Crusader (A Novel of WWII Tank Warfare)

by Jack Murray

  ‘Sir, the umpires are waiting outside. The match is due to begin now.’

  ‘Tell them they can bloody well wait all day as far as we’re concerned. We’ll be out when we’re out.,’ interjected Aston before the Brigadier could reply.

  ‘Here, here,’ said one of the officers. The Brigadier merely raised his eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders to the downcast Egyptian. He glanced at Aston as he walked past him and shook his head.

  -

  Aston led his team out towards the backline where the Egyptian grooms were looking after the ponies. He was the team captain by virtue of having the highest handicap. The only other player on the pitch with a handicap approaching his was Turner. The other three players had lower handicaps which matched in aggregate that of the opposing team.

  Overhead the sky was blue and cloudless. A slight breeze blew in Aston’s face. Aside from the heat, it could have been in England. Then he looked at the grooms and a fairly motley selection of ponies. Perhaps not. He climbed on his horse with barely a nod at the groom who had been holding him for the previous half an hour, melting in the heat, while they waited for the players to emerge.

  The noise of a plane overhead caused a stir amongst the ponies. Aston didn’t bother looking up. He patted the neck of his horse and said, ‘Easy boy.’

  The groom handed him a mallet and Aston trotted forward making some cursory warmups by swinging the polo stick round and round. He arrived at the halfway line and lined up in front of Turner.

  ‘Been waiting long?’ asked Aston innocently. A half-smile following this question.

  Turner ignored him but could not avoid hearing the laughter from Aston’s colleagues. He gripped his mallet tightly and tried to calm himself through his breathing. Moments later the umpire in the striped shirt threw the ball into the middle. It barely hit the green turf before it was lost in a melee of clashing sticks, flailing arms and a hailstorm of hooves.

  Moments later Edmund Aston was charging forward, his arm wind-milling to hit the ball. He was clear of the chasing pack. One more swing would see the ball through the posts. He drew his arm back, and his arm began its downward descent, a mallet hooked into his. The crack of the sticks seemed deafening. Seconds later he had overrun the ball and a mad scramble began to recover it.

  Aston glared angrily at Turner, who had denied him a clear scoring opportunity. Turner grinned and then took off in pursuit of the ball. With an oath, Aston kicked after the group who were disappearing up the pitch. However, he stopped as he saw one of his teammates bumping Turner from the line of the ball.

  ‘That’s it, Basil, well done,’ shouted Aston. A few moments later the ball whistled past him and he gave chase. This time he made no mistake, carefully flicking the ball forward and sent it calmly between the posts.

  Cheers went up from the watching crowd, most of whom were entirely neutral and intent on getting completely drunk. The game restarted to the sound of two planes overhead.

  -

  By the fourth and final chukka, the match was all square. The temperature on the field had risen dramatically, however. The bad blood between Aston and Turner spilled over and infected the other team members. Several incidents shocked, or entertained, the crowd depending on the level of drink consumed. The Brigadier watched grimly as officers from the British Army seemed more intent on inflicting injury on their opposite numbers than the Afrika Korps.

  He didn’t have to look too far to see where the blame lay. Once more Edmund Aston crossed the line of the ball which, in theory, incurred a penalty. However, his blatant disregard for both the rules of the game and its etiquette had gone mostly unpunished by the Egyptian umpire. Had it been any other player, the Brigadier would have been shocked. But not from Aston.

  An unthinkable idea rose in the Brigadier’s mind. Unthinkable yet where Aston was concerned it was a possibility that could not be ignored. Had he bribed the officials to turn a blind eye to his team’s infractions?

  The Brigadier had known Aston for eighteen months or more. He was a regular patron of the Gezira when on leave and an outstanding polo player. However, there was another side to the captain. Rumours of his indecent activities had spread. The Brigadier was no prude. He knew soldiers. They liked a drink. They liked the company of women. A trip to Sisters Street was one thing but Aston’s knavery included carousing with the wives of men who were out in the desert. Was Aston the sort of man to bribe an official? Sadly, thought the Brigadier, his lordship was entirely capable of such wickedness.

