by Jack Murray
Through his sight, Manfred saw Stiefelmayer’s tank on the right engaging with two approaching Crusaders.
‘Traverse left,’ ordered Basler.
‘Sir, Captain Stiefelmayer is being attacked,’ shouted Manfred. There was a note of desperation in his voice. One on one the Panzer had the beating of most enemy tanks. Taking on two was another matter.
‘So are we,’ snarled Basler angrily. Manfred was already doing as he was told. Less than fifty metres ahead he saw a British tank emerge from behind a screen of black smoke and sand. Manfred fired. He signalled to Kleff to load another shell and leased it off immediately towards a tank that was just behind the one he’d destroyed. Something hit the tank. It bounced off. The second British tank erupted into flames.
‘Traverse right,’ ordered Basler.
Manfred rapidly wheeled the turret round as quickly as he could just in time to see the tank with Fischer and Stiefelmayer explode. One of the British tanks that had attacked them was in flames. Manfred had the second tank in his sights. He fired off one shell and then another. Jentz continued to move forward. There was no time to see if anyone had survived from Fischer’s tank.
More tanks were streaming towards them. Some were blocked by the smoking wrecks of other British tanks. Kleff kept loading and Manfred kept firing. Around them explosions were concussing the tank but miraculously they had not been hit. The sheer confusion became their friend. The smoke and the dust obscured so much that aimless firing risked hitting the wrong tank.
Kiel shook his head. Manfred didn’t know if that meant they were dead or that he simply did not know. There was no time for any further questions. Basler was speaking on their internal radio.
‘There’s another wave of tanks coming. My God, will they ever stop?’
Manfred already knew the answer to that question. He peered through his sight and saw the menacing dark shapes in the distance.
‘Jentz, reverse,’ ordered Basler.
Jentz brought the tank to a halt and began moving it backwards. British tanks were moving laterally but Manfred couldn’t get any shots off as they were shielded by the burning hulks of tanks destroyed earlier, mostly British, noted Manfred. They littered the battlefield.
Other Panzers appeared to be of a like mind and were withdrawing slowly. Manfred could see British infantry abandoning slit trenches as the metal giants threatened to crush them under their tracks.
‘Lieutenant,’ shouted Kiel, ‘I can see Captain Stiefelmayer.’
‘Where?’ shouted Basler before answering his own question. ‘No, I see him.’
Manfred could just about see Fischer and another crew man dragging the stricken captain into a slit trench to avoid the tracks of a British tank. The enemy tank resisted the opportunity to gun them down. Instead, it moved on, passing a couple of burned out Panzers. Fischer’s head popped up along with the other crew man and then they were dragging Stiefelmayer out from the trench. Manfred lost sight of them at that point as his sight was straight ahead with limited lateral vision.
‘Slow down,’ ordered Basler. Then he opened the turret hatch wider and shouted down to Fisher.
Manfred returned to his sight while Kiel search frantically to see if there were any other enemy tanks near them. Their position was horribly exposed now.
‘Hurry,’ shouted Basler. Manfred glanced up and then realised he was addressing himself to the men outside. This was a relief. It meant that Fischer was getting onto the tank with the fallen captain.
Moments later Basler ordered them to speed up. Jentz put his foot to the pedal and they jerked backwards. The tank was rocked by an explosion nearby.
‘Can’t you go any faster?’ shouted Basler over the intercom.
‘Not unless I turn around,’ shouted Jentz irritably. The lieutenant knew this but he, along with everyone else, was caught up in the fear of being hit.
‘Move left,’ ordered Basler. ‘Now right.’
As they slalomed backwards. the full horror of the battle was unfolding before Manfred. Dozens of tanks, many still glowing red, had been abandoned. Crewmen from both sides darted between trenches and tanks. It was mayhem. Worryingly, the further they withdrew, the more tanks he could see that were either from the Italian Littorio Battalion or Panzers. The number of destroyed British tanks was clearly much larger but it had come at a price. He could no longer see very far ahead but Kleff kept them informed of the attack building in front. Distant booms spoke of the bombardment that the eight-eights were raining down on the new wave.
