by Jack Murray
‘No. From what the major says, we’ll be off, not sure where. But definitely not Alamein. ‘
‘Poor bastards. I’m glad I’m not there,’ said Danny. ‘I wonder how they’re getting on.’
25
Rusweisat Ridge, south of El Alamein, Egypt: 2nd July 1942
Manfred stared vacantly through the telescope. Clouds of dust obscured his view, but he could just see the turrets of the Panzers peeking through. The view hadn’t changed for an hour, yet he’d kept his face pressed against the sight. Once or twice he shut his eyes and found time to rest before the shaking of the tank ripped through his slumber and forced him to concentrate on God knows what. Grime and dust black-bleached his face. Rivulets of sweat, streaked down his cheeks. Basler told him he looked like a zebra.
He was bewildered by the obedience with which the Afrika Korps followed a madman such as Rommel. He never stopped. Not for a minute. It was never enough for a such a man. Tobruk? Manfred had already forgotten about it. His hopes that they would stop for a while were soon shattered. There was only a brief pause to re-equip, refuel and reinforce. No rest, though. Not even a chance to swim or drink beer with his friends or regain some semblance of strength. That hope was gone. It was simply never going to stop. Rommel would keep pushing on until there were literally no tanks left.
And there weren’t many left now. Six working Panzers in the 1st Battalion.
If the Allies had had any idea how screwed they were at that moment, they wouldn’t be running away. But that had stopped now, hadn’t it? They weren’t running anymore. Manfred sensed they’d gone back as far as they were prepared to go. The advantage was, once more, swinging back to the enemy: the Allied supply lines were short and the RAF owned the skies. The Afrika Korps was a long way from home, whichever way you looked at it. Ladenburg. Tripoli. Bloody hell, even Tobruk.
Manfred glanced over at Basler. He was sleeping. This was not unusual now. Work on the tank often carried on late into the night. Then there were the night bombing raids by the RAF which disrupted sleep. By the time they rose early the next morning, sleep deprivation was acute. Opportunities to nap on marches were grabbed where possible. Poor Jentz. He had to stay awake, though.
‘Enemy tanks,’ said Jentz.
Well, if anything was going to wake the lieutenant from a deep sleep it was those two words. His eyes sprang open.
‘Where?’
Manfred, Basler and Kleff all had their eyes fixed through their viewers searching through the dust and sand for a sign of what Jentz had seen. The shelling started before they could fix on anything with certainty.
‘Where are the damn tanks?’ said Basler in frustration.
Through the dust and the smoke they could all see a ridge further ahead. Dark shapes suggested there were tanks, hull-down, dug in. Basler didn’t have to give any orders. Manfred had already pointed to the HE shells. Kleff reacted immediately. A shell was in the breech before Basler ordered them to fire. Manfred pressed the firing button and felt a stab of pain in his thumb. The sore had not healed and nor would it until he had a break from the blasted war.
‘Do you want me to slow down, sir?’ asked Jentz.
‘No, keep going,’ ordered Basler. ‘They look like Mathilda tanks. They can’t hurt us from there. I’m surprised they still have any of those left. The British probably gave them to the Indians.’
In fact, it was a New Zealand brigade who were holding the ridge and, by the sounds of the radio traffic, were giving the Italian Ariete Division hell.
Forty metres in front, Kummel was leading the charge towards the New Zealanders. The eighty-eights were finding their mark. Basler fixed his eyes on the ridge and said, ‘Rusweisat Ridge up ahead.’
The artillery fire from the panzer was sporadic causing Basler to swear openly. This was a rare occurrence and Manfred glanced at the lieutenant in surprise. Meanwhile, Kummel’s voice was on the radio barking orders. He seemed to be demanding that the intensity of the artillery screen increase.
‘We’re nearly out of ammo,’ came the reply. This was incredible. An officer from the artillery telling them they could not continue shelling.
‘Sorry can you repeat that?’ This was Stiefelmayer. It was as if he wanted the artillery man to understand, as publicly as possible, just how ludicrous the statement was.
