by Jack Murray
‘I see you’re with that bugger Aston now,’ said Lawrence.
‘I don’t know. Anyway, he’s not that bad,’ replied Danny, in defence. ‘If he hadn’t collected us, I wouldn’t be here now.’ His two friends exchanged glances and said nothing more on the topic of Captain Aston. They parted with their usual farewell.
‘Keep your head down.’
Danny trotted back towards Craig, who was sitting down, alone, holding his tea and smoking a cigarette.
‘Any word of what’s happening?’ asked Danny. Craig shook his head and pointed to a spot behind Danny.
Danny turned just in time to see two officers approach. Captains Aston and Ainsley were deep in conversation. They both glanced in the direction of Danny and Craig.
‘Well, Danny-boy, I guess this is it,’ said Craig. ‘We’re about to get new tanks. On your feet.’
Craig leapt to his feet and threw away his cigarette. Aston spoke first.
‘Which one of you can load?’
‘I was loader in the sergeant’s tank,’ said Danny.
Aston glanced up at the wound.
‘It’s a scratch sir,’ said Danny, conscious it hurt like buggery.
‘And you?’ asked Ainsley, directing his gaze towards Craig.
Craig replied, ‘I’m the driver, I’ve been on wireless and a gunner also.’
Ainsley nodded. It made sense as to why they had not been killed by the turret from Hutton’s tank.
‘All right,’ said Ainsley, looking at Craig, ‘You come with me.’
This left Danny and Captain Aston standing together.
‘Follow me…’ Aston paused a moment and waited for Danny to fill in with his name.
‘Shaw, sir,’ said Danny.
‘Yes, yes, I remember.’
24
15 kilometres south of Sidi Rezegh Airfield, November 21st, 1941
Manfred stumbled forward. Tears stung his eyes as he heard the sound of the South African jeep recede into the distance. He felt exhausted yet he’d barely walked more than a hundred metres. He reached the crest of the ridge and slid-walked down the sand.
He needed shade.
It was hot but not unbearably so. The problem was the sun. His fair skin was never designed to be in this country. Manfred didn’t want to survive a tank battle or being a prisoner of war, albeit for minutes rather than years, only to die of sunstroke.
Ahead, he could see the destroyed tanks. His heart lurched at the sight of the destruction. We are not indestructible, he realised. If they can get close enough, they can kill us. Five destroyed tanks bore testimony to the folly of travelling beyond the security of their anti-tank guns.
Just at that moment he heard a sound. It was a clang. The thought hit him that someone was alive inside one of the tanks. A surge of energy coursed through him. He ran forward towards the nearest tank. It was blackened from the explosion. It was no longer so hot to touch. Manfred opened the hatch and glanced in. A wave of revulsion went through him. Death was spread all over interior where once there had been life. He knelt on all fours and began retching. Somewhere behind him he heard another clang.
He rose groggily to his feet and stumbled in the direction of the sound. It grew louder as he approached the last tank. He’d heard that there were people who dwelled in the desert who made a money from robbing the dead and the dying in the desert. Anger swelled within him. He would not allow this.
Clambering up onto the front of the tank he reached the turret and ducked his head inside. Just as he did so he heard a single, all-too-German word. There were two men inside.
-
‘You’re back,’ said Kohler in English.
Manfred didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He was certainly in shock. He’d no idea Kohler spoke English. There was no reason why he shouldn’t, of course. It was a lesson Manfred supposed. Not to judge people so readily. He’d never thought of Kohler being intellectually the biggest gun in the tank. In truth, he thought him a bit thick. Who was the idiot now?
Fischer turned around and looked up at Manfred. If he was surprised, he was doing a remarkable job of hiding it. If anything, he was more interested in Kohler’s progress on trying to fix the tank. In fact, within seconds he’d lost interest and looked at Kohler.
‘Any luck?’
‘No. I can’t do anything,’ replied Kohler.
They looked at one another then both turned up towards Manfred.
