Crusader (A Novel of WWII Tank Warfare)

by Jack Murray

  He stopped himself from thinking more. Any thoughts of death were always cast out of his mind immediately. There was no point on dwelling on it. He gazed out in front of him. An explosion in front of the tank threw up grit. He instinctively jerked his backwards.

  The tank was silent. A homage to the rage of shells plummeting around them. A prayer for their survival. Even Danny was finding God at that moment. He remembered Craig’s comment from a lifetime ago.

  Bravely, or foolishly, Sergeant Reed put his head up to make a quick scan of the enemy positions. He kept the hatch open just enough so that his eyes were level with the cupola, and he could see what was in front. A screaming shell forced Reed back into the turret, head down. He grinned sheepishly at Danny.

  ‘I was curious.’

  Up ahead Danny could at last make out the sinister shapes of the enemy through his periscope; the heavily camouflaged guns which were now spitting shells at a shocking rate. One fireball after another soared into the air and landed with a terrible thud in the ground in front and to the side of the tank.

  They had to cross over a mile of open ground, without cover, without much hope of avoiding a hit. Danny’s tank was in the third row of B squadron. To his left he saw Aston’s tank. Turner was out front, moving rapidly. At least their speed made them a difficult target. Danny saw one tank go up in a huge gout of flames. The orange flame stood out sharply against the blue sky; a harmony of science and savagery.

  The first row and then the second were bearing the brunt of the onslaught. One by one he saw them stop abruptly and burst into flames. He saw the tank belonging to Major Miller, the leader of B Squadron go up. No one could possibly survive although he saw some men diving out of the hatches. He couldn’t look. His eyes flicked ahead to the belching guns.

  The sickening reality of war was laid bare for Danny. The Crusaders, when they managed to work, were no match for the terrifying power of the anti-tank gun, even from a long range. As soon as tanks went over the top and down the slope they were knocked out. It was like a shooting gallery for the Germans.

  ‘Don’t stop,’ ordered Reed. What else could they do? Either direction was suicidal. The ground in front of them was moving. A man-made earthquake created waves on the ground. Shards of rock were being thrown up all around them.

  Danny saw carnage everywhere he looked. The sound was a percussion of rage. Explosions mixed with the chattering of machine guns. Flashes of tracer flew through the air pinging off the tank. Holmes was firing back now. They were in the game at last. Able to return fire with fire.

  ‘Keep loading’ shouted Holmes to Danny.

  ‘Keep firing,’ said Danny through gritted teeth.

  Reed let out an oath which was unusual. Moments later the tank was hit at the front. The clang echoed around the tank. Danny’s heart stopped beating then it restarted as he realised, they were alive. He sucked the air into his lungs and regretted it immediately. It was rank with fumes and the acrid smell of cordite.

  ‘This is suicide,’ said Reed. There was no fear in his voice. Just wonder mixed with dismay. An acceptance of his own mortality.

  Below Danny heard Craig call out the name of the Lord in a manner that seemed at odds with a his deeply-held beliefs. Something hit the tank on the right. Then the left. No damage. Every explosion seemed to rock the tank to its rivets. Danny felt numb from the pounding. Every near miss passed along the earth and through the tank like stones thrown into a pond.

  They’d passed over the Trigh Capuzzo and were nearing the ridge where the gun emplacements rained shell on them. Not only were they getting close, they were also beginning to do some damage.

  ‘Got one,’ shouted Holmes triumphantly. They were now within close enough of range to do some serious damage. The tank jolted upwards as it reached the escarpment beyond the Trigh Capuzzo, throwing Danny backwards. He scrambled forward again rubbing his head which had just bashed against the wall of the tank.

  ‘I’m hit,’ came a voice on the radio. It was Lister. The lieutenant-colonel had taken part in this cavalry charge. The radio went dead. This was a new kind of shock for Danny. The lieutenant-colonel had been at the forefront of this mad cavalry charge. Now he was perhaps dead. Danny hoped he’d escaped the tank.