Basler stared at the radio dumbfounded and yet not surprised. They were making an attack against a well-guarded position and a key group within the division were without ammunition. He shook his head and could imagine Teege, Kummel and Stiefelmayer doing likewise. Their mission was now bordering on suicidal. News came through that the rear areas were under attack from the RAF. Multiple waves of fighters and bombers were holding up the advance of the supply train
‘Break off the attack,’ snarled Kummel angrily. Whatever the truth about the attack on the supply echelon, this was an ongoing open wound that was inhibiting the greatest army on the planet from performing its task. The blame for the lack of ammunition, of fuel, of food, of men and materiel lay further afield from North Africa.
-
That evening back at the leaguer, as tired as he felt, Manfred sensed his spirits lifting. The flyer, Marseille, had brought with him mail and the usual collection of newspapers and magazines from his recent trip back to Germany. It was good to read letters from his father. Manfred felt that he understood him better. He sensed a change in him, too. The letters were tinged with regret for things never said. He seemed more communicative, more open in writing than when face to face.
As much of a lift as the mail gave to everyone there was also a sense of relief. An acknowledgement a disaster had been averted that day. They’d only lost two tanks. This was a miracle of sorts. It was clear to him and surely to Rommel, that they were, once again, stretched too thinly with too few working tanks to mount a serious attack against the Allied positions. As if to confirm this, they heard the drone of RAF planes overhead. Would they ever stop?
Rommel’s calculation was theoretically correct. The Allies would only stop when they’d been overrun. The reality of Afrika Korps’ position was much more precarious. A serious attack from the Allies could very well wipe them out. They had a handful of tanks, held together by glue and an army that was exhausted.
There were no lights in the camp. All was dark. No one could smoke. The ground seemed to throb at the proximity of the enemy bombers. Manfred felt a vibration pass through his body. The icy claw of fear gripped him. From the corner of his eye he could see his Kleff, Jentz and Kiel staring worriedly up into the sky. From feeling a certain amount of elation at the thought they would cease fighting, if only for a short spell, possibly the rest of the summer months, his stomach became a knotted jangle of frayed nerves.
A few distant explosions lit up the night. The RAF were bombing empty desert. Let them, thought Manfred. Probably they were letting off a few bombs just to try their luck. Hard on any Jerboas running around, of course. The noise of the drone slowly lessened and the camp began to relax again. Nothing was said though. They’d all been equally scared.
Basler left them to join a meeting with the tank commanders. He returned an hour later with probably the only man who he considered a friend, Stiefelmayer. The two lieutenants remained on their feet chatting while the crew waited impatiently to hear the news they were hoping for. Stiefelmayer finally left and Basler slumped to the ground wearily. The crew looked at him eager for news. He paused and looked at the exhausted faces and a grim smile broke out over his face.
‘The attack will cease for the time being. The Alamein box is too heavily defended for us to make a dent with what we have. We need more air support. There isn’t any.’
Basler looked up to the sky and then back down at the crew.
‘It doesn’t mean that you’re on your holidays. We will stay here and wait for the damaged tanks to be repaired. The pioniers will be out tomorrow laying a few mines of our own. We’re also seeing how we can fix the Allied guns we captured and use them
ourselves. So we’re not really going anywhere.’
‘I hope we’re not going to waste time on their bloody tanks. They’re useless,’ said Jentz, which raised a few smiles amongst the men.
‘Only against ours,’ pointed out Manfred. This earned a nod of approval from Basler.
‘Don’t worry, we won’t be given those things,’ smiled Basler. ‘Perhaps the infantry will have some. Anyway, get some rest while you can.’
As it was still early evening, Manfred went in search of Gerhardt. The 2nd Battalion were at the opposite end of the leaguer from Manfred. There were far fewer tanks now so he didn’t have to walk too far. Gerhardt seemed to be with a different group of men.
‘Have they changed your tank?’
‘Yes,’ grumbled Gerhardt, throwing his cigarette angrily to the ground. ‘I’m with Captain Wahl. I’m back doing radio operator would you believe?’
Gerhardt’s woes were greeted in time honoured fashion. Manfred burst out laughing. He received a light punch on the arm for his trouble.
