Crusader (A Novel of WWII Tank Warfare)

by Jack Murray

  The sergeant led him into the tent. Inside was a man in his forties. Manfred did not recognise the rank but as he was in a tent and twice his age. He was probably the senior officer.

  ‘Sir,’ said Coetzee, ‘We found a number of Panzer crew who survived the engagement. We’ve taken this man back for interrogation. We established that he speaks English.’

  The officer kept his eyes fixed on Manfred. There was a bang on his head. He wondered briefly if this had been Coetzee or one of the other men. Probably not. It didn’t seem to be his style.

  ‘Very good,’ said the officer. He stood up and Manfred could see he was not quite as tall as him. He walked near Manfred and introduced himself.

  ‘My name is Lieutenant-Colonel Newton-King. And you are?’

  ‘Private Brehme, sir,’ said Manfred standing to attention.

  Newton-King nodded to Manfred.

  ‘You’re with the 15th Panzer Division, I’m right in thinking?’

  Manfred said nothing in reply. He knew his only response needed to be his name, his rank and his serial number. Manfred could hear his heart beating. It wasn’t just the heat that was making him feel light-headed. The officer studied him closely. Manfred held his gaze, determined not to blink. He felt a trickle of sweat descend his forehead. He hoped that it would not drop into his eyes. Thankfully it diverted at the last minute and continued its journey down the side of his face.

  Recognising that Manfred was not going to say more, the South African officer nodded and returned to his seat. He did not seem angry about this.

  ‘How many tanks did you lose?’

  Manfred saw no reason not to answer.

  ‘Five, perhaps more, sir.’

  ‘You lost your comrades?’

  ‘Yes, my sergeant and corporal.’

  Newton-King nodded again and picked up his pipe. There was silence in the tent for a minute while Newton-King looked at a piece of paper in front of him.

  ‘We’ve been hit pretty hard ourselves by you chaps. Very well. Sergeant take him away. Get something to eat.’

  ‘Yes sir,’ replied Coetzee.

  The big South African did not seem pleased by this. Manfred wondered why. They left the tent and for wont of anything else he could do, Manfred followed him over to a bunch of other soldiers.

  ‘What are we going to do with him, sarge?’

  Coetzee looked at Manfred and shrugged.

  ‘It doesn’t look like he’s going to talk, and you know what the colonel is like.’

  As Manfred did not know what the colonel was like, he was all ears. Unfortunately the thought was not elaborated on by the others. Coetzee looked at Manfred again. Manfred tried to read what was behind his eyes. The others were looking at Manfred, too, in a sort of bewilderment about what to do.

  ‘We can hardly take him with us, sarge,’ pointed out a corporal.

  Coetzee looked at the soldier, irritation crossed his face.

  ‘I’m aware of that, Gerrie. I’ve an idea.’

  ‘What’s that?’ asked the soldier.

  ‘You’ll see. Take your gun and come with me.’

  Soon Manfred, Coetzee and the soldier were back in the jeep and driving back in the direction of where they’d come from. Manfred felt nervous. If they intended murdering him, for he viewed it this way, then they would clearly not want to do it in the camp within earshot of the colonel or full view of the camp. They drove for a mile along the track they’d come from. At a certain point, perhaps halfway between where they’d picked him up and the camp, Coetzee told the driver to stop the car.

  ‘Out of the car,’ said Coetzee.

  Manfred looked at him for a moment, unsure of how to respond. The South African seemed unwilling to expand on his order. Manfred jumped out of the jeep and looked at the two men.

  ‘Walk,’ said Coetzee. He pointed towards the ridge which was half a mile away. ‘Go on. Walk.’

  Manfred glanced at the ridge and then back to the two South Africans. Overhead the sun was beating down on him and he could feel his skin burning again. He desperately wanted to be under cover. He looked again at the South Africans. To help him in his decision, Coetzee pointed the gun at him and then motioned for him to start moving.

  Manfred turned his back and started to walk. He heard the car start again. He walked slowly and steadily in the direction of the ridge. His senses were alive in a way he could not remember before. If an insect had tripped up in the sand at that moment, he’d have heard the sound of it swearing. His shirt was soaking wet yet still he could feel it scratch his skin. He wanted to scratch. Even more than this he wanted to run. But where to?

