Crusader (A Novel of WWII Tank Warfare)

by Jack Murray

  ‘How about your attempt pathetic attempt at defending, Holmes? Try tackling him you dolt. It’s not like he’s a small target.’

  ‘Leave it out,’ shouted Arthur from the halfway line. However, he was still in too much of a celebratory mood from scoring a goal to care.

  Afternoons such as this ensured the pain of defeat receded. As Colonel Lister had suspected, sport, the arrival of new tanks, men and supplies slowly did its job of rebuilding a regiment battered by failure and mourning the loss of comrades. The slow process began of integrating men as inexperienced in soldiering as they were unready to face a test such as the Afrika Korps. Fate had forced these disparate men together. Fighting would forge something akin to love.

  4

  Halfaya Pass, , Egyptian / Libyan border, August 1941

  ‘If I hear that song one more time,’ complained Manfred, ‘I’ll throw the damn radio in the air and take a machine gun to it.’

  Karl Overath looked at the young man, laughed and turned the radio up. Beside him Horst Kastner began singing a more ribald version of the song now playing on the radio, Lili Marlene. Even Manfred laughed as the song descended into an increasingly sordid conclusion. Kastner’s fine base baritone made a startlingly absurd contrast to the degeneracy of the subject matter. Laughing, though, was a business fraught with risk. He covered his mouth quickly lest one of the many flies decide to set up residence there.

  Another reason was that the two men outranked him, and they’d been in the desert for over six months. They knew the ropes. If anything was going to keep him alive, Manfred was sure it would be them.

  People like Sergeant Overath and Corporal Kastner were the core of the Afrika Korps. Between them they had nearly twenty years of experience in the army. The two men had come out on the first wave of Germans accompanying Rommel. Survivors of a dozen or more encounters with the enemy, Manfred had made it an article of faith to listen and learn from them.

  Overath was taller than Manfred with a face burned brown by the intense African sun. It made his blue eyes seem cold. The truth was very different. Like Corporal Kastner, Overath was warm in person, professional in conduct and effective in combat. The claustrophobic closeness of tank warfare required men that were more akin to brothers than comrades.

  Over the course of the year they had seen men come and go from their tank, some transferred to other commands, a few, very few in fact, were killed. The two men were accustomed to new arrivals and recognised the importance of integrating them quickly so that they worked not just as a unit but as a single organism.

  For the week that Manfred had been in the camp, he’d barely seen Gerhardt. He’d lived, eaten, worked and slept with the tank crew. From around six in the morning until late into the night, the other crew members drilled in the tank, familiarised themselves with everything to do with its maintenance. By nightfall, Manfred would collapse exhausted onto his mattress, welcoming sleep like an opium addict his next smoke.

  The two boys agreed contact should be limited, at least early on. Why give their other crew members in the tank ammunition for raillery? Why should men be any different from what they were in a school, in the Hitler Youth or at training camp? Manfred wanted no special treatment as much because he wanted their respect as the fact that he enjoyed such banter. It was an outlet. It was also a test. For the moment, Manfred wanted any examination of his fitness to share the tank to be based on his capability rather than on innuendo.

  His arrival at Gambut coincided with a pause in the day-to-day fighting. Germany had driven a wedge between the 9th Australian division at Tobruk and the rest of the Allies. The besieged garrison, however, was holding out from the regular attacks by the Axis forces. The occupation of the port of Tobruk was a massive thorn in the side of the Afrika Korps. Manfred would soon be part of any assault. For now, though, they were at Halfaya, on the border with Egypt.

  -

  ‘I’m bored,’ said Kastner. He looked up at the relentless sun and shielded his eyes.

  ‘Would you prefer to be out there?’ asked Overath, pointing across the empty valley towards the enemy position before adding, ‘Wetting your pants.’