‘I don’t suppose you overpowered those South Africans and stole their jeep, English boy.’
Manfred wasn’t sure whether to be stung by their mockery or accept it as a good-humoured welcome back to the team. He took it as the latter and grinned.
‘Yes, sure. I took them prisoner.’
Fischer held his arm up and Manfred helped, first, him then Kohler out of the tank.
The three of them jumped down from the tank and looked around at the debris and the carnage. Manfred slapped a can of water which was strapped to the side of the tank.
‘We should take some of these.’
Fisher pointed over to a pile a few yards away. They’d already begun to take supplies for the long walk back to the camp. Manfred nodded and unhooked the water from the tank. He grabbed a ground sheet and laid it out. With the help of Fischer and Kohler, he added to their supply stock. Soon they had taken as much as they could reasonably take with them.
‘Shall we?’ asked Fischer. They began to walk in the direction they’d come from.
-
‘You look ridiculous,’ said Fischer. The three boys were clear of the destroyed tanks and following the tracks of those that had survived the onslaught.
Manfred grinned and had to acknowledge that he did look a little strange. He’d taken off his shirt and was wearing it over his head like an Arab head scarf. It meant his lower back was exposed to the sun and his arms. However, his head and shoulders were covered, and Manfred deemed them the most important areas to protect.
‘You mean I don’t seem like an Arab?’ asked Manfred.
Fischer stopped for a second and looked at the pale white skin, the blond hair peeking out from the khaki shirt and the blue eyes.
‘Would you be offended if I said, no?’
Manfred burst out laughing. He put the can down, did a twirl and then held his arms out.
‘I thought I was blending in quite well.’
Fischer laughed and sat down. It was time for a water break. Manfred and Kohler joined him, and they gorged themselves thirstily on the water. In fact, Manfred had been thinking of nothing else for the past twenty minutes. His arms were aching from carrying the water and anything that helped lighten the load. While satiating his need for liquid seemed eminently sensible, he just hadn’t wanted to be the one to suggest it. He wondered idly if Fischer had used the joke as an excuse for them to rest and drink.
‘We should do this every thirty minutes,’ suggested Manfred.
‘Let’s make it twenty,’ replied Kohler. There was no argument from Manfred or Fischer on this. Kohler had, by now, adopted Manfred’s form of head dress. In the end, Fischer did so as well. This gave Manfred some quiet satisfaction, but it did not last long. His mind turned to another problem.
‘How far do you think we must go?’
‘I think we travelled six or seven kilometres. It’ll take an hour or two to get back to the camp. If they’re still there.’
Manfred nodded. He’d been thinking on similar lines. Neither mentioned the likelihood that the regiment would had moved by the time they reached what was their original camp.
A few minutes later they were on their feet again and walking. The sun glared down at them angrily. If God had meant Germans to be in this hostile landscape, he’d have given them different skin. This was the real enemy, Manfred realised. Overcoming the Allies was one thing; mastering this harsh, unforgiving environment, another. The Germans had no answer to the weaponry it could deploy; a merciless sun that burned your skin, that made metal unbearable to touch and
tanks furnace-hot.
Then there were the nights where the chill permeated your clothing and took up residence in your bones. The lack of food or water or civilisation. This land, this region wasn’t just inhospitable; it was alien.
Oddly, Manfred felt a little bit more relaxed than he had ten minutes previously and it wasn’t just because they’d refreshed themselves. It was something more basic, more important yet utterly trivial. It was Fischer who’d instigated the break, not he. Even Kohler had waited for Fischer. This meant he was human. Not some sort of Aryan superman.
Manfred was one of them now. He’d faced the enemy. More than this, he’d faced his demons and won. Now, another victory of sorts, for such things are important when you’re young. He’d not lost face. Either in the tank, facing the South Africans, or under the merciless intensity of the desert sun. The episode with the South Africans had not diminished him as much as he’d thought it might.
‘If we ever get out of this, I’m going to take up skiing,’ said Manfred.
