El Alamein

by Jack Murray

  Just at that moment, Arnold Weber, the shop manager appeared from the back of the shop. He held up a bag.

  ‘Here you are, Otto. I knew I had some sardines in the back,’ said Weber. He was a big man and widely liked in the town. He grinned at Brehme and said, ‘Your usual?’

  ‘Yes thanks,’ replied Brehme. The big shop keeper took down a several packs of cigarettes and handed them to the policeman. Brehme paid for the cigarettes, nodded to Weber and followed Otto Becker out of the shop. The little man, he noticed, was carrying two very large bags.

  ‘Otto, wait,’ called Brehme. ‘You seem to be feeding the five thousand. Let me take one of those.’

  There was reluctance in the eyes of the little schoolteacher. He smiled and handed Brehme one bag. It was full of potatoes.

  ‘I hope you’re not distilling alcohol,’ laughed Brehme.

  Becker paused a moment but then his face broke into a grin.

  ‘I hadn’t thought of that. Perhaps I should.’

  ‘Let me know, I’ll come and drink a shot with you.’

  They walked along the street. There was music coming from somewhere. It was a Christmas carol. The two men trudged along, their feet crunching through the dirty snow. Neither spoke as they passed a group of soldiers. They were loud and clearly in good humour. Brehme looked at them with barely concealed distaste.

  ‘Any former pupils of yours there?’ asked Brehme to the schoolteacher.

  ‘I don’t recognise any of them,’ said Becker. Brehme wasn’t sure if this was because they’d grown up or something else. The changing face of youth in the country had been more than physical. He barely recognised what they’d become. And what he saw appalled him. There were a few other young people in the street. Interestingly, the younger people were in casual clothes. It seemed odd to see young people not in some form of uniform. Perhaps the fashion for dressing up like a soldier was passing. A good thing, too, thought Brehme. They arrived at the large house belonging to Becker that he shared with his wife.

  ‘Well, I suppose this is you,’ said Brehme.

  ‘Would you care to come in and have a drink with us?’ asked Becker. He hoped the answer would be ‘no’.

  Brehme was policeman enough to recognise that Becker did not want him to accept and polite enough to decline in a manner that gave no offence. They parted company and Brehme returned to his own, empty, house. The sound of his boots on the wooden floor echoed harshly in the permanently dark hallway. He saw a note from Leni, his housekeeper. She’d prepared some food that needed to be heated up in the oven. For a moment he felt a swell of anger. What was he paying her for if she was not here to cook? Then he remembered it was New Year’s Eve. The anger dissipated in seconds to be replaced by a feeling of ennui. He took off his coat and walked into the kitchen. A quick look inside the oven confirmed the presence of something to eat.

  He shut the door of the oven and left the kitchen. Maybe later. He went to the front door remembering that he’d forgotten to check for post. There was none. He exhaled and went into the living room. He flopped down in his armchair and stared out of the window to the back garden. The day slowly gave itself up to the darkness of night. The snow provided a purple glow that Brehme found oddly comforting. It was hypnotic and he sat for a while absorbed in the strange lilac light. How long he sat he could not tell but he was jolted awake by the sounds of revelry on the street.

  Leaning over the chair he switched on the radio. A voice that he knew so well was speaking to Germany.

  -

  ‘German Volk! National Socialists! Party Comrades! For the third time, destiny forces me to direct my New Year’s Proclamation to the German Volk at war. It is clear to the German Volk that this fight, which was forced on us by our old greedy enemies, as so many times before in German history, is truly a question of life or death.’

  A dozen people crowded round the radio to listen to the speech. The Fuhrer spoke about the rightness of their fight and the inevitability of victory. The Mayer household and their guests listened mostly in silence.

  ‘Perhaps this year you will have a chance to face those enemies, Erich,’ said Mayer.

  ‘I hope so, Herr Mayer,’ replied Erich without flinching at his outright lie. Erich was dressed in a black uniform. There was a strip of medals emblazoned on his chest. He had yet to face the Allies.

  ‘Then after the war is over and our enemies are defeated…’ Mayer left the sentence unfinished. He glanced meaning fully at his daughter and then at Herr Sammer who was standing beside his son.

