El Alamein

by Jack Murray

  His coming brought with it more reinforcements and the first Sherman tanks. Danny had not seen one, but the rumours were strong that it addressed the major problems with the Grant tank. It was all good news and Benson quoted the words of Pip Roberts on why the advantage was now, at long last, likely to swing their way.

  ‘I spoke to Major Joly. He told me that the colonel thinks this could be like Gazala again but with a crucial difference. We’ll be sitting in the path of the Panzer Divisions supported by a whole brigade. That means infantry and artillery will be backing us up. And let’s not forget the RAF. They’ll be taking pot shots at Jerry, too. We repulsed their first attack yesterday. We expect them to come back hard today.’

  Major Crisp came by as Benson was speaking. The South African stopped for a moment and listened to Benson. Then he chipped in at the end.

  ‘I think we can count on them coming back hard. I gather they’ve got some new toys, too. The new Mark IV’s are carrying seventy-five-millimetre guns. Don’t get caught out thinking you can outreach them. We don’t know how many they have. Don’t take chances. Our job is to take over from the Notts Yeomanry at point 89. We may be required to support the next push. Is everyone ready?’ said the South African with a grin.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ chorused Danny and the other crew members.

  They set off in confident spirits.

  It lasted two hours

  By eight they were confronted by around thirty Panzer tanks supported by anti-tank guns.

  ‘Looks like they’ve learned their lesson,’ said Benson, viewing with some dismay the sight of the assembled armour less than a couple of miles away. ‘They’ve brought in the big boys.’

  A year spent fighting in a tank had taught Danny that the deadliest weapon they faced was the eighty-eight-millimetre gun. When that hit you, it was over. The guns on the tanks could only inflict damage at relatively close range, although the Grants were changing things.

  The mood of confidence was now drenched in the cold sweat of fear. Then he heard what, for a tank man, was the equivalent of the US cavalry. Overhead came the hum of Allied bombers. Somewhere up ahead, life was about to become somewhat uncomfortable for the enemy.

  -

  ‘Careful, careful, Marseille is in the air.’

  Manning felt a momentary wave pass through him and then something else. Excitement. He’d heard so much about the German flyer but had not, as yet, faced him. He looked around at the other planes. There were a dozen fighters accompanying the bombers. The arid light brown land stretched endlessly below. Manning glanced at his altimeter. He was at 20,000 feet. Signs of the battle ahead at the Alam el Halfa ridge were visible. Plumes of smoke rose ominously into the sky.

  The radio began to crackle with responses to the prospect of encountering Marseille. Manning decided not to add his voice to the growing hubris. He glanced across at Thompson. His mouth was moving in a dramatic fashion. He was an Al Bowlly fan. Probably ‘Goodnight Sweetheart’ if memory served. He’d once treated the squadron to a rather raucous version of it while flying back from a sortie.

  ‘Red Leader, any sighting of Jerry?’ asked Manning, hoping there was no trace of nervousness in his voice.

  They ran into them two minutes later.

  Manning could see the yellow tipped BF 109’s massed like a swarm of wasps. His heart began to beat faster and adrenalin coursed through his body. He was ready. A babble of voices could be heard on the radio. German voices. This happened from time to time.

  ‘Halts Maul,’ shouted Manning into his radio with a grin.

  ‘Tallyho,’ came the reply in a distinctly German accent.

  They were around 1,000 feet below the Spitfires and they formed a protective circle. The Spitfires began to fan out, then, one after another, started to dive. The numbers were very much in favour of the Allies. Manning could only count eight Messerschmidts. Seeing the attack coming, one of the enemy BF 109’s peeled away and seemed to fall behind the others. Manning wondered if it was running scared. Then he saw it describe the most extraordinary arc and accelerate. Within seconds it had hit one of the Spitfires. This could only be Marseille.

  Manning didn’t have time to think about this anymore. The sky was now a mass of dogfights. It looked like the Spitfires outnumbered the Messerschmidts almost two to one. But this advantage was not telling. One of the Germans was running amok within the Spitfire ‘lines’.