  ‘Good point. Give me a cigarette,’ ordered the corporal to his sergeant. Manfred smiled and shook his head. He liked his two companions in the tank. There were few airs between them. They’d seen too much. Manfred knew better than to question them on what they’d done. Instead, he listened closely whenever either chose to speak about their experience. These were rare occasions and usually only when they were instructing the new recruit. The two other members of the tank crew were relatively new. They had arrived three months earlier, just when the Allies had tried to relieve Tobruk.

  The other two boys were a year or two older than Manfred. One was not very talkative, the other too much so. Initially, Manfred was drawn more to Overath and Kastner. He had more to learn from them. More than this, both men radiated self-assurance. This confidence was not based on mindless bravado. Their capabilities, their professional competence had already found expression in the harshest of climates against a resolute enemy. Manfred recognised, as he worked alongside these men, how little he really knew about war.

  Overath’s position as tank commander meant his position was in the turret of the tank. He took orders via his headphones from the head of the troop, Lieutenant Basler. The rest of the crew stayed below. Andreas Fischer was the driver. Although not especially big, he seemed to fill the tank in other ways. He liked the sound of his opinions and he expressed them often. His enjoyment of these beliefs was in marked contrast to that of his unfortunate listeners.

  Jens Kohler was as taciturn as Fischer was a blowhard. He was wiry and tireless. While Manfred did not especially take to him, he sensed that he was not a man to lose his head under pressure. His greatest value to the team was his ability as a mechanic. The Panzer III was fairly reliable, but it still required a good deal of maintenance. Kohler enjoyed the company of the engine more than human company. Neither Overath nor Kastner seemed minded to change his nature.

  Kastner operated the gun. Direct tank on tank conflict was rare, yet Kastner would have had some experience of it. Manfred was desperate to know more but he sensed in the big Austrian a reluctance not only to discuss this but, somewhere behind his eyes, a sadness. Sometimes he would see a look pass between the two men. It wasn’t doubt. They were here to do a job. One that needed to be finished quickly. But there was something there that Manfred knew he would soon experience himself.

  Kastner was clearly a man who merited his own tank. Manfred suspected this was only a matter of time. He had leadership qualities in abundance. These would be needed as the war in the desert progressed and men were lost. Manfred wondered how Overath would cope when that time came.

  If he survived long enough.

  Fischer was from Bavaria. He was never going to be mistaken for anything other than an Aryan. Movie star looks combined with an arrogance that bordered on caricature, his own sense of destiny weighed heavily on the shoulders of his tank comrades. Manfred had never felt entirely comfortable around such people. His own nature, while not particularly shy, was more reserved. Or, perhaps, he felt, as he often did with Erich, a sense of resentment towards such confidence.

  It was clear neither Overath nor Kastner liked Fischer particularly. But, equally, they trusted him. Young men such as Fischer had a look in their eyes which was nothing to do with patriotic fervour and everything to do with ambition.

  Fischer saw himself as command material. However, to gain the promotion that he craved required a combination of bravery, competence and something else. You needed a survival instinct. Overath and Kastner had all of these qualities, and in Fischer they recognised a similar spirit. Perhaps in Manfred, too. But Manfred saw they were each amused by Fischer’s preening ego. They tolerated him because, in their early fire fights, he’d shown something to them which was nothing to do with fearlessness, or cold-blooded killer instincts.

  Quite simply, he co
uld be relied upon.

  This was the only type of acceptance Manfred sought now. To be recognised by such men as one of them. His status as Fahnenjunker meant nothing when sat with men who had engaged the enemy. Fischer was also a Fahnenjunker, and had graduated from the same academy as Manfred, four months earlier. In fact, they had just missed one another.

  Manfred was expected to perform a number of roles in during this period. To begin with he was trained up as the wireless operator. His role was to coordinate what was happening with the other tanks in the unit. However, when they did eventually engage the enemy, it was likely he would be a loader. This position occupied the turret with Overath and Kastner.

  More than anything now, he wanted the opportunity to test himself in combat. The stigma of his reaction to Lothar’s death burned deep. His death played out in the recurring dream. Only through battle would he find the atonement he sought, not from other men, but from himself.