‘You’ll love it,’ replied Fischer.
Of course he would be an expert, thought Manfred, regretting having mentioned it. However, for once, the jealousy was only passing.
‘Where did you learn?’ asked Manfred in need of something to take his mind off the walking. He was surprised by how little he knew about the Bavarian. For all his conceitedness, Fischer was actually quite private and rarely spoke about his life before the war.
‘I’m from Munich. We went to the mountains most weekends. During winter I virtually lived on the slopes. Maybe if we hadn’t had this war I’d have competed at the Olympics.’
‘Really? You’re that good.’
‘Yes. That good,’ replied Fischer. Manfred supressed a smile. He did not doubt Fischer was that good but hearing him say it amused him. ‘Maybe when this is over, you’ll come down. I’ll teach you.’
‘Would you?’ asked Manfred.
‘Of course. Let’s get through this first.’
Manfred nodded. He looked ahead. The mid-afternoon haze had lifted. It was possible to see quite a long way ahead now. Not that there was much to see in the flat, featureless landscape. Fischer seemed to have the same thought.
‘Not much sign of life, is there?’
Although he thought he knew the answer, Manfred asked the question anyway.
‘Do you speak English?’ asked Manfred in English to Fischer.
Fischer laughed and replied back, in English, ‘Yes, of course.’
They walked along in silence for another minute. A thought was gnawing within him. He remembered Fischer’s reaction when Manfred had, he thought, saved Kohler’s life.
‘Why didn’t you say then?’ asked Manfred.
Indeed, why didn’t he say? Or Kohler. Neither had spoken. Even Kohler, a gun pointed to his head had stayed silent. Did that make him naïve? Stupid? The truth was walking alongside him. Kohler, alive. But he would have lived anyway. They both had guessed, gambled even, that the South African’s threat was not real.
‘I didn’t believe he’d kill Kohler.’
‘Do you think I was acting to save my own skin?’
Fischer looked at Manfred and grinned.
‘Were you?’
The answer to that was more complicated. Manfred was silent for a few moments while he considered how to respond.
‘They might have tortured me,’ pointed out Manfred although he didn’t really believe this himself.
‘I doubt it. The war in the desert has been fought with some decency on both sides,’ replied Fischer. Then the Bavarian stopped. This forced his two companions to do likewise. ‘I don’t think you’re a coward, but you should have known better. Their jeep was full. They didn’t want the hassle of dealing with us any more than we would have wanted to take them back to camp with us. They wouldn’t have murdered us any more than we would have murdered them. The best policy was silence.’
Manfred looked surprised at Fischer. This appeared to amuse the Bavarian. The idea that he would speak almost well of the enemy was unexpected. Manfred had always assumed that Fischer was a Nazi to his core. He looked the part and certainly sounded it. But, then again, didn’t he look every bit the Aryan boy? Hadn’t he been in the Hitler Youth. Why should Fischer be any more of a Nazi than he. Manfred’s feelings towards his leader had changed since he’d become a soldier. His allegiance was no longer an unquestioning obedience. There were doubts now.
He thought of the young Jewish girl, Diane Landau again. And Anja. Yes, the doubts had been there from the start, he realised. Back then, he’d denied it to himself. Now, such questions could be asked openly because here, in the desert, there was no one to censure him. Fischer began a story about his first experience of conflict in the desert.
They started to walk again. Kohler remained silent but it was clear Fischer wanted to say more.
‘We never spoke of this back at the camp but back in the middle of June when the British came to relieve Tobruk the first time, I was in a different tank. It didn’t last long, a few days maybe, but it was intense. We fought against their tanks. We took out so many of them, but they kept coming. You’d see one tank explode, or another brew up. Their men would escape. We let them. They let ours go, too.’
‘I heard Seeler say that they killed our men,’ said Kohler.
‘Seeler’s an idiot.’
As ever there was utter conviction in Fischer’s words. To be fair, Manfred did not disagree. Seeler was an idiot.
