El Alamein

by Jack Murray

  Planes overhead now. Did they ever stop? The drone was followed by the inevitable parachute flares that lit up the night and then the thunder of bombs. It felt so one-sided that Manfred was amazed that Rommel could not see what was plain to the soldiers whose life was being sacrificed so cheaply.

  They could not win.

  The Allied defences were too strong. The air superiority overwhelming. Surely someone with common sense would say ‘enough’. They were all too exhausted to feel any triumph at the damage they’d inflicted on the Allies. It didn’t matter. More tanks would come. It was a never-ending conveyor belt that the Allies had access to. Meanwhile they could only patch up their damaged tanks and, in some cases, those of the enemy. Good luck to the poor buggers that had to drive in those death traps, thought Manfred. Give them to the Italians.

  The enemy motor vehicles sounded louder now. They were haunting the leaguer like malign spirits. The distant thunder persisted but this was not the sort that brought rain. Only hellfire.

  ‘Are they ours?’ asked Kiel, edgily. His eyes were fixed at a point somewhere in the night. Manfred would have asked the same question a minute or two earlier but hadn’t trusted himself to sound anything other than what he was, skirting at the edge of panic. The sound of the vehicles had attracted the interest of a number of the Panzer crews. A few were on their feet and walking towards spaces where they could see better. This seemed a damn fool thing to do, thought Manfred, and he remained seated. Basler was more interested in eating but the sound of the engines was definitely louder.

  He looked up; irritation burned on his face. It had been a nightmarish day without all this. Manfred watched the head of the battalion’s fourth company pick up a machine gun and walk out of the leaguer followed by a few other similarly armed crew members. They obviously felt something was afoot.

  The others in Manfred’s tank fell silent and stared warily out into the darkness. Manfred’s heart was beating fast again. Would the Allies dare launch a night raid on a Panzer leaguer? Without tanks it would be suicidal. But then wasn’t war the suicide business on an industrial scale? What else would make a man drive at speed towards gunfire?

  These thoughts raced through Manfred’s mind as his eyes tried to focus on the blackness around them. He could see nothing, but he could almost hear the sound of sand scraping over sand in the gentle breeze, so heightened were his senses.

  The crack of rifle fire startled Manfred but he was quick to react. He fell forward and crawled towards a machine gun. Basler was on his feet and over by the tank to pick up another gun.

  The Panzer crew began firing shots randomly into the darkness, but it was difficult to source where the firing was coming from. More gunfire was exchanged.

  ‘Over there,’ came a shout.

  They began to concentrate their fire on the area identified. Soon the sound of gunfire abated as they realised that the enemy had driven off. Manfred sank wearily to the ground and knew that this would only be the first of a number of harassing confrontations. It was going to be a long night and an even longer day tomorrow.

  Later that night the news came from Basler that they’d all been expecting.

  ‘We’re pulling back.’

  31

  Ladenburg, Germany: 5th September 1942

  Peter Brehme watched Keller arrive at the station. The Gestapo man was silhouetted against dark grey cloud. It had gotten to the point where Brehme no longer disguised his contempt for him. Keller was equally disinclined to hide his feelings. Gone was the veneer of insincere flattery used by each. It was a war without arms. The choice of weapons was nuance, tone of voice and facial expression. Outwardly, their relations seemed courteous. But some knew the real story. However, even those exposed to the two men on a daily basis could barely gauge the level of mutual loathing.

  Each day was a battle for Brehme. The daily trek into the office. The daily humiliation of sitting at a small desk while Keller lorded it over him at his antique oak table. Caught in the middle was Jost Graf. It was cold comfort for Brehme to see the daily degradation the little man experienced at the hands of the Gestapo man. He had become a weapon for Keller to use against Brehme. So much so, that Brehme was inclined to forgive the little man’s role as a spy.

  This morning was as typical as any in confirming Brehme’s belief in the decay at the heart of Nazism. Their interests lay not with the future of the Fatherland or the welfare of the people. The only thing that mattered, Brehme now realised, was the process by which they were enriching themselves. As Chief of Police, even he was powerless to stop the biggest criminal gang of them all.

