Crusader (A Novel of WWII Tank Warfare)

by Jack Murray

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Where do I sign?’

  The two boys collapsed laughing in the cold night air. When they’d finished Manfred asked the next, obvious question.

  ‘But, my friend, I can’t help but notice you’re here. What happened?’

  Gerhardt looked a little crestfallen at this point.

  ‘I saw my friends signing up. It was too much for me. So I wrote to Herr Himmler, not you know who, and told him that I would join the army. He was very good. I got a letter from him a week later which asked me to contact him when I got back from the War. He also wanted to know the name of that blonde-haired clodhopper on the other side.’

  ‘Bastard,’ said Manfred laughing and throwing some punches towards his friends arm. Gerhardt was guffawing too much to care.

  They separated and went to their tanks. Manfred sat down and extracted a letter from a bag. It was from his father. The letter was two months old. He started to read it again. It made him feel happy to see his father’s voice on paper. His father wrote good letters. Long, gossipy and surprisingly frivolous as if he understood the soldiers need to read something, anything, when so far from home. There was little about his mother. That told its own story. The country’s confidence that they could win the War seemed to be on the wane. Like the last one, the suspicion was growing this would be a long, drawn-out affair.

  Kohler sat down beside him.

  ‘Good news?’

  Manfred laughed but there was a trace of bitterness there too.

  ‘My father says everything and very little at the same time. The Fuhrer tells us we’re winning the war.’

  ‘So we must be, then.’

  5

  Little Gloston, England, August 1941

  Stan Shaw’s arm ached like hell. From his elbow to his shoulder, he felt a stabbing pain from every strike of hammer on metal. Trails of sweat sneaked down his smoke-blackened face. What was he to do? He kept hammering away oblivious to the pain, oblivious to the heat of the forge, oblivious to the slow erosion of a way of life he had never questioned. The forge echoed to the sound of his hammer. He looked up, half expecting to see his boys. To see young Ben Desmond. Perhaps even Lord Robert.

  Mopping his brow, he set his hammer down and went to the water pump. The cold hit him like a blast after the heat of the forge. He looked overhead and wondered where summer was hiding. For a few minutes he pumped water into the sink and then drenched himself. The freezing water restored life to muscles that were groaning from the relentless pounding of his trade. Satisfied that he was clean, he made his way towards the cottage located beside the forge.

  The pathway was but a few yards, but it moved him from a smoky-grey atmosphere into a world of delicate pastel-hued flowers and birds chattering in trees. Hard to believe they were at war. Hard to believe the boys who used to play, wrestle and work around him were gone. The thought made him catch his breath. The War to end all wars; the War he’d fought; the War in which he’d seen lifelong friends killed had only been a prelude to something potentially much worse.

  The front door led directly into the kitchen. This was to enter more than a room; it was an escape from the worry that hung heavy in the air around him. The warmth of the kitchen was both physical and emotional for Stan. Beside the Aga cooker he’d lovingly restored years previously was his wife, Kate. There had been no other women in his life. There had been no need. A lifetime together bar the eighteen months when he was at war. The aroma in the kitchen was as welcoming for him as the smile on Kate’s face.

  ‘Something new?’ asked Stan.

  Her eyes narrowed and she went to hit him with the wooden spoon. This was his standard question to anything she cooked. He caught her arm which, in truth, was swung towards him with less-than-venomous velocity. Seconds later she was in an embrace which she made little effort to disengage from.

  Kate was unsure how long they were standing thus before they heard a gentle rapping on the open door. Stan broke off from holding Kate and was somewhat shocked to see the tall figure of Lord Henry Cavendish standing in the doorway. Standing beside him was his daughter. Her face managed the improbable feat of being both shocked and amused in equal measure.

  ‘Lord Cavendish. Lady Sarah.’

  ‘Hello, Mr Shaw,’ said Henry. ‘Sorry to interrupt,’ he added smiling. ‘Rather glad we didn’t arrive a few minutes later, truth be told.’

  By now Sarah was coughing and laughing at the same time. Henry glanced down at her and said grimly, ‘You’re not supposed to find that funny young lady.’

