by Jack Murray
‘In terms of their armour, there’s no question of the destructive potential of the eighty-eights. And yes, the Panzer tanks are formidable. But we have more Crusaders now and we have control of the air. And we have something else on our side which the Nazis do not. We are right. They are not. The German soldier is fighting for oppression. We are fighting for freedom. This is a critical difference. Always remember that, young man. If you do then you’ll realise, when it matters, that we’re more than a match for him.’
Danny sat down and could barely glance at Arthur who’d buried his head to hide his laughter.
Unsurprisingly there were no more questions and the meeting broke up. Danny, Arthur and Phil trooped back to their tanks in the company of Ray Hill and Jim Hamilton. By now, out of earshot of the officers, they were all laughing uncontrollably.
‘Bloody hell, Danny, I didn’t mean that you should question the way the war’s been run,’ said Arthur.
‘I couldn’t think of anything else,’ whispered Danny, still laughing.
‘Bloody idiot,’ concluded Arthur.
-
Lister watched them go. Without waiting for the colonel, the captain spun around and walked away. The colonel was surprised that he was surprised by this. He watched him enter a large tent that served as an Officer’s Mess. Moments later he motioned for Sergeant Reed to join him. Reed was tough, competent and respected. Everything that the captain was not. Turner walked alongside Reed towards the colonel. The latter represented the best of English public schools. The captain, on the other hand, exemplified the very worst. Conceit, arrogance and questionable judgement. Any further thoughts he had on the subject were interrupted by Reed.
‘Sir,’ said Reed saluting, ‘The men are with Corporals Heath and Cornwell.’
‘Good, find out who that boy was. He was the one that had the scuffle earlier, wasn’t he? He handled himself well, I thought.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Reed, a half smile on his face.
The sergeant had thought so, too.
3
El Alamein, Egypt, August 1941
Late afternoon revealed no let-up in the heat. Danny and his mates were, by now, in full grumble mode, albeit under their breath as they sat and ate what was to become a very familiar diet of stewed bully beef, biscuits and tea.
‘Christ,’ said Arthur, ‘I don’t know what’s worse, the heat, the flies or this bloody food.’
‘Food’s not that bad,’ said Jim Hamilton, polishing off the last of the bully beef.
The rest turned to the Brummie like he’d just confessed to regular, consensual and mutually-enjoyable congress with sheep.
‘What?’ asked Hamilton defensively.
‘I wouldn’t leave any dirty underpants out when he’s around,’ said Arthur.
‘He might eat them,’ added Danny. This led to an assault with Hamilton’s beret, which Danny, helpless with laughter, could not defend himself against.
‘I’ve an idea,’ said Arthur, ‘Kill two birds with one stone, so to speak. We leave this damn food out for the flies, that’ll kill ‘em off and then…’
‘You’ll starve?’ added Danny.
Arthur’s face fell.
‘Good point, although eating that stuff might do for me anyway.’
A corporal came over to the group.
‘Finished yet?’ he asked, without any introduction.
‘Waiting for dessert, service here’s a shambles,’ said Arthur, taking a risk thought Danny.
The corporal grinned, ‘Cook’s not much better, either. Right, on your feet. I’ll take you to your tanks.’
Danny felt a flutter of anticipation, or perhaps it was excitement. Or nerves. One way or another, he was about to join the war for real. He would meet the men he would share a tank with. He wondered what they would be like. What they would make of him? One of the joys of youth is vanity. Not in any sense that you are better than anyone else. More often than not, it’s the opposite.
The vanity of youth is not about the idolisation of self so much as the belief that those around you are in any way interested in you. Part of growing is realising no one is interested in you. Maturity is when you cease to care.
One by one, Danny’s friends went to join their new team. With a nod, Danny said farewell to Arthur. Danny’s tank was the last in the row. He saw the large sand coloured tank silhouetted against the cloudless evening sky. The purple-grey hue was suffused with lines of orange. Heat radiated off the surface still making the horizon blur.