  The atmosphere in the office was invariably dictated by the mood of Keller. Brehme could see when he arrived that it was going to be a long day. No one smiled anymore except when Keller did. And then it was counterfeit. A mere imitation of a sentiment that they were gradually losing the ability to feel.

  The early morning pleasantries usually marked the end of anything like civil interaction. The poison soon began to leak from the pores. As ever, it was Keller who started things off.

  ‘Have you seen, Graf? Our brave boys are having to turn tail. Rommel has failed yet again.’

  The remark might have been taken solely as a slight on the leadership qualities of Field Marshall Rommel. However, Keller was adept at making jibes against Manfred and the Afrika Korps though various guises. Rommel was a favourite Trojan Horse for his real intent. Graf glanced at Brehme and then back to Keller. Even he could read the signs by now.

  ‘Perhaps he is regrouping,’ smiled the hapless policeman.

  ‘Regrouping you think? He’s spent the last three months regrouping since we took Tobruk.’

  Brehme noted sourly that it was always ‘we’ when things were going well.

  ‘Rommel has to go. And examples need to be made of the men who are running away like rabble. What do you think, Peter?’ Keller said this with a smile that would have done justice to a fox reviewing dinner options in a chicken coop.

  ‘I think you’re right, Ernst. I would love nothing more than to see these men forced to make a real contribution to winning the war.’

  Keller’s smile faded slightly. He suspected Brehme was not finished. The insolence of the policeman was growing by the week.

  ‘Yes, a spell working in the Gestapo would show them what it really takes to defeat our enemies.’

  Brehme was studying a report as he said this so could not see the hatred burning in the eyes of the Gestapo man. He, too, had become proficient in land mining his flattery with insults.

  -

  ‘Where are we going, sir?’ asked Graf, nervously. They were driving out of town into the country. Brehme glanced at Graf and decided to take him into his confidence. If Graf reported back to Keller it was of no consequence to him.

  ‘We’re going to the Kramer farm.’

  Graf looked perplexed for a moment, grasping to connect the name to something he knew. Brehme waited.

  ‘The cattle farmer?’

  ‘The big cattle farmer,’ smiled Brehme.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Black market,’ said Brehme, simply. He enjoyed the look of shock on Graf’s face. Oddly, he quite liked the little man. He was not a bad sort. Not stupid but unquestionably naïve. And weak. Sadly, very weak. But could he really be blamed for this? He’d avoided active service because of his eyesight. He was married with a child on the way. What a world to bring a baby in to.

  Of course, Graf was going to live in fear of Keller. If he thought about it long enough, he realised that he was living in fear of the Gestapo man, too. So what if Graf was reporting on Brehme’s activities? There was nothing to reveal except an honest policeman doing his duty. It might work to his favour. After all, he’d see what a good police work looked like. There could be no shame in what he did, unlike Keller. But people like Keller were beyond shame.

  They drove past enormous fields filled with cattle. The green pastures dazzled in the morning sunshine. It filled Brehme with s
adness to think of such beauty being turned into a muddy graveyard for the youth of his country. The Kramer farmhouse finally appeared in view. It was an enormous building and dated from a time before Luther. The Kramer family had owned this land just as long.

  They drove down a driveway that was a quarter of a kilometre long. Even in Weimar, even during this period of Hitler, some were making money. But to do so there was probably a price to pay. In America they called it ‘protection’. It was the Mafia who ran such rackets. It didn’t feel much different over here.

  They pulled up outside the house and saw a servant open the door. He was in his seventies and could probably count his service to the Kramer family in decades rather than years. The presence of a police car did not seem to surprise the old servant unduly. This was unusual. Brehme was used to seeing fear and suspicion on the faces of people he met in everyday life. Even those who had little to fear. Or perhaps they did. Everyone has secrets. The man bowed to Brehme.

  ‘How may I help you?’

