Crusader (A Novel of WWII Tank Warfare)

by Jack Murray

  It was not the sight of the burnt blackened bodies nor the sharp smell of smoke and charred flesh. On one of the burned stumps there was the unmistakable shape and metallic colour of a watch. Despite the damage he could still make out the cracked, dust-covered watch face a small cartoon figure on its face with the big black ears, the white gloves, the big red shorts and the two white buttons.

  26

  Sidi Rezegh Airfield, Libya, November 21st, 1941

  Danny looked up to the skies and was surprised to see it was raining lightly. As the action had proceeded, he’d not been aware of this. Stomach-sore and legs stinging from the piece of shrapnel, Danny got to his feet again. The attack seemed to have abated. The guns, if not silent, were not beating out shell after shell as they had earlier. Danny weaved in and out of the destroyed vehicles in the direction of the guns that were still in operation.

  He heard someone calling his name. A look to his left revealed the gunner, Stone, motioning for him to come over. Danny jogged towards the spot where he and the rest of the tank crew were sitting. Captain Aston held binoculars up to his eyes. His gaze was fixed to the horizon.

  ‘I think we’ve stopped them for the moment or perhaps they’re running low on ammo.’

  There was no question that there was a lull in the battle. The light was beginning to fade. The sound of shelling had all but stopped. There was still the low rumble of explosions elsewhere but they, too, were slowly subsiding. The group gazed down at the burnt out hulks of the Crusaders. The 6th RTR had been annihilated.

  ‘What happens now, sir?’ asked Stone.

  Aston laughed drily.

  ‘Damned if I know, Stone. We haven’t got a pot to piss in never mind a tank.’

  The group stared out at the airfield in silent shock at the slaughter of their regiment. Sand was caked over Danny’s face and his eyes felt clogged. His calf muscle burned from where the shell fragment had hit him. The smell of burning permeated the atmosphere. Danny began to shiver as the images of his friend swam into his mind. He was filthy, starving, angry and broken hearted. The bile rose from within him and he fought hard to stop himself throwing up again.

  Stone put an arm on his shoulder.

  ‘It doesn’t get better.’

  Danny looked at Stone and forced a smile. The others were on their feet now, and Danny rose with them. They trooped slowly past the remaining twenty-five pounders of the 60th Field Regiment. Past the twisted metal of the disabled guns. Stretcher bearers were carrying bodies away from the guns.

  ‘Where are we heading, sir?’

  ‘Good question,’ said Captain Aston. He turned to Stone and pointed out some orderlies. ‘Be a sport and see if you can find out where Brigade HQ is.’

  Stone trotted off and spoke to a group of men near a wounded corporal. He returned a few moments later and nodded upwards.

  ‘That way.’

  -

  The remainder of the 6th RTR rallied at the Brigade HQ to the south of the airfield. The arrival of Aston with Danny and the other tank crew provided some degree of consolation on what had been a catastrophic day for the regiment. Danny glanced around and spotted Arthur at the side of one of the few tanks left.

  ‘Arthur,’ shouted Danny.

  His friend turned and stared at him in shock. Danny tried to smile but his heart wasn’t in it. He must have been quite a sight. Arthur ran over with one question his lips.

  ‘Phil?’

  Danny couldn’t speak. He shook his head. Arthur nodded and led him over to the tank.

  ‘Sit down,’ ordered Arthur. ‘I’ll make you some grub. Have you eaten?’

  ‘I haven’t eaten since this morning,’ replied Danny. It felt so long since he’d brewed up the tea and handed out the biscuits and marmalade. So much had happened. He watched in silence as Arthur made the tea. Finally, Arthur brought over a cup and a tin with warm bully beef which Danny scoffed down in seconds.

  ‘You saw him?’ asked Arthur.

  ‘Yes. I don’t know how we survived. It was over so quickly.’

