Crusader (A Novel of WWII Tank Warfare)

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Crusader (A Novel of WWII Tank Warfare) Page 16

by Jack Murray


  -

  Around eight in the morning, Manfred heard anti-tank guns in the distance. The tank crew glanced at one another. Were these their guns or British? Sitting in a hot, stinking tank it was impossible for Manfred to know. Manfred glanced towards Kastner.

  Kastner shrugged. He didn’t know either.

  ‘Big help, you are,’ said Manfred.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ replied Kastner, laughing sourly.

  ‘They’re ours,’ said Fischer confidently. ‘The British only have their two pounder guns and they don’t sound like our eighty-eights. It can only be our anti-tank guns.’

  Overath chimed in at this point.

  ‘The British also have their twenty-five pounders, so aside from being completely wrong, Fischer’s right. They’re ours. I don’t think there’ll be much left of the Tommies by the time we get there.’

  Manfred wasn’t sure whether to be heartened by this or disappointed. By now, he was up for the fight. He didn’t want to say this, of course. It was better to leave these kind of pronouncements to Fischer. Once more, he felt alive in a way that would have been unimaginable a year ago. All of his senses were activated. Perhaps too much so. The excitement that drove waves of adrenaline around his body dulled his discomfort with the ever present sand infiltrating every part of his clothing. But when the battle was over and the adrenaline wore off, fatigue, pain and the constant irritation of sand on skin took over.

  By eight thirty in the morning they had first sight of the tanks. The voice of Lieutenant Basler popped over the airwaves.

  ‘I see thirty tanks ahead. Three zero tanks. There must be more somewhere.‘

  There weren’t.

  The 15th Panzer division and the 21st Panzers drove through them laying waste to the British tanks and splitting the Allied artillery in two. Once again, Manfred felt his luck was holding. Puffs of white smoke mixed with the sand being thrown up by the large number of tanks. Kastner fired off shells as quickly as Manfred could load them.

  By mid-morning the rout had finished but the long march followed by the engagement had its own cost.

  ‘We’re running low on gasoline,’ shouted Fischer.

  If their tank was running low on fuel then, in all likelihood, the whole division was. The order from Neumann-Silkov to disengage came around just before midday. The German tanks began to pull back to the eastern end of the valley. This made sense. Low ammunition and a lack of fuel would jeopardise success in their ultimate objective: the capture of the airfield.

  As they pulled back to the eastern end of the valley, Manfred marvelled at the carnage they’d created. Burnt out tanks, mostly British, were scattered across the plain. It had been a slaughter. He didn’t pay much attention to the charred bodies littered around the tanks.

  To Manfred, it merely proved the superiority of the German war machine. For the first time, he could see why Fischer had such an air of confidence. He didn’t pause to think about why Overath and Kastner seemed less enthusiastic. Their caution in the face of such overwhelming evidence of German dominance seemed as unfathomable as it was unpatriotic. Fischer, as ever, was ebullient.

  ‘My God look at that,’ exclaimed Fischer, like an excited schoolboy at a funfair. At this moment, Manfred felt he understood the Bavarian better. There had always been something of the kid about him. A kid on holiday. Although Manfred, too, felt thrilled, a voice inside him counselled against too overt a display of this. This would be his way. He got on with his job. He disposed of the empty cartridges and checked the gun while the tank joined with the supply echelon. Kohler, meanwhile, cleaned the bow machine gun then attended to the antenna.

  The next hour was its own type of melee. Refuelling and rearming fifty or more tanks crowding round the ammunition and petrol trucks nearly caused a second conflict to break out. Manfred, whose job it was to get the replacement shells, watched it all with wry amusement. Overath had told him to wait. So Manfred waited. Kohler, who was in charge of fuel, did likewise. They two boys sat and shared a cigarette and enjoyed watching the frayed tempers of their tired Afrika Korps comrades become increasingly frazzled.

  ‘It looks like they’re rationing the fuel,’ observed Kohler. He pointed to a big argument between an enormous sergeant called Muller and another sergeant handing out the petrol cans.

  ‘I haven’t seen it like this before,’ said Manfred.

  Kohler laughed. But there was a harshness to the laugh. Manfred realised that he wouldn’t have seen it before because he’d never been in this situation before. He reddened slightly.