  ‘Is Herr Kramer in?’ asked Brehme.

  The answer was yes and the servant led the two policemen inside. He asked them to wait in a large hallway while he went to fetch the landowner. The hallway, once again, made Brehme feel that he’d chosen the wrong career. Objets d’art decorated side tables and a large painting hung at the top of the stairs. It looked like a Lovis Corinth self-portrait. Expertly done, thought Brehme, but hideous. He was staring up at it when Herr Kramer arrived.

  Kramer was in his forties. He was clearly a working farmer as his clothes looked old and there were traces of mud on the cuffs of his trousers. His face was tanned, and the blue eyes suggested both intelligence and impatience.

  ‘I see you’re looking at the Corinth. My father knew him. How can I help you?’

  The greeting was courteous but cold. It was clear that neither he nor Graf were welcome. Brehme nodded and got straight to the point.

  ‘The police in Heidelberg have asked me to look into a black-market case. It involves the smuggling and sale of beef. Have any of your cattle been stolen lately?’

  It was there just for a split second. A frown. The hesitation. Then the lie.

  ‘No, Brehme. Is someone suggesting that my livestock is involved?’

  ‘No, Herr Kramer. I am making the rounds of local farmers to find out if they are aware of or had heard anything about this illicit trade.’

  ‘I fear you have made a wasted trip, Brehme. I know nothing.’

  Once more Brehme’s senses were screaming at him that this was not the case. But another thought was now stirring in his mind. An idea as unwelcome as it was so obvious. There was little more to be gained by taking up Kramer’s time and both knew it.

  ‘Of course, if you should hear anything about this, you will let me know.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Kramer leading Brehme and Graf to the door. Graf moved on towards but Brehme stayed for a moment. He and Kramer studied one another for a moment then Brehme spoke.

  ‘I’m sorry for troubling you. I think I understand the situation better. These are terrible times.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Kramer. There was a hint of a frown on his face. Brehme nodded to him then turned towards the car. He arrived at the door of the car and glanced back towards the farm owner. He was standing at the doorway, uncertainty etched over his features. Graf climbed into the car while Brehme waited, then he walked back to the farm owner.

  ‘I’m not with them,’ said Brehme, simply. Kramer’s eyes widened slightly but he remained tight-lipped. Brehme returned to the car and ducked inside.

  He started the car. Graf turned to Brehme to ask him about what they had achieved by a two-minute meeting. He was shocked by what he saw. Brehme’s eyes were blazing. His lips were set in a semi-snarl of anger. Graf said nothing. Even he could see the riot of emotions raging under the surface. They drove off and it was only when they were halfway up the driveway of the farm that Brehme gave vent to his feelings.

  He hit the steering wheel of the car with the heel of his palm. A volley of oaths poured forth. Graf looked on in shock. When the storm passed, Graf found his courage and enquired, ‘Sir, what is wrong?’

  Brehme looked at his not so young protégé, or was he merely Keller’s apprentice? What could he say to him? The fact was that he was getting old and stupid. Where once there was an insightful wariness, an ability to see around the corner, there was now only naivety. A year of virtual inactivity had left him mentally obese. He was not fit for this role now.

  ‘No, Graf, I should have prepared better for that interview. There is nothing to worry about. Kramer is not a black marketeer.’

  He actually believed this, too. Kramer was rich. Why would he or any other farmer in his situation sully his hands with such a trade? The simple answer was that they would only do so if they were being forced to trade this way. There was only one criminal group with this level of power. He thought of Keller again. When the criminals were in charge of policing and justice it was probably time to quit.

  For the rest of the journey back into town, Brehme engaged Graf in general conversation about his family and what his ambitions were. He wanted to signal to his subordinate that the time would soon come when he would take over. The tone was light, but the meaning was clear, even to Graf.

  They spoke all the way back to town but Brehme’s mind was elsewhere. The thought of retirement had only been one he’d considered in those moments when he felt the greatest hatred towards Keller. What was the point, though? He was being paid a good salary to do next to nothing. Even the daily weight of being in close proximity to Keller was bearable given the lifestyle that his role afforded him. What would he do in retirement?

