Colin Dexter - The Riddle of the Third Mile (Inspector Morse 6)

Colin Dexter

TheRiddle Of The Third Mile.

In which a veteran of theElAlamein offensive finds cause to recall the most tragic day of his life.

There had been the three of them-the three Gilbert brothers: thetwins, Alfred and Albert; and the younger boy, John, who had been killed oneday in North Africa. And it was upon his dead brother that the thoughts ofAlbert Gilbert were concentrated as he sat alone in a North London pub justbefore closing time: John, who had always been less sturdy, more vulnerable,than the formidable, inseparable, and virtually indistinguishable pair known totheir schoolmates as Alf n Bert; John, whom his elder brothers had alwayssought to protect; the same John whom they had not been able to protect thatterrible day in 1942.

It was in the early morning of 2nd November that OperationSupercharge had been launched against the Rahman Track to the west of ElAlamein. To Gilbert, it had always seemed strange that this campaign wasconsidered by war historians to be such a miraculous triumph of strategicplanning, since from his brief but not unheroic participation in that battle hecould remember only the blinding confusions around him during that pre-dawnattack. The tanks must go through had been the previous evenings orders,filtered down from the red-tabbed hierarchy of Armoured Brigade to the fieldofficers and the NCOs of the Royal Wiltshires, into which regiment Alf and Berthad enlisted in October 1939, soon to find themselves grinding over SalisburyPlain in the drivers seats of antique tanks-both duly promoted to fullcorporals, and both shipped off to Cairo at the end of 1941. And it had been ahappy day for the two of them when brother John had joined them in mid-1942, aseach side built up reinforcements for the imminent show-down.

On that morning of 2nd November, at 0105 hours, Alf and Bert movedtheir tanks forward along the north side of Kidney Ridge, where they came underheavy fire from the German 88s and the Panzers dug in at Tel Aqqaqir. The gunsof the Wiltshires tanks had spat and belched their shells into the enemylines, and the battle raged furiously. But it was an uneven fight, for the advancingBritish tanks were open targets for the antitank weapons and, as they nosedforward, they were picked off piecemeal from the German emplacements.

It was a hard and bitter memory, even now; but Gilbert allowed histhoughts full rein. He could do so now. Yes, and it was important that he shoulddo so.

About fifty yards ahead of him, one of the leading tanks wasburning, the commanders body sprawled across the hatch, the left arm danglingdown towards the main turret, the tin-helmeted head spattered with blood.Another tank, to his left, lurched to a crazy standstill as a German shellshattered its left-side track, four men jumping down and sprinting back towardsthe comparative safety of the boundless, anonymous sands behind them.

The noise of battle was deafening as shrapnel soared and whistledand plunged and dealt its death amidst the desert in that semi-dawn. Menshouted and pleaded and ran-and died; some blessedly swiftly in aninstantaneous annihilation, others lingeringly as they lay mortally wounded onthe bloody sand. Yet others burned to death inside their tanks as the twistedmetal of the hatches jammed, or shot-up limbs could find no final, desperateleverage.

Then it was the turn of the tank immediately to Gilberts right-anofficer leaping down, clutching a hand that spurted blood, and just managing torace clear before the tank exploded into blinding flame.

Gilberts turret-gunner was shouting down to him.

Christ! See that, Bert? No wonder they christened these fuckinthings Tommycookers!

You just keep giving it to the bastards, Wilf! Gilbert hadshouted back.

But he received no reply, for Wilfred Barnes, Private in the RoyalWiltshire Yeomanry, had spoken his last words.

The next thing Gilbert saw was the face of Private Phillips as thelatter wrestled with the drivers hatch and helped him out.

Run like hell, corporal! The other two have had it.

They had struggled only some forty yards before flingingthemselves down as another shell kicked up the sand just ahead of them, spewingits steel fragments in a shower of jagged metal. And when Gilbert finallylooked up, he found that Private Phillips, too, was dead-a lump of twistedsteel embedded hi his lower back. For several minutes after that, Gilbert sat wherehe was, severely shocked but apparently uninjured. His eyes looked down at hislegs, then at his arms; he felt his face and his chest; then he tried towriggle his toes in his army boots. Just thirty seconds ago there had been fourmen. And now there was only one-him. His first conscious thought (whichhe could recall so vividly) was a feeling of ineffable anger; but almostimmediately his heart rejoiced as he saw a fresh wave of 8th Armoured Brigadetanks moving up through the gaps between the broken or blazing hulks of thefirst assault formation. Only gradually did a sense of vast relief surgethrough him - relief that he had survived, and he said a brief prayer to hisGod in gratitude for coming through.

Then he heard the voice.

For Christs sake, get out of here, corporal! It was the officerwith the bleeding hand, a lieutenant in the Wiltshires-a man who was known as astickler for discipline, and a bit pompous with it; but not an unpopularofficer, and indeed the one who the night before had relayed to his men theMontgomery memorandum.

You aright, sir? Gilbert asked.

Not too bad. He looked down at his hand, the right index fingerhanging only by a tissue of flesh to the rest of his hand. What about you?

Im fine, sir.

Well get back to Kidney Ridge-thats about all we can do.Even here, amid the horrifying scenes of carnage, the voice was that of apre-war wireless announcer, clipped and precise -what they called an Oxfordaccent.

The two men scrambled through the soft sand for a few hundredyards before Gilbert collapsed.

Come on! Whats the matter with you, man?

I dunno, sir. I just dont seem.... He looked down at hisleft trouser-leg, where he had felt the fire of some intense pain; and he sawthat blood had oozed copiously through the rough khaki. Then he put his lefthand to the back of his leg and felt the sticky morass of bleeding flesh wherehalf his calf had been shot away. He grinned ruefully:

You go on, sir. Ill bring up the rear.

But already the focus had changed. A tank which had seemed to bebearing down upon them suddenly slewed round upon its tracks so that now itfaced backwards, its top completely sheared away. Its engine, however, stillthrobbed and growled, the gears grinding like the gnashing of tortured teeth inhell. But Gilbert heard more than that. He heard the voice of a man crying outin the agony of some godforsaken despair, and he found himself staggeringtowards the tank as it lurched round yet again in a spurting spray of sand. Theman in the drivers seat was alive! Thereafter Gilbert forgot himselfcompletely: forgot his leg-wound, forgot his fear, forgot his relief, forgothis anger. He thought only of Private Phillips from Devizes....

The hatch was a shattered weld of hot steel that just would notopen-not yet. Almost it came; and the sweat showered down Gilberts faceas he swore and wrenched and whimpered at his task. The petrol-tank ignitedwith a soft, almost apologetic whush, and Gilbert knew it was a matter onlyof seconds before another man was doomed to death inside a Tommycooker.

For Chrissake! he yelled to the officer behind him. Help!Please! Ive-nearly-He wrenched for the last time at the hatch, and the sweatpoured again on to his bulging, vein-ridged forearms.

Cant you fuckin well see? Cant you - His voice tailed off indesperation, and he fell to the sand, overwhelmed by failure and exhaustion.