But many would get through. This battle was only just beginning.
44
North East of Kidney Ridge, El Alamein: 2nd November 1942
It was nearly eight in the morning. Danny glanced down at PG. His hands were on the steering sticks. He was whistling. This was the only sound in the tank aside from the engine idling. Outside, the rest of the 3 RTR formed, standing ready like cavalry before a charge. Thoughts of what lay ahead were unavoidable. The sound of the battle taking place barely a few miles ahead of them had reduced them to silence.
For once there was an honesty in the communications about what they were to face. The words ‘extreme casualties’ had been mentioned. The implication was clear. The defeat of the Afrika Korps was likely to come a great cost. The confidence they felt that victory was now within their grasp in no way allayed the fear at the back of everyone’s mind; this time it could be them.
The radio crackled to life. Sid Gregson listened and then spoke to Benson. Danny heard him say, ‘The attack has reached the Rahman track. They’ve knocked out lots of guns.’
‘Well done to them,’ said Benson. ‘That was the plan.’
At what cost, wondered Danny? They’d sacrificed themselves on the gun line. Danny fought to control his emotions. Not fear this time but sadness for those that had fallen. It could so easily have been them who’d been asked to make the initial, suicidally dangerous, assault. Instead, it had been Wilts and Warwickshire Yeomanry. Any other thoughts were interrupted by Benson. He was standing with his head and chest outside the turret. Over the intercom he said, ‘Make ready.’
Danny tested his traverse for the fiftieth time that morning. It was still working. PG was similarly occupied with the steering sticks. McLeish’s leg was juddering again. Of the crew, Gregson seemed the most at ease. Every so often he would test the internal radio with a rather risqué joke. The laughter usually confirmed that everything was in working order. Andrews remained tight lipped
Benson was lost in another world. Smoking a pipe made someone look more reflective, thought Danny. By comparison, cigarettes seemed like a nervous tic, at least the way soldiers like PG smoked them. Allowances could be made for movie stars, of course. They smoked with a certain elan. However, there was no question Benson and the smoke from his pipe radiated a sense of calm that slowly permeated through the tank bringing with it memories of home, of family and friends. Danny closed his eyes and all at once he was transported back to his kitchen, his father puffing away while reading a newspaper or listening to the radio.
Voices outside the tank grew in number and volume. Somewhere a sergeant-major was shouting orders for it could only be a sergeant-major. What a pair of lungs. Was that a hunting horn in the distance? Danny and a few of the others broke into a grin. How could the Nazis seriously expect to defeat a nation that had men who thought it entirely sensible to carry a hunting horn into battle? Naïve, really, on the part of the enemy.
The noise of the idling engines soon became more full-throated. Radio chatter ceased. The shouts outside the tank grew louder, as did the sound of Danny’s heart. He felt himself tense. The sound of shouting was drowned out by the noise of the engines. Then, they heard the command in their earphones from Benson, ‘PG, Advance.’
The tank lurched forward catching out McLeish, as ever, by surprise. Every time thought Danny with a grin. McLeish rubbed his head and reddened. This was no mean feat for the young, once fair-skinned Scot, who’d turned a rather
unattractive pink-red in the North African sun.
The screeching clank of the tanks must have been audible in Tripoli. Benson sat outside the tank which allowed the cold morning air to cool the rising heat inside the turret and hull. The opening of the turret meant the air in the tank was filled with tiny particles. Everyone was soon covered in a thin film of dust they as the clanked and shuddered their way forward towards the sound of gunfire and shelling. Within minutes, plumes of sand being thrown up by the tanks obscured Danny’s view and he wondered how it must have felt for the poor infantry blokes following or, in some cases, riding on the tanks.
The pace of the advance was slightly above that of paralysis. Barely one hundred yards covered in three minutes. At this rate it would be darkness by the time they reached the enemy despite the fact they were only a matter of a few miles away. PG worked the steering leavers furiously, still trying to test their manoeuvrability. Danny had never seen him so intent before. Benson remained standing with his chest and head exposed through the hatch, binoculars were fixed to his eyes.