  They drove through the Market Platz. It was crowded with townsfolk of all ages. Once again he reflected on how few Hitler Youth there were now. Some elderly women caught his eye. One was the wife of Otto Becker, Agatha. Like her husband, she appeared to be weighed down by her food shopping. Brehme smiled at this. There were only two of them in the house. Neither was particularly big. They clearly had healthy appetites. He drove on towards the police station.

  And then it hit him.

  The bags of food. The words spoken by Becker to the schoolboy, Robert Sauer. Brehme could barely breathe. It had been there in front of him all this time and he’d missed it. There was no question of him quitting now.

  None whatsoever.

  Part 3: El Alamein

  Sept 1942 – November 1942

  Lieutenant-General Bernard Montgomery has replaced General Claude Auchinleck as Commander-in-Chief of the Eighth Army. Montgomery has decreed that the Allies will retreat no further than their current position: El Alamein, a small coastal railway halt, 100Km from Alexandria. Preparations for the forthcoming battle begin. Reinforcements arrive, training begins and both sides begin laying of enormous minefields in the narrow strip between the coast and the impassable Qattara Depression.

  32

  Training Camp near El Alamein, 20th September 1942

  ‘You’re kidding,’ said Danny, clearly unable to hide his disbelief. This was met by a glare from Captain Benson. The news that they would not have the new Sherman tank for the expected confrontation with the Germans was a body blow. Evidently this applied as much to the other members of the tank crew as it did to Danny.

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ replied Benson sternly before adding, ‘And there’s no use in bellyaching about it either. We just have to accept it and move on. The Grant is fine tank. Tad unwieldy, I agree. Jerry would give his right arm to have a gun like this.’

  To emphasise the point, Benson placed his hand on the seventy-five-millimetre cannon.

  The news, if not shattering, was a major disappointment. The new Sherman tanks had begun to arrive in the training area. The 3 RTR hoped it would have its fair share of the new vehicles which boasted both superior armoured protection and a bigger gun in the turret. It had a lower profile as well, which made it a smaller target, although not so small as the Cr
usader.

  The regiment had been given ten Sherman tanks. All of these were with ‘B’ Squadron. The Grants were all with ‘C’ Squadron. The crew went to inspect their new Grant with a degree of suspicion.

  ‘The Shermans and the Grants will be the battering ram, I suspect,’ said Danny unenthusiastically. PG glanced at him and nodded grimly. Tanks like these were not designed to bring up the rear.

  ‘I suspect you’re right, Danny,’ said Andrews as they walked away from the tank.

  ‘Do you know much about this new chap?’ asked Danny, referring to Montgomery.

  ‘No, not come across him before,’ admitted Andrews. ‘I daresay we’ll find out soon enough what’s he’s made of.’

  ‘We’re all just flesh and blood, Archie, flesh and blood,’ said PG adding his usual glum perspective on anything and everything.

  -

  Towards the end of September, training was in full swing. The arrival of General Montgomery had sent a current through the whole of the 8th Army. The preparation for the autumn campaign was as much physical as it was strategic. This did not go down well with everyone.

  ‘Route march?’ exclaimed PG.

  Benson grinned and ordered PG and the rest of the crew to get ready. The whole battalion had to do it. The smile widened as the burly Yorkshireman gazed up at the cloudless blue sky. His usual glum demeanour took on an even more hangdog expression.

  ‘How far?’ asked PG in a voice that was as much a desperate appeal to sanity as it was a request for information.

  ‘Seven miles,’ replied Benson, enjoying the misery of his driver immensely. As much as Danny was not looking forward to the march either, it was made more inviting by the thought that PG would have to haul his unathletic body over a distance that it was ill designed to cover. The march was relatively easy for Danny given his youth as well as a level of conditioning that was the equal of anyone in the regiment. ‘We’ll be back before midnight if you don’t hold us up too much.’