  For now he was the new boy and he was made to feel it. Overath and Kastner, in particular, directed a steady tirade of insults in his direction. The humour rarely rose above crude and Manfred never took offence. He recognised it as a conditioning of sorts as well as a sign of their acceptance.

  -

  ‘Don’t move,’ whispered Overath one morning.

  ‘What do you mean?’ breathed Manfred.

  Overath pointed to a scorpion on Manfred’s makeshift pillow. Out of the corner of his eye Manfred saw the malevolent black shape. His face froze and he turned white with fear.

  ‘One sting from that,’ said Overath. He motioned with his hand across his neck. The meaning all too clear.

  ‘Kill it,’ urged Manfred.

  ‘Shhh,’ replied Overath, finger to lips.

  By now, Kastner, Fischer and Overath were looking on. Concern etched over all three faces. For a minute they all sat around Manfred in silence. This became too much for Manfred.

  ‘What’s happening?’ he whispered.

  ‘It’s sleeping, I think,’ said Fischer.

  Kohler began coughing at this point while the others shushed him. He ducked his head away while his coughing fit continued.

  ‘Can’t you use a stick to swat it away?’ asked Manfred, now thoroughly confused at the inactivity of the others.

  ‘Too risky,’ said Kastner. ‘They’re too quick. It could sting you before Fischer has swiped it away.’

  ‘Me?’ said Fischer, somewhat put out. ‘I’m damned if I’m doing it. You do it.’

  Kastner pointed to the insignia indicating his rank.

  A stick was produced from nowhere and handed to Fischer. Overath looked meaningfully at the young driver and put an arm on his shoulder. Fischer nodded and looked seriously at Manfred. By now Manfred was frantic but equally desirous not to show this. Through gritted teeth he snarled, ‘Get a move on.’

  Fischer slowly moved to the rear of the scorpion, gently lowered his stick onto the pillow. Then with a jerk he flipped the scorpion onto Manfred’s face and screamed.

  Manfred screamed also and bolted up beating his face and chest to get rid of the fearsome beast that was about to kill him.

  The fearsome, and very dead beast.

  It had expired some weeks previously. This critical fact was unknown to Manfred. In fact, the scorpion had changed hands many times having been used in a series of practical jokes around the camp over the previous week. Victims were sworn to silence. This had been Manfred’s turn.

  Manfred stared down at the deceased arachnid. Finally he looked up, grinned sheepishly at his comrades who were in varying states of hysteria and uttered one word.

  ‘Bastards.’

  -

  Lieutenant Basler walked through the row of tanks and called the men to make ready. Overath spied the Lieutenant making his way along the thin strip separating the two rows of twenty five tanks. He glanced at Kastner who had also noticed Basler’s arrival.

  ‘Holiday’s over, boys,’ said the sergeant, throwing a cigarette to the ground. The others needed no other instruction. They were on their feet and standing to attention as Basler passed them. It was clear that both Overath and Kastner were keen not to get on the wrong side of the SS lieutenant. Manfred wondered why he was not in his own separate regiment. Various hypotheses had been proposed, the most popular of which was that he was there to keep an eye on the men and inform senior officers of any dissension in the ranks. The reality was that the rest of the detachment had been killed a few months previously. He’d neglected to ask to be transferred back to Germany.

  With a click of his fingers and a jerk of his thumb, Manfred and the tank crew immediately climbed onto the tank or entered via the hatch. Manfred crawled down the body of the tank to the bow where the wireless was situated. His position was front and right in the tank. He had plenty of room, and it was not uncomfortable, at least on short journeys.

  His only concern, unvoiced, was the lack of an escape hatch. Both he and Fischer were particularly at risk. They were situated to the front and exposed to any shells that were fired within close range. The lack of a quick escape hatch was an additional point of vulnerability. However, the armour at the front was thirty millimetres thick. This was more than enough to stop bullets from any range and shells from at least a kilometre or more away. Manfred avoided thinking about what happened in closer combat. If the men operating the anti-tank guns did their job the Allied tanks would not get so close. Even when they managed to get closer, the Mark III and Mark IV tank guns outranged them.

