by Jack Murray
Manfred was not sorry to hear that the attack would cease. The risk of running into the British in the dark was too great, potentially confusing and would likely result in unnecessary casualties. The adrenaline rush of the afternoon had worn off completely now. He felt a fatigue he’d not experienced since that night he and Gerhardt had run around the square. Every muscle in his body was in pain and competing for sympathy.
‘We’re to pull back,’ announced Overath, a little bit later. ‘Command think it’s too much of a risk to camp on the battlefield.’
The tank started to move back slowly. It was night now, but Manfred popped his head up above and could see the signs of battle everywhere. He could see some German tanks that had been destroyed. It was something of a shock. The shots had seemed to ping off their tank. This had made Manfred feel invulnerable. The reality was somewhat different. The British could do more damage than he’d realised. This was alarming. The thought that they were not quite so invincible jolted him. His next thought was for Gerhardt. Had he been in one of the tanks that had been destroyed?
From what he could see there were lights at ten or more tanks. Perhaps they were recoverable. They passed a few that had been destroyed. The charred remains of some bodies lay around. Manfred ducked back into the tank. The chill he felt was more than just the night air. He saw Kastner looking at him.
‘How many destroyed?’
‘It was hard to see. More than ten, probably twenty.’
Kastner nodded. Overath glanced up.
‘Thirty tanks were hit or destroyed. I don’t know how many are dead. When we get back to the camp, we need to refuel and rearm. We also need to check the engine and the tracks. Then make me something to eat. I’m starving.’
Manfred managed to smile.
‘Yes, sir.’
As they drove into their camp for the night the wireless crackled with the news that that the B.B.C had announced the British offensive in Libya had started.
‘They must be confident to broadcast that,’ said Manfred.
‘Or stupid,’ said Kastner, drily.
By now everyone in the tank was ravenous. The thought of food, even if it was the usual tinned muck, was the only thing on the mind of each man. It was night when the regiment settled into its hedgehog position.
Overath came over to Manfred as they sat and waited for the supply train to find the regiment in the desert.
‘Do you know how many rounds you loaded today?’
Manfred laughed, ‘Funnily enough, I wasn’t counting.’
‘Fifty seven. Other tanks shot over sixty rounds today. You need to load faster.’
With that Overath turned and walked away leaving Manfred feeling completely deflated. He couldn’t see the grin on Overath’s face, though.
Fischer punched him lightly on the arm.
‘Do you know how many rounds we fired on my first time as loader?
‘Tell me,’ said Manfred sourly, ‘One hundred?’
‘Fifty one.’
-
At 0230 Manfred found out how war has its own body clock. He’d bedded down for the night less than two hours previously having re-armed and re-fuelled the tank.
‘Get up, everyone,’ said Overath. ‘We have to head towards the Sidi Rezegh airfield. The Allies have taken it. We’re joining the 21st Panzer group. We’re going to take it back. We march at 0300 hours.’
Manfred silently groaned. He rose and felt the cold damp air bathe his skin. A swift glance towards Fischer and Kohler at least reassured him that he was not alone. They looked just as tired and just as disgruntled.
19
Sidi Rezegh Airfield, Libya, November 21st, 1941
The wake-up call felt like it had come before Danny had actually been to sleep. He opened one eye and saw that it was still dark. He groaned. All around him he could hear similarly disgruntled noises. It never felt more like mutiny in the army than first thing in the morning. Especially when it was still dark.
The cruel reality of war wasn’t just the fear of death. It was the constant company of hunger and fatigue. They never left you even when the fighting stopped. And then there was the cold. It woke up with you in the morning and settled down beside you at night. Danny’s hands were numb. It took a minute to get the blood flowing. At that time in the morning he didn’t have a minute.
