Crusader (A Novel of WWII Tank Warfare)

by Jack Murray

  ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘We’re pulling out. Save your questions,’ replied Overath.

  In a matter of moments, Manfred was inside the Panzer III tank. He joined Overath and Kastner in the turret. Kohler and Fischer sat below in the hull. Overath stared down at Manfred and checked final details before they set off.

  ‘Fuel?’

  ‘Full up, sir, and we have reserve loaded also.’

  ‘Water?’

  Kohler called up and confirmed he’d loaded the water and two days of food supplies.

  ‘Ammunition? It would help if we had something to shoot with.’

  ‘All correct, sir,’ said Manfred, by now used to Overath’s dry sarcasm.

  Overath grunted and glanced at Kastner. Seconds later the 12 cylinder engine growled into life. This caused an immediate rise in the smell of petrol fumes. Manfred was used to this now, but it was no more welcome. Outside the tank they heard the sound of fifty other engines revving. They sensed the movement of the tanks and then, they began to move also.

  One by one the tanks moved out; five to ten metres apart. A cloud of dust was thrown up in the wake of the moving vehicles. The speed was paralyzingly slow. Less than twenty kilometres per hour. Then again, what was the rush?

  Ahead of them Manfred saw armoured vehicles pulling the enormous eighty-eight millimetre anti-tank guns. Manfred looked through his viewer and felt a surge of pride in these weapons. Originally developed by Krupp in the thirties as anti-aircraft cannons they had become a deadly killer of tanks in the desert.

  ‘They’ve no chance against these,’ Kastner had said. Manfred didn’t argue. They were enormous. The barrel was over six metres long. It fired shells around fifteen thousand metres. It could kill a tank at a couple of thousand metres. Best of all, the allies had nothing like this. It was like holding a child at arm’s length and watch, amused, as flailing punches failed to land anywhere near.

  The tanks would be arrayed behind the anti-tank guns in readiness to attack the infantry. As yet the allies were not working in the unified way that the Afrika Korps had developed. The Afrika Korps operated like multi-function units rather than as individual parts of the armed services fighting alongside, but apart from, the other services.

  Overath studied the maps he’d laid out earlier. Manfred glanced at them before returning his gaze to the gun barrels glistening in the sun. Within minutes of starting the temperature in the tank had soared to levels that Manfred would once have found unbearable. Yet it was still early morning. It would get worse. The heat, the smell of men’s bodies and the fumes made for an unhealthy cocktail.

  The tank bumped and rolled along. Another change in Manfred. Three months ago he would have felt motion sickness. Now the movement was a minor irritation against the many other things he would happily have complained about. He made no complaint, of course. The privations were borne stoically. No one was exempt from the brutal life they were leading.

  And so they drove in this unremarkable and inhospitable landscape for two hours. The minutes ticked by slowly. Inside the tank, the air was thick and stifling. It discouraged conversation very quickly. For most of the journey from the camp to their destination the tank remained silent except for occasional warning shouts by Overath to Kastner to slow down as they pulled up too close to the tank in front. Overath was sitting atop, connected to the rest of the tank via a radio.

  Manfred, as the newest man in the tank, was loader and supported Kastner who was the gunner. Overath wanted Manfred to take over the wireless and move Kohler to loading. He felt Manfred had less accented German and was clearer. But that was for the future. Manfred was still the new boy, untested in combat. Who knew how he would react when the shells started landing? For now he had the easiest, albeit most physically demanding, job.

  Around mid-morning the tanks stopped. The tanks were positioned at the crest of a hill. They were spread out as far as Manfred could see. In front lay the guns. They all stepped out of the tank for what could only be loosely described as fresh air. Manfred knew what was coming now and was already heading towards their provisions.

  ‘Make some coffee,’ ordered Kastner, ‘We may not have a chance soon.’

  Manfred frowned and tried to see what Kastner could see. Nothingness. The haze on the horizon was beginning to build. By midday visibility would be poor. He looked searchingly and saw nothing. His ears tried to pick out any tell-tale sounds. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Manfred felt something build inside him.

  Frustration.