  Sarah Cavendish reddened immediately but the smile was impossible to contain. Stan and Kate looked at the young woman and apologised.

  ‘Please don’t,’ she replied. ‘I’m glad to see that it’s not just mum and dad who are like this.

  This brought an arch of Henry’s eyebrow that suggested his daughter’s views should be more circumspect, ideally unspoken. The Shaw’s invited their guests into the cottage.

  ‘I’m just doing a round of the village. I wanted to hear news of our boys.’

  Our boys thought Stan. More than just our boys, he realised. They belonged to the village. To a way of life.

  He looked at Henry. He’d watched him grow up, from being a quiet, rather distant boy, into a surly, very distant teenager before becoming a gentleman that his father and grandfather would have been desperately proud of. Young people: there was no telling, really, which way they would go.

  His daughter was the image of their mother, Jane. Tall, slender with fiery red hair and sea-green eyes. Like Henry, her youthful arrogance had made her distant and difficult to know. Over the last year however, the natural warmth from her mother’s side began to emerge as she herself became a young woman.

  ‘How is the young lord?’ asked Kate. For a moment she’d almost called him Robert, such was her familiarity with the young man.

  ‘At school, desperate to be eighteen so he can join up.’

  Henry shot Stan a glance. He saw the face of the older man darken.

  ‘What of Tom and Danny? Any news?’

  ‘Sit down, you’ll have some tea?’ asked Kate.

  The group sat down around the table that dominated the middle of the kitchen, like almost every other cottage in the village.

  ‘Both are in North Africa now, I think. Neither say very much,’ acknowledged Stan, ‘But it’s not difficult to read between the lines. Tom, if you remember, was on Crete before he got evacuated. He’s been fighting the Boche in North Africa, too.’

  Henry half-smiled at the term used by Stan. It had been common during the Great War; it seemed less so now. This was a different time. Young people wanted to do things their way. They seemed to speak a different language these days. He glanced at his daughter who was becoming both unrecognisable and yet someone he knew well. The narrative of her growth so matched her mother’s. He caught his breath sometimes, fearful for a future that seemed so uncertain.

  ‘He doesn’t say much about what they’ve done or where they are. I think he’s in Tobruk. His regiment went there over the summer.’

  Henry nodded but it was not good news. Tobruk was surrounded by the Germans and the summer’s operation to relieve the siege had failed. There was little he could say that was positive on the subject which would not betray his worry. He moved the subject on.

  ‘What of the men he’s with? I gather there are a lot of Australians there.’

  ‘Yes. No finer fighting men, sir. He talks a lot about them and the men he’s with. They’re a good bunch apparently. Not many bad apples. Mind you, they’ve been through a lot already. You find out a lot about a man in these situations.’

  ‘I imagine it’s a comfort to you to know he’s with men he trusts,’ said Henry.

  ‘It’s everything, sir,’ replied Stan.

  ‘From what I know of Tom, they’re lucky to have him.’

  The evident sincerity of Lord Cavendish’s words moved Kate Shaw and she fought hard to stop tears appe
aring in her eyes. Even the flinty features of Stan Shaw softened slightly. To hear such things about your son from a man whose opinion you value meant a lot at that moment.

  ‘And Danny? How’s he finding it?’

  Kate noticed that Sarah raised her head slightly. Thus far she’d said little beyond their greeting. She had been content to look down at the table. For a moment Sarah and Kate exchanged looks before Sarah turned to Stan.

  ‘Bit hot, I gather,’ chipped in Kate. ‘Too many flies.’

  They group laughed at this. Outside it was gun-grey overhead and summer was still sleeping.

  ‘He says that he’s not seen action yet. They spend all their time on patrols and maintenance. He can’t say anything, but I suspect that means they’ll be making a big push to relieve Tobruk,’ said Stan, tapping his pipe on the table and striking a match.

  ‘They certainly need to,’ replied Henry, nodding. ‘Does he know Tom may be there?’

  ‘We don’t know for certain, but he’ll know which regiments are there, I imagine,’ replied Kate. There was fear in her voice.

