Crusader (A Novel of WWII Tank Warfare)

by Jack Murray

  CRUSADER

  THE SECOND DANNY SHAW / MANFRED BREHME TANK NOVEL

  Jack Murray and J Murray

  Table of Contents

  CRUSADER

  THE SECOND DANNY SHAW / MANFRED BREHME TANK NOVEL

  Chapter 1: Arrival (July – Sept 1941)

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  Chapter 2: Prelude (Sept – Nov 1941)

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  Chapter 3: Sidi Rezegh (Nov 19th- 24th 1941)

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  Postscript

  Research Notes

  A Note from the Author

  About the Authors

  Chapter 1: Arrival (July – Sept 1941)

  1

  Tripoli, Libya, July 1941

  The oars tore through the azure sea like a bullet through flesh. A cloudless African sky glared down at the two young men in the boat. Sea birds circled overhead like spectators in an amphitheatre. They viewed the two young men in the rowing boat with something close to bemusement.

  Neither man was more than twenty years old. Neither would admit that they were already exhausted. They looked at one another. A challenge as well as support in their eyes. Each boy was perspiring heavily under the merciless Mediterranean sun. It was still early morning.

  The first signs of debris struck the side of their boat. It added urgency to the insistent strokes from their oars. This is where the ship went down. Up ahead they could see him. Hear him. He was clinging to a piece of the wreckage.

  ‘Get a move on,’ shouted the young man in the water. He was of a similar age and shivering badly. His cry to them was both heartfelt and an attempt at bravado. His voice trailed off at the end. All strength gone. His reserves had dwindled to a point where he would soon be beyond caring if they arrived in time or not.

  The oars continued their remorseless rhythm in the water. Each heave and pull brought them closer and closer to their friend.

  ‘Nearly there,’ said Manfred, sitting at the bow of the boat.

  Up ahead Lothar waved weakly to them.

  ‘Took your bloody time about it.’

  ‘We thought we’d have a coffee and some biscuits first.’

  This comment from Gerhardt was greeted with a passionate and eloquently oath-laden response from their friend in the water. This caused the three boys to laugh uproariously.

  Manfred looked at his big friend. He seemed now to see the funny side of the situation. The last man left from the sunken boat. The death of Sepp a distant memory although it had taken place barely half an hour ago. In fact, whether it was shock setting in or relief, Lothar seemed to be in the midst of a laughing fit of such intensity that he could hardly breathe.

  Gerhardt felt relieved. The trauma of the last hour, the attack from the British planes, the sinking of the Aachen, the death of Sepp was melting away as fast as the oars tore through the water.

  They slowed down as they neared their friend. Lothar looked at them, his laughter abating to be replaced by a grateful smile. Manfred noticed he had an object in his hand. Lothar lifted it up to answer the question on Manfred’s face.

  It was a gun. Smiling happily, Lothar placed the gun against his head.

  ‘What are you doing. Lothar?’ asked Manfred in a whisper, confused. Scared.

  Gerhardt, behind Manfred asked what was going on.

  ‘Lothar. stop,’

  Manfred had stopped rowing. He threw the oar down and picked up his binoculars. His friend, only a few feet away loomed large in the lens. Manfred could see the toothy grin of Lothar so clearly. He felt he should really put the binoculars down and go to help his friend.

  ‘Hurry,’ said Lothar. ‘I’ll catch my death in here.’

  Then he pulled the trigger.

  -

  Manfred woke up.

  It was dark. For a few moments he didn’t know where he was. Then his eyes began to adjust to the lack of light. Around him he could see lots of beds. He was sitting upright in his bed. Correction. His mattress on the floor. Mattress? Manfred smiled grimly to himself. The clacking sound of someone snoring loudly made him turn his head. The room stank of unwashed men.