  He sensed Kastner smiling and turned towards him. The corporal pointed to his nose and looked slyly at him. This irritated Manfred but only for a moment. He took a mouthful of coffee and returned his gaze to the horizon, hoping the stimulating effects would help him pick out something. Anything.

  ‘I can smell them. They’re out there. Trust me, son,’ said Kastner by way of explanation.

  This was confirmed when Overath’s platoon leader came over. Lieutenant Basler, the SS commander, motioned for Overath to join him in a rapid conference with the other tank commanders. They stood out of earshot for a few minutes giving Manfred time to distribute coffee to the others .

  ‘The British are attacking Bir el Gubi. So far the Italians seem to be holding out.’

  ‘Makes a change,’ said Kastner, sourly.

  Overath smiled at his gunner and then continued, ‘Yes, it looks like the Italians are beginning to learn at last.

  ‘They’re making for Tobruk,’ said Fischer with all the Aryan confidence he could muster. He disliked the way Overath and Kastner monopolised conversation on battlefield situations. Manfred looked at Fischer wryly. Good for you, he thought. He knew what Fischer was trying to do. In a few months, with a few battles under his belt, he would make his presence felt, too. He was interested in how the two senior tank crew would react.

  ‘Rommel doesn’t think so,’ said Overath dismissively. ‘maybe you should get on the radio and tell him he’s wrong.’

  This made Kastner cackle and Fischer reddened.

  ‘This is another attempt to relieve Tobruk,’ insisted Fischer. Interesting, thought Manfred. You don’t lack confidence, do you?

  Much to Manfred’s surprise Overath’s features softened a little and then he grinned. This took Fischer aback also if Manfred read him right.

  ‘Apparently General von Ravenstein agrees with you, Fischer.’

  ‘So what are we going to do?’ pressed Fischer.

  Overath stopped and pointed into the empty vastness.

  ‘Orders are to wait here until further orders. Finish your coffee then back into the tank. I want to be ready. For what it’s worth, Fischer, I think you’re right. I think something is starting. If it is, we won’t get much rest for quite some time.’

  Fischer looked pleased with himself. To be fair, this was the normal state of affairs with the Bavarian. Manfred, meanwhile, was caught between liking the fact that it was possible to make a point that was listened to and the fact that it was Fischer who had made it. On balance he felt it was time to be less resentful of him and respect his abilities instead.

  It might save his life one day.

  17

  Sidi Rezegh Airfield, Libya, November 20th, 1941

  It was still dark when the shooting started. Staccato-like infantry fire came from the northern ridge. Danny was unaffected inside the tank. However, the gun fire had already acted as the regiment’s early morning wake up call. Danny woke with a start. The others began to stir. He climbed up into the turret and looked through the cupola at the night sky.

  There was a hint of light somewhere. Not even dawn. He desperately wanted to lie back and re-join the dream he’d been having. The memory of the dream was fading with every passing second. It was always this way. The only remnant was the image of a young girl with green eyes.

  All around him were the sounds of the British army waking. It was not a pleasant sound. Thanks to the various incidents of gunfire during the night, all were s
hort of sleep.

  Breakfast had to be made and Danny was the man to make it. He didn’t need Reed to look his way again. He was on his feet in seconds. He started a small fire in order to brew tea thinking of an old aphorism: an army marches on its stomach. Danny smiled at this. The Eighth Army marched on tea.

  The tank crew huddled around the fire clutching their cups. Little was said. It was too early, too cold and the sound of gunfire was too sobering to allow for any idle chit chat. Instead they watched the bully beef being cooked with something approaching reverence. They all hated it. However, a long day faced them. A long day probably under enemy fire. Right now, nothing else was more prominent on their minds. Holmes stood up and the other men looked at him.

  ‘I’m going to take a spade for a walk,’ said Holmes and put his cup down.

  Danny and the other men grinned. Good idea thought Danny. I should do likewise. The stew was ready, and Danny played mother to the rest of the men before putting on a second brew. Reed had warned them there may not be many opportunities during the rest of the day. It was still dark when they finished breakfast.