As he approached the tank, he heard the chatter of some men on the other side. While he hoped that they would be men that, at least, would be likeable, he realised it would be even better if they were men he could count on. He had no doubts about himself on that score.
-
A freezing night gave way to a morning that grew hotter by the minute as if some supernatural hand had switched on a pilot light. Danny was the first up, or so he thought. He noticed one mattress was already empty.
An unshaven man with flecks of grey in his stubble squinted up at Danny from under his makeshift pillow.
‘Make yourself useful, lad.’
This was Cecil Craig. He didn’t like being called Cecil. An Ulsterman in his early thirties, he could as easily have passed for fifty. Craig had been around since the start of the North African campaign. Sergeant Reed’s first instruction to Danny, when he introduced the Ulsterman, was to ignore anything he said. Danny took this to be an odd form of compliment to his new comrade-in-arms. Craig was the driver of the tank as well as being its mechanic.
The wireless operator was only a little older than Danny, Charlie Felton. A country boy like Danny, this meant he was at the receiving end of constant ribbing about his intellect and the nature of the relationship with his sister. He took this in good part, but Danny suspected that he did not have much time for his chief tormentor, Joe Holmes. In truth, Danny did not take much to the burly gunner either. He was as unwelcoming as Craig but without the undercurrent of dry humour that characterised the Ulsterman . Danny looked down at the prone figure still snoring on the ground and recalled the gunner’s first words to him the afternoon before.
‘Took your time getting here, son. You missing civvy street?’
Danny wasn’t sure if this was a comment on his lateness at signing up to join the army or the fact that the new arrivals had missed Operation Battleaxe, the summer’s failed campaign to relieve Tobruk. Danny ignored the remark then and resolved to ignore any jibe. These men had been through so much; some resentment was inevitable and scepticism certain until you had proven yourself.
Danny stooped down and started to brew up some tea. As the new boy he was expected to perform some of the more menial tasks. He took over from Felton, who was happy to be relieved of these duties if the broad grin on his face was anything to go by.
-
Sergeant Reed approached the colonel. A brief salute from both men. Just as Reed was about to report, the captain appeared from behind the tent flap. Reed saluted again. The captain lifted his stick to his forehead but was already looking up in the sky.
‘Sir, the men are ready for drill.’
‘Very well,’ drawled the captain, ignoring the fact that Reed had been speaking to Lister. A brief look passed between Reed and Lister. The colonel’s blue eyes crinkled just enough to calm the anger in Reed.
Lister walked forward accompanied by a number of the other senior officers. Walking alongside him was the second in command, Major Warren and two other majors, Laing and Miller.
The captain uttered an oath as a legion of flies descended on his face. How he hated this country. The sooner his transfer came through the better, he thought. He risked a glance at the two men beside him. Lister and Reed were thick as thieves. Neither respected him. He knew that much. Probably with good reason. But what did he care? After six months, he was still standing here while King, McDonald and the other captain whose name he could never remember were lying dead somewhere in the middle o
f the God-forsaken wilderness.
More fools them.
Sensing he was not wanted, the captain moved away and left Lister and the other majors to do the inspection. Reed walked with Lister towards the new arrivals. The colonel puffed on his pipe, waiting for the captain to move out of earshot.
‘A little early, sir,’ said Reed nodding towards the pipe. Lister rolled his eyes.
‘Therapy,’ replied Lister. He did not smile but there was enough of a look in his eye for Reed to enjoy the joke. Lister relayed the orders for the day.
‘Ready when you are, sergeant.’
Reed began to bark out orders for their rifle drill. This was followed by a brief inspection by Lister and Warren. Danny and his friends were standing in the back row so avoided further contact. Danny felt relieved; he was worried that he’d already blotted his copybook not once but twice. The inspection over, Reed accompanied Lister back to the other officers.
‘Have you had your breakfast yet?’ asked Lister.
‘No, sir.’
‘Hurry along then, Reed. By the by what did you do with the young chap?’
‘Shaw?’
‘Yes, that’s the one.’
Reed, a veteran of nearly two years of the desert campaign, looked unusually sheepish at this point.
