by Jack Murray
Brehme and Graf walked towards the police car in silence. Beside the car was Robert Sauer. The young man was soaked to the skin. He and Brehme exchanged looks. There was a barely perceptible nod from the young man and relief coursed through the veins of Brehme.
Just ahead of Brehme walked Erich. Brehme felt a wave of anger course through him.
‘Hey, Erich,’ said Brehme.
Erich turned around. He looked like an evil little bully dressed up in a uniform. Brehme felt utter revulsion.
‘Keep fighting the good fight,’ said Brehme witheringly before climbing into the car and shutting the door to any reply. Graf climbed into the passenger seat a few seconds later. The two men sat for a moment and watched the rain batter the front window of the car. Finally, when at last Brehme was capable of speech, he turned to Graf.
‘Can I buy you a beer Jost?’
‘Two, sir. I think you owe me at least two.’
Brehme nodded and then they both broke into smiles.
‘Two it is, then.’
40
El Alamein, Egypt: 24th October 1942
The order came to start moving. Benson nodded to PG. The engine burst into life. Outside the tank, the shelling continued unabated. Danny tensed up again. The tank rolled forward and the tightness slowly eased. They were on their way. Within minutes the Yorkshireman was already complaining.
‘Can’t see nowt.’
‘What’s that in English?’ asked Danny which brought a smile to Benson’s face. This widened further when PG responded in typically robust fashion.
The rumbling clanking screech of the wheels over the tracks seemed to drown out the sound of the distant explosions in the German lines. As yet the response from the Germans was low key. This astounded Danny. It worried him, too. There had to be a reason. Benson also looked perturbed by the lack of response.
‘Why aren’t they firing at us?’ murmured Benson. His head was outside the turret, but he could see little beyond the immediate tanks in front.
Danny peered through McLeish’s periscope. Clouds of dust were being thrown up by the tanks. Visibility was barely a few yards. The atmosphere in the tank was tense. McLeish’s knee moved up and down rapidly. Just ahead lay the entrance to the British minefield. Much further ahead was the passage created by the sappers through the enemy minefield. A number of soldiers stood by the entrance waving them through. White tape marked out the route. Lights flickered behind the blanket of sand being thrown up by the tanks.
Breeching the minefield brought it home to Danny that they were now fully committed. There was no turning back. They were in the middle of an endless line of traffic. One by one the tanks rolled forward followed by infantry, artillery and Uncle Tom Cobley, commented PG.
Progress was paralyzingly slow. With each passing minute the tension grew inside. No one wanted to be stuck in the minefield when the sun came up. Then it would be target practice for the eighty-eights which were arrayed in front of them.
They stopped around midnight to refuel. PG took care of this while McLeish and Danny inspected the tank. By this stage they had still not reached the enemy minefields. The word up ahead was that the depth of the enemy minefield belt was greater than first anticipated. At two in the morning, they began their movement forward again. The firing had not ceased from the Allied guns.
‘I can’t believe there’ll be anything left of them at the other side,’ said McLeish. It did seem incredible that anyone could survive such a horrifying torrent of shell, yet Danny remembered the words of his father shortly before he’d left. It was one of the few times he’d opened up about his experiences around twenty-five years before on the Western Front.
‘Our guns blew half the country away and yet they came out of their holes and their trenches and mowed our boys down.’
Archie Andrews smiled grimly at McLeish.
‘Don’t get your hopes up son. They’ve had a lot experience in digging in against that sort of bombardment.’
Danny was sorry to see the young Scot’s face fall, but it was better he was forewarned. There was no question there would be a welcome for them soon. The order came to move. An exchange of looks but no one said, ‘good luck’. They scrambled back inside the tank.
‘Forward,’ said Benson.
The tank didn’t move.
Benson ducked down and glared at PG, ‘Did you hear what I said?’ PG was pressing the starter to little or no avail. He shook his head and turned to Benson. The captain climbed down into the hull and knelt by PG.
‘One more try.
‘Choke?’ suggested Benson.
‘Already on. Anyway, I don’t want to flood the damn thing.’
The tank whined a little, but the engine refused to start. PG and Benson looked outwardly calm, but Danny could feel the tension rise. Outside there were shouts as the other tanks realised they were now stuck. Benson clambered back into the cupola and waved his arms for the other tanks to move around them.
He went out of the hull hatch to inspect the engine. Danny joined him. He wasn’t sure what he could do as PG was more expert but on the principle that two heads were better than one, he thought he might be of some use.
‘Hold the light,’ said PG, opening up the engine. He went straight to the plugs. Removing one after another he gave them a wipe and then replaced them. Then he looked around for any sign of damage. He slammed the hatch shut and indicated to Danny that they return.
There was an air of expectancy inside as PG tried the engine again. It whined a little then finally rumbled into life. PG waited a for a minute, listening intently to the sound. At last he seemed satisfied and nodded to Benson. They set off towards the enemy minefields once more.