  Sweat poured down Manning’s face. Then the sickening realisation hit him. A German fighter was on his tail. He pushed forward on his stick then executed a half roll. Within seconds he now had the Messerschmidt in his sights. He kicked his rudder left to allow him a right angle attack and turned the gun-button to fire. A four second burst followed. The tracers from the eight guns hit their mark. Smoke began to pour from the stricken German fighter. It began to spiral downwards. Then it was out of view and out of Manning’s mind.

  He peeled away relieved to have bested the German in this encounter. His mind turned to the small matter of helping his squadron. It was bedlam and they were having the worst of it. And it was not hard to guess why. One man flew with urgency and venom. For all the reports of his conduct when the fighting stopped, there was no question that Marseille was a killer.

  The British had lost over half of the squadron at a cost of only a couple of the Messerschmidts. Battle smoke, thick with death, filled the sky. A BF 109 appeared in Manning’s sights. It had just hit a Spitfire. The tail was on fire.

  ‘Red Leader here, Red Two, you’re on fire. Eject.’

  There was no response. The plane turned sharply and went into a headlong descent. Manning felt his heart lurch. There would be no more singing from Thompson. Manning turned hunter once more.

  The Messerschmitt was unaware of Manning. This gave the Spitfire vital seconds to dive towards him. He closed to within 150 yards. It was practically impossible to miss. Manning let go a three second burst with full deflection and spun away as he saw a jet of red flame coming from the engine of the fighter.

  He climbed up steeply, his eyes sinking to the back of his skull. At this point it was every man for himself. The battle was spread out over miles of sky. As his eyes searched for a friend or foe, he felt his plane shudder.

  The plane had been hit.

  In a split second he realised two things. The bullets had not hit anything of consequence: he still had control of the aircraft. However, he was in the sights of the enemy. Manning swore out loud but also acted instinctively. He thrust the stick forward and then kicked the rudder right. He heard another burst of gunfire. It missed.

  Fear gripped Manning as he looked around wildly to see where the attack was coming from. Then he realised he was underneath him. He didn’t panic. He spun left in anticipation of his enemy firing at him but the man he was up against was more calculating. He’d held off until he was certain.

  For one glorious moment he thought he was clear of his assailant. The sky around him seemed clear. Perhaps he’d broken off the encounter because ammunition or fuel was low. All of his senses were on highest alert, however. It had been a close call. Up ahead he saw a lone fighter. He saw the yellow tip before he saw the swastika. It was travelling relatively slowly seemingly unaware of Manning’s approach.

  Closing in, he lined up the aircraft in his sights. Four hundred feet away, three hundred then all of a sudden the BF 109 swung viciously upwards. Within a matter seconds it had arced tightly. Manning knew what would happen next. They’d talked about Marseille’s technique often yet here he was about to fall victim to it. The high deflection firing from short range, immediate, instinctive and probably executed without the aid of gun sights. Manning was already opening his hood when the plane ran into the bullets and the engine burst into flame. The control stick was wrenched from his other hand.

  Moments later Manning was out of the plane and falling from the sky. Remarkably he was uninjured. The plane was in a tailspin and he chased it down through the air. He felt for the rip cord of his parachute a
nd tugged. The speed of his descent was immediately arrested. He was falling faster than he would have liked. In truth he didn’t know what to expect. The ground was coming towards him quickly. He braced himself for the inevitable impact and tried to remember to roll.

  He hit the ground with a thud and a grunt. His roll mitigated the impact, but the wind had been knocked out of him. He lay there for several minutes and stared up at the sky. It was blue. This was hardly news, but it told him that he’d strayed quite some distance from the dogfight. The question was, where exactly was he? He could hear plainly the sound of fighting, muffled explosions, the crack of guns. None of this gave him a clue as to which side of the divide he’d fallen. The sky was empty.

  He hoisted himself up and scanned the horizon. Ribbons of black smoke floated gently upwards. A number of planes had certainly bought it. He wondered how many of them were Spitfires.

  The buzz of an engine woke him from this reverie. He quickly got rid of the parachute and tried to stand up. He gave up. He’d rest a little longer. It didn’t feel as if anything was broken. Nor did it feel as if everything was in perfect running order. A faintness overcame him. He wasn’t sure if this was the sun or, more likely, shock.