  He lay back in his bed and stared at the ceiling. It was beginning to come back to him. Tears stung his eyes. So, this was it. He was at war now. It was official. Two letters, at least, had probably already been written. What would they say? Would they talk of the bravery of these children of the Fatherland? Or would they tell the truth? One had died drowning in fear because he’d never learned to swim. The other had killed himself, believing, rightly, he’d been abandoned; left alone in the sea to his fate.

  Manfred turned in the bed. He could see that Gerhardt was lying on the next mattress. For a moment he thought about waking him. Then he thought better of it. Let him sleep.

  He lay back on his bed and stared at the ceiling. He was wide awake now. His watch had been ruined in the water, so he had no idea what time it was. Briefly, he considered trying to sleep again but that would only risk the dream returning.

  An hour passed. Manfred shifted position every few minutes. A stabbing pain was developing in his back. His eyes traced the cracks in the ceiling. They were like the delta of a large river.

  Eventually he gave way to a dreamless sleep. It seemed to last seconds. He was woken, along with the rest of the men, by the barking of a sergeant stalking through the room. Manfred groaned then realised he had been a little louder than intended. He saw Gerhardt looking at him strangely. Manfred looked back at him questioningly. Gerhardt’s face softened a little, and then he smiled.

  ‘How are you feeling?’

  All of a sudden, the memory of yesterday returned to Manfred. His face burned red. He felt his chest tightening, but not for the memory of Lothar. Instead it was for himself. His reaction to seeing the death of Lothar. The shame overwhelmed him. The anguished cry, the inconsolable tears.

  Gerhardt had witnessed all of it.

  The face of Lothar swam into Manfred’s mind. He could see the tears on his face, the distress, the fear of abandonment and then the awful moment when he turned the gun on himself. He’d seen his friend’s face contort before being transformed into a bloody mess. He’d seen all of it as if he was standing a few metres away. Manfred’s chest constricted again. Then the anger came.

  Of course, he’d screamed. Who wouldn’t have? He remembered the binoculars falling from his hands, crashing against the deck. He remembered the sailors dragging him below deck. There was some sympathy. Some. Gerhardt had seemed surprised by the intensity as well as the rapidity of his friend’s hysterical reaction.

  They’d taken him to a cabin to separate him from the rest of the men. Manfred remembered the lieutenant shaking his head to the crewman. Keep him away, he’d said. He remembered the irritation in his voice. Gerhardt was ordered to try to calm him down. It had taken some time. Then Manfred remembered the ship’s doctor had given him an injection.

  It was all coming back to Manfred now. And he felt ashamed at his weakness. He looked around. None of the other men now getting dressed seemed to know or care who he was. Only Gerhardt had seen his disgrace.

  Manfred nodded to his friend
and said, ‘Don’t worry. I’m fine now.’

  Gerhardt nodded and did not say anything else. Manfred was grateful for this. He didn’t want to explain himself. He certainly did not want to share his feelings about what he’d felt. All he wanted was to forget. He wanted to erase the image of Lothar’s head dissolving before his eyes. He wanted to forget the scream, his scream, the looks on the faces of the officers, the look in the eyes of Gerhardt. Anger was growing. Anger at himself. His face burned. He felt anger towards Gerhardt for bearing witness to his shame. Then, for a moment, his anger turned towards Lothar. His friend.

  His dead friend.

  The sergeant was making his way back along the narrow strip between the beds yelling at the young men. Manfred hurriedly dressed. Even in this he felt embarrassed. Fear drove him to dress. He was afraid of being picked out and made an example of. A quick glance at Gerhardt reassured him that he was not alone in this.

  The sergeant passed them, and the two friends grinned as he went by. All at once the rage died. He was with Gerhardt again. His co-conspirator. This was a relief. Then Manfred felt someone come alongside them.

  ‘How are you, Manfred?’ asked Christian.

  ‘Fine.’

  Christian nodded. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Gerhardt shake his head. Christian understood from this the subject was closed.

  ‘It’s hot,’ said Christian, glancing out towards the window. The sky was cerulean blue.

