by Jack Murray
‘Well done, there,’ said Danny to the young Scot.
The Scotsman smiled back and seemed to stop shaking. Danny felt better for having spoken to McLeish.
‘Does it get any easier?’ asked McLeish.
Danny laughed and said no. If anything, it was worse. The knowledge that you’d survived was a comfort only until you realised that you would soon have to face the same hell all over again. To his credit, McLeish laughed, too. Danny liked him. He was no older in years but much older in experience than the Glaswegian. However, Danny could see already that he had a genuine grit about him like so many of the Scottish battalions he’d heard about.
They rumbled forward at speed; the tracks crushing the rock into sand. The news from the other squadrons sounded grim. They’d slowed the enemy advance. At a cost. Benson, noted Danny, was quiet. The noise of shelling had receded, and he finally risked putting his head outside the cupola. Within a few seconds he was back inside.
‘Bloody hell,’ exclaimed the captain. ‘There’s a band of enemy tanks heading this way. Gregson, tell the CO to avoid the rallying point. We can’t fight them without ammo. Archie, traverse right.’
Gregson communicated the sighting of the enemy tanks. Roberts voice was calm as he spoke to the remaining tanks from the three squadrons.
‘Enemy tanks spotted at rallying point. Ignore previous order. Withdraw four miles north east to pre-arranged point.’
Danny frowned a question to PG which the big driver took to mean, correctly, where are we going?
‘Three miles south of El Adem. Brigade HQ has moved there. It’s just west of Sidi Rezegh.’
Danny didn’t need to be reminded of where El Adem was. His heart sank as he thought of the battle that had been fought over the airfield just a few months previously. They were back there; this time they were on the run. It was demoralising. He thought again of Phil Lawrence, burned alive inside a tank. His sacrifice had been utterly in vain.
Benson’s voice provided a welcome interruption. ‘The enemy tanks don’t seem to be chasing us, thank God. If only they knew what our ammo situation was, they’d have been over here like a shot.’
Danny looked through his telescope but could see only an expanse of hilly rock and sand. He gave up and sat back against the warm metal wall of the tank. No one spoke, each lost in their thoughts. Finally, Benson alerted them to the distant brigade HQ.
‘Once we’ve loaded the new shells, give the tracks a check,’ said Danny to McLeish.
Danny went up to the top of the tank and sat with Benson. He could see dozens of vehicles in the distance. Five minutes later they joined the remaining tanks of the regiment. It was a sorry looking sight. Danny climbed down from the tank and made a circuit round to take a look at the impact made by the German shells. They’d been clanging against the tank like hailstones. The Grant had withstood quite a beating. He counted nearly twenty hits. Benson joined him and both quietly marvelled at the punishment they’d received.
‘I’m glad I was in this beast and not one of the ‘Honeys’,’ said Danny after a low whistle.
‘Indeed,’ agreed Benson who then went off in search of Roberts.
The brigade was full of noise and activity as the regiment went about the job of refuelling and rearming. Danny helped McLeish load fresh shells into the tank while Archie Andrews and Billy Thompson did likewise for their gun. Then Danny and McLeish carefully examined the tracks on one side of the tank while Andrews and Thompson inspected the other. PG, meanwhile, had his head buried in the engine to check for any damage. He shut the hatch door triumphantly and patted the Grant.
‘Not so much as a dent.’
This was welcome news but elsewhere it was a depressing story. Only a handful of tanks remained from the regiment. A few were still operable and needed only re-arming and refuelling. Other tanks limped back and would need repair. One of those was Danny’s squadron leader, Major Witheridge. Benson returned to the tank after a hastily convened conference with Witheridge.
‘Right men, to the tank. Major Witheridge is taking over the ten remaining Grants. Major Joly is wounded. Captain Upcott-Gill will take over the six remaining Honeys. There’s not a lot we can do to help the French at Bir Hacheim I’m afraid, and I think that some of echelon has been captured. However, the major thinks that Jerry will be fairly stretched now and perhaps there’s a job to be done in attacking their supply lines. They’ll be running low on fuel, too, and won’t want to come too near our guns again. They know what to expect now.’
