Swordpoint (2011) Read Online Free
planned, and when the breach is created every effort will be made to link up rapidly.’
Not ‘You will try to’, Major General James Tonge noticed – as he always noticed, whether he were receiving the orders or writing them himself – but ‘You will’. It was never a good idea to send a man into action with the suggestion of an option.
Tonge was a small man, round-faced and ruddy, with a clipped military moustache and a heavy limp, a relic of North Africa. Known to his troops as the Limping Limpet, he was a friendly man and, like most British divisional commanders in 1944, highly experienced. His faults were human rather than professional in that he was kind-hearted and too much inclined to let his subordinates have their heads. And, unfortunately, his 19th Indian Division was no longer as good as it had been.
The tendency since the desert to imagine that all future battles would be tank versus tank had been completely destroyed in Italy. Infantrymen were more important than ever and, with the rifle and the hand grenade once more the final arbiters of the battlefield, what was needed now was not vehicles, artillery or aircraft but men. A fresh brigade to throw in after a week’s fighting would have made a great deal of difference; but Tonge’s division had become depleted and weary, and the few replacements who had arrived had brought with them the established habits and practices of the army in England.
Italy was different. It was different from the desert and very different from England. They even had a different name for the Germans – not Jerries but Teds, from Tedeschi, the Italian word for them.
General Tonge was very much aware of his problems. He was a capable man, but suspected that since being wounded in Libya he had slowed down. And when he’d returned to duty it was to find himself saddled with a staff of whom he knew little and who, in many cases, were new to their jobs. Because he wasn’t there to hang on to them, the experienced men he’d directed before his wound had all been whipped away to England to handle the problems of the Second Front, and he felt the new lot weren’t as good and were never likely to be. This troubled him because when soldiers felt the staff were capable of making sure that everything worked, morale was high. Unhappily, General Tonge no longer felt he could guarantee this.
Despite his doubts, his headquarters reflected an atmosphere of brisk efficiency, rather like an important office in the City of London full of young executives keen on their jobs and well on top of it. It was situated off the main road in a villa set in its own grounds and marked with the tall dark flames of cypresses. Near the gateposts, military policemen stood on guard, and over the house the yellow divisional banner with its black dragon fluttered limply in the thin breeze. The house belonged to a wealthy Roman who was now on the other side of the front line, and that part of the building occupied by Tonge’s headquarters looked a little like an English country club, with The Tatler, The Field and Country Life prominently displayed among the out-of-date copies of The Times and The Daily Telegraph.
Most of what had been done to make it comfortable was the work of Brigadier Wallace Heathfield. Heathfield was a thruster by nature, looked like a thruster and believed in being a thruster. He was a tall man inclined to plumpness, and his round face and smooth blond hair were instantly belied by his brisk manner. He had the energy of two men and, because he liked his comfort, enjoyed keeping an eye on the mess in addition to his own jobs as commander of the divisional artillery and the divisional commander’s confidant and virtual deputy. A compulsive interferer, he felt he had found his niche on Tonge’s staff, and his swift, ingratiating manner, heartily disliked by the men he dealt with, had seen him rapidly promoted. Heathfield got things done, whether it was the acquisition of clothing,
Not ‘You will try to’, Major General James Tonge noticed – as he always noticed, whether he were receiving the orders or writing them himself – but ‘You will’. It was never a good idea to send a man into action with the suggestion of an option.
Tonge was a small man, round-faced and ruddy, with a clipped military moustache and a heavy limp, a relic of North Africa. Known to his troops as the Limping Limpet, he was a friendly man and, like most British divisional commanders in 1944, highly experienced. His faults were human rather than professional in that he was kind-hearted and too much inclined to let his subordinates have their heads. And, unfortunately, his 19th Indian Division was no longer as good as it had been.
The tendency since the desert to imagine that all future battles would be tank versus tank had been completely destroyed in Italy. Infantrymen were more important than ever and, with the rifle and the hand grenade once more the final arbiters of the battlefield, what was needed now was not vehicles, artillery or aircraft but men. A fresh brigade to throw in after a week’s fighting would have made a great deal of difference; but Tonge’s division had become depleted and weary, and the few replacements who had arrived had brought with them the established habits and practices of the army in England.
Italy was different. It was different from the desert and very different from England. They even had a different name for the Germans – not Jerries but Teds, from Tedeschi, the Italian word for them.
General Tonge was very much aware of his problems. He was a capable man, but suspected that since being wounded in Libya he had slowed down. And when he’d returned to duty it was to find himself saddled with a staff of whom he knew little and who, in many cases, were new to their jobs. Because he wasn’t there to hang on to them, the experienced men he’d directed before his wound had all been whipped away to England to handle the problems of the Second Front, and he felt the new lot weren’t as good and were never likely to be. This troubled him because when soldiers felt the staff were capable of making sure that everything worked, morale was high. Unhappily, General Tonge no longer felt he could guarantee this.
Despite his doubts, his headquarters reflected an atmosphere of brisk efficiency, rather like an important office in the City of London full of young executives keen on their jobs and well on top of it. It was situated off the main road in a villa set in its own grounds and marked with the tall dark flames of cypresses. Near the gateposts, military policemen stood on guard, and over the house the yellow divisional banner with its black dragon fluttered limply in the thin breeze. The house belonged to a wealthy Roman who was now on the other side of the front line, and that part of the building occupied by Tonge’s headquarters looked a little like an English country club, with The Tatler, The Field and Country Life prominently displayed among the out-of-date copies of The Times and The Daily Telegraph.
Most of what had been done to make it comfortable was the work of Brigadier Wallace Heathfield. Heathfield was a thruster by nature, looked like a thruster and believed in being a thruster. He was a tall man inclined to plumpness, and his round face and smooth blond hair were instantly belied by his brisk manner. He had the energy of two men and, because he liked his comfort, enjoyed keeping an eye on the mess in addition to his own jobs as commander of the divisional artillery and the divisional commander’s confidant and virtual deputy. A compulsive interferer, he felt he had found his niche on Tonge’s staff, and his swift, ingratiating manner, heartily disliked by the men he dealt with, had seen him rapidly promoted. Heathfield got things done, whether it was the acquisition of clothing,
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