  Arthur listened in silence as Danny related the events of the afternoon. A light drizzle fell on them but neither noticed. Danny withheld the detail of what he’d witnessed in the tank. It would be his memory alone. When Danny had finished, neither said anything. Each was left with their recollection of the corporal who had first greeted them at the camp. A sense of despondency hung over the men. Arthur’s voice was barely recognisable to Danny.

  ‘All gone, just in the blink of an eye. I heard that the Sixth held back a whole division of Panzers. I hadn’t realised what it was like. You boys are bloody heroes, mate.’

  ‘Not many of us left are there, though?’ said Danny glancing around at the remaining tanks.

  ‘We have about four tanks that are still working. One of them is mine. I was with Captain Gjemre. We were out with ordnance.’

  ‘You were well out of it, mate. It was hell.’ Out of the corner of his eye Danny saw Alex Wilson, the driver in Aston’s tank, waving over to him. ‘I’d better go here, Arthur. Duty calls.’

  Danny rose gingerly to his feet. He looked up to the sky and let the drizzle wash over his face. He wiped his cheeks and limped over to Aston’s group. The others made space for him.

  ‘What’s happening?’ asked Danny.

  ‘The captain’s off to find out where we’re going to be deployed tomorrow. There’s not enough tanks to go around. The regiment’s finished for the moment.’

  Danny saw in the distance two tall figures walking towards their group. Captain Aston was walking with the tall officer Danny had met earlier by the two pounder.

  ‘Who’s that with the captain?’ asked Danny.

  ‘That’s Brigadier Campbell,’ answered Stone. ‘Jock Campbell. Why?’ asked Wilson.

  ‘I met him earlier.’

  Danny didn’t offer anything else and the others were too weary to ask more. Instead, they watched the two men talking. Behind them stretcher bearers carried a steady stream of dead and wounded. Aston pointed to their group as they walked. The two men halted and Aston saluted Campbell as if they were about to part. Then Campbell peered at them in the gloom. He turned to say something to Aston who glanced back at the group. Aston shrugged and then the two men started walking towards where they were all sitting.

  ‘On your feet, boys’ said Stone.

  Danny felt his calf muscle cramping. It needed a supreme effort to get to his feet. He grimaced as he rose. Wilson noticed Danny’s discomfort and offered a helping hand. At that moment Danny craved nothing more than sleep. His mind was muddled like he was drunk. The earth seemed to be pulling him down into its embrace.

  ‘Thanks,’ whispered Danny to the driver. Wilson winked back to him and kept a steadying arm on his back. He shivered a little and became aware of the cold for the first time.

  ‘This is Brigadier Campbell,’ said Aston. Danny and the others stood to attention and saluted. It amazed Danny he could even lift his arm.

  Campbell looked at the weary men before him. Few of the tank crew members remained of what had once been the 6th RTR.

  ‘I know of the sacrifices you and other men have made. The enemy threw everything at us, but they didn’t succeed. We held on to the airfield thanks to what you did today. Make no mistake, they’ll be back again tomorrow and the day after and the day after that until we kick them out. They’ve given us a bit of a battering today, but we got a few blows in too. The 4th and 22nd Brigades are coming up, so they won’t have it all their own way tomorrow. In the meantime, we must fight on.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said each man.

  ‘There aren’t enough tanks left, so we’re going to have to redeploy some of you elsewhere for now.’

  They all nodded. This was less of a blow for Danny, but he suspected the others would be sorry. The sense of brotherhood among tank crews ran deep. Although he’d felt like an outsider initially, it didn’t take long for the bonds of comradeship to be forged. This process had already started after
what they had undergone.

  Campbell turned to Danny. His eyes narrowed.

  ‘We met earlier, didn’t we?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I thought so. It was good work down at the gun. How do you fancy joining one of the columns for the time being? It’ll give you a chance to hit the Jerry hard and distract them while we sort out this mess and can get you a new tank.’