The sight of Reed turning in his direction had Danny on his feet in seconds and heading towards the provisions. He had a fire started in the blink of a bleary eye, despite his body feeling like it had been pummelled by a Freddie Mills. His arms were dead. Even the cooking pots felt like lead weights. He saw Holmes looking at him wryly. Danny told him specifically and succinctly where he could go. Holmes erupted into laughter. Joined, it must be said, by Reed. The two men looked unsympathetically at Danny’s struggle to subject tired muscles to his will. Moments later they were joined by Craig who decided to give it a commentary in a faux B.B.C accent.
‘Shaw moving slowly on the outside. He looks done in and there’s still a long way go.’
The rest of the crew collapsed into hysterics. Craig had to pause in order to stop laughing himself and for his audience to recover.
‘This horse looks like his race is run. Oh look, the jockey is taking out the whip.’
Reed took this as his cue to spur the Danny along.
‘Move your arse, you lazy little bugger,’ shouted Reed between his chuckling.
Danny looked sourly at his tank mates.
‘Funny f…..’
The response was lost in further laughter from the group.
‘Some signs of life in this tired old mare but too little, too late. I think this old girl is bound for the knackers yard or the charms of some Arab stallion.’
The last comment caused the group to collapse completely. Even Danny joined them. Breakfast, inevitably, was delayed while the group regained some form of composure. Of course, once they did, Danny came in for yet more abuse for delaying their grub.
-
Around eight in the morning they heard the first rumble of guns in the distance. For the previous two hours, Danny and the tank crew had made the tank ready. In the day- light it was possible to see the pounding that the tank had received the previous day. The front had been hit a couple of times but, thankfully, nothing had penetrated. There were a few dents; nothing more. All along the sides of the tank was evidence of the small arms fire that had struck the tank.
‘Bloody lucky to be inside this bugger,’ pointed out Craig.
Danny nodded. He couldn’t agree more. He felt for the infantry who would have been exposed to this intense fire. He was pretty sure his time would come, and soon. If this was what battle looked like with infantry and a few, distant, big guns, then close contact was going to be hellish. The thought prompted one last check of the tracks, the engine and the ammunition. Sergeant Reed glanced at him but said nothing. Danny suspected he’d just read the sergeant’s mind.
When he’d finished the final check, he quickly rustled up another brew after getting the nod from Reed. The extent to which hunger was an issue was not something Danny had realised until yesterday. Halting for a quick cup of tea mid-battle was, unsurprisingly, out of the question. Meanwhile, the sound of gunfire and explosions intensified. He glanced at Felton. There was no mistaking the trepidation on his face. By now, even Holmes seemed even surlier than usual. He knew why. They were going ‘over the top’.
It was a phrase he’d heard before. His father had never used it, but other dads had. It was the moment when a soldier left the relative safety of their dug in position to face the full wrath of bullets and shell from the enemy. So far, Danny had faced limited enemy fire. This morning he faced the prospect of experiencing what his father’s generation had gone through. Reed, Holmes, Craig and Felton had undergone this baptism. The tension in the tank was a testimony to the danger that lay ahead.
-
Lieutenant-Colonel Lister listened to the wireless. His face remained impassive but inside
he was in turmoil. His fears regarding the original Crusader plan and its slow disintegration were now being realised.
The news was not good. There was confirmation that one, possibly two, Panzer divisions were heading towards them from the south. This could only mean one thing. The Germans wanted their airfield back. Hardly unreasonable, thought Lister. An airfield was a bloody useful thing to have in the middle of nowhere, especially when you needed fuel, supplies or just wanted to take a pop at the enemy.
It was now clearer than ever that his men were going to be sandwiched between the enemy guarding the outer perimeter of Tobruk and the Panzer divisions heading their way from the south east. Oddly, the enemy would also be sandwiched by the British divisions to the south of the Panzer groups.
It was shaping up into one bloody mess. However, his orders were clear even if they were not necessarily sensible. His men and Campbell’s Support Group were to advance towards Tobruk. By the sounds of it, Campbell, the indestructible pirate that he was, had already started. There was something reassuring knowing that Campbell was the man General Gott had entrusted to lead this attack. He was the stuff of fiction. A man quite literally larger than life.
