Chapter 5
War Intervenes
London – Early December, 1941
Trant met Lord Sutherland for lunch at his club. As it was a frigid day in London, the dining room boasted a roaring fire that warded off the chill. They shared an excellent meal and chatted thereafter to catch up on recent developments.
“How is Lady Sutherland?” Trant queried.
“Well, I’ve not seen her for more than a month, but we do talk by phone every few days. She seems to be bearing up rather well.”
“Good. I miss her. When I was stationed in Wales I was able to see her quite often, but since my transfer to London, I’ve fallen somewhat out of touch.”
“Yes, she mentioned that. She asked how you were doing when we spoke last. Oh, and that reminds me, she wanted to know how your dinner with Felicité went.”
“Sir, I’m afraid that I made a mess of it.”
“Oh? Tell me more, Trant.”
“Well sir, I’m afraid that she and I are simply not suited for one another. I confess that I am a normal man with normal male needs, and I find her quite attractive. Thus, I made my interests known to her and, unfortunately, my suit was soundly rejected.”
“Ha!” Lord Sutherland chuckled lightly, and slapping Trant gingerly on the back as a fatherly gesture, he expounded, “I doubt that very much, Trant. Surely by now you have begun to discern something of the enigmatic subtleties of the female mind.”
“Yes, sir, of course I have. But I confess that I have no idea whether I am coming or going with her. In short, I believe it best for me to move on.”
“My,” his father guffawed. “I am quite certain that Lady Sutherland will be quite disappointed to hear that. She led me a merry chase for five years, spanning the entire course of the Great War, if you must know.”
Trant eyed him morosely and, feeling outnumbered three to one, he took a long sip of port. He then revealed, “Small consolation, if I do say so myself, father. At any rate, I’ve put in for a transfer, and I am supposed to hear something shortly.”
“To where, might I ask?”
“North Africa, of course. I need to fly, sir. Nothing takes one’s mind off things so well as flying.”
“Son, now you are making sense. If you are transferred there, you shall be killing two birds with one stone, as it were. Not only will you be escaping a potentially debilitating personal situation, you shall be serving the RAF admirably. I am told that had we had better air forces in North Africa, we should have taken Tripoli in November. In order to win the campaign against that fox Rommel we shall need to achieve air superiority down there. I say, let me know if your transfer comes through. We must get together again before you leave.”
“Yes, sir, I shall do that,” Trant responded. “Now, I must be getting back to the office.”
North Africa - April, 1942
Trant peered from the window of the cargo plane and, following its progress as the aircraft taxied in from the sunlit runway, he observed as it halted haphazardly. The cargo door opened shortly thereafter, Trant emerging in the company of several other servicemen. He strolled forward a few paces, but halted abruptly, suddenly struck by the desolate surroundings.
Before him there was a single small building that had obviously been constructed in haste and, scanning the horizon, he discerned no other structures whatsoever. Hazy outlines of faded blue mountains wafted in the distance, but other than that there was little noteworthy within sight. Not a single wayward cloud was to be seen anywhere in the enormous blue sky, as far as the eye could see in any direction the roiling heat coming off the ground, thereby inducing the desolate view to dance in the morning sun. Trant could feel wayward sweat rapidly moistening his shirt, something that he had never before experienced this early in the calendar year. Such torpid heat was completely alien to him and, glancing at his wristwatch, he realized that it was as yet well short of noon.
After a few stultifying moments, a solitary officer came walking towards him through the suffocating heat and, saluting, he inquired, “Are you Squadron Commander Sutherland?”
Suppressing the urge to ask how anyone had managed to survive in this place, Trant returned the airman’s salute and responded tersely, “Yes.”
“Excellent,” the airman replied, “I’m Squadron Leader Martin. If you will follow me, we have a vehicle standing by to take us to headquarters, sir.”
Trant followed and, the pair rounding the building, they shortly arrived at a vehicle that was coated with what was to all appearances a permanent layer of dust and dirt. They settled into the car, Trant noticing that the interior was coincidentally also coated with dust.
The drive took only a few minutes, but the heat was impossible to escape despite the circulating air blowing through the windows of the automobile. Trant couldn’t help wondering incongruously to himself how much more unbearable the heat would be when summer arrived in little more than two months.
Several minutes passed, the vehicle trailing a large plume of dust on the unpaved road. Eventually Trant thought he perceived some slight signs of civilization ahead. Sure enough, the vehicle pulled up at a gate, whence they were waived through, the car subsequently halting abruptly at a low white building. The pair climbed out and traipsed inside, Trant discovering that there was a veritable hive of military activity underway within. An officer came forward to him and inquired impatiently, “I assume you’re Sutherland?”
“Yes,” he replied, the pair surreptitiously shaking hands.
“So glad you’re here, old chap. I’m Squadron Commander Frost, I’ve got the 143rd, mostly Hurricanes. You’ve got the 244th. It’s mostly Spitfires. Follow me. I’ll introduce you to Air Vice-Marshall Coningham.”
Squadron Commander Frost led him down a hallway and entered a large planning room. “Vice-Marshall Coningham, Squadron Commander Sutherland has arrived.” He turned to indicate Trant, who saluted smartly to the commander.
Returning his salute, Coningham exclaimed, “Oh, good show! Glad you’ve arrived, Sutherland. We’ve got ourselves a mess here in Libya. Here, look at the map. You’re wing is here, east of Tobruk. You’ve got four squadrons. Three are Spitfires, our best planes, and our best pilots. And we need you! That desert fox Rommel is receiving reinforcements and supplies from Sicily as we speak. He’s pushing us back. Before long we could be fighting in the streets of Cairo and Alexandria. I don’t need to tell you what that means for the Allies if we’re pushed back that far.”
“So, what are your orders for my wing, sir?”
“Right now our ground forces are retreating eastward towards Alexandria. With Rommel, our challenge is to keep him from using his tanks to skirt our southern flank. You are to support our ground forces south of El Alamein. You must ensure at all costs that Rommel’s tanks do not outflank us. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“We shall have a daily briefing at 7 A.M. here at headquarters. I will expect you to attend, Squadron Commander Sutherland.”
“Understood, sir.”
“Excellent. That will be all, Squadron Commander. Get some rest. You will need it in the coming days.”
Wondering to himself what he had been thinking of when he had requested a transfer to this godforsaken hell on Earth, Trant saluted and departed immediately.