  ‘And the people he’s with?’ asked Henry, deftly moving the conversation onto more optimistic territory.

  Kate glanced at Sarah again. Her eyes were back on the table. Her hands locked together in a knuckles-white grip.

  ‘Mixed bunch from what I gather. Some of them he’s known since the camp at Thursley. Some of the others are a bit less friendly. They don’t accept newcomers easily.’

  ‘I suppose it’s understandable,’ said Henry.

  ‘I wrote as much to him, sir. Some of these blokes have lost their chums. They just want to get back at the Boche. Seeing newcomers arrive, none of them have a notion what they’re about to face. It’s unsettling and you’re resentful. You want to get back at them but you’re also afraid.’

  At this point Stan felt a gentle nudge in his ribs from Kate. He realised he was becoming more impassioned than he’d intended. He smiled sheepishly. Henry shook his head and smiled also.

  ‘I think I know enough of your son to say he’ll win them round. He has many admirable qualities. They both have. Any family would be proud of them.’

  Kate beamed with pride. She couldn’t have agreed with this assessment more. Stan nodded to Henry in gratitude.

  ‘Oh sir, you’ll be interested in one other piece of news from Danny. Not one you’ll be surprised by, I’ll warrant.’

  ‘Oh, what’s that?’ asked Henry, genuinely curious.

  ‘There’s a captain there who Danny thinks you might know. I gather he’s not thought of too highly by then men, though.’

  ‘Really who?’

  Stan told him.

  Henry sat back in his chair and whistled. This was not good news. He said, almost to himself, ‘I’d wondered where he would end up.’

  Sarah looked confused, ‘Who did you say?’

  Her father turned to her. He seemed troubled by the news. Finally, he smiled to her and said, ‘Captain Edmund Aston. Kit’s brother.’

  6

  Cairo, Egypt, September 1941

  Captain Edmund Aston rose from the bed and dressed. He looked down at the woman lying asleep and his lips curled into a smile. It was all so easy. Always had been. While the cat’s away, he murmured softly to himself. The woman began to stir. Finally, she opened her eyes and looked up at Aston.

  He was searching for his shirt when he turned around to face her. Such good looks, but she could not ignore the cruelty of the smile. Or was it contempt? She could hardly blame Aston because what it said about her was certainly no better. While she entertained this man in her house, a good man was at the front.

  Good, but oh so dull.

  Deadly, deadly dull. He’d kept her in a certain style. In return she’d given him two sons, both at Harrow. If not a dutiful wife, she’d certainly been a supportive one. At least one of his promotions had been earned through her thankfully unappreciated and uncommon creativity in managing his career. This resulted in him spending too much time away from home. Who could blame her if she sought company? This was not so often as to raise suspicion, but just enough to keep her feeling young and beautiful.

  Edmund Aston was the latest in a line of suitors who thought they were using her. Of course, she accepted, they were using her. This could work both ways. He was magnificent, though. A cad. A bounder. Whatever you wanted to call him, it was probably true and worse. But, my word, she thought, he was beautiful. A Greek god but certainly no angel. Nothing so boring. He knew secrets about her that would have induced a coronary in her husband.

  ‘Must you go?’ she asked, hoping the answer would be yes.

  ‘Yes, must dash,’ replied Aston curtly. ‘I have a polo match at the Gezira. Are you coming?’

  The answer to that question was a resounding no, thought the woman. You’re an amazing lover but I’m tired of you. Just leave now.

  ‘Do you mind if I don’t, darling? I don’t want people to talk.’

  ‘Do you really care what people think, Sandra?’

  Clearly you don’t, you bastard, thought Sandra.

  ‘As a matter of fact, Edmund, I do. It’s up to you whether you want to continue this,’ she paused for a moment to find the right word. Affair seemed inappropriate as it implied at least some degree of feeling on the part of both sides. She settled for something more accurate.

  ‘Liaison. But, if we’re to continue, it’s best that Freddie doesn’t get wind of things, don’t you think?’