‘That’s good isn’t it?’ said Manfred eventually. ‘He’s the head of the 2nd Battalion. He only wants the best in his tank.’
‘So why did Kummel take you then?’ sneered Gerhardt but without any real malice.
‘He obviously asked for you,’ pointed Manfred but couldn’t resist another dig. ‘I can just see him saying “send me the best knob twiddler we have.” You should be proud.’
‘Very funny. You’re worse than Fischer. Where is he these days? I haven’t seen him for a while.’
‘Dysentery,’ said Manfred.
Gerhardt stopped and stared at Manfred and then the two boys burst out laughing.
‘Lucky devil,’ said Gerhardt when they’d calmed down.
‘Why? It sounds like we won’t be doing much for the next week or so.’
‘That doesn’t mean the Tommies won’t,’ pointed out Gerhardt. ‘We’re sitting ducks for the RAF, out here.’
‘True,’ agreed Manfred, the mood of ebullience at Fischer’s misfortune dissipated in a moment as they considered just how exposed they were.
‘Still, if I’m going to go, better it’s like this,’ said Gerhardt using his arms to hold a fake rifle. Manfred looked confused which made Gerhardt grin. ‘In a tank firing at the enemy rather than sitting with my trousers round my ankles.’
They both roared with laughter causing a few of the men sitting by the tanks to look up at them in irritation. One or two told them to shut up. But the vision of their friend in the most vulnerable position of all was too vivid. Try as they might, they couldn’t stop laughing. It came out as snorts which only made matters worse and further increased their hilarity.
‘I can’t wait to see him again. I’ll give him hell,’ said Gerhardt.
This wasn’t going to happen, though. War and the enemy have a way of upsetting the best laid plans. Both were aware that this war was a series of actions, of meetings and of partings. Only fate knew where their stories would end. And its decision is final. They returned to their tanks in a better humour, blithely unaware that a new story was about to unfold.
26
Tahag Camp 30, Quassasin, Egypt: 13th July 1942
It was late afternoon when Lieutenant ‘Pip’ Roberts walked along the ranks of men. Ostensibly he was there to inspect them. The real purpose was that they inspect him. Badly wounded just prior to the retreat from the Gazala Line, he was back and, if not fully fit, he was ready and able to fight. Accompanying him were the two other senior casualties from the engagement, Major Joly and Captain Burr.
He walked along the line and what he saw worried him. Despite a couple of weeks near Suez to recuperate and rebuild, their return to the front line revealed that they were tottering on the edge. He wondered what sort of state the Afrika Korps were in. How did they keep coming back?
On July 4th they’d called off what looked like a major offensive and now, just over a week later, they were pressing hard again. Where were they finding the men, the machinery and the strength to keep coming back? Roberts had no idea and dwelling on it made little sense. They were not letting up and nor could the Allies. One thing that was helping the Afrika Korps was the strengthening of their aerial threat. The Luftwaffe were once more able to reach the Allied lines. After the inspection he spoke to them in a voice that he hoped seemed stronger than he felt.
‘Along the Rusweisat Ridge, our Commonwealth Allies, the New Zealanders and the South Africans are going toe to toe with the enemy. Every inch of territory is being fought over. And, yes, many are dying. They need our support and that is why we’re back in the ‘blue’. If the enemy breaks through the ridge they’ll have a clear run to Alamein. At that point we may as well roll out a red carpet and direct them on to Cairo. I don’t particularly want to do that. Do you?’
‘No, sir,’ chorused the ranks of men before him.
Roberts smiled and turned to Joly. Speaking just loud enough for the men to hear him but giving the impression that he was only speaking to Joly, he said, ‘There Cyril, I told you they were ready.’
Joly smiled and replied, ‘I never doubted, sir.’
Most of the men on the front rank smiled dutifully. Danny was standing back in the last rank. He couldn’t smile. He was neither tired, angry nor interested. What lay ahead he knew all about. Day after day of attrition. The Allies had finally begun to work out how to stop the German advance. A combination of digging in behind minefields, an artillery screen with big anti-tank twenty-five-pound guns and regular aerial bombardment. All together this had succeeded in halting the Germans in their tracks. They would now proceed to wrestle over every rock, ridge and desert rat.