‘Ah,’ smiled Lister, ‘Good choice.’
‘Let’s see, sir.’
-
It was going to be a new experience being with people who were not friends. The tank rumbled along the rocky desert path. Danny sat in the hull of the tank beside Charlie Felton trying to understand how the wireless worked. Under any circumstances this would have been straightforward, but they were in a moving tank, the heat was melting Danny’s skin, the sun-softened metal was hot to the touch and the two men almost had to coordinate their breathing rhythm to ensure there was enough room for them.
Still, Danny was excited, undeniably scared yet oddly desirous to have his first encounter with the enemy. Meeting his tank mates had solidified a feeling that had grown within him since his arrival. Aside from Sergeant Reed and the tetchy Ulsterman Craig, he couldn’t help but feel they were beaten. The mood was sour, particularly that of Joe Holmes. Even the otherwise friendly, Charlie Felton, seemed resigned to defeat.
‘I thought it would be easier than this; got that wrong,’ admitted Felton as they drove along. ‘They’ve better tanks than us, better guns. Better led, for my money, too.’
‘What’s wrong with Lister? Seems alright to me,’ said Danny.
‘He is but he’s new. He only arrived a week or two before you. He’s a tank man though. So is the sergeant,’ said Felton, his eyes flicked upwards towards Reed. The sergeant was riding in the turret of the tank. ‘I don’t think the higher ups have much clue. A few months ago, we could have been having beer in Tripoli. Now, we’re fighting for our lives to defend Cairo.’
‘Rommel?’ asked Danny.
Felton nodded. The young wireless operator introduced Danny to the tank in more detail.
‘V12 engine. Fast but unreliable and the fan drive wears out so cooling breaks down all the time. Means it’s hot as hell in there usually. So we’re fast and we need to be. Our two pound gun is smaller than theirs. This means we have to get close to their tanks if we’re going to hurt’em. Good thing is it’s difficult to hit a tank on the move never mind one moving quickly so it’s a trade-off.’
‘How fast on sand?’ asked Danny.
‘Fifteen miles per hour. Doesn’t sound much but try hitting something travelling that fast, unless we’re head on. Also it’s quite low, so it’s a smaller target. You’ll be loading. Holmes is the gunner and Craig’s the driver. He’s down here,’ said Felton pointing to the driver’s compartment. ‘Usual layout. Clutch on left, pedal in centre and accelerator on the right. You’ve driven a tank before?’
‘Yes. The A9 and A13.’
Felton shook his head.
‘This is better. Still not as good as what Jerry has, though. To the left is the instrument panel. The driver can look through there and this side panel. Holmes is here with the gun. Telescopic sight there. He traverses the turret. It goes quite quick.’
‘You’ll be loading,’ continued Felton. ‘That’s what I was doing until you came. You have your own periscope and a bullet proof visor. The commander of the tank is up there. In our case that’s Sergeant Reed. You come in through the roof of the turret. Levers are at the side, here. They open. Get used to them. You never know when you’ll need to bail out. Once a tank starts to brew you get the hell out.’
‘Have you brewed up yet?’
Felton nodded.
‘Yes my first tank did. We were lucky. We all got out, but you don’t want to hang around. I’ve seen what some of the poor blokes look like who don’t.’
Felton was silent for a moment as the memory returned of sights no one should ever see or experience. Danny looked away and pretended to look at the instrument panel. He could hear the quickening of Felton’s breathing. A minute later Felton could continue.
‘The engine is behind the turret. Have you done the mechanic’s course?’
Danny nodded, ‘Yes. I’m also a smithy, so I can turn my hand to repairs if need be when we’re at the camp.’
‘Leave that to the recovery teams. We can only do maintenance. You can help me with that, though. Bloody pain.’ said Felton before adding with a grin. ‘Right, I think that’s the tour over. That’ll be five bob, please.’
‘Can I take it out for a spin?’ asked Danny.
‘Don’t see why not,’ grinned Felton.