  ‘It’s always like this,’ said Kohler. ‘Every bloody time.’

  Manfred was about to comment on why they didn’t just bring more fuel when a thought struck him. A chilling thought. What if we just don’t have enough fuel? The sight of the temperature gauge rising amongst his colleagues became something else to him now.

  It was a harbinger.

  The Afrika Korps was the greatest fighting machine on the planet. Manfred had absolutely certainty about this. In Rommel, they had a leader who had taken them to victory from France all the way down to North Africa. Yet, without fuel, they were nothing. This was why they were here. It wasn’t Britain who would defeat the German nation. It was gasoline. Unless they had access to gasoline, Germany could not win the war. Their greatest enemy was also their greatest ally.

  Oil.

  -

  ‘This doesn’t look good,’ said Kastner eyeing Lieutenant Basler walking along the makeshift leaguer picking out tanks.

  ‘What’s going on?’ asked Manfred, picking up on the direction of Kastner’s gaze.

  ‘On your feet,’ ordered Overath as he, too, noticed the SS Lieutenant heading their way.

  Moments later Basler was at Manfred’s tank. He looked annoyed. But then he always seemed irritated by something. Manfred stood up and looked at the SS man. Up close Manfred was surprised at how young he seemed. Mid-twenties, at a guess. His skin had been darkened by the African sun and, with his dark hair he might have passed for a local were it not for the eyes. They were ice blue but there was a fire in there, too.

  ‘You men are to join me. We’ve had reports of a patrol of armoured cars to the south. They’re clearly doing reconnaissance. We can’t let them know where we are and risk air attack or their guns targeting us. To the vehicles. We’re to follow Captain Kummel to engage. We march west back towards where we came from. Follow me.’

  Manfred and the rest of the crew immediately kicked over the traces of their fire and made for the tank. Minutes later a party of around twenty-five tanks headed towards the southern ridge where the armoured vehicles had been sighted.

  Overath sat on top of the tank and invited Manfred up top. Manfred looked at the line of tanks throwing up the sand into the air. They would soon be visible to the enemy. And the enemy would run. What else could they do? He doubted they’d give chase. It would be too much of a risk. At best they might get close enough to hit a few. Job done then head home.

  ‘What do you think, Brehme?’ asked Overath.

  Manfred looked at Overath and wondered what the hell was the answer to a question like that. What did Overath want from him?

  ‘I think we’ve been fortunate so far. The enemy has not been concentrated. They don’t seem integrated, either. We fight alongside infantry, artillery and with an anti-tank screen. The Tommies all seem to be fighting their own war.’

  Overath nodded but did not respond to Manfred’s point. Manfred took this to mean agreement. Whether or not this was what he’d been asking was another matter altogether.

  They rode together in silence. Manfred did not have binoculars so contented himself with looking around their flanks while Overath kept his vision straight ahead. It made a pleasant change from the cramped cauldron of the tank. But up top had its own challenge. His hat could barely cast enough shadow over his face. He felt his neck burning. The sky was no longer so overcast. The clouds had cleared. There were no birds or planes just stretches of blu
e. The only sound was the rumble of tanks and clanking wheels. It was difficult to see too far ahead due to the heat haze which became more intense as midday approached.

  This was an issue. It would make it more difficult to pick out the British vehicles. The noise, the dust cloud and the size of their party would be less difficult to spot by the Allies. Ten minutes later Overath asked Manfred to send Kohler up.

  ‘Man the wireless,’ ordered the sergeant as Manfred stepped down.

  Manfred took up Kohler’s position as the tank trundled forward. Fischer said nothing to him as he sat nearby. It could be feast or famine with Fischer. When he was in the mood he wouldn’t shut up. At other times he was taciturn. This was usually when he was tired. Or worried.

  The wireless crackled suddenly. It was Basler, who was out in front along with the leader of the party, Captain Hummel.

  ‘Enemy spotted south west. Six zero zero meters.

  Hummel came on the radio at this point.

  ‘Turn, march. Spread out and attack cars.’

  Fischer nodded response. As he did so, Manfred heard the crump of guns in the distance. Manfred’s ears had become more attuned now. They did not sound German.