Danny caught sight of a couple of infantry men walking alongside them. They actually overtook the tank unthinkingly. Both were smoking and chatting like they were on their way to the factory to clock in.
Further forward, the sound of battle continued unabated. The aerial bombardment made the loudest sound. Heavy bombs were landing on the Axis positions, distant earthquakes renting the desert apart.
The two infantry men continued their morning walk, oblivious to the hell they were heading towards. Then they stopped. The tank drew towards them. Danny wondered if this was a realisation that it was time to take cover behind the tank. No, apparently. They were just stopping to light another couple of cigarettes then they resumed their morning stroll.
Smoke and dust became heavier now and Danny lost sight of the two men. The smoke and the growing volume of battle made Danny’s skin prickle with anticipation. A fluttery feeling in the pit of his stomach was not solely due to the vibration of explosions. It wasn’t quite fear, more a heightened alertness and, perhaps, excitement.
The tank was slowly becoming immersed in the coiling black smoke. The smell of cordite permeated the tank. The two soldiers were out of sight now, probably electing to march behind the tank screen rather than out in the open.
Benson ducked inside and rubbed his eyes. He shook his head but said nothing. He didn’t need to. Up ahead Danny could see the first charred evidence of the onslaught suffered by the first tanks breaking through. The smell was no longer just petrol and cordite. The smell of burnt skin has a special quality all its own. The charcoal-like stench seemed to cut through all the odours, sickening everyone inside the tank.
‘Bloody hell,’ said PG. He was the only that could speak as they passed burned out tank after burned out tank.
Bloody hell indeed.
45
Tel el Aqqaqir: 2nd November 1942
Manfred did not know how they managed to evade the shells and the shot pouring around them. Such was the intensity of fire, it put out of his head the fact that Fischer and the wounded captain, Stiefelmayer were riding outside. Even more astonishing was the sight of so many wrecked tanks and men retreating. The mix of men from both sides and the burnt out tanks limited Manfred’s options to return fire although Kiel was firing with abandon on his machine gun.
The mayhem and the obstructions saved Manfred’s tank. That and the fact that almost all the Allied tanks had been destroyed. Under darkness they had penetrated deeply and overrun so many German positions. The arrival of daylight had turned the tide back for the moment in favour of the Germans and Italians. They now had a visible target. The combined efforts of the eighty-eights and the tank response had halted the first attack. The second wave had already begun though.
‘How far?’ shouted Jentz. He was effectively driving blind.
‘Half a kilometre. Swing left,’ ordered Basler, who was acting as Jentz’s eyes as the tank retreated back towards the supply echelon. Basler gazed down at Stiefelmayer and the other two soldiers. All of them were wounded but Stiefelmayer looked in a bad way.
‘Hurry, Jentz,’ shouted Basler but he knew the veteran driver was going as fast as he could. And it was probably too late anyway for his friend.
They arrived a few minutes later. Manfred stepped out of the tank to chaotic scenes around him. Explosions were splitting the air nearby. Manfred and Basler jumped onto the hull to assist Stiefelmayer, Fischer and the other tank man from the tank. Of the three, Fischer’s injuries were evidently the least serious. He had a head wound and perhaps some burns. It was hard to tell. The other tank man’s face was blackened and there was a lot of blood. But that may have come from the unconscious Stiefelmayer.
Fischer nodded to Manfred as he was helped down from the tank. Basler was shouting for stretcher bearers to come over to them. None were available. Around them, the cost of halting the assault was all too plain. Dozens of men lay dead or dying, tended by men who were in need of medical attention themselves.
Along with Fischer, Manfred and Basler carefully lifted the captain down and carried him over to the nearest doctor they could find.
‘Doctor,’ shouted Basler, ’Over here. Captain Stiefelmayer is hurt.’
A young doctor spun around. He was in the midst of half a dozen badly injured men. He glared at Basler in a manner of someone who wondered exactly what he was meant to do about that. Manfred had more than a little sympathy for him. He was faced with impossible choices to add to the intolerable situation he faced. The doctor glanced down and recognised the captain. He started towards them.