  ‘I hope the war will be over soon, Herr Mayer,’ replied Erich with a smile, ‘But not so soon that I can’t get at them myself.’

  ‘Well said, young man,’ replied Mayer, nodding in approval. Gerd Sammer clapped his son on the back, pride leaking from his eyes. And he was proud. His son had met a young girl as beautiful as she was dutiful. She would bring many fine young men into the world. He’d done well. A son to be proud of. The match between the Mayer and the Sammer households would cement his position both within the town and the party. He felt so happy that he barely listened to the rest of the speech from their leader.

  Anja Mayer was still a schoolgirl. She would leave school at the beginning of summer. Then she felt Erich take her hand. It felt cold. She turned to her fiancé and smiled dutifully.

  When the speech drew to its uplifting conclusion there was spontaneous and excited applause in the room.

  ‘Time for some music, I think,’ announced Mayer. He leaned over towards the radio.

  -

  Captain Johannes Kummel, commander of the first company in Regiment 8 of 15th Panzer Division switched off the radio. He was with the heads of the other companies in the tank regiment.

  ‘So we’re going to win the war this year, apparently.’

  ‘That’s good to know,’ replied Lieutenant Stiefelmayer, in a voice that was barely audible. ‘I was worried for a while.’

  Kummel looked at the drawn features of the man before him. Grime-encrusted hands rubbed sunken eyes. His face was buried into his chest. Silence fell on the group. Kummel listened to the sounds of the regiment. It was eerily quiet as midnight and the New Year approached. In place of high-spirited chat or the sounds of engines being made ready there was, instead, a low murmur.

  The head of regiment, Lieutenant-Colonel Hans Cramer, appeared in front of the group. Red, inflamed eyes on a bloodless face gazed down at men as exhausted as he was.

  ‘It’s nearly midnight. We should announce the award,’ said Cramer.

  His voice was stronger than he looked. Vertical lines were carved like canyons into his cheeks and on his forehead. He’d never fully recovered from his wounds of the summer and it showed. Yet his presence was appreciated deeply. There was an impalpable force within Cramer that lifted them all

  They sat in mute exhaustion, unable to respond. Then, one by one, each of the senior officers rose. First Kummel, then the others raised their heavy bones; every man creaking like a wooden door with rusted hinges. How could the act of walking be so difficult, thought Kummel? Moving one step after another was its own triumph of will. He, and the other officers, walked along the centre of the leaguer. They nodded to the men they passed. All were sitting around campfires by their tanks. Some nodded back. Most were too exhausted to speak. Others had already fallen asleep, uninterested in waiting until midnight to bring in 1942. There was no shame in this. They were all at the edge of a precipice.

  One by one the groups rose wearily to their feet as the officers passed. Kummel, Cramer and the other captains walked the full length of the leaguer and back again. The men began to follow behind Cramer and the other company commanders.

  ‘What’s happening?’ asked Manfred to Gerhardt. They were sitting near Gerhardt’s tank which was part of the 2nd Battalion of Regiment 8.

  Gerhardt looked at the unshaven, hollow-eyed face of his friend and shrugged wearily. They rose slowly to their feet and started to follow behind the other men. They were
n’t sure where they were headed. It hardly seemed to matter. Finally, Manfred spotted Colonel Cramer. He nudged Gerhardt and pointed towards him.

  ‘Not another bloody attack,’ commented Gerhardt. The thought of this gave him the energy to be angry. What was left of the tank regiment was a mockery of what they had been only a month previously. Damaged tanks, damaged men. All numbed by physical and mental fatigue. Few, if any, were in a fit state to fight.

  They, and dozens of other tank men, finally reached the colonel. Cramer stood erect, feet shoulder width apart. At that moment it seemed like a caricature of military discipline. Everyone knew he was as exhausted as they were. He began to speak.

