Crusader (A Novel of WWII Tank Warfare)

by Jack Murray

  ‘Hey Craig, have you ever been to Their Labia?’ asked Danny.

  Craig shot Danny a look but there was a broad grin on his face.

  ‘Many times, son. More than I can remember. I didn’t stay long mind you. Flying visit so to speak.’

  The tank rocked to more than just the bumps on the track.

  ‘I’m sure the place will be delighted to have you back.’

  ‘I’m always welcome,’ said Craig with a wink. ‘As a matter of fact it’s called Thalatia dummy. Not many know this, but it was home to several Pharaohs; Ramses lived there.’

  ‘Ramses?’ asked Danny, affecting a public school accent, ‘Is he of the Hertfordshire Boggy Bottom Ramses’?’

  ‘No, you’re thinking of Tutankhamun’s cousin,’ replied Craig.

  ‘What was his name again?’ asked Danny, stroking his chin in thought.

  ‘Neville.’

  ‘That’s right. He played right back for Bury before the War.’

  ‘Have you two finished?’ asked Reed although there was smile on his face as he said it. Craig rolled his eyes and Holmes smirked at the ticking off.

  Danny returned his gaze to the periscope and looked around him. It was quite a sight. The whole squadron was on the move. They were in an arrowhead formation. Danny’s tank was part of the B Squadron led by Major Miller. They were on the right of the trident with Captain Longworth’s A Squadron at the point and C Squadron, led by Major Laing, to the left. The tanks were twenty five yards apart and travelling at twelve miles per hour. Visibility was good as the hard surface stopped much sand flying up. Danny could see that all of the tanks were hatches open with all of the individual commanders visible.

  -

  ‘There’s something about the way army life strips you of your dignity,’ said Arthur. ‘You lose a sense of yourself. There are no individuals. Just a collective. I no longer exist. I’m just part of one big, impersonal machine.’

  ‘Really? What makes you say that? asked Danny.

  Arthur zipped up his flies. Moments later, Danny zipped up his flies, too. There were around thirty men, standing in a line facing away from the tanks, likewise engaged in a similarly natural function.

  ‘Just a feeling, son. Just a feeling.’

  They strolled back in the direction of the tanks.

  Overhead the sky was cerulean blue. A few clouds lolled around lazily looking for shade. It was not a day for hard graft. Danny was transfixed by the sky. It seemed so vast, so blue, so clear.

  ‘Difficult to credit it’s September.’

  Sweat was trickling down his forehead and heat bounced off the hard sand making it seem like they were standing by an open oven. Danny followed the single cloud, observing its slowly silent progress into the distance. A dark spot appeared to the left of the cloud. It was barely visible, but it was a break in the blue.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Danny but the shouts were already coming from the leaguered tanks forty yards away.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Arthur and grabbed Danny’s arm. The two men began to run.

  ‘Not so fast, Danny-boy,’ shouted Arthur.

  ‘What?’ shouted Danny, who was a few yards ahead of Arthur.

  ‘I need cover,’ laughed Arthur.

  Danny’s suitably pithy response was lost in the sounds of shouting in the leaguer. Hundreds of eyes were now glued to the western sky as the speck grew larger. The sound and the shape of the plane became apparent. It was a Junker Ju 88. A fighter-bomber. Fast and mobile, it was a constant threat in the North African campaign.

  Panic rising, Danny realised he wouldn’t reach the tanks before the Ju 88 made its first pass. The sound of the aircraft’s engines was no longer a buzz. It was a roar. The plane was now diving over the tank squadron. Men scrambled for cover. Others clambered onto the turrets to man the machine guns. Machine guns began to chatter overhead. The Ju 88’s guns sent a stream of rounds that tore the air asunder.

  Danny hit the ground and felt the ground rock as Arthur dived down beside him with his hands over his head.

  ‘Can’t even take a quiet leak these days,’ complained the Londoner.

  The machine guns mounted on the tanks only had a two second window to hit the target. The Ju 88 passed overhead and into the distance. Danny rose, pulling Arthur up with him. All around him, other men who had been relieving themselves did likewise and were soon running towards the relative safety of the tanks.