Somehow, thought Lister, with a man like this, there was hope. But one thought nagged him like his old doubles partner when he missed an easy volley. What sort of armour was approaching from the south east? Lister hoped to God that that the 4th Armoured Brigade could intercept them. Otherwise the consequences would be catastrophic.
-
At 0830 they were riding towards battle. And a battle it was by the sounds of it. Reed confirmed that Campbell’s Support Group had encountered the enemy and had even overrun some of their positions.
Danny was under no illusions about the day ahead: this would be very different from the previous one. Like a boxer, it would be hit and move. They would face anti-tank guns certainly and, potentially, tanks. The atmosphere grew noticeably more tense as they neared the battle. Still, it felt better to be inside the tank than sitting on the outside or in the back of a truck.
The tanks progressed slowly up the ridge that lay between the Sidi Rezegh airfield and the road to Tobruk. Behind the ridge, in the valley below was the Trigh Capuzzo, the desert track that ran from near Sollum on the coast through Libya, parallel to the Mediterranean.
‘Slow down,’ ordered Reed as they headed up the slope of the escarpment. Danny thought the order funny as they weren’t exactly breaking any speed limits as it was. Then he realised that Reed was waiting for the smokescreen to thicken. Explosions rocked the tank as the German anti-tank guns made their presence felt.
Holmes gave Danny a nod and soon the tank began to retaliate. It was difficult to be certain, but Danny sensed that the enemy was primarily composed of infantry, artillery and anti-tank placements. The tank moved slowly forward under the cover of the smokescreen. Firing shells towards where they could see the enemy guns. Still no sign of any tanks.
-
The sound of gunfire grew louder. Aston looked through his binoculars and could see dust in the very far distance. He put the binoculars down and looked at the forty millimetre gun of the Crusader tank. Right now it felt like they were going into battle armed with a pop gun. His guts churned at the prospect of encountering the big eighty-eight millimetre guns and possibly even Panzer Mark IIIs. He felt like praying. He tried to remember some long-forgotten prayers.
Then he heard a voice from below.
‘Getting closer, sir.’
Damn right they were getting closer. How he wished he could join Longworth at the squadron headquarters a mile back. At least Lister was with them at the front. He’d give the colonel that. Just as this thought entered his head, he heard Lister’ voice crackle on the radio.
The damn fool was urging them to go forward. He felt like pointing out that certain death lay ahead. A glance down to the driver. He didn’t have to tell his driver to slow down and make sure they weren’t leading the charge. Best to let some other damn fool do that. Then he could come charging in at the end roaring his head off and waving his proverbial sword about. That kind of bluff nonsense had become his stock-in-trade. A few near-the-knuckle jokes and kick a nearby dead Nazi. Always worked.
The thought of Operation Battleaxe in early summer, the previous failed attempt at relieving Tobruk, was now on Aston’s mind. It was the first time they’d had to deal with Rommel rather than a bunch of untrained and ill-equipped Italians. Rommel had kicked their arse then and there was no reason to think him incapable of doing so again. He’d survived that lot but saw a lot of men die in agony.
On the other side of the escarpment was the Sidi Rezegh mosque, the tomb of an Arab saint. Age and war had heavily damaged the structure. Edmund Aston was sure of one thing. He would not be a martyr and he was certainly no saint.
-
The lead tanks were now nearing the top of the ridge leading down to a valley which would give them control of the Trigh Capuzzo road. However, it was plain that the Germans were dug in. The prize lay behind this screen, El Duda. Once they took El Duda it was but a matter of miles to Tobruk. Just ahead of the tanks, the British infantry were attempting to overrun these positions. The tanks at the front seemed to halt, slowing everything down behind.
Turner’s voice came over the radio loud and clear. His tank was out in front and had a view of the one hundred yard wide slope that led down into the valley.
