Killing Rommel by Steven Pressfield Page A

Stein. There’s no other.”
    I put my arms round Rose. We downed two brandies as if they were water. Rose said that she had told Jock of Stein’s death; he had known when he ran into me at the fuelling point. “He told me that when he saw you, he couldn’t make himself deliver the news.”
    My gallant Rose. “You’re braver than any soldier.”
    That Stein could die was a possibility I had never even considered. He was my mentor. He had saved my life. “It’s like…” I said, “…like losing the war.”
    The most important thing now was getting Rose out of harm’s way. Palestine was no safer than Egypt. If Cairo fell, no place in the Middle East would be secure. I told Rose she must resign her post in the Code Office. She must go home.
    She refused. She was needed here. “Do you imagine,” she said, “that home is any safer?”
    She told me that Stein’s remains were being held in the temporary morgue at Ksar-el-Nil barracks in the city centre. We decided to go. I am one of those who fends off shock by activity. I must see Stein’s body. Identify it. I must get through to Stein’s family and execute their wishes as soon and as best as I could. The hour was eight in the evening. Would the morgue even be open?
    There are two public telephones at Shepheard’s, in the corridor outside the bar. Queues of officers waited for both. One of them was Colonel L. Balls, I thought, this is all I need! L. had seen us. I introduced Rose. There was no getting out of it. When L. asked what errand we were on, there seemed no option but to tell him.
    To my astonishment L. offered immediately to help. He had a car and driver; he would take us to Ksar-el-Nil straight away. He did, brushing aside the duty sergeant who tried to make us come back the next morning.
    The morgue was two vast mess tents jiggered together in a square that had formerly been used for cavalry exercises. Only uniformed personnel were allowed in. L. offered to stay with Rose. I entered alone, escorted by a Graves Registry corporal. Two enormous diesel refrigeration units stood outside each entry. They had been switched off at night, the clerk said, to conserve fuel.
    The dead, all officers, were laid out on tables and cots—any surface that could be put to use. “We had litters,” said the corporal, “but the Ambulance Corps took ’em.” He led me to two wrong corpses before finally locating Stein.
    My friend’s remains were laid out on a perforated steel sand-channel, the kind used by trucks and armoured cars to extricate themselves from bog-downs in the desert. A hospital sheet covered him.
    I thought: This is just like my mother.
    It took no time to make the identification. The high explosive had incinerated half of Stein’s face, leaving the other half more or less undamaged. “Your mate’s in for a DSO,” said the clerk, indicating the registry card. “He’ll get it too. The board never turns down a PH.”
    â€œPH?”
    â€œPosthumous.” L. offered a smoke when I got back outside. He was telling Rose of Stein’s heroism at El Duda. Outside he hailed a cab for us and paid for it; he had an appointment and needed his car. I held out my hand; L. took it.
    â€œI owe you, sir, for far more than your kindness this night. I have served you ill in the field, and for that I am deeply sorry. Please forgive me. From this hour, I shall bend heaven and earth to serve to my fullest capacity.”
    The power was off when Rose and I got back to Shepheard’s. The fans wouldn’t work in our room. We sat on the bed in the dark, smoking and drinking warm champagne from the bottle. Rose had brought Stein’s manuscript; I had left it with her for safekeeping. She put it in my rucksack. The typewritten pages were in a velveteen case with the word “Macédoine” in script. A trade-name of porcelain or