  The Jock columns were small fighting patrols developed by Campbell comprising of a troop of armoured cars, two or three troops of guns and a company of infantry that fought guerrilla style warfare in an effort to harass and distract the enemy.

  For the first time that day Danny managed a grin.

  ‘I’d love to, sir.

  27

  South of Sidi Rezegh Airfield, November 22nd, 1941

  Manfred and the others made an early start as none of them had slept particularly well. A rapid breakfast and they were on the march again. Supplies beginning to dwindle. Manfred could, at least, console himself with the thought that it was a lighter load. The bayonet-black night when they set off slowly gave way to mauve and then pink. An hour after setting off the sky was a cloudless-blue. The air was still fresh but that would change soon.

  They followed the tank tracks for another two hours until they arrived at the camp that they’d left the previous day. It was deserted save for the debris of occupation. The boys stopped and looked around.

  ‘They’re not here, then,’ said Fischer. There was resignation in his voice.

  ‘Maybe we should look to see if they’ve left anything behind,’ replied Manfred looking around at the remains from their former camp.

  Fischer nodded but was lost in his own thoughts. Kohler sat down, close to despair. Manfred glanced down at him but felt little sympathy. They were in all in the same boat lost in the middle of a sandy ocean.

  Manfred slowly spun around scanning the horizon. The emptiness was a presence in itself. It surrounded you. Embraced you. Slowly, it suffocated you. First it tested your physical resolve with heat. Then it went for your mind. Chipping away bit by bit at hope until fear set in followed by surrender.

  It was likely Kohler was experiencing a sense of desolation. Manfred felt it, too, but was still strong enough to fight it. Or perhaps it was a desire not to succumb in the presence of Fischer. The key to survival was to deny the dark thoughts. Despair blunted your senses, undermined your endurance and acted to deny your survival instinct.

  They parted for a few minutes and made a search. Manfred found the traces of a few campfires. All were cold. The camp had clearly been abandoned the previous afternoon. They joined one another in the centre and looked around them.

  ‘Where to now?’ said Manfred. It wasn’t really a question so much as a thought spoken loudly. He spun slowly around. There were so many different sets of tracks now it made it difficult to decide which direction was best.

  Fischer grinned at Manfred and shrugged his shoulders. The Bavarian’s smile was oddly reassuring. Manfred sensed there was no sense of panic. He was relieved that he, too, was not yet feeling any panic. There were choices. None great. All wrong in their own unique way. They sat down and discussed all the stupid things they could do at that point. The discussion was as calm as it was surreal.

  ‘If we go back to where we were, we can replenish our supplies. Well, you never know, we might meet our side out there.’ Fischer’s arm made a wide sweep.

  ‘Or Tommy,’ pointed out Manfred with a grin.

  ‘True, we’ll say we speak better English than our friend,’ said Fischer in English.

  ‘How do you do?’ said Manfred in English also. They both collapsed laughing. Kohler looked at them askance.

  When they’d finished laughing, they returned to the subject of their options. By now they could hear the rumble of guns in the distance. They tried to gauge from which direction the sounds were coming from. The emptiness of the desert was its own neutrality. The source of the sound was not obvious, and they agreed the best guess was to their north west.

  ‘So we’ll march to war, then,’ said Manfred.

  Fischer grinned and said, ‘Must be mad.’

  They looked down at their supplies. If they were lucky, they’d have enough until evening. This didn’t need to be voiced. If the bombs or the bullets didn’t get them then starvation and thirst would. Maybe Kohler was smarter than they were. Maybe despair was the only correct reaction to their situation. With the decision made they headed in the direction of Tobruk. Kohler rose slowly from the ground. If he was reluctant to continue walking, particularly in the direction of the fighting, he was even more reluctant to be left on his own.