-
The tank did not clear the Allied minefields until after 0330 and by four they were on the outskirts of the enemy’s. No one spoke. Even PG’s frequent rants at the pace of progress had died away to be replaced by the sullen silence. Danny was bathed in sweat. Benson lit a pipe and then proceeded to ignore it. McLeish’s leg was still juddering. The silence felt oppressive. Radio contact had been banned until the morning. Their world existed solely within the confines of the tank. Archie Andrews had the glazed eyes of a man lost in his own dark memories.
The incessant noise of the Allied barrage came to a halt around four in the morning. It was a strange silence broken only by the screeching of the tank wheels. It also heightened their sense of vulnerability. If the barrage had served one purpose it was to discourage the enemy from putting their head above the parapet. Now they not only had lost their covering fire, but they were also becoming nicely silhouetted against the rising sun.
By five it was clear to everyone they would not escape the minefield by first light. Danny avoided looking outside now. Light would become their enemy. And still they crawled forward. It seemed impossible that any vehicle could move so slowly. Yet forward they inched. The first machine gun fire became audible as the sky lightened. Then they heard the first crumps of German anti-tank fire.
‘It’s started,’ said Benson. He was sitting with his head and body outside the tank. They’ll want us to disperse soon.’
‘I hope they’ve cleared the minefields then. I don’t fancy taking any bloody chances in them,’ pointed out PG. There was apprehension in his voice but the rest of the tank grinned.
‘Let’s hope,’ replied Benson who did not believe they were going to escape the minefield by the time they were within range of the anti-tank fire. ‘I’ve a feeling it’s going to be pretty sticky for a while, chaps.’
It was.
Later that morning they passed the first signs that the Germans were finding their range. A few tanks from other regiments sat at the side, burning. Black smoke twisted up into the sky providing further help to the enemy on distance and direction. They couldn’t stop though. Their orders were to keep pouring forward. The noise of German shelling was louder now which was enough to start PG off.
‘Bloody sitting targets we are. They can s
ee us clear as day,’ said the Yorkshireman.
‘You forget one thing, PG’ said Danny.
‘What’s that?’
‘We can see them. Difficult to hide one those big eighty-eights, even in a desert.’
‘Good point, young Shaw. Start bloody firing at them then.’
By seven in the morning, they had reached battle positions on a ridge. All of the tanks from 3 RTR had made it through, dispersed and were hull-down on the upslope of a ridge. This made it more difficult for the German gunners. Over the course of the day Danny witnessed the extraordinary start to the battle.
The lane that they’d driven through was packed nose to tail with Allied men and armour. The congestion and the dust cloud it caused was astonishing. It seemed to Danny that one well-targeted German attack from air or gun could have ended the war there and then such was the concentration of Allied men streaming through the narrow lane.
Sappers were busy trying to widen the lane while engineers were rolling communication lines. Danny’s mind was spinning at the logistical endeavour required. But reassured, too. The memory of the confusion of Operation Crusader was still too vivid. Then, they had made an uncoordinated attack and fought blind for the first week or so. The lesson had been learned. Now he could see infantry and armour side by side. Each had its role to play. Together they presented a greater threat to the enemy than they would individually.
All along the ridge there were soldiers and tanks from other regiments. The Nottingham Yeomanry on one side, the Staffordshire Yeomanry on the other. And still they surged forward through the narrow lane created by the sappers. Military policemen directed traffic like it was a busy high street. But the firing from the Germans was hitting its mark too. Benson gave the order and soon Danny was exchanging fire with the enemy shot for shot.
Montgomery, according to Benson, had predicted a war of attrition akin to the fighting a few decades previously. It looked to Danny like this was going to prove correct. This would not be a single knockout blow. It would be fought inch by inch, sometimes at a distance, like two boxers wary of each other; probing and jabbing, looking for an opening or a moment of lapsed concentration. Other times the confrontation would be resolved by a bayonet.
There they sat, unable to move. Both sides had one another pinned down now. Anyone unwise enough to move around was swiftly disabused of this notion by the chatter of machine gun fire. To this was added the growing heat of the day and the flies to torment them further.
‘What happens now?’ asked PG. He already knew but wanted to hear it either as a punishment or reassurance.
‘We’re still short of where we should be,’ explained Benson. ‘They’ll want us to move forward again tonight. Our job is not to get involved with long range duels. They want us in amongst them.’
PG and Danny exchanged looks.
‘Can’t wait,’ said the Yorkshireman sourly.
‘Shaw, kick Wodehouse,’ said Benson. ‘That’s an order.’
41
The order came through at 0630 to move forward. Basler nodded to Jentz. The driver started the engine. The tank began its advance. Outside they could hear the sporadic chatter of machine gun fire and explosions, but the barrage had ended a couple of hours earlier. They were all groggy from lack of sleep. Manfred felt a weight behind his eyes. His mind and his movements felt heavy. He sensed a long day lay ahead.
Kiel was on the radio constantly, keeping the tank informed of the attack as it developed. It was now apparent that the Allies had made a major push across a wide front. Elements of the 21st Panzers and the Italian Folgore and Pavia regiments were facing a concerted attack to the south.
‘The Allies are mired in the minefield,’ said Stiefelmayer over the radio. ‘We can kill this attack off before it begins.’