  The tea had worked its magic and Danny was more awake now. His clothes felt uncomfortable, though. Sand and sweat made for uncomfortable bedfellows. He’d not had a chance to rid himself of the sand the previous evening. Meanwhile, the guns in the distance dampened his enthusiasm for having a good wash.

  Danny looked at Craig as if to say – what do we do now? Craig looked back at him and shrugged. All along the leaguer, Danny could see fires being extinguished. There was a low murmur of chat. Everything felt on edge. Even Craig seemed to be ill at ease. Danny quickly cleared up and stored their plates and cups. He just wanted to be doing something. It took his mind off whatever was coming. And if the atmosphere was anything to go by, something was coming.

  -

  Flares and explosions lit up the sky. Danny and the others were huddled inside the tank. He felt his stomach flutter as the sounds of gunfire acted as a malevolent dawn chorus.

  ‘Should we be doing anything?’ asked Danny.

  ‘Don’t allow any gaps for a stray bullet,’ replied Craig.

  The shooting continued for a little while and then as quickly as it had started, it stopped. Dawn was breaking and they sat inside the tank waiting. Danny glanced at Reed who was preoccupied with looking through his periscope every few minutes. As tempted as he was to ask, Danny remained silent. Whatever he was waiting for was coming soon.

  Very soon, in fact.

  The guns opened up. By now Danny recognised the difference between the big eighty-eight’s and the basic field artillery. The crump was definitely from a big gun. All of a sudden explosions were going off all around.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ exclaimed Felton. ‘That’s an eight-eight.’

  ‘Bigger maybe,’ said Reed, eyes glued to his periscope.

  ‘What’s happening?’ asked Holmes.

  ‘Just the guns so far. They’ll be coming soon. The question is if it will be artillery, tanks or infantry.’

  At eight o’clock in the morning Reed had an answer to his question when the shooting started again.

  ‘This is going to be a fun day,’ said Holmes motioning to Danny to load the gun. Danny immediately took the shell from his lap and opened the breech. Moments later he had another shell on his lap waiting to go.

  ‘We’re not just going to sit here and wait to be hit?’ asked Craig.

  Reed shook his head, ‘I thought we’d be moving by now. At some point we have to get to the top of the ridge at the north east of the airfield. Unless we get tanks to the top of that ridge and over the Trigh Capuzzo, we’ve no way of linking up with the army at Tobruk.’

  ‘Can’t do it without the infantry boys,’ pronounced Craig.

  ‘Nope,’ agreed Reed.

  As the morning wore on, the stalemate continued. The Germans seemed content to shell the valley floor but made no move. Neither side moving. Each content to offer salvo after salvo from a distance. The temperature in the tank rose with the sun. Danny was bathed in sweat and frustrated. By now he just wanted to be doing something. Sitting here providing target practice for German anti-tank guns seemed bizarre. He wasn’t the only one feeling strange.

  ‘Aren’t we going to move, sarge?’ shouted Craig at one point. The querulous tone, the look of dismay. They were all feeling it. Reed held his hand up. He was listening to a wireless communication. When it finished, he indicated ‘no’ with a cursory shake of the head.

  ‘Our orders are to hold the airfield. Anyway, I don’t like the idea of getting too close to those eight-eights or hundreds, whatever they are. Brigadier Campbell is coming here. I don’t know if that means we attack today or leave it until tomorrow.’

  ‘Doesn’t sound like there’s any tanks out there,’ responded Craig.

  Reed nodded. He’d noticed that, too. It could mean they were under attack from infantry and a handful of anti-tank guns. In which case why not have a pop at them from closer in. It was a strange situation. Perhaps the brass were afraid they would be walking into a trap.

  ‘I agree,’ he responded finally. He put his earphones back on and listened to any wireless traffic to understand better what the situation was. Whatever their original plan had been, Reed strongly suspected that it was now in flames. A hail of bullets pinged off the tank.

  ‘I spy…’

  Danny ducked down as the rest of the tank descended on him armed with berets. He didn’t care. He was laughing and soon the others were, too.