  As this thought was crossing his mind the Brigadier saw Turner and Aston hurling obscenities in each other’s direction. All around the Brigadier, the was crowd lapping it up. The stream of violations by Aston seemed to provoke admiration rather than approbation. His dismay at the crowd’s reaction turned to anger when he heard one officer, already half-sozzled by gin, proclaim, ‘If we’d Edmund running the show, we’d have kicked Rommel’s arse out of Tripoli long ago.’

  This was met with a round of ‘here, here’s’ from men that did not know better. The British Army’s reward for this combination of arrogance and stupidity was to give them command. Little wonder Rommel had steamrollered his way to Egypt, just like he had through France.

  The Brigadier turned away from the match and limped downstairs. His polo playing days had ended a year ago after his first encounter with the Italian Folgore regiment. Unlike many of Italians, this regiment had never surrendered. The resulting fight had been bitterly contested and had given the British an inkling, soon confirmed by the arrival of Rommel, that victory in the North African theatre was not a foregone conclusion.

  As he descended the stairs, he heard another roar and then laughter. Yes, thought Brown, a quiet word with the two gentlemen concerned was needed. There could be no lingering bad feeling when they all returned to the garrison at El Alamein.

  -

  Turner strode into the changing room followed by his team. He thought about heading to his team’s side of the changing room, but the raucous sound of laughter echoing in the changing room drew him like a moth towards the flame. He heard Aston joking sotto voce with his teammates and a few other officers who’d come down to offer their congratulations. He guessed the subject of their hilarity. Turner was fighting a losing battle against self-control.

  Aston looked up as Turner approached him. He could see the burning rage in the lieutenant’s eyes. He put a cheroot to his lips and smiled at his defeated opponent.

  ‘Glad to see you’ve come to offer your congratulations, Turner.’

  ‘Congratulations,’ spat Turner. ‘Don’t give me that, Aston. What you did out there was nothing short of a__’

  Turner stopped short as he saw ten pairs of eyes on him. He realised that to go further would move their dispute into dangerous territory. His face was red from the sun, the anger white hot within him. A slow smile spread onto the face of Aston. He was goading him into an indiscretion that would cost him his career. The man knew no depths. Turner’s rage had reached the point of explosion.

  ‘You were saying, old chap?’ replied Aston, coolly. His eyes never left Turner’s. He was enjoying things immensely.

  Silence descended in the changing room. The ticking of the clock on the wall echoed around the changing room. Then one of Turner’s team came over and gently took the arm of the lieutenant. Turner glared at Aston and then his acolytes, each in turn. He made no attempt to disguise the contempt he felt for all of them.

  The tug on his arm became more insistent. Finally, he nodded to Aston and turned around. His departure was accompanied by stifled laughter. Lieutenant Crickmay, the man who had come to take him away said, ‘You were close to something you would have regretted.’

  ‘I’d love two minutes with that man, alone.’

  ‘You’d have to join a long queue, I suspect.’

  The two men went to the other side of the changing room to join the rest of the team. They were all exhausted from their efforts on the field.

  ‘Sorry, m
en,’ said Turner. ‘I let you all down.’

  ‘No, you didn’t, Jeff,’ said one of the team. ‘You can’t play against that. I don’t know what match the umpire was looking at.’

  ‘Absolute disgrace,’ said another.

  ‘You should lodge a formal complaint. From what I could see Aston’s play was outrageous,’ said Crickmay, ‘and I, for one, would like to know more about what that umpire was up to. I wouldn’t be surprised if…’

  Turner shot Crickmay a look, then smiled.

  ‘It sounds like you’ll say something I might regret, Arthur. But, for what it’s worth, I’m thinking exactly the same.’

  Crickmay grinned ruefully. The other men smiled also. The moment passed. It was some consolation, albeit scant, that Aston’s behaviour could not go unnoticed by top brass, a point made forcibly by Crickmay afterwards. His disregard for fair play and civilised conduct on the field, agreed Turner, signalled an absence of character that would certainly be revealed in more critical situations. He felt for all of the men under Aston’s direct command. He was one of them.