The agonised eyes of his father as he’d set off to the war swam into his mind. He’d known what would happen. The clash of two mighty armies, no matter how well led or, for that matter, how badly, would always end up in a quagmire. A stalemate. One thing remained constant. Men would die trying to fulfil the ambitions of others.
He was no longer angry at Bob, his friend who’d tried to desert and then damn near killed himself to avoid the war. He was probably in a prison somewhere or what was left of him, after the incident on a train. But he was alive. Beth and the family had moved from the village, unable to look at the other villagers in the eye. Bob would come out of prison eventually. Probably he’d change his name. The world would forget long before it even thought to forgive.
His reverie was broken by the sound of aeroplanes overhead. His heart stopped for a moment until his ears attuned themselves to the sound. Then he relaxed. They were British. He saw half a dozen Hurricanes flying through the white puffs of cloud. They looked as if they were on their way to meet the enemy. Good luck, thought Danny, then he followed the rest of the crew back to the tank
-
Dick Manning plunged through the cloud on the last sortie of the day and saw the German minefield with two lines of tape marking the route through. The German tanks were under fire from anti-tank guns although they seemed remarkably untroubled. Then he saw one erupt into flames. Seconds later men came rolling out of the tank. Manning flew through the black smoke belching up from the turret. He ignored the soldiers escaping and pressed ahead towards their target, a supply echelon that had been spotted in an earlier sortie. The tanks below were too widely spread for the bombs of the Hurricane Fighter bomber to do any damage.
‘Red leader, any sign of bogies?’
‘No,’ replied Manning. ‘No sign of the supply train either.’
‘Keep an eye out for any Messerschmitts. I’m not really in the mood to face them today.’
Nor me, thought Manning. He disliked the Hurricane fighter-bomber. It did neither job particularly well. Two five hundred pound bombs was a payload that made the value of the sortie somewhat limited in Manning’s eyes. The sooner he was back in his Spitfire the better.
They pressed on. Each mile brought them closer to confrontation with the increased Luftwaffe presence. And perhaps Marseille. In the months
he’d been here, the name of the Luftwaffe pilot cropped up time and again. Such was his reputation, that every pilot he’d met since his arrival had professed a desire to take him on, one on one, and show him what for. Manning assumed they were lying. They all did to an extent. They claimed kills that were probably shared, they exaggerated the manoeuvres they’d employed to evade or destroy the enemy. Harmless fun.
Not much had been heard of Marseille in a while. Manning wondered if he’d been killed. But surely they would have heard. He edged his plane downwards. The desert was empty below him. He kept descending until he was barely a few hundred feet off the ground. The plane began to rock.
‘Bit windy now,’ said Manning.
‘Club selection will be important. Hit the ball low,’ came the reply which made Manning smile. He glanced down and saw sand swirling below. Not quite a sandstorm but enough to make things a bit unpleasant for the folk on the ground. It was difficult to tell friend from foe.
‘Bogies sighted,’ said another voice over the radio.
Manning looked around him and could see nothing.
‘Where?’ he asked in exasperation. Then he saw them. His hands reacted faster than his heart. Which was just as well. They were outnumbered at least two to one. It had just taken a split second to see that there were at least a dozen fighters. They were only six.
‘Let’s get back over the tanks we saw. Drop our bombs and get away,’ said Manning.
There was no argument from the others.
‘Control to Red Leader, we’re sending up support.’
‘Tell them to get a move on will you. Over.’
Out of his peripheral vision, Manning saw the lines of Panzer tanks stretching over half a kilometre. There weren’t as many as he’d been expecting. They were advancing towards the ridge being held by the New Zealanders. He began banking towards them. It would be a miracle if he hit one, but it was worth a try. It would certainly give the Jerries something to think about. If nothing else it would lighten the aircraft by the sum total of the two five hundred pound bombs he was carrying. In a race back to the base, this could be the difference between life and death.