Max Hastings is a leading historian who has spent a lifetime studying war.
His new book Soldiers: Great Stories Of War And Peace is a collection of first-person accounts. They show in stunning detail and immediate how all the violence, grief and pathos that can be experienced during conflict.
In these compelling extracts, a young officer agonises over his decision to leave a dying comrade, a badly wounded Gurkha gets back into battle, and a legendary field marshal is executed by his own side …
The German reached out for his gun… so I took his head off with my kukri
The British cherish the army’s Gurkha regiments — Nepalese fighters who have ‘taken the Queen’s shilling’ for more than two centuries. Jemadar Sing Basnet (a Gurkha) recounts a Tunisian exploit in April 1943. He led night patrol to capture German-held high land. It is a great example of the courage he and his comrades displayed.
I was asked a question in a language I didn’t know was British. I wouldn’t have recognized it. To make sure, I crept up and found myself looking into the face of a German — I recognised him by his helmet. I saw him fumbling with his weapon so I took off his head using my kukri.
Another appeared out of a slit trench, and I cut him also. I did the exact same to two other people, but one made a lot more noise, which raised alarm. I was able to cut the fifth person, but I’m afraid I didn’t injure him.
The British cherish the army’s Gurkha regiments — Nepalese fighters who have ‘taken the Queen’s shilling’ for more than two centuries (Pictured: Gurkhas on the attack in North Africa during World War Two)
I was now in a fight with a few Germans. Eventually, my hands became bloody and my hands were slippery, they managed to take my kukri.
One German beat me with it, inflicting many wounds. They beat me to the floor, where I lay pretending that I was dead.
My eyes were clogged with blood so I couldn’t see anything. I wiped my eyes, and I saw a German machinegun. It was getting dark and I was thinking of a plan to reach it. My platoon advanced and began to hurl grenades. I thought I would die if I didn’t move.
I managed to get up and ran towards my platoon. They recognized my voice and allowed me in. I was bleeding profusely from my hands, and had lost my Kukri. I had to ask one platoon member to take my pistol out my holster, and give it to me. I then took control of the situation again.
To save my own life, I left a dying comrade.
Historiographer Michael Howard, a young officer, witnessed a tragic outcome while on night patrol in no man’s land with a single Guardsman.
This was fear — the sudden stop of the rhythm of breath and heartbeat, followed by agonised butterflies in the breast. I stopped. The voices stopped. The challenge was ‘Halt! Wer da?’
We sat down and everything was still. After a while, we slowly stood up and began walking. I had only walked a few steps when I felt a stinging sensation in my back and heard a little explosion behind me.
“Are you all okay, Terry?” I whispered. ‘No, sir — it’s got my foot.’
I was pressed to the ground and heard the bullets fly overhead. Terry began to scream in pain and fear.
This is the end, I thought. I am in the open, and in the middle a minefield. I can’t get Terry away — he is almost twice my size. I seriously considered surrendering, but that would be stupid.
This is the most difficult part of writing. I left Terry carefully and was fully aware of my actions. I crawled away.
A young officer, Michael Howard (pictured), witnessed a tragic outcome while on night patrol in no man’s land with a single Guardsman.
The Germans were only yards from me. I promised myself that they would find him at dawn and bring him in. I shouted that there was an injured British soldier here. But, the only answer was a flurry grenades.
Terry’s mine had lightly injured my legs and I could not move. I was terrified of more mines so I crawled and felt ahead in the tufted grass. I was lost in the mist and had lost all senses of direction.
I was reminded of the warm room at battalion headquarters, with its fire. It seemed like the highest point of all human desires. As the machine guns rattled, I wondered if I would ever see it again.
I eventually found the right track, despite being forced to navigate through brambles and briars, and was able to get back on my feet as fast as possible. My mind was a series layered of feelings: a layer relieved, a layers of shame, a layers of anxiety. . .
I learnt a great deal — too much — about myself; not least that I did not deserve a Military Cross [which he was awarded at Salerno, Italy, almost a year earlier]. It is easy to be brave when everyone is watching you. It is when you are all alone that the true test comes.