  Danny was still mechanically feeding shells into the gun barrel. He was past thought. His movements were robotic. Reed was speaking into his microphone, but Danny couldn’t hear what was being said. Everything was blocked out for him save for the racing of his heart and his breathing. He felt a touch on his arm. It was Holmes. He motioned for Danny to stop. They were taking evasive action.

  ‘Reverse,’ shouted Reed. The attack was failing. They had travelled too far and there was no support. They’d lost their Commanding Officer as well as the leader of B Squadron. Yes, the attack was failing.

  Catastrophically.

  The radio crackled. It was Aston ordering the tanks back. They couldn’t hope to hold the ridge. The whistle of shells continued; the stomach-turning wait before the shells exploded their confirmation that it wasn’t you. This time.

  The engine whined and groaned as Craig reversed the tank, keeping the hull facing front where the heavily armoured gave them a better chance of surviving a hit. It felt like they were in the midst of a hailstorm such were the number of hits on the tank.

  ‘Faster,’ shouted Reed, struggling to keep the fear from his voice.

  Danny held his breath as he felt the tank jerk backwards. It was moving and he breathed a sigh of relief. Reed released a torrent of oaths, suddenly. Danny put his eyes to the periscope.

  At this moment they stopped.

  ‘What the hell is going on?’ shouted Reed.

  ‘The bastard engine’s conked out,’ responded Craig.

  -

  “Keep firing ordered,’ Lieutenant Turner. What else could they do? It was only by a miracle they’d not been hit. He’d heard Lister’s last message. The news elsewhere suggested Miller had been hit also. He wondered how many of the tanks were left. He’d crested the ridge. What he’d see left him in no doubt they couldn’t possibly hold it. Ahead was the heavily fortified German redoubt. The result of the night-long rumble of noise was now in full view.

  Without artillery and infantry support, this attack was destined to end in failure. Thoughts raced through the mind of Turner as he realised the extent of the overwhelming folly they had embarked upon. It was Balaclava all over again. A charge towards guns. Turner felt a freezing wave of panic pass through him. What were they to do now that they’d reached the ridge? The wireless was full of sound, but Turner could hear nothing. It was chatter mixed with terror. And then the question was answered for him. He heard Aston calling for them to retreat.

  The tank slammed into reverse. They had practiced such a manoeuvre often. Down the hill incline they raced. Puffs of smoke from the redoubt preceded explosions in front and to their side. Shell splinters hit the armour plating. Dull metallic clangs reverberated around the compartment. A glance to the right revealed a tank crew scrambling out of the tank hatches as wisps of smoke appeared in the turret.

  The battlefield was shrouded in smoke. Blackened burning tanks bore testimony to the battering they had taken. It was a mess, a bloody mess, thought Turner angrily. Then he saw more puffs of smoke in the distance. His eye caught a menacing dark shape against the blue sky. Transfixed he watched it for what seemed like minutes. He wanted to move but his feet were anchored to the spot. He hoped the shell would pitch up short.

  It blew his tank to bits.

  -

  Reed looked down frantically at Craig. This was not the time for their Crusader to prove its unreliability.

  ‘It might have been a shell,’ shouted Craig. The engine was not responding. It was dead.

  A nearby explosion shook the tank. They had to evacuate the tank. That much was certain. Reed and Danny immediately turned their attention to what was in front of them.

  Danny looked through his periscope. He saw the tank ahead of
him halt suddenly. It erupted into smoke and flames. In the confusion, Danny struggled to remember who was in the tank. Then he saw the turret separate from the tank. It flew twenty feet into the air. With a sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach he realised the detached turret was heading directly for them.

  ‘God almighty’ said Reed, who was also aware of the impending collision. Holmes looked at Danny.

  ‘What’s happening?’ shouted Holmes, confused, scared and aware something was happening. Something terrible.

  ‘Duck,’ said Danny. There was no way they could avoid being hit.