  They reached the tanks just as the Ju 88 was banking. The squadron held its collective breath. Then, with a sense of relief, they saw the aircraft heading away. The German pilot was no more up for a fight than they were. What was the point? He couldn’t stop the tank convoy and he was risking his life and, more importantly as far as his commanders were concerned, the aircraft in a futile gesture.

  What he had done was empty a part of his magazine. He’d be able to brag about it to his fellow pilots back at the airfield. Tanks were spotted. Tanks were engaged. Yes, I will have another tot of brandy, Heinrich. Thanks, old chap.

  Danny arrived back at his tank as Major Miller came past with Captain Aston.

  ‘Anybody hurt?’ asked the captain in manner that suggested that not only did he not care but it was probably your own damn fault. Even Miller looked at him with a degree of surprise.

  Reed glanced at Danny before confirming there were no casualties. The two officers continued on to the next tank. Moments later Holmes spoke.

  ‘Right, I’m off.’

  He started heading in the direction of the open air latrine.

  ‘Feeling a bit nervous, then, Holmesy,’ shouted Craig.

  Holmes did not reply. His riposte was confined to a hand gesture that suggested Craig should focus his attention closer to home.

  An hour later Captain Aston swung by. He was smoking a cheroot. Like many of the officers, he was wearing corduroy trousers, suede boots and a colourful paisley cravat. Standard uniform requirements in the desert were a little more relaxed than Danny had expected. Aston seemed to take a particular pride in flouting what little regulation was imposed in desert dress.

  Reed immediately stood to attention, but Danny sensed a wariness in him also.

  ‘At ease,’ drawled Aston, still holding the cheroot in his mouth. Finally he removed it and flicked some ash away before replacing it.

  ‘You’ll no doubt be as delighted to hear as I am that we have to do some patrols in the area. The 7th Hussars are due to make contact tomorrow. We have to make sure that Jerry hasn’t got any nasty surprises lying in wait.’

  ‘When do we leave, sir?’ asked Reed.

  ‘Are you filled up?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘We leave in ten minutes.’

  Thanks for the warning thought Danny. The look on Reed’s face stony rage. The sergeant didn’t have to say anything. The crew were clearing up and had packed away their cooking utensils. Three minutes later, they were inside the tank with Craig and Felton cranking their twenty tonne home into action.

  The engine started just as Reed heard over his radio the order from Miller.

  ‘Drivers advance.’

  -

  Twenty four hours later, B Squadron made contact with the 7th Hussars and led them to the leaguer occupied by 6th RTR. Danny watched as Lieutenant-Colonel Lister came out to greet his counterpart from the Hussars, Lieutenant-Colonel Byass. They and the other senior officers immediately made for Lister’s tent to escape the violence of the afternoon sun unleavened by any breeze.

  The arrival of the Hussars also brought some welcome news in the form of mail from the outside world. They were brought round by one of the more colourful characters in the regiment, Lieutenant Crickmay. The last time Danny had seen him was in Cairo. Like Captain Aston, his dress sense was as singular as his desire not to have war intrude on him enjoying life. The tank crews grouped round Crickmay.

  ‘You’re in luck. The Hussars managed to catch the mail plane, so we have a few weeks for you to catch up on, except you Holm
es. You’re even less popular at home than you are here.’

  The men started laughing, even Holmes.

  ‘Only kidding,’ laughed Crickmay. ‘Actually I’ve no idea if you’ve had any post or not. If not, apologies old chap. I think you’re wonderful.’

  Longing for news from home was insatiable. The radio provided bulletins on the what was happening in Britain. The mail was the chance to hear the voices of their loved ones, albeit on paper. Sometimes this was bittersweet. Danny had heard cases of letters arriving to crewmen from family members who had been killed in the devastating attacks on the country before the letters had arrived in North Africa.

  There were a couple of letters for Danny. The second one was in handwriting he didn’t recognise. He ripped open his mother’s letter first. Inevitably it was written, for the most part, by Kate Shaw but his father, Stan, had added a postscript. Danny scanned through the letter and, once again, marvelled at how much space his mother devoted to questions around food. Come German bullets and shells do your worst, thought Danny. God forbid, though, the British army should fail to feed Kate Shaw’s boy well.