As highly as Manfred regarded Kummel’s replacement, he’d always found him a little too gung-ho for his liking. He and ‘Willi’ Teege, the regiment commander, were very alike in this regard. Teege had chosen to situate himself with Stiefelmayer for the start of this engagement. Manfred, with a sinking heart, anticipated cavalry charges towards the stranded Allied tanks. It made sense but, as ever, it risked high losses. This was something that they could ill afford. Unlike the Allies. Their reinforcement capacity was finite. It seemed an obvious point to him, and he found their utter conviction in the efficacy of this style of attack unfathomable.
It was not long before the first Allied tanks appeared in their view. At first, they encountered the Grants. However, the congestion on the Allied side made them an easy target.
‘Fire,’ ordered Basler.
Manfred pressed the firing button and his battle had started. A few stray shots and then he found his distance. The initial hits bounced off the heavy frontal armour but as they closed in, the impacts began to tell. One after another of the Grants brewed up.
Then they heard Stiefelmayer exclaim, ‘What the hell is that?’
Basler pinned his binoculars to his eyes to see what had caused the battalion leader’s surprise. Then he saw it. The new Sherman tank was distinctive from the Grant. Its big gun was in the turret rather than the side.
‘They have a new tank,’ said Basler.
Manfred looked through his gun sights and saw it for the first time. A feeling of desolation overwhelmed him. The enemy would not stop evolving their armour. They had the resources to create, produce and send out these new machines while the Panzer regiments existed inside machines that were held together by hardly anything more than glue and limitless courage.
But the Shermans were stuck like the other tanks in the Devil’s Garden. A few of the enemy tanks tried to disperse but they drove into the mines which began to wreak another type of hell on them. Tank after tank was destroyed. Barely a couple of the German tanks had suffered any damage. The attack was halted, and the enemy withdrew until they were around three kilometres back.
But Manfred sensed that they were facing a greater threat than they’d ever faced before. The opening encounter had set the tone for the next few days. Every night the Allies would bombard the German and Italian positions denying them any opportunity to sleep except in short bursts. The next morning, they would throw tanks forward in attack all along the line. Time and again the Panzers would absorb this attack and inflict far more casualties than they suffered themselves. But day by day they were being worn down. Lack of sleep was one thing but soon they would, once more, run out of petrol and ammunition.
-
The war of attrition had begun. The wrestling over every ridge and wadi. The death toll rose like mercury in the hot African sun. Day and night blurred for the combatants because the fighting during the day and the shelling at night developed its own shocking routine.
Three nights later, Manfred stood with Fischer and gazed at the horizon.
‘They should start anytime…’
The first crumps confirmed Fischer’s view and the whole of the horizon was lit up by the thousand guns they were facing.
‘…soon,’ completed Fischer. ‘Persistent, aren’t they. I’ll give them that.’
The two young men glanced at one another and a sense of unease descended on them. Even Fischer’s normal certainty appeared to be eroding in the face of the overwhelming opposition they were facing. The previous evening he’d admitted his doubts more or less. Now he repeated the same phrase again.
‘They just keep coming. Whatever we throw at them, more come. It’s like they want us to use up all of our ammo, fuel, men.’
‘You heard about the convoy from Sicily?’
‘Yes, it was sunk yesterday. We needed those supplies.’
‘We’re low on our HE shells now. I don’t know what they expect us to fight with. Those new tanks of theirs, too. It feels like we’re hitting them with tennis balls,’ said Fischer ruefully.
Manfred grinned at this and it widened when he saw Fischer’s frown deepen.
‘I just knew you played tennis. Dancing around the court in your whites.’
/>
Manfred then began to mimic a ballet dancer playing tennis which was so ridiculous even Fischer had to laugh.
‘I don’t know what’s so wrong about tennis.’
‘I’m building a picture of your privileged life.’
The smile faded a little and Fischer stretched his arms out, ‘Not so privileged now.’ Then he made a show of patting away the layer of dust that caked his uniform. ‘My family were friends with Gottfried von Cramm. Well, up until he was arrested. After that it was difficult, although my father probably stayed in contact. We were at Wimbledon with him when he lost to Perry.’
‘He lost every time,’ said Manfred. ‘I listened to the last one on the radio with my father.’
‘He won in Paris,’ pointed out Fischer, a little defensively.
Manfred made a face to suggest that Paris didn’t count much. Then a thought struck him.
‘I wonder where he is now.’
‘They sent him to Russia, I heard.’
‘What about Schmeling? Did you know him, too?’
Fischer grinned at the hint of sarcasm in Manfred’s voice.
‘I met him. Twice, actually. I liked him. Wasn’t he wounded in Crete?’
‘Yes,’ exclaimed Manfred, clapping his hands. ‘You’re right. I heard that, too.’
They were silent for a few moments and listened to the barrage. The shells seemed to be falling elsewhere but the call would come for them to return to the tanks. They’d tried to grab some sleep in their tanks for the previous three nights. Despite the bombardment, an hour or two had been managed. One shell landed a lot closer to the tank leaguer. They looked at one another and with a nod, parted.