ mug of tea.
They pushed on forward, past bodies of dead British and Italian soldiers covered in a layer of fine dust, then made contact with the Staffordshire Yeomanry and paused again. Ahead of them, an ambulance beetled about picking up the wounded. Knocked-out tanks belched smoke into the sky. A strange, yellowish fog descended over the battlefield. Enemy tanks cranked into view and the Rangers opened fire, hitting two.
They remained roughly where they were until the afternoon, when they were ordered to turn back to their start line to rearm and refuel. In A Squadron, they all made it, but back at the start found themselves being shelled. Two Crusaders had sprung leaks and two men had also been killed earlier in the day when a shell exploded above their heads. Their tank was all right, but the turret was spattered with blood; someone would have to clean it up before it could be used again. However, there would be no more fighting for them that day. As evening fell, they leaguered for the night.
SUPERCHARGE had done what Montgomery had hoped. Against this renewed assault the Panzerarmee was all but broken. ‘The day of death,’ jotted Giuseppe Santaniello in his diary.11 At the village of Sidi Abd el Rahman on the coast, where he had set up his Tactical HQ, Rommel realized the game was now up and that the main British thrust was not in the northernmost part of the line after all. On the morning of the 2nd, he called off his assault by the 90th Light, and in so doing the exhausted Australians, isolated out on a limb, finally found some relief. In an area known as the Saucer, the fighting had been especially bitter; in an old building they called the Blockhouse, both German and Australian medical teams had been working together, treating the wounded from both sides.
The Afrikakorps had been moved south and two counterattacks attempted, but both failed. A hundred and seventeen German and Italian tanks were knocked out, including seventy of the ninety that had remained the day before, most destroyed by massed formations of Allied bombers. By the time dusk fell, the entire front had taken a big leap forward. The battle was almost over. ‘Monty now has Rommel by the pants,’ noted General Tuker that evening.12
Rommel realized this too and ordered a general disengagement. It was that or face annihilation but, realizing his orders to retreat might be misinterpreted by the Higher Command, he decided to put his aide-de-camp, Leutnant Berndt, into a plane with instructions to head straight to Hitler’s HQ at the Wolf’s Lair. ‘Explain our situation clearly to the Führer,’ Rommel told him, ‘and suggest that the African theatre of operation is probably lost to us.13 Ask for complete freedom of action for the Panzer Army.’
Meanwhile, the retreat had already begun. In the south, the Folgore were moving out of their positions. Luigi Marchese was heading back across the desert when he and his comrades heard loudspeakers urging them to surrender; they ignored them, however, and kept moving, heading towards Jebel Kalakh. Giuseppe Santaniello and his gunners received the retreat order at around 10 p.m. Not only their battery but the entire Trento Division was to pack up and move that night, back in the direction of Fuka. Trucks arrived around 3 a.m. – far later than had been hoped. Santaniello looked back at the patch of desert they had occupied since the start of the battle. ‘Your sand,’ he mused, ‘has known the bitter taste of our sweat, has tested the blood of our best soldier, and witnessed an epic struggle.’14
‘Dearest Lu,’ Rommel wrote to his wife that morning, Tuesday, 3 November. ‘The battle is going heavily against us.15 We’re simply being crushed by the enemy weight … At night I lie open-eyed, racking my brains for a way out of this plight for my poor troops. We are facing very difficult days, perhaps the most difficult a man can undergo. The dead are lucky, it’s all over for them.’
At 9 a.m. he drove east along the coast road to his Tactical HQ. Large numbers of vehicles were jammed along the road. At 10 a.m. he heard from von Thoma and Bayerlein. They had just thirty panzers left and the British were now lying in a semi-circle in front of them around Tel el Aqqaqir. The Afrikakorps, they hoped, would hold the British armour at bay while the Italians made good their escape.
Not far away were the 2nd Rifle Brigade. They had been asked to put in another night-time attack, this time at Tel el Aqqaqir but had been too hastily assembled and so were recalled. They were still hurrying back across the Rahman Track when over twenty Stukas appeared on one of their brief forays. So too did a dozen Hurricane tank-busters, who immediately swooped in to attack. They shot down two, but more importantly hustled the Stukas into jettisoning their bombs – and right over the Axis positions.