  Stan asked no questions. He knew Danny would not be allowed to make even the most innocuous of responses. Instead he confined himself to telling Danny that he was in his thoughts and that he believed he would see him and Tom again soon. Danny found his eyes stinging as he read the simple, heartfelt feelings of a man who had buried such emotions along with his friends decades before.

  There was some news of Tom. It seemed he was in Tobruk and doing well, based on their last communication from the middle of summer. No allusion was made to the failure of Operation Battleaxe, the previous attempt at relieving Tobruk which had ended in failure just as Danny arrived in North Africa.

  Danny opened the second letter, curious as to who else might have written to him. He glanced at the name and the address in astonishment. In neat, beautiful, handwriting he saw her name: Sarah Cavendish. His widened in shock and he felt blood rushing through his body. The letter was dated 7th August 1941.

  He stood up immediately and walked away from the tank. A letter like this could not be read near other people. He wanted to be alone to savour the experience, to define it and shape it so that in years to come nothing would sully this moment in his memory.

  Dear Mr Shaw,

  My father and I visited your parents yesterday. We’ve been visiting the families of everyone who has gone out to serve. It was humbling for both myself and my father to see the extent to which our village has risen to face this terrible menace.

  I asked father, when we returned to the Hall, if he would allow me to write to each of the young men who have left the village to serve. He gave his assent immediately. Yours is the last letter I have written, Mr Shaw. Or perhaps I can call you Danny, as your friends and family do?

  Robert speaks of you often. I think when he is old enough, Robert will want to join up, too. I hope he doesn’t. I hope this ghastly war will be over and this awful man Hitler is captured and put into prison forever. My father always comments on news relating to the different places that our boys are fighting. I follow everything now to do with North Africa whether it’s a newspaper or the B.B.C news. I’m so frightened by it all but knowing where you are and what is happening makes things a little better.

  When you returned earlier this year, I felt so very proud to see you, someone who is a friend to our family and who is serving this country. I can’t imagine what you are experiencing in this war. It makes me scared to think of what might happen to you, to all of you from the village. I pray every night for your safe return.

  Danny read the letter over and over again. Each time his eyes would linger over the underlined words. He knew that she would have written similar words to the other boys from the village but a part of him knew, with certainty, that none had been written with such emphasis. Danny found his chest had become tighter. This time it wasn’t fear. He smiled at himself and returned to the tank.

  Whatever the significance of the letter and, yes, a young man dared to dream, the fact remained he was on another continent, facing an enemy out to kill him. He carefully folded the letter and put it into his breast pocket and started back towards the tank.

  Craig glanced up at him when he returned. The shrewd eyes of the Ulsterman read in an instant what Danny was thinking. He smirked briefly then returned to his own world.

  10

  Gambut (50 kilometres east of Tobruk), Libya, September 1941

  Tears rolled down Gerhardt’s face. He could hardly breathe in the heat. Even the slight breeze was warm. He was now on his knees bent double. Choking. Choking with laughter.

  ‘I don’t see what’s so bloody funny about it,’ said Manfred. He was definitely unamused. His stomach churned and he felt the tell-tale warning signals coming from his bowels.

  ‘You’re right,’ agreed Gerhardt when he’d recovered sufficiently. He clapped his hand on the Manfred’s and sat up again. Both faced outwards onto the Mediterranean. The sea was the colour of a blue quilt and small choppy waves danced on the low swell. The sky was yellow-green, and no cloud interrupted its splendour.

  Dozens of Afrika Korps soldiers shouted and frolicked in the waves. Some hardier souls ventured further out. Manfred could not risk this. Not in his condition. Of all the days to have the symptoms of dysentery.

  ‘Have you been taking the onion and leek soup? It really works.’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Manfred irritably. He was not angry so much at his friend as the bad luck that had incapacitated him as so many others in the regiment had been hit. He could see a few pale, drawn faces on the beach. Fellow sufferers probably.

  ‘A couple of days, you’ll see.’

  ‘It took Kohler a week when he had it,’ said Manfred sourly. He wasn’t in the mood for misplaced optimism.