  ‘My God,’ said Overath on the microphone.

  ‘What’s happened?’ shouted Kastner.

  ‘They’ve taken out Wult. Direct hit. Start firing.’

  Manfred had already loaded the first cartridge. Seconds later, although it felt like an eternity, Kastner fired. Manfred had the second shell into the breech by the time Kastner informed them he’d missed.

  Shells were raining down around them. Manfred winced as the explosions rocked the tank.

  ‘Why aren’t our eighty-eights shelling them?’ shouted Manfred opening the breech for another cartridge.

  ‘We’ve driven out of range,’ responded Overath grimly. ‘We’re on our own.’ He added a few other choice words to describe his feelings on the wisdom of this march.

  As he said this, another explosion burst in Manfred’s ears. The percussive force of the barrage made sent shockwaves through Manfred’s body. Nearby, another tank in the troop was destroyed causing all it shells to explode also.

  Basler came on the radio.

  ‘Stop. We’re going straight into their anti-tank guns. Reverse.’

  Fischer responded immediately and began to reverse.

  Overath had, by now, ducked into the turret. His presence steadied the nervousness Manfred had begun to feel. In a calm voice, Overath spoke to Fischer.

  ‘Not too fast Fischer, we don’t want to crash into our tanks.’

  ‘Yes sir,’ replied Fischer. His voice betrayed no anxiety. Manfred glanced down at him. He had to admire his cool. The firestorm was intense, but the Bavarian barely blinked with each explosion. The tank continued to be harassed as the radio revealed more tanks had been hit.

  Then the tank was rocked by an enormous explosion. Manfred was sent crashing backwards by Kastner. His head cracked against some metal knocking him out momentarily. He came to and it seemed like the tank was spinning. The noise he could hear was the beating of his heart. Two things dawned on him. The tank had been hit. He was alive.

  Above he could see blood spilt like paint across the inside wall of the turret. There was blood on him also. And something else. There were bloodied clumps on his face and uniform. It felt like he was in a cave listening to echoes.

  He looked around. Fischer was shouting at him. He couldn’t hear anything, but Fischer seemed to be telling him to get out. Kohler was already escaping through a hatch and Fischer was motioning for him to follow. Manfred raised himself up from the floor of the tank, aware of the extraordinary heat inside. For all the blood soaking his uniform he could not detect any injury save for the throbbing of his head. It felt like he was moving in sections.

  Smoke filled the tank and the smell of petrol was now overpowering. Despite the smoke stinging his eyes, he managed to crawl over to the hatch. His hands felt sticky and there was some sort of soft material all over the bottom of the tank. Ducking his head through the hatch he fell forward onto the sand. Moments later he felt arms grab his chest and drag him away from the tank.

  It was Fischer. Soon they were ten metres away as the tank brewed up. Small explosions were detonating inside as the ammunition went off. Fischer released Manfred onto the sand.

  ‘Can you move?’

  ‘Yes, I think so,’ replied Manfred.

  He got gingerly to his feet and followed Fischer and Kohler. They fell into to a depression in the sand which provided some cover from the crack of gunfire around them. Manfred looked at Fischer. He was a bloody mess but seemed unhurt. So too Kohler.

  ‘The sergeant?’ asked Manfred. Fischer shook his head. Then Manfred looked down at his hands. The stickiness was blood and there was something else. It was all over his uniform. A scream formed in his throat, but he managed to control himself.

  All over his hair, his face and uniform were the remains of Overath and Kastner. Fischer and Kohler were looking at him. Then Kohler turned away and began to retch. Manfred felt like weeping but the sight of Fischer staring at him stiffened his resolve. Slowly he began to wipe his face and body of the blood and tissue.

  Behind them they heard the sound of the tanks receding into the distance. None felt like giving chase. The impact of the explosion had been delayed but Manfred realised his body was aching all over. He could barely move his legs.

  ‘What do we do now?’ asked Kohler, who’d recovered sufficiently by this time.

  Manfred pointed in the direction of the tanks and Fischer answered.

  ‘We walk.’