Danny took a deep breath and steeled himself as he climbed back into the tank. Increasingly he had to fight the feeling that this would be his coffin. Such thoughts were momentary but they were also habitual. Once an idea takes root it becomes difficult to excise. To fight it constantly risked it becoming an obsession. Instead, Danny realised he had to live with the knowledge rather than fight it. He knew he shared this feeling with every man who’d ever stepped into a tank, or ever would; from either side. The fear would remain with them, an unwelcome companion, on every patrol, on every engagement, every, bloody, day.
18
Bir Hacheim, Libya 27th May 1942
‘British Tanks straight ahead,’ called Basler from the cupola. The tanks had appeared in view just as they emerged from a behind a ridge. It was mid-afternoon and the chase of the British tanks had resumed following a three hour wait for fuel. Manfred had watched the “Lion of Capuzzo”, Kummel, living up to his name, pacing backwards and forwards like he was in a cage. Refuelling completed, the squadron resumed their chase. By then, news began to filter through that British tanks were harassing the supply echelon.
They drove for a few kilometres. A dust cloud in the distance prompted Manfred to check his telescope. Moments later Basler confirmed what Manfred could see. Tanks in the distance. Not the new tank with the powerful gun but the less dangerous Stuart tank and some Crusaders.
‘Distance is just under nine zero, zero metres,’ said Manfred.
‘Fire when you’re ready,’ ordered Basler.
‘Gerd, HE shells,’ said Manfred to his loader. Kleff’s sweat-soaked face made the barest hint of a nod. Manfred fired. And missed.
‘Three metres, short. They’ll be aware of us now,’ said Basler, unworried. Manfred was angry with himself. He hated showing any sign of weakness or incompetence in front of the lieutenant. Kleff loaded another shell and Manfred made sure of his aim. He pressed the trigger. Nothing. He pressed again.
‘Fire, Brehme,’ pressed Basler, clearly irritated.
‘It’s not working,’ replied Manfred. He looked at Kleff. ‘Reload, Gerd.’ Kleff removed the shell and threw it back in.
‘Ready?’ asked Manfred. Kleff nodded.
This time the Manfred’s aim was unerringly accurate. The tank erupted into flames. The hatches kicked open and a couple of tank crew emerged from the flames. Moments later a machine gun began chattering. It was Gunter Keil, the radio operator.
Basler shouted down.
‘Cease firing.’
Keil looked up at Basler in confusion. Even Manfred was a little surprised. He, personally, did not believe in firing at enemy escaping from a burning tank. He hadn’t expected Basler to be of a similar view. The more time he spent with the former SS lieutenant the more highly he regarded him. Manfred was also beginning to understand why he had not risen further despite his evident abilities.
‘Sir?’ asked Keil.
Basler glared at Keil. The radio operator released his finger from the trigger. No more was said. The other Panzer tanks had opened fire on the British tanks to devasting effect. Explosion followed explosion. The British tanks fired back but their shots fell harmlessly short. Then Basler snapped at Manfred.
‘Why have you stopped firing at the tanks?’
Manfred motioned to Kleff who opened the breech and loaded another shell. Manfred pressed the firing button. There was no response.
‘What is going on down there?’ yelled Basler.
Kl
eff opened the breech and shut it again more firmly. A split second later Manfred fired and hit a second tank.
The British began to withdraw quickly. Manfred fired half a dozen other shells, but the remaining enemy tanks were moving too quickly and avoided any serious damage. Basler ordered a halt to the firing. The guns fell silent. The German tanks moved forward slowly. They reached the burning British tanks a few minutes later. Nine of them lay in flames following the short engagement. Basler glanced down into the hull and pointed to Kleff and Keil.
‘Go and see what we can use from the British tanks. Don’t rob the soldiers,’ ordered Basler. He seemed to be staring at Keil when he said this.
Kleff and Keil exited the hatch and went in search of anything they could salvage. A few of the other tank crews were similarly engaged. This made Manfred smile. Once upon a time that had been his job. He still had nightmares of the sights he’d seen inside the destroyed tanks. The charcoal figures that had once been men. The charcoal smell of these tanks was something he knew he would never forget.