  ‘But that was before the miracle qualities of the soup were discovered,’ pointed out Gerhardt. This was a moot point. Another soldier had recently claimed that he’d been cured taking the soup. Word spread to the regiment doctor. Soon the leek and onion soup had replaced traditional medicine for many sufferers. ‘It works. Trust me. Jurgen in my tank swears by it.’

  ‘He’s a moron.’

  ‘True, but you don’t catch dysentery because you’re stupid,’ retorted Manfred.

  ‘Well, you did. I told you to avoid Bedouin food.’

  Manfred raised a smile at this. It probably was their damn food. He thought it would make a change from the horrible food that the Afrika Korps had to endure. Many envied the Allies. The food was better and nutritionally superior.

  ‘Anyway, bit late isn’t it? The exercise starts soon. I’ll probably be in the middle of the desert by then.’

  ‘True. Overath won’t be impressed if you tell him you have to drop your trousers mid-attack,’ said Gerhardt starting to laugh again while fending off Manfred’s weak attempts at killing him with a rolled up magazine dedicated to Hollywood stars. ‘Instead of shells you could start throwing…’

  Gerhardt could not finish the thought such was his amusement.

  ‘I don’t know why you’re laughing so much,’ commented Manfred when the waves of laughter had subsided in his friend. He saw his friend raise his eyebrows in a question. ‘I’m probably still contagious.’

  For the first time that afternoon Manfred began to chuckle. When he saw the dawning realisation on his friend, he rolled over on his back and began to laugh uproariously. Fate is a fickle friend, however. The relaxation induced by his physical response to Gerhardt’s predicament produced the inevitable reaction. No sooner had he succumbed to the breathless hysteria of the situation than he felt the warning signals. His laughter turned to a groan.

  ‘Oh for crying out loud,’ said Manfred rising quickly to his feet.

  It was Gerhardt’s turn to start giggling which even the sand kicked in his face by Manfred’s running feet could do little to interrupt.

  ‘Don’t forget to wash your hands,’ shouted Gerhardt.
r />   Manfred’s brief reply was muffled by the sand dune he’d dived behind.

  -

  Whether through boredom or a genuine interest in mechanics, Manfred often joined Kohler as he tinkered with the engine of the Mark III. Overath looked on in approval. Two heads were certainly better than Kohler’s one, albeit mechanically-minded, head.

  ‘The dust and sand are a killer,’ said Kohler, examining the air filter. He held it up for Manfred to see.

  ‘Stupid place to have a war,’ agreed Manfred.

  ‘It comes up through the cylinders and pistons. Wears them out.’

  ‘Sounds like you when visit Madame Jo Jo’s.’ Kohler either didn’t get the reference or was too immersed in the engine. Manfred shrugged and gave his full attention.

  ‘Do you know the engine only lasts twelve thousand kilometres here? In Europe, you would get fifty thousand or more, easy.’ He looked at the air filter again. ‘This engine is only so much use. By the time it’s travelled from Tripoli to Egypt the damn thing’s buggered.’

  A German soldier dressed as a British officer walked past the two boys. Manfred paid him scant attention and then returned his gaze to the engine.

  ‘I wish we could get hold of some of the English uniforms. I don’t know what sadist designed our uniforms and diet here. Churchill clearly cares more about his men than Hitler does.’

  Kohler looked sharply at Manfred in alarm. He whispered urgently at him.

  ‘Don’t say these things, even if you’re joking. You don’t know who’s listening.’

  Around them was a mixture of dress. Some men wore shorts and went without shirts. Some men, those going out on patrol, were clad head to foot. The risk of injury inside the tank or in the highly unlikely event of contact with the enemy meant that shorts were forbidden. Cuts in the desert healed very slowly and could be infected further by flies who may have spent a lazy afternoon near the latrine.

  Behind them they heard a sergeant barking orders. As it did not appear to affect them, they continued concentrating on the engine. The commotion grew louder, though. The two boys looked up from the engine and saw a small crowd of Afrika Korps assembling by one of the tanks. In the centre of the group was Major Gunther Fenski. Beside him was an embarrassed looking Lieutenant Basler.