  The men changed in a grim silence. They heard the sound of footsteps approaching. A sergeant saluted them. Turner’s heart sank. He had suspected the matter was not going to finish when the match ended. The look on the face of the sergeant confirmed this.

  ‘Lieutenant Turner, sir. The Brigadier wishes to see you immediately, sir.’

  Turner nodded and quickly knotted his tie. Then he followed the sergeant around to the other side of the changing room. At least, he realised, it wasn’t going to be just him.

  Their arrival was greeted with hoots of laughter from Aston’s team and friends. It was clear, however, Aston was less happy about the situation.

  ‘Do you want some books to put down the back of your trousers?’ said one wag, causing boisterous laughter.

  ‘Give it a break, St John,’ replied Aston grimly. His eyes never left Turner’s. Animosity poured from them like lava. The two men followed the sergeant out of the changing room and up a few flights of stairs to an office. The sergeant knocked then held the door open for the two men who entered. The door closed behind them.

  A grin broke out on the face of the sergeant. He stood to attention in front of the door, as close as possible, so that he could hear every word spoken.

  -

  Aston took one look at the face of the Brigadier as he entered. Any hope that this would be a mild rap on the knuckles from an ordinarily mild-mannered officer was quickly dispelled. The Brigadier’s face was like thunder. In fact, Aston had never seen him look so angry. He immediately stood to attention and saluted. It had been a long time since he had acted this way in front of him.

  Aston’s belated action caused a further wave of contempt in the angry officer. At this moment he realised, in a moment of epiphany, that the Brigadier was no one’s fool, especially not for any half-arsed nobleman masquerading in officer’s clothes. He glared at Aston and then at Turner. He felt some sympathy towards Turner. The on-field provocation had been almost unendurable.

  Almost. The Brigadier’s opening sally set the tone.

  ‘That is the worst display of behaviour I have seen on any sporting field in my life.’

  ‘Even if you hadn’t been officers in His Majesty’s Armed Forces, it would have been the worst display of,’ he paused for a moment; the word ‘cheating’ hung in the air like a malodourous stench, but this would have raised the temperature to dangerously high levels, even for him

  ‘Gamesmanship, Aston. A naked, blatant and frankly, disgraceful disregard for the spirit of this game.’

  Aston blanched and was about to reply when one look from the enraged officer silenced him. This was not the right time. However, his mind thought furiously about how to turn the situation to his advantage and stick a twelve inch boot into the softer part of Turner at the same time.

  ‘And you Turner, acting like a petulant child. Complaining at anything and everything happening on the field.’

  There was no mistaking the rage in Turner’s eyes. The sense of injustice. Yes, he had been provoked but the manner he had dealt with the baiting by Aston had not been becoming of his position in the army. Turner almost had to bite his tongue to avoid confirming the Brigadier’s assessment of his behaviour.

  He stared up at both men as if daring them to say something. Neither did so. This was a relief. It meant they had understood the seriousness of the situation and, hopefully, how much their conduct had let their regiment down.

  ‘I have cancelled both your remaining leave. In your case, Aston, that was two days. You had three, I believe, Turner. I will also send a brief report to Lieutenant-Colonel Lister. He can deal with you as he sees fit. Dismissed.’

  The Brigadier rose from his desk after the two men departed. He went to the window and looked out onto the grounds of the club. What should have been a fun occasion, one where everyone could let off steam had descended into something ugly. The behaviour of Aston, in particular, went against everything he believed in. That Turner had been caught up in the crossfire was partially his own fault but what man could have stood by and accepted such a violent disregard for rules? His report to Lister would, at least, reflect where the weight of blame lay. He doubted it would be news to the colonel.

  Aston and Turner glared at one another outside the office. Aston could see the hatred in Turner’s eyes and realised that had this been anywhere else, Turner would have been on him at that moment. However, Aston was seething, too.