  Despite their close proximity in the tank, the two boys did not communicate much during exercises beyond relaying information or instructions. Manfred was surprised by this initially. His initial overtures towards friendship were unreciprocated. He gave up by the second day. There would be no comradely friendship in the manner of Overath and Kastner. Manfred was fine with this even if it was disappointing.

  Overath and Kastner sat in the cupola of the tank. Overath, the tank commander, rested on the cupola, the small turret set on top of the main turret. The position was relatively exposed, but he was fortunate in that he had almost a three hundred and sixty degree view from this position when not in combat. Kastner, as gunner, sat forward and below Overath.

  The two men, unlike Manfred and Fischer, kept up an ongoing conversation throughout any manoeuvres, none of which was complimentary to the other tanks, their driving or their combat effectiveness. Manfred enjoyed the show immensely, but Fischer and Kohler had long since grown tired of it.

  The tank patrol drove out along the edge of the escarpment that was Halfaya Pass. The pass ran from the near the Mediterranean Sea down through Egypt. Situated close to the Libyan border, the pass represented a natural block to any attempt by the Allies to thrust forward into Libya. The only way of taking the pass was through directly assaulting or to outflanking it. The former risked a high cost to life, the latter meant that supply lines would be stretched, and a wedge could be driven between any attacking forces.

  The strategic importance of the pass was recognised by both sides. For the moment it lay in the hands of the Afrika Korps. The landscape was hilly, rocky and barren. No greater contrast could be found to the beautiful green valleys of Germany from where Manfred had come. This was alien. The heat, the flies, the people all seemed to hail from a different world.

  Manfred understood the importance of gaining victory in the desert. It would open the road to the badly needed oil reserves in the Middle East. Every soldier in the Afrika Korps realised that without oil the war engine would slowly grind to a halt. All the more reason for their exasperation with Hitler’s decision to invade Russia the previous month. At a stroke he had depleted their forces and armour. It showed clearly where Hitler’s priorities lay, and it was certainly not North Africa. None of the men in the crew appeared to have much time for the Fuhrer, although open mockery was frowned upon by Overath, fearful of repercussions from others in the camp, particularly from Lieutenant Basler.

  Another day passed patrolling
the perimeter of the camp.

  At dusk they climbed out of the tank, weary and hungry, knowing they still had a couple of hours to check the tank, ensure its travel-worthiness for the next day when they would repeat what they had done the previous day.

  When at last they had completed the required checks, Manfred went to cook for them. Kastner, meanwhile, reached for the wireless set and turned it on. After twiddling the with frequencies for a minute Kohler came across Marlene Dietrich singing, ‘Lili Marlene’. In English. Grins erupted around the wireless.

  ‘Not that again. Has anyone got a gun?’ asked Manfred.

  Overath and Kastner roared with laughter then turned up the volume of the wireless and began to sing along in German. Even Fischer smiled.

  And so, ended a day that would repeat itself for three long, stultifying months in the desert as the Allied and the Axis forces seemed to agree, in an odd breakthrough for humanity, that it was simply just too hot to fight.

  -

  ‘Do you remember that cup final?’ asked Gerhardt.

  ‘You were lucky,’ replied Manfred sourly.

  Oddly, Gerhardt didn’t disagree on this. Despite his ultra-competitive nature he was, at least, honest about things that mattered. And football mattered. Even in the kickabouts here, both Manfred and Gerhardt stood out although the standard was quite high.

  ‘Do you know that after that match,’ continued Gerhardt, ‘A man came over to me. He said he was from Schalke.’

  ‘Schalke? Bloody hell.’

  ‘I know. He said there was a war coming but I could get out of it if I joined them.’

  Manfred looked at Gerhardt in surprise. There was a trace of jealousy, too. They’d both played in this match. Why hadn’t Schalke invited him to play for them? Probably because Gerhardt was a better player. He hated to admit this, but it was true.