Fischer had not finished, however.
-
‘On the second morning of the battle my tank was hit. Previously when we were hit, we ignored it. But the others knew straightaway that the fuel had been hit. They were heading for the hatches before I’d time to ask what had happened. I got out just in time. The tank was in flames then the turret went ten metres into the sky. Damn near caught me on the way down.’
‘We’d all escaped unharmed, but the battle was going on around us. We could see the Tommy tank that had destroyed ours fifty metres away. They drove past us and a hand came out the side and waved. Then they gave us this kind of two-finger salute.’
‘We jumped onto a couple tanks that were moving backwards. My God I prayed like I’ve never prayed before. All around me I could hear shells screaming overhead and then exploding nearby or hitting our tanks. I thought I was finished. The sound of the explosions. I’ll never forget it.’
‘Myself, and Kruger, he was a gunner, were on one tank and the rest of my crew were on another. I saw the Tommy tank first. It was coming over a ridge from our side. I shouted a warning to Kruger. They had us side on. I jumped off the back of the tank. It was no more than a second later it was hit. I jumped into a hole made by one of the explosions. The tank brewed up quickly. I saw men coming out of it on fire. They hadn’t a chance, Brehme. I went to see after, but they were all dead. Inside the tank I saw things I never want to see again. I wanted to cry.’
‘The Tommy tank left me alone and drove off. Then I saw others pass me. Within a few minutes they were gone. I was on my own. There wasn’t anything I could do other than see what I could salvage from the tank. There was a lot of water and food, but I couldn’t carry it all. I took a sheet and wrapped up as much as I could. It weighed a tonne. But I was able to drag it on the sand. I started to walk back in the direction of where we’d had a camp. I think it was around four in the afternoon. The heat was much worse than now, trust me.’
‘I’d been walking for an hour or so when I saw two men in the distance. I shouted and waved to them. They waved back. It was only when we got near each other I realised they were Tommies. I couldn’t believe my luck. I stopped and they ran towards me. It wasn’t like I had anywhere else to go and they would have caught me anyway. May as well let them come to me. I was tired enough.
Of course, they couldn’t believe they’d met a German. Neither spoke German of course. Typical British. They expect the mountain to come to Mohammed when it comes to language. And they call us
arrogant.‘
‘They were friendly though. There was no interest in fighting the war. We sat down and had a meal. They had some rations. They’re food is better. They didn’t think much of it though. Then they tried what I had. It was funny. One of them spat it out. They’re in a desert, abandoned and at risk of starvation and they reject our food. That tells you something, boys, trust me.’
‘When we’d finished our meals, I gave them some of my water then we wished each other luck and went in different directions. They waved. I waved. It was madness really. They were just like you and me. We argued a bit about Hitler. They said a lot of things against him. But they had no idea what it was like in Germany for us and our families. I think they were a bit surprised when I told them. Maybe they have a better idea why we had a right to become strong again.’
I followed the tracks and found a lot of destroyed British tanks. I even had a look at them myself. Very poor quality. Small guns and much more like a tin box than the Panzer when you rap the front of it. The sound and the feel is different. I think we’re lucky to have the tanks we have. It was getting dark and I was feeling a bit nervous. I’m not normally afraid of the dark, I would add, but when you’re in the middle of nowhere, and it’s complete silence around you, I can tell you it gets you thinking.’
‘I was walking in the tracks themselves because visibility was non-existent. Then, finally, I saw it. Lights in the distance. Not many. A few campfires. I walked back into the camp. It was quite a welcome but there was sadness, too. We lost a lot of people. But we beat them. Sent them back to Egypt.’
-
‘I think if I were a cat,’ concluded Fischer, ‘I would have lost eight of my nine lives.’
Manfred smiled and looked up at the sun. It was lower in the sky and the mid afternoon heat was actually not unpleasant. But they were alone. There was nothing around them except desert. A plain, pitiless landscape were nothing could live.