  Then all went black

  22

  15 kilometres south of Sidi Rezegh Airfield, Libya, November 21st, 1941

  The big sergeant spoke English, but the accent of the soldier was different from that of Diane Landau, the English girl Manfred had been at school with nearly ten years earlier before her family fled from Germany. The man before him could not have been more different. He was big. Very big. Even Manfred found himself looking up at him. The South African had a gun and was pointing it at the three boys. Manfred almost smiled. The gun seemed unnecessary. It would have taken at least three of them to overpower him.

  Manfred glanced from the sergeant to the jeep they were traveling in. There was a machine gun mounted on the back of it. The South African manning it seemed to have built on a similar architectural scale. The key thing that Manfred noticed was that there was no room in the jeep for them to be taken away. He thought it unlikely that the South Africans would want them to sit on their knees.

  The November sun was still hot enough to burn Manfred’s skin. He needed a hat. Every second’s exposure increased the sense of his skin reddening. The big sergeant was waiting for an answer. Who spoke English? Manfred did. By admitting so a number of thoughts went through his mind. It could mean survival. The South Africans may want to take a prisoner. This could mean interrogation unless they observed the Geneva Convention. He wondered, and then doubted, how much his own side were doing so. But admission could mean survival; sitting out the War, bored and healthy versus risking your life every day for years to come.

  He stayed silent.

  They heard a voice from the jeep.

  ‘What do you want to do with them?’

  This seemed to jolt the South African awake. He looked at Manfred and the others; a grim smile on his face. The situation was almost absurd. Eight men in the middle of a desert. A questions of life and death swirling in the airless air.

  The South African glanced down at the jerricans which were on the ground by the Germans. He motioned with his gun for Manfred and Fischer to step back. They did so and the sergeant walked forward and lifted one of the cans. It was clearly full. He set it down again and then turned and walked to the jeep. They had a brief conference then the sergeant returned.

  He studied the three German men before them. Men? They were children. Sergeant Pieter Coetzee had three children. All of them were around the age of the boys before him. But they were at war. There was a job to do.

  Kohler was the only one who could not return his gaze. He would do. Coetzee stepped forward and put a gun to Kohler’s head.

  ‘Do you speak English?’ barked Coetzee at Kohler.

  ‘Nein,’ cried Kohler. He repeated it again. Coetzee believed him. Besides which, he had a feeling about the other two boys. An instinct told him that one or both could speak English. The key was to get them to admit it. He hated this war. Hated it with every fibre of his being. It didn’t matter though. They had to win. He wanted to return to his family in Johannesburg. The sooner the better.

  Keeping his Webley revolver trained on the temple of Kohler, he fixed his gaze on the Manfred and then Fischer in turn. Cocking the hammer with his thumb he spoke.

  ‘One of you speaks English. If you don’t tell me, I’ll shoot your friend.’

  ‘Stop!’ shouted Manfred in English. ‘What sort of animal are you?’

  Manfred heard a noise of disapproval from Fischer. However, he was seconds away from launching himself at the big South African. Then the South African began to laugh. He took the gun away from Kohler’s head.

  Manfred looked first at the South African and then Fischer. He was confused. Fischer wasn’t. He was shaking his head. Without knowing why Manfred felt like an idiot. He felt his anger growing. He glared at the South African.

  Coetzee, meanwhile, was putting bullets into his gun. Manfred felt a wave of humiliation as he realised the South African had held an empty gun to Kohler’s head. He couldn’t bring himself to look at Fischer. He didn’t need to. The heavy sigh from Fischer sealed Manfred’s mortification.

  Gun loaded, Coetzee pointed it at Manfred.

  ‘Come with me.’

  ‘Where?’ asked Manfred, as if he had a choice. The question was academic, and Manfred realised it probably had not added to his credibility in the eyes of Fischer at that moment.

  The South African looked at him. Under the cap, Manfred saw a pair of blue eyes study him shrewdly. Manfred suspected he was thinking the same thing that Fischer was at that moment: this boy is an idiot. Manfred reddened under the intensity of the South African’s gaze and the knowledge that Fischer was present to witness his folly.