Moments later he heard Basler make a dismissive noise. Manfred shot Basler a glance. The lieutenant smiled grimly.
‘See for yourself.’
Manfred climbed up through the cupola. He caught sight of Keil bent double retching by the side of one tank. Perhaps it was the state of the dead in the tanks or, Manfred hoped, it was seeing the dead bodies of the Englishmen he’d gunned down as they escaped from their burning tank. Manfred had heard many stories from the other crews of how the British had not shot at German soldiers as they escaped. Many on both sides had adopted this practice. Of course, it was not always the case. Some, like Keil, continued the killing. It seemed cowardly to Manfred. The look on Basler’s face suggested that he’d deliberately wanted Keil to view the result of his own murderous proficiency.
Perhaps Keil would learn from what he’d done. If he did, though, it would come at a cost. The heart might confess but the mind would not forget. Manfred was grateful to Basler that he’d not asked him to go. The thought of seeing what his own accuracy had caused would have killed something inside of him. It might have made him hesitate when required to push the firing button. This would endanger them all. Manfred realised that the shield he had against his own feelings of guilt was the knowledge that he had not solely been following orders. Quite simply, it was self-defence. They were firing at him.
-
The halt lasted over an hour and then they were off again until darkness and low fuel forced them to stop. There was no further contact with the enemy. With some relief, they formed a leaguer between Rigel Ridge and Bir Lefa around ten kilometres south of Acroma. They had now lost contact with the rest of the division and would need to refuel if they were to continue the chase.
The evening revealed the toll extracted by the day’s fighting. The regiment was down to thirty-nine tanks that could still run. Twenty-three had been destroyed beyond salvage and the others, including Gerhardt’s, had broken down or been damaged in the firefight and required repair.
‘What happened to you?’ asked Manfred when he finally found his friend in the leaguer.
‘The engine gave out,’ explained Gerhardt. ‘I was driving along and then I heard the engine coughing like an old man. Seconds later it stopped completely. Just when we were in the line of fire of the British. We were lucky they took off before any of their shells could do us any damage. I spent the afternoon with Lukas trying to fix the damn thing but no luck. When it was dark, we got a lift back here. Any word from Fischer?’
‘No, I haven’t seen him. I think his tank was hit but I don’t know where he ended up. We’re all over the place at the moment.’
After Gerhardt had left, Manfred returned to the tank. The campfire flickered in the light breeze, casting distorted shadows against their battered tank. Basler sat alone, reading. He’d managed to find a battered copy of David Copperfield. In English. He sat reading it with a small dictionary beside him which he referred to every so often.
They were joined by Lieutenant Stiefelmayer. His arrival prompted Basler to set his book down and get to his feet.
‘Sorry, I appear to be interrupting your Anglophile tank commander,’ said Stiefelmayer, archly. Manfred grinned but made sure that Basler did not see this. Basler ignored his friend. and they went off towards a group including Kummel and Teege.
Manfred slumped to the ground wearily. They were all underneath a makeshift tent attached to the hull of the tank. Jentz was snoring like the trooper he was. Klef was sleeping, too. He was as silent in slumber as he was in the tank. Kiel was awake, staring straight up into the night sky. Perhaps he was avoiding sleep, thought Manfred, fearful of seeing the men he’d killed reappear in his dreams. Manfred wanted to say something to him. He started towards him but then stopped. Even in the dim light he could see the tears glistening in the young man’s face. Manfred turned away. He didn’t want the boy to know he’d seen him. Anyway, what was there to say?
-
The next few days saw the regiment slowly reconfigure. This required Manfred’s tank to go in search of the supply train which they located early afternoon the next day. They were still low on fuel and priority was given to refitting damaged Panzers to bring up the regiment strength. Early morning of the 29th saw the return of Fischer and a number of the stranded tank crews.