Everyone at battalion headquarters were kind. I offered to go back with a party to find Terry, which Colonel Billy Steele graciously declined. I was sent back to the hospital for another spell.
Terry? He didn’t survive. I don’t know whether he died in their care or if his body was left bleeding to death. I found his grave many years later, and sat next to it, wondering what else I could do. I wonder still.
I have already told your mother that I will be dead in 15 minutes
Field Marshal Erwin Rommel (1891–1944), Nazi commander of the North African campaign, had been devotedly loyal to Hitler in his years of victory, but turned against him when he saw that Germany’s defeat was inevitable. Two senior generals met him at his house to discuss his future employment’ on October 14, 1944. His 15-year-old son describes his final hours.
A dark-green car bearing a Berlin numberplate stopped in front our garden gate at 12 o’clock. Two generals — Burgdorf, a powerful florid man, and Maisel, small and slender — alighted from the car and entered the house. They were polite and respectful and asked for my father’s permission before speaking to me alone. Captain Aldinger (my father’s aide) and I left the room.
A few minutes later, I heard my father coming upstairs and going into my mother’s bedroom. I followed him, anxious to see what was happening. He stood in the middle of the room, his pale face reflected in the air.
He said, “Come outside with us,” in a tight voice. We went into my room. He said, slowly, “I have just had the need to tell your mother,” adding, “That I will be dead in a quarter hour.” He was calm as his voice continued: ‘The home is surrounded, and Hitler is charging I with high-treason.
“I am to have the possibility of dying by poison. It was brought by the two generals. It’s fatal within three seconds. Accepting the offer will mean that no other steps against my family will be taken. They will also leave me alone with my staff.
I interrupted: ‘Can’t we defend ourselves …’ He cut me off short.
Field Marshal Erwin Rommel (1891–1944), Nazi commander of the North African campaign (pictured centre with his son Manfred and wife Lucie), had been devotedly loyal to Hitler in his years of victory, but turned against him when he saw that Germany’s defeat was inevitable.
He said, “There’s no point.” ‘It’s more important for one person to die than for us all to be shot in an affray. We have practically no ammunition.
We briefly parted ways. He said, “Call Aldinger, please.” At my call, Aldinger came running upstairs. Aldinger, too, was struck by cold when he heard the news.
My father spoke faster now. “It’s all been done down to the last detail. I will be attending a state funeral. Aldinger will receive a phone call from the hospital in less than a quarter of an hours to inform you that I have suffered a brain seizure and must be taken to the hospital for further treatment.
He looked at his watch. He looked at his watch.
We went downstairs to help my father put on his leather coat, and then we walked out together. The two generals stood at the gate to the garden. We walked slowly down this path, the gravel crunching unusually loudly.
As we approached the generals, they saluted us with their right hands. Burgdorf said, “Herr Feldmarschall,” and waited for my father to pass.
The car was at the ready. The SS driver opened the door and stood up to pay attention. My father put his marshal’s baton underneath his left arm and, his calm face still, gave Aldinger, Aldinger, and me his hand before getting in the car. The doors were slammed, and the two generals quickly climbed into their chairs. My father didn’t turn again as the car drove up the hill quickly and then disappeared around a bend in a road.
Aldinger and me turned and walked back to the house. Aldinger responded, “I think you should go to see your mother.” I went upstairs again, waiting for the promised telephone call. I was overcome with an agonising depression that ruled all thoughts.
Twenty minutes later, the phone rang. Aldinger raised the receiver and my dad’s death was reported. The next morning, we drove to the hospital to lay him down. The doctors who treated us were clearly ill and suspected my father’s true cause of death. One of them opened the door to a small room. My father lay on a bed on a camp-bed wearing a brown Africa uniform. His face was contemptuous.
Later, we learned that the car had stopped a few hundred feet up the hill from our home at the wood’s edge. Gestapo men from Berlin were present that morning and instructed my father to shoot him if he refused.
Maisel, the driver, and my father got out of the car. Burgdorf and my father remained inside. When the driver returned ten minutes later, he noticed that my father had sunk forward with the cap off and the marshal’s baton out of his hand.