  Danny no longer noticed the bullets pinging off the tank. It had taken one morning’s contact with the enemy to become inured. They did no damage but were a constant irritant, rather like flies at the camp. At least you could swat the flies. Here Danny was unconvinced about the damage they were doing. It seemed to him the firing from the British was desultory. From the Germans, too. As if each side was keen to keep the other honest.

  By early afternoon, it was clear they were going nowhere that day. Reed confirmed as much to them when there was a lull in the firing. Danny was tasked to brew up some tea with Felton’s assistance. When they returned, Reed explained the situation.

  ‘As you know, we can’t dislodge our friends on the other side of the escarpment without more infantry support. My guess is we’re here tonight. Tomorrow we’ll probably try to take the rest of the ridge up to point one seven five.’

  ‘By which time Jerry will have worked out what’s going on,’ pointed out Holmes sourly, ‘and arranged a big party in our honour.’

  Reed nodded but said nothing. He held his mug of tea up by way of thanks to Danny. The taste of the tea and biscuits could not have been sweeter to Danny at that moment. In civilian life the taste would probably have appalled him. Here it was feast that he’d been craving since mid-morning. The pangs of hunger, which hadn’t really left him since breakfast, had become acute by mid-afternoon.

  They quickly cleared up the brew. As they were doing so, Craig asked the question on all their minds.

  ‘How long before we’ve more boiled shit to eat?’

  Strangely while their situation was still hardly safe, the explosions from the anti-tank guns were a nuisance rather than a threat. The greater danger would occur when they moved forward to engage the enemy. He looked around at the faces of his tank mates. They seemed almost bored. Craig saw Danny’s look of bemusement and he smiled wryly.

  ‘It’s called digging in, son.’

  Danny nodded and motioned with his head towards where the fire was coming from.

  ‘Do you think they’re doing the same?’ He already knew the answer.

  ‘Count on it,’ replied the Ulsterman.

  -

  The night chill penetrated Danny’s clothes, infiltrating his bones. He stayed close to the fire and listened to the forces radio. The music was classical and made little impression on Danny. He much preferred music from dance band leaders such as Ray Noble, Lew Stone and Roy Fox. The news was always of interest. To hear what
was happening back home could cheer or sadden in equal measure.

  The voice of the radio announcer came on as the music finished. The news was to follow from the BBC centre in Cairo. Over the airwaves they heard the newscaster speak.

  ‘The British army has launched an offensive in Libya against Rommel’s Afrika Korps with over seventy-five thousand men.’

  The group huddled around the fire listened in stunned silence.

  ‘Aren’t the Germans listening to this?’ asked Danny.

  Reed threw his cup into the fire angrily.

  ‘Of course they’re bloody listening. Who the hell sanctioned that announcement?’

  -

  ‘I haven’t a clue why they broadcast this news,’ said Lister in answer to a similar question from Captain Aston at a hastily convened meeting. ‘I suspect someone in Cairo is for the high jump. If Rommel didn’t know we’re launching a major offensive, he certainly does now.’

  ‘Isn’t that what General Cunningham wanted?’ pointed out Aston, sourly.

  It was, of course, but this was before the 8th Army had scattered itself across the desert in Libya looking for an enemy to fight. Lister ignored Aston’s jibe. Rather than upbraid him publicly he was content to observe the looks on the faces of the other officers. They’d all arrived at an opinion about Captain Aston anyway. He doubted if theirs differed much from his.

  ‘Any word on what is happening tomorrow, sir?’ asked Major Miller. Lister noted the emphasis on the word ‘is’. It was only fair. Unfortunately he’d heard nothing concrete to tell them.

  ‘Brigadier Davy is meeting with General Gott later tonight,’ explained Lister. ‘I’m sure I’ll get an early morning call to tell me the outcome. Don’t expect a lie in tomorrow, though.’

  The officers, too tired to laugh, smiled. Major Miller was the first to react.

  ‘My bet is we’ll be asked to head over the escarpment and take the ridge north of Trigh Capuzzo.’

  ‘I don’t disagree Miller,’ replied Lister. He didn’t want to think about what they would meet on the other side of the escarpment. The crump of the eighty-eights or hundreds, during the day, held its own pledge.