  ‘We have heard our Fuhrer speak. We know what is demanded of us. We know what is at stake. Victory in this war will only be achieved if we can take Cyrenaica back and then Egypt. This year has been hard for all of us. We have come close to victory, but we have also lost friends and comrades. None braver nor dearer to us than Major Gunther Fenski. I received news earlier this week that Major Fenski has been awarded the highest honour that can be bestowed upon a soldier, the Knights Cross. He is the third member of our regiment to be so honoured. He receives this for the bravery of his actions, and sacrifice, on 23rd November 1941. We give thanks that we had such a man amongst us. A man who led us, who inspired us and whose memory this nation will cherish as long as soldiers gather together to remember those who have fallen.’

  Cramer stopped for a moment and gazed out at the sea of exhaustion that faced him His heart bled for the courage of his friend and comrade who had died and for those in front of him who had given so much. He nodded to the men and then turned towards the senior officers. The speech, if that’s what it was, had finished. There was only an odd silence. Applause seemed inappropriate. Then, from somewhere in the ranks a voice began to sing.

  Manfred and Gerhardt turned around but could not see who was singing but the words cut through the cold night air like an electrical current. Soon other voices joined the lone singer. And then the two boys began to sing. Nervously at first and then, quickly, it became full throated like the cry of a wounded animal.

  Deutschland, Deutschland über alles,

  Über alles in der Welt,

  Wenn es stets zu Schutz und Trutze

  Brüderlich zusammenhält.

  Von der Maas bis an die Memel,

  Von der Etsch bis an den Belt,

  2

  Wadi Faregh, south of Agedabia, Libya: 21st January 1941

  Manfred finished shaving and wiped his face with a dirty damp towel. It was five thirty in the morning. Despite the early hour, he felt curiously rested. A break of a couple for weeks from the fighting had been enough to recharge his energies. A couple of days in Tripoli had helped too. Upon his return he’d been assigned to a new tank in order to make way for the reinforcements to the regiment.

  He drained the rest of his coffee and cleared up just in time to see his new commander come round the corner of the tank. He stood up immediately. Alongside him the other members of the tank crew also rose.

  Hans Kummel nodded to Manfred and the others.

  ‘Any coffee left?’ asked the commander of the 1st Battalion. Kummel had been put in temporary command of the battalion following the death of Major Fenski the previous month. There was no better man to lead them, thought Manfred. That said, there was no worse one to be in the tank with. This was not a comment on his leadership. He was rightly adored by the men. However, ‘the Lion of Capuzzo’ had a nasty habit, observed Gerhardt drily one day, of always being at the head of a charge.

  ‘He’s suicidal,’ said Gerhardt. ‘Or mad.’

  ‘Maybe he thinks death is inevitable and he just wants to get on with it,’ suggested Manfred.

  The conversation with Gerhardt had occurred a week previously when Manfred had heard of the transfer. It was an honour and clearly a reflection of the fact that he was well thought of. The news of his actions on Tottensontag had clearly made it all the way up to senior command. As with many things in life, Manfred was learning that glory and honours were not bestowed freely. A price was always paid further down the line. For now, Manfred enjoyed special favour by being in the tank of the regiment’s figurehead. The toll would be demanded soon.

  Kummel ran a hand through his dark hair and leaned forward. Ernst Hubbuch, the tank driver, handed Kummel a coffee. He took a swig and imparted the news they’d all been expecting.

  ‘We leave in three hours. We are to take Agedabia and push forward from there. Rommel thinks we can catch the British out before they can reinforce. He’s right. They’re stretched over half of Libya.’

  ‘I’m sure our leader will be delighted that you concur, sir.’

  Kummel grinned at Sergeant Franz Beer, the tank gunner. Beer had ridden with Kummel since their arrival in North Africa. He’d earned the right to be freer in his conversation than the others. Still, it surprised Manfred just how far he could push it with the captain. He wished he could enjoy a similar level of confidence as Beer. Perhaps one day. For the moment he was the new boy in the tank. A loader once more after a brief spell as a driver in another tank. He didn’t mind. The men he was with were the best of the best. But always at the back of his mind were Gerhardt’s words.

  ‘Your perceptiveness does you credit, Beer. Perhaps you would like to hear what our leader has written.’