By late morning, the entire German front was collapsing fast, but at around midday Rommel received a reply from Hitler. ‘In the situation in which you now find yourself,’ he signalled, ‘there can be no other consideration save that of holding fast, of not retreating one step, of throwing every gun and every man into the battle.16 Despite his numerical superiority the enemy too will reach the end of his resources. It would not be the first time in history that the stronger will has prevailed against the stronger battalions of the enemy. You can show your troops no other way than that which leads to victory or to death.’
Thus spoke the world’s greatest-living military commander. It was madness. ‘When we read this order,’ wrote Bayerlein, ‘we felt as though we were criminals who, though condemned to die, had been granted a reprieve of forty-eight hours.’17 ‘We were completely stunned,’ added Rommel.18 They now made an effort to re-form on a line some miles to the west of the Rahman Track, but there could be no calling back those already heading west. The retreat had begun, regardless of Hitler’s order.
The Trento Division, along with the rest of the Italians, were now heading west. Giuseppe Santaniello had been moving all through the night, which had been lit by endless tracer and explosions from Allied air forces. ‘All is chaos and confusion,’ he scribbled in his diary.19 ‘Nothing is clear. From time to time we stop. Lorry follows lorry in a cloud of thick black dust.’ He couldn’t imagine the desert had ever seen a more dramatic sight than their column fleeing headlong into the darkness. Where they were going, Santaniello had no idea. He only knew they were escaping the enemy.
That morning, Oberst Fritz Bayerlein met with his chief, General von Thoma. The Deutsches Afrikakorps commander was, for the first time that Bayerlein had ever seen, wearing a proper uniform with all his general’s insignia, orders and medals. There was a Götterdämmerung atmosphere of impending doom. ‘Bayerlein, Hitler’s order is a piece of unparalleled madness,’ von Thoma told him.20 ‘I can’t go along with this any longer.’ He now ordered Bayerlein to their command post further back at El Daba. He would remain and command what was left of the Afrikakorps at Tel el Mampsra.
As the endgame of the battle was played out that morning, so General Tuker’s Indians finally entered the fray. He had been champing at the bit throughout the battle, but when Montgomery heard the news that the Italians were pulling out from their positions in the south, he had ordered Tuker’s 5th Brigade to join the Highlanders and cut a line through the minefields south of Tel el Aqqaqir so that the armour could pour through.
The operation was a complete success. Advancing behind another barrage, they were through the minefield by 7 a.m. For a moment, the desert was quiet but for the crackle of small arms. Then from the British lines came a low rumble that grew louder and louder. Suddenly, British tanks emerged through the dust and, plunging out through the gap, began to wheel north.
At 11 a.m., Bayerlein heard that the Afrikakorps was all but destroyed. Clambering into a small armoured reconnaissance car, he sped off eastwards. Suddenly, armour-piercing shot was whistling about him. In the haze up ahead, he saw a number of British tanks and, jumping out, he ran as fast as he could towards Tel el Mampsra. It looked like a place of death – of burning tanks and smashed flak guns, without a living soul. He lay down and looked around, then saw a man standing ramrod straight about 200 yards away near a burning tank, apparently impervious to the intense fire that still criss-crossed around him. It was General von Thoma. Bayerlein saw Shermans closing in – they were the tanks of the Sherwood Rangers and of 1st Armoured Division. He wondered what he should do. To run clear of this carnage felt like cowardice, yet to scamper through the curtain of fire would be suicide.
Suddenly the firing stopped. Von Thoma still stood there, a canvas bag in his hands. A Bren Carrier was driving straight towards him with two Shermans just behind. The Tommies signalled towards the General and then, like a flood, a mass of armour and vehicles swept across the desert. At this point Bayerlein ran, as fast as his legs would carry him. His car had gone, but he managed to hail another and they sped west. To the south of his command post, he could already see clouds of smoke.
The Battle of El Alamein was over.