They drove fast to the hospital, and General Burgdorf continued to headquarters, where he called Hitler to report my father’s death.
The most shameful part of the story was the sympathy we received from members the German government. These men could not have failed to know the true cause of my father’s death and in some instances had no doubt contributed to it. I will give you an example.
October 16, 1944: ‘I offer my deepest sympathy to you for the terrible loss that you have experienced due to the death of your husband.
“The name Field Marshal Rommel will always be linked to the heroic battles in North Africa.”
My old teacher was my enemy
In the final weeks of World War II, British tank officer Douglas Sutherland stays over with his men in Germany.
Joe, Wally, Joe and I backed in the trees and breathed a sigh relief. Take a few more drops of the blessed rum, and you’re ready to go to sleep.
Briggsy brought the tank back to life the next morning. As he lifted his hands above his head, a figure emerged from the left-hand track. It was as miserable, disheveled, and grimy as anyone could have imagined. Under the oily mud and oil, his grey German uniform was hard to recognize.
As we stared in wonder at this apparition he grimaced as he pointed to a narrow trench in which, all night, he had been trapped beneath the tank track.
It was that gesture that rang the faintest bells. I signalled to him that he should climb up to the turret. We stared at one another in disbelief, as we sat on top the tank.
My father decided that my brother and me should have a German tutor in those 1930s days, when God was in heaven and all was well. His name was Willie Schiller. The same Willie Schiller was now in front of me.
It was all that either of us could do. I’m not sure if he said “Gott im Himmel”, (God in heaven), but I don’t remember. We had a couple of rums, and we smoked a cigarette.
After the war, I was telling this story to my mother. She said, firmly, “Nonsense!” It could not have been him. You must have been drunk.
I responded indignantly, “I wasn’t drunk.” “Why do you think it could not have been Willie?”
She said, firmly, “Because Willie was always so perfectly turned.”
Back into gunfire
The British Expeditionary Force (BEF) was commanded during the last stages of the evacuation from Dunkirk by its senior commander, Lieutenant-General Sir Harold Alexander (1891–1969).
This story was told here by Nigel Nicolson. Alexander then set out to make sure that every man was taken off the beaches.
The remnants of the BEF started to set off as soon as it was dark on June 2, 2012. The arrangements went without a hitch. All men were on board by 11.40pm.
Alexander and six other crew members boarded a motorboat as the destroyers set sail for Dover. They ordered one destroyer to be waiting for them.
The gunfire was too much to resist.
They then zig-zagged out from the harbour, and then turned parallel to beaches, getting as close as possible.
The British Expeditionary Force (BEF) was commanded during the last stages of the evacuation from Dunkirk by its senior commander, Lieutenant-General Sir Harold Alexander (1891–1969) (pictured)
The sea was covered in oil, where corpses were floating. Alexander grabbed a megaphone and shouted in English and French repeatedly, “Is anyone there?” Alexander took a megaphone and shouted repeatedly in English and French, ‘Is anyone there?’
They shouted the exact same question around the quays, then boarded to destroyer.
They reached Dover just as dawn broke. Alexander went straight to Anthony Eden, War Office.
Eden wrote, ‘I felicitated him, and then he replied, modestly, ‘We weren’t pressurized, you know.’ ‘
Poor memory can lead to a poor memory.
When he was stationed in Basra in 1941, novelist John Masters encountered the Yeomanry — a British regiment of amateur cavalrymen who were, in peacetime, rural neighbours and keen foxhunters.
They were a delightful bunch. My favorite story about them involves an early inspection by the general at one of the regiments.
While introducing his officers down the line, the Yeomanry colonel stopped and spoke to one captain. . . Captain. Captain. ?. He shook his head, snapped at his fingers, and cried, “Memory like an iron sieve!” I’ll be forgetting my hounds’ names next.
Adapted from Soldiers: Great Stories Of War And Peace edited by Max Hastings, published this week by William Collins at £25. © Max Hastings 2021. To order a copy for £22.50 (offer valid until 13/11/21; UK P&P free), visit mailshop.co.uk/books Call 020 3176 2937.