Danny had ridden inside a tank many times before. He was used to being bounced around. It was surprising just how hard and rocky the desert surface was. This was not the soft sand he’d been expecting but something even less welcoming and unyielding. It felt alien and threatening. In England, the most dangerous thing he’d encountered was an angry heifer protecting her calves; not to be underestimated, remembered Danny.
‘What brought you here then?’ asked Danny as the tank headed out of the leaguer with Felton demonstrating the controls.
Felton glanced at Danny. He seemed a little ill at ease and Danny felt remorseful at asking. However, Felton, after a few seconds, decided to say more.
‘I ran away from home when I was sixteen. Hated my dad. He was a bad ‘un. I didn’t like the way he treated mum and me. Found work on a farm in the next county. They put me up. Stayed there a few years then this all started. I signed up. Just before I left, I went back to the house to see my mum.’
‘Was your dad still there?’
‘Aye, he was. Looked a bit spooked when he saw me in my uniform. I told him if he ever hurt mam again, I’d kill him. He wasn’t so brave then. I hear from mam. She says things are all right. I’ll go back and check first chance I get. Bastard.’
-
The tank returned to the leaguer in the early afternoon. A quick lunch was followed by a series of maintenance checks on the tank. This, as Danny was to discover, was as essential as it was relentless. The tank was their protection, their carer, their home in the desert. Its functioning was essential for the safety of the unit.
All of the men had a role in ensuring everything from the engine to the tank tracks was in good working order. Danny realised that his acceptance into the group was born when they heard he’d been a ‘smithy’. His familiarity with the tensile qualities of metal meant that he could help replace damaged tracks and the already damaged armour.
The next few weeks in the camp allowed this acceptance to develop but, by now, Danny wanted respect to be forged in the heat of battle.
Life in the camp was strange. The war seemed to be somewhere else or, at least, someone else’s problem. But they were too busy making preparations to be bored. Unquestionably, though, war was turning out to be a little easier than Danny had anticipated. However while life at the camp was relatively untroubled by war, it was no more comfortable.
The flies and the sand made life miserab
le for all. Water was rationed to less than a gallon per man per day. Away from the camp, in the desert, it was limited to half a gallon. Through an elaborate system of filtering the daily ration sufficed for drinking, for washing, shaving and washing clothes. Private rationing combined with crew pooling ensured cooking utensils and plates could be washed. It was a different world from the NAAFi never mind the comforts he’d enjoyed in Little Gloston.
Sport was an important bulwark against the enervating effects of the heat. It maintained morale and discipline. Colonel Lister made it clear that everyone had to participate. As a result, football and cricket matches became a break from the regular chore of patrols, drill, tank maintenance and military exercises.
Danny joined one of the teams as a goalkeeper. In Little Gloston there’d been little opportunity to play football. He could ride horses, wrestle and run from angry farmers but anything involving a ball was beyond his frame of reference. Owing to his height, it was felt he might make a good ‘keeper.
Arthur, meanwhile, despite his age and less-than-athletic figure, volunteered to play outfield.
‘You know, the Hammers came to look at me play once. I’d have played for them, too,’ said Arthur to his team.
‘What happened?’ asked one soldier.
‘I was rubbish,’ replied Arthur, before bowing to the other soldiers who broke out laughing.
‘Every. Bloody. Time,’ laughed Danny, shaking his head. Danny marched forward and put Arthur into a gentle head lock before adding to the group of soldiers, ‘Is it too much to ask that we don’t give him the opportunity?’
By now, Arthur was helpless with laughter. Danny released him and the match began a minute or two later. Despite joking about his abilities, it was apparent to Danny that Arthur could actually play a bit. His first strike on goal went fizzing past Danny’s outstretched hand.
Joe Holmes turned and snarled at Danny, ‘You’re supposed to stop those, yokel.’
Danny ignored the jibe and pointed out, ‘Can’t stop what I can’t see.’ When he began to laugh at Arthur’s boisterous celebration, Holmes strode towards him threateningly. He jabbed his finger at Danny saying, ‘I don’t see what’s so bloody funny.’