  Beer and the others nodded. Kummel extracted a piece of paper from his pocket. He took a sip of coffee and ignored the impatient sigh from Beer. Manfred smiled at the little man from Berlin. He was heavyset but nearly a foot shorter than Kummel and Manfred. A few more moments of silence followed as Kummel pretended to study the note. Beer began to whistle. The radio operator, Igor Siefers chuckled. He was relatively new to the tank but was around ten years older than Manfred, like the other members of the crew.

  ‘It says, as you’re so interested…actually, assemble the men, Beer, would you?’

  Beer sighed while Manfred and the others, Kummel included, laughed.

  -

  ‘German and Italian soldiers!’ read Kummel to the assembled 1st Battalion, ‘Behind you lie heavy battles with a vastly superior enemy. Your morale remains unimpaired. At this moment we are considerably stronger than the enemy facing us in the front line. Therefore, we shall proceed today to attack and destroy the enemy. I expect every man to give his utmost in these decisive days. Long live Italy! Long live the great German Reich! Long live our Fuhrer!’

  Kummel raised his voice at the end and was rewarded with a full-throated cheer from the assembled ranks. Then, as quickly as they had gathered, they dispersed to their tanks. It was almost 0830. The morning was cold and greyly uninviting. The order to move from Cramer came across the radios.

  The tanks rolled forward as sand began to blow into their faces.

  ‘That’s all we need,’ said Beer. ‘As if fighting the British isn’t enough, we have the bloody weather to cope with here.’

  Manfred couldn’t agree more. He detested the desert. He knew why they were here but could not fathom what would make anyone want to live in such a pitiless land. As if to validate Manfred’s feelings, the desert threw up a sandstorm almost immediately they had left the leaguer.

  They drove forward blindly. Shutting all hatches didn’t matter. The sand still found a way through, caking their sweat-stained faces with sand and oil. In these conditions they were forced to use periscopes to guide them forward. After half an hour, Kummel called a halt.

  ‘We’ve reached sand dunes. We’ll have to give the trucks a tow. The sand is too soft. Wheels will never be able to climb these.’

  Kummel glanced down at Manfred, the most junior member of the crew. Manfred smiled ruefully and put goggles on. Then he wrapped a scarf around the lower part of his face. To the sound of laughter from Beer, he opened the lower hatch and climbed out.

  The sandstorm was not as bad as he’d thought. He’d been in worse. Manfred walked forward towards a group of men standing near one of the
large number of trucks.

  ‘We can help tow one of you,’ said Manfred to an infantry captain. The captain nodded and went to the side of the truck and banged it. Within moments soldiers came pouring out of the truck. A grappling hook was attached to Manfred’s tank.

  In all the time Manfred had been out, no words were exchanged. The operation to hitch the truck to the tank took less than a minute, much to Manfred’s relief. The sandstorm was not the strongest he’d encountered, but it could still sting.

  Barely a couple of minutes after leaving the tank, Manfred was back inside. He nodded to Hubbuch who started to move the tank forward and up the sand dune. The engine coughed and spluttered like a bronchial old man all the way up the hill.

  ‘Let’s hope there are not too many of these ahead,’ commented Kummel grimly. He looked at his wristwatch and then switched his attention to the periscope. He heard Hubbuch cursing below as the engine protested. They crested the dune. There was another just ahead but not so high. To his right and left, he saw other tanks similarly engaged. What are we doing, he thought? Madness.

  The next set of dunes proved to be the last. Soon they were back on the flat and pushing on against the sand lashing the front of the tank. Manfred was miserable. He could feel sand all over his body and it had already begun to prickle. Beer looked across to Manfred, a ghost of a grin appearing on his face. He watched as Manfred’s body contorted in an effort to find some relief against the itch.

  ‘Don’t,’ warned Manfred, spying the direction of Beer’s gaze. ‘It’s not funny.’

  Of course, this was as likely to stop the torrent of laughter that followed as a hand shielding against rain. The whole tank erupted at Manfred’s discomfort, even the normally serious Kummel.

  ‘If you keep on like this, I will leave the tank,’ said Manfred in the manner of a dissatisfied worker handing in his notice.