  They waited until the gunfire had subsided then helped each other up like old men. Around them lay the burnt out wrecks of some tanks. Although none wanted to look at their old tank, they realised they needed water. Slowly they trudged over to the tank and took whatever water and food they could. Fischer bathed Manfred in some water to remove blood and tissue. Manfred nodded to him as the grim assignment was completed.

  They spent the next ten minutes taking whatever they could salvage for the march ahead of them. The cans would weigh heavily on fatigued arms. Manfred and Fischer said nothing as they contemplated this but Kohler by now was in a mood to grumble. He complained about all the things that his two companions were feeling.

  ‘How far do you think?’

  Fischer replied with a figure clutched from the air, ‘Five, maybe ten, kilometres at least. We went out of the range of our guns. I don’t know what we were thinking.’

  Kohler let out a string of oaths as they passed the destroyed tanks. In the pitiless heat of the mid afternoon sun this seemed a suitable eulogy for men who’d ordered them to march into deadly fire.

  ‘My God, five kilometres in this heat,’ continued Kohler. ‘This is terrible.’

  Then they heard the sound of a vehicle. It was a low hum at first and then it became louder. They looked around them but could see nothing. Their hopes were up though. Kohler began to shout.

  ‘Help! Help!’

  ‘Shut up you fool,’ snarled Fischer.

  Kohler looked at him askance.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He means,’ replied Manfred, ‘that they could be Tommies.’

  In this Manfred was wrong. A vehicle eventually appeared over the ridge and made straight for them. On the side of the vehicle was a flag. Manfred recognised the colours. It was South African. Within a few minutes Manfred and his tank mates were staring at a number of guns trained on them.

  ‘Any of you speak English?’ asked a sergeant.

  21

  Sidi Rezegh Airfield, Libya, November 21st, 1941

  Danny fought back a rising tide of fear. His breath grew shallower and shallower. He glanced around the tank. Aside from Felton and himself, the other members of the tank crew were highly experienced. He thought of his friends. Phil Lawrence was probably nearby. Arthur, meanwhile, was part of A squadron, so not involved.

  The cru
mp of guns in the distance was followed by the scream of shells. The air seemed to rupture around them. Within seconds the tank was rocked by explosions. The shockwaves shook the men inside the tank.

  ‘Welcome to the War, son,’ shouted Craig over to Danny.

  Danny offered a smile and hoped he didn’t look as white as Felton. The tank was moving fast. He was tossed against the side. A swift glance up at Holmes revealed the gunner’s eyes fixed on his gun sights. Danny grabbed a shell. The weight stopped his hands shaking.

  The tanks advanced down the reverse side of the escarpment. For the first hundred yards it seemed the shells could have been landing in another country. Then Danny heard a different sound. The sound of shells hitting tanks and the appalling realisation that the series of shattering blasts following this was the sound of the tank’s shells exploding. Soon, he saw sand erupting just in front and then all around.

  The German batteries spat angrily at the cavalry charge. The steel rain rent the earth. Tanks shuddered as explosions threw up sand and rock. Danny willed himself to look through the periscope. The sight was hell itself. Fire, smoke and death. Ahead he could see a tank in flames. Two tanks. Three.

  Lieutenant Turner spoke again.

  ‘I can see enemy. Figures two zero, zero, zero yards away on far ridge there are guns,’ said Turner before adding almost unnecessarily, ’anti-tank guns.’

  Lister responded seconds later.

  ‘Hello all stations. Lister here. We must keep going. Our objective is two thousand yards ahead.

  Aston let out an oath which came over loud and clear on his microphone. This was followed by several more when he realised that he had been caught out. To cover himself he urged Turner to keep advancing.

  ‘Driver advance,’ ordered Aston deliberately so that every tank could hear him. He didn’t have to add, stay behind Turner. The lead troop moved forward onto the plain. Behind them, British anti-tank guns opened up, some stray shells landing near their own tanks.

  -

  Danny felt his body shake. He wasn’t sure if it was terror or the shock waves made by the gun fire rupturing the air around them. They were well within the killing range of these monster guns. They were spoken off in tones of hushed awe by the men that had faced them before. He thought of his brother, Tom, and wondered if he was out there as part of the breakout from Tobruk. And good old Carruthers, of course. He was likely to be in the artillery. If he was still alive, that is.

 

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