  Yes, it was hot, and it was barely six thirty in the morning. Manfred could feel the closeness of the air and a dampness on his forehead. The sergeant was literally bellowing at everyone to leave the room for parade. The boys passed him, getting showered in spittle as they did so. Had they not been so tired and hot it would have been funny.

  Had they not been going to war.

  -

  There was rage in the heat of the sun. Manfred staggered as he hit an invisible wall outside the makeshift barracks. He and Gerhardt followed Christian and the rest of the new arrivals into a large square. Gerhardt’s heart sank at the prospect of parade ground exercises. Oddly, Manfred welcomed this. It represented a return to normality. For the moment he wanted to dissolve into the army, its routines, its arcane ceremony, its respectful conformity. Only within the whole did he feel he could escape his humiliation; only within battle could he find redemption.

  ‘Why can’t they fight somewhere less hot?’ whispered Gerhardt as they went through each drill.

  ‘Can you imagine what it’ll be like inside a tank?’ replied Manfred under his breath.

  ‘Trying not to,’ admitted Gerhardt.

  They fell quiet as the eyes of the sergeant-major fell on them. Perspiration rained down each of their faces. It was scant consolation to know everyone was suffering in the same way. Then again, wasn’t that the point? Shared discomfort, pain and exhaustion were the raw materials from which character was built. The strength it provided had a tensile quality. As individuals and as a group they would be stretched in unimaginable ways. They could not break.

  -

  Tripoli was hot and foreign in ways that went beyond the imagination. Nothing the boys had read or heard could have prepared them for the mixture of sights, sounds and smells they encountered on their first venture out of the barracks.

  All around the market was an astonishing mixture of local dark-skinned traders, and blond-white German soldiers. The noise was as loud and varied as the colours were vivid. If ever a people liked shouting more than your average middle-aged Junker in a beer festival it was these strange beings, thought Manfred.

  The day had passed off peacefully. Parade, breakfast, a lecture and then a chance to walk through the city. Neither Gerhardt nor Christian had mentioned his breakdown. Manfred knew this was a kindness, but they would not forget, either, at least until they all were confronted directly with the terrifying violent reality of war. Only then could Manfred redeem himself in their eyes. And redeem himself he would.

  The smells had initially sickened Manfred. He was used to the clean, crisp air of Germany. Here, the air was almost palpable. The smell of sewage mixed with something else, food certainly, human waste probably, but also something more intoxicating. Soon, they became used to its different moods. Sometimes teasing, sometimes unapproachable, always beguiling.

  The women fascinated them also. Dark eyed, beautiful, alluring, available and untouchable in equal measure. Some were covered from head to foot in black. Others seemed to appreciate something that was self-evident to Manfred. It was hot. Hotter than Manfred could ever remember. How could anyone live in such a climate? Yet live here he would. For how long, he knew not. More reason to get the job done quickly.

  He felt a dig in his ribs. It was Gerhardt. He nodded towards one particularly beautiful young girl. Long dark hair gleamed in the sunlight. She moved with a grace that would have made a Bolshoi ballerina seem like an inebriated elephant.

  Both boys grinned. A lot of the other young men had come back to the compound boasting of their exploits. Further inquiry often confirmed what everyone knew; they’d paid for their entertainment.

  With the fearlessness of youth, the arrogance of his race and the certainty in his good looks, Gerhardt plunged forward into the attack. The young girl was around the same age as the boys. She seemed to be working at a fruit stall, although neither boy could recognise the strange objects piled like apples on the wooden cart.

  Gerhardt lifted a piece of fruit. He looked at the girl and smiled. He raised his eyebrows. The girl looked nervously at him and then glanced to a large man that appeared out of nowhere.

  The man was as malevolent-looking as the girl was innocent. A scar ran from the tip his eye along his cheek down towards his earlobe. His arms were as thick as Manfred’s legs. Behind him, Gerhardt heard Manfred erupt into laughter. He reddened as the man glared at him.