‘I’m through the smoke screen. Lots of enemy positions front and left. Small arms. All dug in by the looks of things.’
Danny watched as the 7th Support group infantry inched closer to the German positions. The tanks moved forward with them in leapfrog fashion. The German weapons were doing no damage to the tank, but Danny suspected it was a different story outside the safety of his metal cocoon. At midday Danny heard the voice of Lister on the wireless.
‘Campbell and the 7th Support Group have taken the escarpment. We’re to go over and down into the valley.’ The anxiety in his voice clear. He knew that his men were probably going to face an anti-tank barrage; probably from eight-eights. Danny recognised the sound all too well. It haunted him. It probably haunted all of them.
Reed picked up his microphone and waited for Aston or Laing to respond. Silence.
‘Hello all stations,’ responded Lister. ‘Drivers advance.’
-
Captain Arthur Crickmay stood with Brigadier Davy observing the scene. Crickmay wondered what must be going through his commander’s mind. He’d given the order to push ahead towards the meeting point at el Duda. It would require them to race across an open plain for a couple of miles in the face of intense enemy gunfire. He didn’t envy his comrades in the 6th RTR.
Accompanying the tanks, Crickmay could see the infantry trucks and artillery. It was magnificent and terrifying. He didn’t know how many guns they faced, but the enemy had time to get their sights and distance. Surely such a concentration of armour and men could break through. And they had Jock Campbell leading them. Crickmay dared to hope.
A flurry of explosions crunched around the advancing armour. The sickening realisation hit Crickmay that the big guns of the Germans were beginning to find their range. And then he saw one tank stop suddenly. He saw the smoke billowing from its hatches. Then another.
And then another.
Yet still they drove forward. Mad. Courage indescribable, unquantifiable. He felt a sense of wonder at the unfolding nobility revealed in the red-raw rush towards the enemy. One by one he saw the tanks give themselves up to the unforgiving cruelty of the desert.
20
Forty Kilometres south east of Sidi Rezegh airfield, Libya, November 21st, 1941
The 15th and the 21st Panzer divisions swept towards the Sidi Rezegh airfield at twenty kilometres per hour. Manfred felt energised despite the lack of sleep. The first day had gone well and he was almost jubilant that he’d performed well. Tougher days would follow. That was for the future. Now, he felt closer to being accepted by the tank crew ar
ound him.
Another reason for his air of confidence was the realisation that they were going to attack the airfield in force. They had infantry, artillery, anti-tank guns and around two hundred tanks. Superior tanks. Everything he had heard from the others suggested they were better inside a Panzer III than any Allied tank. The enemy would be caught between the Axis forces on the perimeter of Tobruk and the Panzer groups, moving towards them from the south east.
What was happening behind did not worry him although he could hear from Overath’s brief conversations on the radio that he was worried about the presence of the British they had beaten back the previous day coming back to re-engage them on their flank. This would present a major problem if they were attacking the army holding the Sidi Rezegh airfield. At best, it would become something of a jumble. At worst, it could inflict untold damage to the tanks which were a finite resource for the Axis forces. An hour after their departure from Gabr Saleh, Overath’s voice came over the tank radio.
‘Tanks, left,’ said Overath before adding, ‘British.’
Manfred was jolted by this and went immediately to check.
‘They’re burning by the looks of things,’ added Overath. ‘Fischer.’
He didn’t need to finish the order, it was apparent that Fischer was steering towards them.
‘Hurry,’ shouted Overath.
Manfred was confused by what was happening. For once, though, silence was the best policy. They drew to a halt outside one tank. Overath was immediately out of the tank followed by Kohler from the hull. Fischer was grinning. Again Manfred was awash with curiosity but remained quiet. A minute or two later, Overath jumped through into the turret clutching his booty. Tins of fruit and vegetables, some chocolate and a can of beer spilled from his arms.
‘God save the King,’ said Overath in English. With a wide grin.