  He’d intended using this period in Cairo to press his suit to return to a non-frontline posting. This had been shot down in flames. And all because of this jumped up lieutenant who couldn’t take a bit of argy-bargy on a polo field. Instead, Turner’s acting like a cry baby had merely drawn attention to the more robust approach to winning by Aston. He felt like screaming at the jumped up excrescence before him.

  It wasn’t going to end here, though, thought Aston. He’d bide his time and extract a full settlement for the inconvenience Turner had caused him. In the meantime, he’d have to get Lister back on side before trying his luck again with Cairo; perhaps in autumn.

  The two men’s steps echoed along the corridor. Neither spoke. Hatred had ceased to wind its tendrils around them. Now they were connected like blood brothers where revenge was a promise and death the reward.

  7

  Cairo, Egypt, September 1941

  Arthur stared at the beer Danny had placed in front of him. The dew glistened on the cold glass. Anticipation and desire met in an almost sordid longing in Arthur’s eyes. Danny smiled at his friend as he drank in the vision of the amber liquid. A smile creased his lips and he glanced at Danny. Even Danny had not taken a sip yet, fascinated by the quasi-religious experience his friend was undergoing. Slowly, Arthur wrapped his fingers around the glass and lifted. Danny raised his glass also and they clinked.

  Arthur poured the liquid down his throat greedily, clearing half the glass on his first sip. He let the glass fall heavily onto the table but was careful not to spill a drop.

  ‘Well?’ asked Danny.

  ‘’Tastes like camel piss. Right now, I don’t care.’

  Danny laughed as Arthur necked the rest of the drink. Then Arthur threw some coins onto the table.

  ‘Go on, get us another.’

  ‘It’s your turn,’ said Danny.

  Arthur pointed to the barmaid. She was around thirty and French.

  ‘She’ll serve you long before she looks at me. That’s an order, Private Shaw.’

  ‘Yes, Private Perry,’ laughed Danny.

  Danny finished off his beer and stood up. He surveyed the bar. It was crowded, full of servicemen, all British as far as he could see. The only local people in the bar were women. Danny didn’t see any Egyptian men. Among the British, there weren’t many officers. This type of bar was for the men in the ranks. A smoke haze made Danny’s eyes water momentarily. The noise was deafening. Danny could hear a radio playing music from a Forces station. Dan
ce band music played, and a few brave souls attempted to dance. The rest were here to drink.

  Danny and Arthur were not here to drink. At least not just to drink. Another couple of beers and both were ready to take their leave from the bar. The beers were meant to be a reminder, but the taste was nothing they recognised let alone enjoyed. They moved through the crowd and the noise to the exit and then out into the afternoon.

  The autumn air was harsh and charged with something more than an electrical current. They walked past heaving cafes where music played, soldiers swayed and mixed with locals in a friendly then not so friendly dance of cultures. Unseen and unuttered was the feeling that they were not welcome here. Danny sensed it before the third beer desensitised him.

  The two men stood at the sea front and let the flush of wind bathe them. The flies were here, of course, but not so many and not so aggressive. More aggressive were the beggars. Danny resisted initially but sometimes the sight of a mother with a baby strapped to her back found a way through his guard.

  ‘Where to now?’ asked Danny.

  Arthur affected a plummy voice, ‘I thought we’d have a snifter down at the Fleet Club with Binky, Bunty and…’

  Danny’s laughter drowned out the final name which concluded his coarse rhyme. As they walked, they spied traders on the street. They picked up some local garb and tried it on in the street. They both looked ridiculous if the reaction of the local populace was anything to go by. They joined in the general merriment.

  Their laughter was unforced, joyous and full of the life they felt. They knew that soon, and for a long time, the chance to enjoy the cold, soft blueness of the water would no longer be possible. It would be replaced by the harsh glare of the sun, and the sandpaper sensation of dirty clothes on your skin

  -

  ‘Are you going to Sisters Street?’ asked Arthur later as they walked away from the market. His eyebrow was arched and there was a sly smile on his face. ‘you might meet the love of your life.’