  The buzz of the plane grew louder.

  He rolled away from the parachute and faced in the direction of the plane. It seemed to be heading this direction. It was also flying rather low. The final observation was the most chilling. If his eyes weren’t deceiving him, its front was tipped with yellow.

  He lay on the ground and waited for the enemy plane to come. The pilot was flying parallel with the ground; perhaps one hundred feet. Should he play dead? It was probably too late for that now. Manning wondered idly if that had been a tactical mistake. There was little for it now but to take his medicine. He sat up from his flat position.

  He’d look the beggar in the eye.

  The plane was a few hundred yards away now. And loud. Very loud in fact. Manning braced himself for the bullets that would strafe him into the next world.

  They didn’t come.

  He saw the pilot looking at him. He saluted then he was away. The enemy plane was riddled with bullets, yet it had survived. Such was the margin between life, death and everything in between. Marseille, for Manning was in no doubt it was he, lived a charmed life. The plane ascended quickly into the blue sky and within minutes was no more than a dark speck.

  Manning tried to stand again. He rose gingerly to his feet. Nothing was broken. He wondered about the pain in his side. If it was a busted rib then he’d gotten off lightly. He sat down again and considered his options. They weren’t great. He didn’t know how far inside his own lines or, indeed, enemy’s, he was. He didn’t know how far he would need to walk. It would be night within an hour or two. This was a consideration, too.

  The sun was beginning to burn him. He pulled the parachute over his head and sat underneath the white silk listening to the sound of battle. It was horrible and hypnotic. Oddly, he felt sorry for the poor devils caught in the middle of it all.

  He stayed like that for an hour.

  Then he heard the sound of a vehicle. It grew louder. If it were the Germans, he would be a prisoner of war if he were lucky. They may decide to dispense a more immediate form of justice. He threw back the parachute and rose slowly once more.

  The jeep approached him at speed and drew up a few feet away. A sergeant jumped out and looked Manning up and down.

  ‘Lost your kite?’ asked a very English voice.

  ‘It seems to have lost me.’

  ‘Hop in,’ suggested the sergeant.

  Manning didn’t need to be asked twice and he hobbled over to the jeep. The sergeant helped him in, and they set off in a northern easterly direction.

  ‘We’re just two miles up this way,’ said the sergeant.

  ‘How did you know I was here?’ asked Manning although he already knew the answer.

  ‘Your chaps contacted us. Apparently some chap called Marseille had dropped a message telling them where they could find you. Probably too close to our lines to risk sending someone from their side. Jerry gave our boys a bit of pasting up there I gather. You’re the third one we’ve picked up today.’

  The battle continued to thunder somewhere in the vast nothingness. Manning could think of nothing else to say. He looked in the direction the fighting. It rumbled and raged in the dying light.

  30

  Alam el Halfa, Egypt: 2nd September 1942

  Manfred gazed up at the sky and looked forlornly at the bombers. They had been coming in twelves and eighteens for the last twenty-four hours. It was a tidal surge from which there was no escape. He and the rest of the crew looked up at the approaching waves and did not move. They couldn’t.

  They were out of fuel.

  Some far off spot would be obliterated by their evil cargo. The ack, ack seemed perfunctory as if they were going through the motions. By now Manfred and, he suspected, Basler, accepted that they were losing. There was no way past the wall of fire they’d encountered. Surely Rommel could see this. Surely he could see that without petrol it was academic anyway. They were stuck; at the merciless mercy of an enemy that knew they had them where they wanted.

  Basler and Manfred exchanged glances; an unspoken acknowledgement that there was no point in wasting ammunition. It was after just after ten in the morning and Manfred hadn’t fired a shell. Another shell landed in a proximity sufficient to raise heart rates more than a beat or two.

  ‘So what do we do, sir? Throw rocks at them?’ asked Manfred sourly.