‘My tank lasted five minutes,’ laughed Fischer. ‘We were one of the first to be hit. The firing started from the Tommies. We were hit immediately. The tank began to brew up. We were lucky; all of us escaped. Shells raining down on us and you lot heading off into the distance. I don’t like that new tank the British have.’
‘Have you seen it?’ asked Gerhardt. ‘Ugly looking thing.’
‘Not very practical,’ added Manfred draining his coffee. ‘The seventy-five can only fire in one direction.’
‘Really?’ laughed Fischer who had yet to see the new addition to the enemy tank armoury. ‘Why did they do that?’
‘I’ll ask Churchill next time I see him,’ replied Gerhardt.
‘Do that,’ agreed Fischer, ‘and tell him to give up while you’re at it. You’re going to lose.’
Manfred wondered if Fischer really believed they would win. Confronting the new tank had been a reminder that the Allies were only going to grow more powerful. They had the industrial might of the Americans and the manpower of the Commonwealth to support them. Meanwhile Germany was divided between two fronts. No one spoke of the fear they all felt: the war had already been lost.
‘Has any mail come?’ asked Fischer.
‘No. Haven’t seen Marseille recently. He usually brings it,’ replied Manfred.
‘So we’re stuck here,’ said Gerhardt looking around the camp a little forlornly. ‘Has anyone got a football?’
-
They stayed a week in the assembly areas. Rommel, for once, decided to be patient and use the time to allow the divisions to regain their strength, match up displaced crews with new tanks and strengthen their supply lines for the next stage of their push.
Shelling from enemy artillery was frequent but sounded more menacing than dangerous. It was notice of what they would face in the future when they pushed east. Occasional visits by the RAF posed more of a problem and a number of bombing runs on the assembly areas had caused greater damage.
These aerial attacks halted as the Khamsin attacked the invaders. Once again North Africa and Mother Nature posted a reminder that the greatest enemy either side faced was not to be found wearing a uniform. The end of May and early June saw both sides enveloped in a hot, dusty wind from the south that made life wretched for all who faced it. The oven-hot wind scorched and blinded and choked. It infiltrated nostrils, clothing, food and drink. By the time its hateful intensity was abating, most soldiers were ready to sue for peace.
With the weather once more returning to merely intolerable, the 4th of June saw the regiment ready to march again. Orders came through that they had to clear minefields southwest of Bir el H
armat. This would allow the Afrika Korps to outflank the defensive boxes on the Gazala line which defended the desert route into Tobruk. This was always assuming that the Allies did not attack first.
Manfred sat on the top of the tank and listened to the nearby eighty-eights pulsing repeatedly to targets somewhere in the distance. Out of curiosity he asked to borrow the binoculars of Basler.
‘Be quick, we’ll be leaving soon.’
The field glasses were the most powerful he’d used. Basler must have had good contacts in supply to snaffle these. No wonder he wanted them back. Manfred moved his view down to look at the artillery ranged a hundred yards in front of them. There were half a dozen guns. But only two of them were firing. He scanned along the line and looked at the gunners. They were all eating food. Lunch break in the middle of war. Manfred smiled at the very normality of it. The gunners didn’t seem to have any more luxurious food than the tank crews. It looked like they were drinking Erbswurst, a soup made from pellets crushed into boiling water, and Graubrot, a grey rye bread that tasted as awful as it looked.
Just then Manfred caught sight of a tall, skinny figure and his heart leapt.
‘Oh my God. Mathias,’ said Manfred and laughed out loud. The others in his crew looked at him irritably.
‘Seen your boyfriend?’
Manfred handed the field glasses back to Basler and shook his head.
‘A friend from training has just been blasting the Tommies to hell. I haven’t seen him since early last year.’
Basler rolled his eyes and told him to get the others to clear up. Manfred leapt to it, feeling more energised than he could remember in the last few months. He couldn’t wait to tell Gerhardt.
-
‘Are you going to finish that?’
The soldier removed his hat to reveal a striking head of red hair. He wiped his forehead and held up a lump of the rye bread. He grimaced and handed it to the other soldier.
‘I can’t believe you like this rubbish,’ said the red-haired soldier.