  His heart was racing like an engine, sending blood racing up to his head and making him light-headed. They hadn’t driven away yet. He tried to drown out the sound of their intentions. The click of the machine gun.

  He felt he was going to pass out.

  23

  North of Sidi Rezegh Airfield, Libya, November 21st, 1941

  ‘All stations. Aston. Move back. Move back now. We can’t hold ridge.’

  When he put down the microphone Aston’s feelings on the attack poured forth in a series of obscenities that would have earned the acclaim of a trawlerman. His driver had already been slowing down to make ready for the order to retreat.

  Then the tank stopped.

  ‘What the hell’s happened’ screamed Aston. His worst fear had always been the reliability of the Crusader. This was not the time for it to be confirmed.

  The engine coughed into life. Aston offered up his soul to God in thanks. The tank jerked backwards, sent on its way by a hail of bullets tattooing the front armour.

  The men in the tank exchanged looks. They’d gotten away with this one. How long could their luck last.

  Aston peered out of the small gap in the cupola. His mouth dropped in shock at the sight of Turner’s tank erupting into flame.

  ‘What’s happened?’ called someone from below.

  ‘Turner’s gone,’ announced Aston in a stunned voice. There was no sense of satisfaction, though. Fear engulfed him. Then he realised the turret of the tank had been detached by the force of the explosion. He saw it land on the tank just behind.

  ‘Is that Reed?’ he asked, almost to himself. A voice from below confirmed it.

  ‘Yes, that’s Reed.’

  Aston looked down at the driver. Nothing had to be said. The fear in both men’s eyes transmitted the order and the its reception.

  ‘Sir, three men have escaped. We should pick them up.’

  Stopping would be suicidal. Aston’s immediate reaction was to tell his gunner to go to blazes.

  ‘Keep reversing but slow down. At this speed they could walk and catch us up. Don’t let the engine stall.’

  Cursing, quite literally, like a trooper, Aston raised his head briefly through the cupola. He motioned for the three men to jump on.

  -

  Blackness.

  Sounds of shouting.

  Danny felt himself being pulled. Muscles seemed to strain and tear. The pain woke him. He was outside on the sand. All around him he could hear explosions. The smell of cordite, petrol and something else he would one day learn was the smell of burnt flesh infected the air. His eyes could not focus, and they were stinging with sand and smoke. Finally some vision returned to his eyes. He looked up and saw Craig.

  ‘You all right, son?’ shouted Craig.

  Danny couldn’t speak but nodded.

  ‘Can you get on your feet? We need to move.’

  Danny found he could move his legs and quickly rose to his feet. His head was ringing like he’d been hit repeatedly by a cricket bat. He glanced around him, but Craig was pulling him away.

  ‘No time. Move!’ shouted the Ulsterman.

  Danny realised Felton was on the other side of him holding his arm. They were running, half dragging him away towards a tank that was reversing. It slowed down and Danny could see someone appear and wave them to climb aboard. The sounds of battle were dull
ed by a combination of the pain in Danny’s arms and the ringing in his ears.

  Moments later he felt himself picked up and then he was on top of the tank. Craig and Felton were beside him. The tank picked up speed and Danny was nearly thrown off. He grabbed hold of some metal and held on for dear life.

  Up ahead he could see their tank. It was in flames. Lying beside it was the turret of another tank. Danny remembered they’d been hit. His mind was scrambled. Something important was missing. He stared at the sight in front of him. More than a dozen British tanks lay in flames. There were puffs of white smoke in the distance then he would hear a sound overhead. He ducked when he heard it, like that would help.

  Something important was missing. What the hell was it?

  Finally.

  ‘Where’s sarge?’

  He turned to Craig. The Ulsterman looked grim.

  ‘Dead.’

  ‘Holmes’

  Craig shook his head. Danny couldn’t believe it. Two men dead from the tank within minutes of the attack commencing. The death of Reed seemed extraordinary to him. Of all the men he’d met so far, he admired the sergeant most. He had an air about him that all the men recognised. Even Holmes seemed to defer to Reed for reasons that went beyond rank. It felt to Danny as if his war was over before it had even started.