  ‘I suspect you’re right, old girl. Mum’s the word,’ said Aston flashing a smile towards the bed.

  Yes, thought Sandra again. He’s magnificent. A magnificent bastard. She didn’t bother looking at him as he left the room.

  -

  Aston walked along the narrow street thronged with turbans, tarbooshes, khaki caps and black berets. The half million population of Cairo had been supplemented with tens of thousands of British troops. The smells fascinated Aston. He’d grown up with the smell of manure, having lived in the countryside, and spent a considerable amount of time on horseback. The odour of incense was an exotic addition which helped offset the less welcome smell of exhaust fumes.

  Much to his surprise, he loved Cairo. Quite apart from the fact it meant he was away from the desert and the war, the colours, smells and the teeming humanity was unquestionably as intoxicating as it was different from the rarefied world from which he had come. He missed England terribly, but oddly, not when he was in Cairo. It seemed that the parts of England he adored most had moved there with him. If only he could obtain the transfer he desperately sought, then life at war would prove to be a pleasantly diverting experience.

  A leisurely stroll followed by an equally leisurely breakfast meant it was much later that morning when he arrived at his destination. The sign outside read, The Gezira Sporting Club. Aston glanced up at the sandstone and rebrick façade. An Egyptian flag fluttered in the light breeze alongside the Union Jack. With only the barest hint of acknowledgement to the Egyptian doorman, Aston entered the sporting club and made his way to the bar. He always felt that his performance gained a little when he’d had a snifter or three pre match.

  He met up with a number of fellow officers from his own team and the opposition.

  ‘Great minds think alike, I see,’ said Aston upon arrival.

  ‘Cutting it a bit close old chap,’ said one lieutenant whose name he could never quite remember. In the club, rank was forgotten along with the reason they were all there in the first place. Discussion on the war was frowned upon, particularly as things had been going rather badly.

  ‘Putting a filly through her paces,’ replied Aston, a smile flickering on the side of his mouth.

  This brought roar from the assembled audience and he sensed them drawing closer to hear more.

  He took a sip from his gin and continues, ‘No longer a filly, if truth be told.’ More laughter. Aston warmed to his theme, ‘Knew her way round the track, to be fair.’ The laughter built as he finished
off his drink and nodded to the bar man for another.

  ‘How did she respond to the whip?’ asked one like-minded fellow officer.

  ‘Needed it in the home stretch to take us through to the finish line, old boy.’

  One officer at the bar turned away in anger. Lieutenant Turner listened in dismay as the officers bayed and guffawed at Aston. He turned back just in time to catch Aston’s eye. A sneer appeared on Aston’s lips.

  ‘You ready to take a beating, Turner old chap?’

  ‘We’ll see, Aston,’ replied Turner, rising from his seat. A smile appeared on Turner’s lips as he passed Aston. In fact, he was seething inside and desperate to get on the pitch and defeat a man he considered a scoundrel and possibly worse.

  ‘Don’t get his back up, Aston,’ shouted one officer as they all banged their tables in anticipation of the upcoming match and the clear rivalry between the two men.

  Aston made a face to his fellow team members as Turner walked past. This brought chortles from the men. They all began to rise. It was time to change and take to the field. The baying had ceased to be replaced by a murmur of excited chatter.

  They followed Turner out of the bar. Aston felt a hand clap him on the shoulder. This kind of familiarity irritated him immensely but he it was a bad show to display anything but good-fellowship. He looked at the Brigadier and forced a smile.

  ‘I get the feeling Turner doesn’t like you, old fellow.’

  ‘One too many defeats, methinks,’ replied Aston.

  ‘I would have thought you tank boys would be thick as,’ pointed out the Brigadier.

  ‘I’m cavalry and always will be,’ replied Aston. A few of the other men overheard Aston and cheered their approval. The Brigadier decided nothing good was likely to come from a chat. He withdrew with a heavy heart. An atmosphere like this in the bar was certain to be carried onto the pitch.

  When they reached the changing room, an Egyptian man dressed in a suit smiled as the officers streamed through. He caught the attention of the Brigadier.