  ‘What about them?’ said Manfred, desperate to gain some sense of control in a situation that was well beyond this.

  It was clear the sergeant was becoming irritated by the young German. The reply was curt.

  ‘I don’t shoot unarmed men. They have water. Food. They can walk.’

  This ended the discussion. The sergeant’s patience had worn out; Manfred realised he had no choice but to go. He glanced at his companions and shrugged. Fischer nodded. Kohler ignored him. He had his own shame to deal with. Manfred didn’t envy him the company of Fischer while they tried to find their way back home. Fischer sensed Manfred’s unease and said, in German, ‘They won’t kill you. Don’t tell them anything.’

  Manfred nodded as he walked forward with the South African.

  He heard Fischer say as he left, ‘We’ll be all right. I’ve been through this before.’

  A few moments later Manfred was climbing into the jeep. Fischer and Kohler watched the jeep head over the ridge. Kohler looked to Fischer.

  ‘We walk then?’

  Fischer shook his head, ‘No. I want to try something, first.’

  -

  The speed of the jeep felt strange to Manfred after so many months in a slow-moving tank. Ahead of them lay an empty space that stretched for a mile or so ending in another ridge. Manfred suspected the Allies were stationed just behind there. He could see some dark shapes moving around.

  The jeep drove along the hard sand. Manfred was wedged in between two men. Most of the men in the jeep were older than him. If their looks were anything to go by, they were hardened fighters. The leathery skin and the resoluteness in the eyes told a story and issued a warning to the young German. They were not to be messed with.

  The sergeant, sitting in the front, turned around and held out an open cigarette packet to Manfred. It seemed a genuine offer, so Manfred took one and the soldier to his right who had been smoking helped light him up.

  ‘You learned English at school then?’

  Manfred thought it unlikely that the future of the Afrika Korps hinged on his answer. However, he was caught between being too friendly and being like a surly young man. He’d also heard that the Allies generally played fair. In fact, it was a regular story in the camp that both sides displayed courtesy towards prisoners and the wounded. Manfred guessed he was about to find out if this was true.

  ‘Yes, at school.’

  This seemed to satisfy the sergeant and they travelled along in silence for a few minutes. The open-aired jeep allowed no escape from the sun but the breeze in Manfred’s face cooled him a little. He sensed the sergeant was about to speak to him again. His head turned slightly to the side and he said, ‘We’re South African. All from Johannesburg. Where are you from?’

 
; ‘Near Heidelberg.’

  ‘Don’t know it,’ said Coetzee.

  ‘There’s a university there,’ said the soldier driving the jeep. Manfred couldn’t see his face, but he sounded younger than the others. There was a stripe on his arm.

  ‘You were at university?’ asked Coetzee.

  Once again, Manfred saw no reason to avoid answering.

  ‘No, I joined the army.’

  ‘Bet you wished you’d gone to study instead,’ laughed Coetzee. The others laughed also. Manfred smiled. He was now a prisoner of war, caught in an inhospitable land soon after witnessing the horrible death of his comrades. Yes, right now university seemed a more pleasant option. Not that there would have been any choice. All he’d done was anticipate a demand that would have been made of him anyway. As he sat with these tough South Africans, Manfred realised that his country would need more and more young people like him if they were to win.

  They reached the crest of the ridge. On the other side Manfred saw a number of tanks and what looked like a brigade of armoured cars. There was also some artillery. It was clear that they had been hit by these tanks. Manfred cursed the fool’s errand they’d been sent on. The jeep pulled up outside a tent and Coetzee hopped out. He pointed to Manfred.

  ‘Come with me.’

  As there seemed nothing better to do at that moment and the tent was potentially his destination, Manfred wasted no time in climbing out. At least he would be in the shade. Oddly, he felt quite calm. He’d never considered what it would be like to be a prisoner of war. The possibility had seemed so remote. Insofar as he’d given any thought to death, he’d always considered this would be the most likely way his war would end. Even being wounded seemed, to Manfred, an abstract idea. It was life or death. Anything in between was intangible.