  He looked back towards the stricken tank. For the first time he became aware of a gash on his forehead. He put his hand to the wound. Craig smiled grimly at him.

  ‘Sorry, we banged your head as we pulled you out.’

  ‘Idiot,’ responded Danny. ‘Thanks.’ He meant it.

  The tanks continued reversing as shot sang all around them. What a mess. He turned to Felton to say thanks. As he did so, a shell burst at the side of the tank. Felton looked shocked for a second and then he slumped forward into Danny’s arms. The back of his head was a bloody mess. Craig’s eyes widened in horror. Danny’s throat was too parched to cry out. He resisted every impulse to throw the dead body off the tank. Instead, in the midst of the mayhem, he gently laid the body out on the top of the hull.

  Craig and Danny kept their heads down. They passed one bombed out armoured vehicle after another. The charred remains of men lay abandoned like leaves in autumn. Every yard backwards was accompanied by eruptions close by. Shards of shell stung the side of the tank. The two men glanced at one another.

  Both Danny and Craig could do nothing but hold on. Tears were streaming down the face of the Ulsterman. Tears for a fallen comrade. Danny heard him whispering over and over again a long forgotten psalm as a choir of whistling shells fell around them.

  ‘…though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for Thou art with me; Thy rod and Thy staff, they comfort me.’

  -

  Minutes later they were cresting the northern escarpment and heading towards point 167 to meet with the remaining tanks of A squadron who had not taken part in the action. Some degree of safety was in sight. But for how long? The other tanks were now visible. The intensity of the fire had subsided. The tank finally drew to halt.

  How many had survived? Danny raised himself up and looked around. From out of the hatch emerged Captain Aston. Danny was aware of other crew members scrambling out from the hatch located in the hull. A number of other men came along to help Danny and Craig down from the tank.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Danny. He saw Craig move towards Felton. Danny joined him and the two men took their fallen comrade down from the front of the tank. Stretcher bearers appeared. Felton departed. Danny and Craig stared at his departure in silence. He felt a hand on his back. A soldier was speaking to him. He half recognised him, but his mind was too scrambled from what he’d been though.

  ‘What the hell happened, mate?’

  Unable to speak, Danny shook his head. Aston appeared behind the soldier. Grime streaked by sweat covered his face. He was smoking a cheroot.

  ‘Do you need a doctor?’ asked Aston glancing at the side of Danny’s face which was caked with blood. The captain seemed in possession of himself but there was a tremor in his voice.

  ‘No,’ replied Danny but Aston was already walking away towards Squadron A’s tanks.

  Aston joined the remaining officers huddled around a tall, well made-man wearing corduroy trousers. This was the head of the Support Group, Brigadier Jock Campbell. Aston was the last to join the group of officers. Campbell nodded to Aston as he arrived. A quick glance around confirmed there were not many officers left. He and Longworth were the two most senior officers. His first thought was to pray that Longworth was the more senior of the two. With a sinking heart, Aston realised he was going to be pitched right back into the fight. Carousing in Cairo seemed a lifetime ago.

  Aston looked into the clear blue eyes of Jock Campbell. The eyes betrayed no fear. He was as tall as Aston. A light, clipped moustache stood out against his sun-reddened face His tone, when he began speaking, was calm, but urgent.

  ‘The situation is fraught. We’ve lost a lot of officers, men and tanks. As far as I can tell, Lieutenant-Colonel Lister, and the commanders of B and C squadrons have all been killed or captured. The 6th RTR has seventeen tanks left. They will now fall under the command of Captain Longworth. Captain Ainsley, can you take some tanks to confirm if there are Axis tanks advancing on the airfield? We cannot lose our hold. I’m going down there now. Longworth, assemble the remaining tanks, get them ready and get them down there.’

  This effectively ended the meeting. Campbell climbed into the waiting staff car and sped off, leaving the remaining officers to organise the remnants of the regiment. The list of killed or captured made for sobering reading.

  Ainsley handed the list to Aston who shook his head but said nothing. Longworth’s face was ashen.