Stiefelmayer was unconscious but Manfred could see an ugly wound and some signs of burns to his face and hands. The doctor quickly but with great care examined him.
‘Bring him over there,’ said the doctor pointing to a group of men lying down on a flat piece of ground.
‘I don’t see any medics over there,’ pointed out Basler, irritably.
The doctor glared at him and replied in barely a whisper, ‘He’s not going there to be treated, lieutenant. There’s nothing we can do except reduce the pain.’ Then he turned to Fischer and the other wounded man. ‘Go over to that truck; you will be seen there.’
Fisher and the other crew man shook their heads.
‘No, doctor. We stay with him.’
Then they knelt by Stiefelmayer and hooked their arms underneath the captain’s legs and arms. Manfred and Basler helped lift the dying man. They carried him over to the row of men in silence. Fischer sat down beside the captain and ordered the other crew man to find some morphine. Manfred put his hand out.
‘Let me. You stay there.’
It took a few minutes as the truck with the medical supplies was overrun by other men like him. As Manfred trotted back to the group, the sounds of battle still rumbling close by, he knew that the Afrika Korps were near defeat. He was neither surprised nor saddened by this. A wave of resignation, which had been building for some time, assailed him now. Yet he knew he would have to go back and try and staunch the gaping wound the Allies had inflicted on them. Like Stiefelmayer, it would kill them. Kill them all.
He handed a sachet of sulfanilamide to Fischer. This would disinfect the wound. One sachet seemed barely enough but that was all they could spare. The field dressing he handed to the other crewman.
‘Morphine?’ asked Fischer.
Manfred’s face fell.
‘None left. Some may come up later.’
Fischer’s eyes blazed angrily but not at Manfred. Men that had been wrenched from their homes, families and sent to a faraway land lay dying all around. Yet the very things that could bring them victory or ease the pain of the fallen were in short supply. Manfred understood Fischer’s despair and felt the anger growing within him, too.
‘The bastards.’
Fischer and Manfred turned in surprise to Basler. His eyes were filled with tears of frustration. Basler had few friends within the regiment. His taciturnity, his i
ntensity militated against close personal connections. But Stiefelmayer had probably been as close as anyone. The knowledge that he would die was made unbearable by the knowledge that it would be in great pain. All around a similar story was being played out. Men knelt beside fallen comrades with nothing to offer them other than company in their final hours, final minutes, final seconds. The injustice of it all was agonising, the hell unutterable. If any nobility could be unearthed from such desolation, then it was the knowledge that the dying were amongst men who were closer than brothers.
They stayed with Stiefelmayer; they watched him fight for life. Meanwhile, the remainder of the Panzer 8 Regiment 1st Battalion limped back, battered and bruised to re-arm and refuel. Nearby Kleff was checking over the battered tank while Jentz refuelled. Kiel was on the point of collapse such was his exhaustion. He was struggling to carry box after box of shells. A nod from Basler and Manfred rose to help him. Manfred went over to the supply truck to grab more shells only to be met with his second rejection of the day.
‘Sorry, we have to ration them now. There are other tanks returning.’
Manfred stared at the soldier in disbelief. There was little he could say that a dozen other soldiers had probably not already said to the poor man. The final insult from their leaders. No more ammunition. Or petrol if the shouts nearby were any guide. Manfred trotted over to Kiel to help load the ammunition into the tank.
The tank had taken a pounding. Manfred had never seen so many dents before. They’d been lucky, no question. Kleff completed his checks on the tracks. Jentz, meanwhile, had his head buried in the engine. Manfred turned around and saw many other tank crews similarly engaged.
Colonel Teege appeared from the turret of a tank and clambered down. Manfred watched him speak to a medic and then look around at the terrible scene. Then he spotted Stiefelmayer and went straight over to the head of his 1st Battalion. He knelt and spoke with Basler and Fischer. His remained impassive as he listened to the two men. Then anger burned in his eyes and he looked around him. Basler’s hand fell on his arm. The anger burned quickly to be replaced by sadness, a shake of the head and even tears, if Manfred was not mistaken.