  There was more than a hint of amusement in Basler’s eyes, but his mouth was fixed. Here they were, attacking an enemy that hadn’t so much dug in as merged with the evil landscape and laid trap upon trap for their quarry. But worst of all, they’d hardly any ammo to shoot back. All in all, the boy was entitled to grouse a bit. Basler turned to Kiel on the wireless

  ‘Where are the damn ammunition trucks?’

  The young wireless operator got to work. A few minutes later he turned to Basler, a look of disbelief on his face.

  ‘Another hour, maybe less.’

  Manfred sat back and made himself comfortable as Basler duly exploded in fury. He poured forth an eloquently oath-laden rant on the murderous stupidity of those running the war. If ever this was a testimony to Basler’s renunciation of the creed of National Socialism, this was it. His conclusion had the rest of the tank nodding in agreement.

  ‘Those cretinous bastards couldn’t run a pissing contest at Oktoberfest.’

  The supply train arrived just before eleven. By then the tank was punch drunk with fear. Had the Allied shooting been directed towards them then they would have ripped to shreds. But they weren’t the target. A dozen ink-black ribbons of smoke rising into the cerulean blue sky told of the devastating effect of the RAF bombing on the fuel and ammunition supply columns. Manfred gazed at the smoke in rapt fascination. He wasn’t alone. The tank was silent. Then it woke from this terrible thrall and began to function as a unit.

  Manfred and Kleff were to load the ammunition while Kiel and Jentz took care of the fuel. They exited the tank just as the Allied artillery fire began to target them. Explosions began sending jets of sand skywards. Their ear drums were bursting at the noise. The eye-watering stench of burning was suffocating. Panic-stricken supply drivers screamed at them to hurry up and load what they could. Everyone was shouting. It was bedlam.

  Manfred ducked as he hauled the new shells towards the tank. He ducked as the whhfft of a shell split the sky nearby. It would have been funny had it not been so terrifying; as if in ducking he could, in some way, avoid the random obliteration promised by artillery fire. After a few minutes the supply drivers had had enough.

  Manfred screamed at them in frustration. Yet he couldn’t blame them. What sane person would want to be in the middle of this pandemonium. He certainly didn’t. He saw Basler emerge from the tank, eyes ablaze.

  ‘Where are they going?’

  Ma
nfred shook his head and replied sourly, ‘Same place we should be, sir. Safety.’

  Basler glared at Manfred then spun around and snarled, ‘Back to the tank.’

  Flashes erupted all around the tanks but miraculously none were hit. Manfred settled into his seat and waited for the instruction to move. He didn’t have to wait long. Kummel’s voice on the radio announced the attack they’d been expecting.

  ‘Fifty or sixty tanks heading this way. Move forward and engage.’

  Forward?

  Manfred exchanged looks with Jentz, then the veteran grinned and shook his head. It was an insane way to spend a morning. A life, even. Jentz returned his focus to the job in hand. The tank lurched forward sending Manfred off balance. He reddened in embarrassment, but no one had noticed.

  -

  Evening fell.

  Manfred looked at the empty eyes of the crew and knew that there would not be another day like today. The attack was as good as finished. There was nothing left to give. He watched Basler return to their bivouac from his conference with Kummel and the other battalion leader, whoever it was now. Zugner? No, he’d been wounded the day before. The 2nd Battalion didn’t have much luck with their commanders. This thought brought a stab of pain with it as he thought about Gerhardt. Had he been captured? No news had come through yet.

  Basler hit the ground like Schmeling in the second Louis fight. He remembered how his father had turned the radio off after the first knockdown. He recognised a lost cause.

  ‘Just the five tanks. We think around thirty of theirs destroyed,’ announced Basler, wearily. It didn’t seem a cause for celebration at that moment.

  ‘Five destroyed or five out of action?’ asked Manfred.

  ‘Destroyed.’

  Manfred and the others nodded. They’d survived another day, but a few hadn’t. Manfred wondered about Fischer but then caught a glimpse of the Bavarian at the far end of the hedgehog position they’d adopted. Out in the darkness they could hear motor vehicles buzzing around. It felt oppressive; different somehow compared to when they were in near Tripoli. There it felt as if they were the home team. Now, they were very much the away side. The crowd, the referee, everything was against them.