  ‘How much?’ asked Gerhardt holding, what he later established to be a guava. The man had no German but seemed to guess the nature of the inquiry. He pointed to a sign. Gerhardt bought two. He handed the money over and picked another from the stall. He threw the fruit in Manfred’s direction, head-bound, at a fairly crispish pace it must be said. Manfred plucked it out of the air one-handed and bit into it.

  The two boys walked away from the stall laughing.

  ‘Now you see why they go to the whores, my friend,’ laughed Manfred.

  ‘So the big question is: was that her father, her brother or her husband?’

  ‘There are parts of Germany where he might be all three.’

  The two collapsed laughing. Around them, traders looked at them in amusement. They were used to seeing grim-faced soldiers. The two boys seemed altogether less alien. Finally Gerhardt had recovered enough to speak.

  ‘I bet he could skin you alive before you’d time to draw your gun.’

  Manfred nodded in agreement. He took another mouthful of the pomegranate then said between mouthfuls, ‘My God, after him the Tommies will be a walkover.’

  Gerhardt laughed because he could. He knew he would feel differently in the future. But here, now, in the marketplace with his friend, they were safe. The enemy was far away. The enemy was on the run from the mighty Afrika Korps. Rommel was their leader.

  And they would win.

  2

  El Alamein, Egypt, July 1941

  The three-ton truck trundled bumpily along the road towards the British camp at El Alamein, a small coastal town about one hundred and fifty miles northwest of Cairo. Arthur Perry mopped his brow with the sleeve of his uniform. Glancing down at his sleeve he saw it was heavily soiled. Sweat streamed down his cheek like a series of rivulets. He looked around him. None of the others seemed to be any better off.

  ‘Why not stick a handkerchief on your head, Arthur,’ suggested a young man further up the truck.

  ‘I know what I’ll stick on you,’ replied Arthur to Danny, who just grinned back at him.

  ‘You’d have to catch me first, old man.’

  ‘Bloody
hell, watch out Adolf; Shaw’s here, and he knows where the reverse gear is.’

  The rest of the truck laughed, grateful to have something that would take their minds off the three things that were most occupying them at that moment: the heat, the flies and the fact that they were heading towards combat against the Rommel’s Afrika Korps.

  Just the thought of that name made Danny feel nervous. The Afrika Korps had spent the previous few months inflicting defeat upon defeat on the Allies. Tobruk was under siege, the Germans were now inside Egypt. Both Alexandria and Cairo could sense the dark shadow looming.

  The truck hit a bump on the road causing a wave of complaints to the driver. If he heard them then he certainly didn’t care. He seemed a morose kind. In fact, it was Danny’s observation that many of the soldiers he was meeting were morose. He stopped himself thinking about why this should be so. Instead, whenever darker thoughts entered his mind, he broke them in a manner that was as British as it was effective.

  ‘Are we at the beach yet?’ asked Danny. There was no answer, just some smiles from the other soldiers on the truck.

  ‘That’ll be no then.’

  More laughter.

  ‘Hey Arthur, do we need to make a stop yet. Your prostate will be giving you the hump soon.’

  Even Arthur laughed as he threw his beret in the direction of Danny. The young man caught it and made to throw it out of the truck.

  ‘I’ll join it in a minute,’ laughed Arthur, making a one-handed catch when Danny lofted it back. This brought a ripple of mock applause from the other soldiers in the truck. Like Danny, they were all young men. Danny and Arthur had gotten to know a few of them in Alexandria where they had been stationed for the last few weeks.

  ‘I could have played cricket for Surrey,’ said Arthur acknowledging the applause.

  ‘Why didn’t you?’ asked one of the men.

  ‘I was rubbish,’ replied Arthur, guffawing loudly. The questioner received a friendly clip on the back of his head from Danny. He’d heard it all before. They always fell for it.