  ‘Have we rescued any men?’ asked Longworth dejectedly.

  ‘I picked up some of Reed’s men,’ said Aston.

  Longworth looked up hopefully at this. Reed was highly regarded by all of the officers. Aston shook his head.

  ‘No, Reed’s gone.’

  ‘Are any of the reserve tanks ready?

  ‘No, sir,’ replied Ainsley.

  ‘Then can we find tanks for the other men?’ pressed Longworth.

  Aston nodded. So, too, did Ainsley.

  ‘My tank was hit, Mackenzie and Woodburn were wounded,’ said Ainsley.

  ‘My loader Dalton,’ said Captain Aston, shaking his head . ‘Dropped a shell on his ankle. I think it might be broken. Bloody idiot.’

  It would be fair to say the other officers looked aghast at this incompetence. Aston felt that some of the disgust was directed towards him. He quickly moved the topic on, while they had time in the midday lull.

  ‘What of the other sectors? Do we know what’s been happening?’ asked Aston.

  Longworth’s face looked grim. It was clear that things elsewhere were not going well.

  ‘A division of Panzers to the south east were engaged by the 7th Hussars. I gather their losses were heavy. The 60th artillery are up against a Panzer division. The Germans are in charge of the eastern end of the southern escarpment. It’s not looking good. I’ve told Davy we’re too spread out. He thinks we’re winning,’ said Longworth with a note of incredulity.

  Pent up feeling against the ineffectiveness and unreliability of the tanks, their equipment and the cluelessness of the commanders threatened to derail the meeting until Longworth held his hand up and asked for quiet.

  ‘I know how you feel. The Germans have better tanks and better guns. There’s nothing we can do about that at the moment. Better tanks will come, I’m sure of that. For now we have our job to do. Hold onto the airfield. The New Zealanders are coming from the east and Scobie’s making good progress from Tobruk. We’ve also got the 4th and 22nd coming from the south. They’ll give Rommel something to think about.’

  ‘How many tanks do we have left?’ asked Aston. ‘Including the 2nd RTR.’

  ‘Less than thirty. We’re trying to see what we can salvage,’
replied Longworth. He shot Aston a glance. If there was a way of introducing a downbeat note into proceedings, Aston was your man.

  There was no way for Longworth to sugar coat the level of damage the Afrika Korps had inflicted on them in the morning. The meeting had reached its conclusion and Longworth gathered up his maps. He recapped on their new objective

  ‘It’s going to get even messier now. I don’t doubt for a second the enemy will anticipate our moves. Divide Reed’s men amongst yourselves,’ said Longworth. ‘We have to move to a new position to the south west of this one. I’ll radio the details. All right. To the tanks, everyone.’

  They broke up with Ainsley and Aston walking alongside one another. They discussed who they would take. Although all the men in the tank would have been trained for each of the different roles, it was best to have experience where possible.

  -

  Danny and Craig were handed some biscuits and tea. When Danny had finished these he went in search of his friends. He saw Arthur and Lawrence walking towards him.

  ‘Thought you were a goner there at one moment, my lad,’ said Arthur.

  ‘You look in a bad way. What happened?’

  Danny was unable to speak at first. Arthur and Lawrence could see the deep sorrow on Danny’s face. He felt Arthur pat his arm. His relief at his surviving and the adrenaline surge he’d experienced during the day had evaporated. His fatigue was deep, his sadness for the lost colleagues deeper still and a feeling of guilt rose within him.

  ‘Sorry, mate,’ said Lawrence. ‘You don’t have to say anything.’

  ‘No, it’s all right,’ replied Danny at last.

  Danny talked a little of what had happened. When he reached the point at which they’d been hit, he stopped for a moment to collect himself.

  ‘It’s so quick. You’ve no time to think. I don’t know what we were doing. It was suicide.’

  His two friends nodded. Word of the charge had filtered through to A Squadron. It sounded hellish. There was little they could say to console their young friend. However, Danny felt a little better for having spoken of what he’d experienced if only because he thought it might help his friends in a similar situation. They were grateful. When a tank was hit and began to brew up, they had seconds to escape.