  Thankfully, there were sufficient tank tracks for them to follow. Clearly some of their comrades, if not the whole division, had set off in this direction. It made sense. If they were right, and their training had given them an acute sense of direction, then they were heading towards the most logical place where there was fighting: Tobruk. At the very least they would run into the Sidi Rezegh airfield, around twenty or twenty five kilometres away, sometime that night. They were sure to meet friend or foe there.

  They walked in silence for a while. Each felt a sense of foreboding that only torture could have forced them to admit openly. As if their predicament were not bad enough, they would have to contend with the elements. The heat was intensifying now.

  Manfred glanced at Fischer as they ploughed forward. He realised that his own sense of worried calm was a long way short of the panic their situation might otherwise have triggered. With an unusual insight for one so young, he also appreciated that his presence was acting in a similar manner for the Bavarian. What ever happened now, they had a shared experience that would forge something that was not solely friendship. They were reliant on one another to survive with their sanity intact if not their bodies.

  One positive sign was the sounds of war were louder. They were heading in the right direction. The observation of this amused both of them greatly.

  ‘I never thought I’d miss the sound of shelling,’ observed Manfred.

  ‘The sweetest sound in the world,’ agreed Fischer, laughing.

  ‘I wonder who’s winning?’ said Kohler. This was actually a good point, thought Manfred. Who was winning? They might return to the frontline and risk being taken prisoner. He stopped any thoughts of defeat. The only way they could lose is if they did something stupid like attacking a few armoured cars with a squadron of tanks, for instance. Manfred shook his head. Such a waste.

  ‘Nobody would be my best guess,’ suggested Fischer.

  In this he was right. Ahead of them lay day three of one of the most complicated battles in history. Each side had contrived to surround one another in an intricate war of attrition brought on by lack of communication, stretched supply lines and poor planning. But the three boys trudged on, unaware of the unfolding mess in front of them.

  By now, they were footsore and leg weary. Their youth had taken them this far. It would be their spirit that carried them the rest of the way. The heat was endurable, but the intensity of the sun made burning an increasing risk.

  ‘Let’s go over there,’ suggested Fischer, pointing to a cleft in the ridge just ahead which could provide some shade from the rays of the sun. They had agreed tacitly to manage their diminishing reserves more carefully. Their next meal would the last. The water would last until tomorrow if conserved. They’d been walking less than a couple of hours.

  Conversation had dried up. None would admit what they were thinking; an overwhelming desire to avoid, at least, one more day of conflict. As they sat in the shade, Manfred saw Fischer look at the photograph of a girl. Unable to stop himself he said, ‘You’re a lucky man. She’s beautiful.’

  Fischer burst out laughing. In fact, he was helpless with laughter and Manfred wondered if the desert was beginning to exact its toll.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ he asked, finally.

  ‘It’s my sister,’ said

  ‘Ahhh, sorry.�
��

  ‘No, don’t apologise. I know it’s different with you country bumpkins, but in the city, we tend not to sleep with family members.’

  Both Manfred and Kohler erupted into laughter. It is a remarkable fact of life that crude humour can become a crutch for young men even in the direst of circumstances. The next few minutes passed cheerfully in a bout of raillery that encompassed exaggerated allusions, both positive and negative, on the respective attractiveness of each to the opposite sex before moving on to regional rivalries.

  ‘At least we have culture and education. You’re just a bunch of uneducated, beer-guzzling sausage stuffers; too drunk to handle the poor women down there.’

  ‘I defer to your experience,’ said Fischer, making a mock salute.

  Manfred decided to move the topic on. This was certainly not an area that he’d great experiences to share.

  ‘How far do you think we’ve walked?’

  Fischer looked at his watch and made a swift calculation.

  ‘Ten to twelve kilometres.’

  Kohler stood up and climbed onto a clump of rocks and stared out at the never-ending plain broken only by the occasional wadi-bed. He shook his head as Manfred raised his eyes hopefully. ‘How long do you think we should stay here?’

  ‘I was thinking about this,’ replied Fischer. ‘My guess is that we are at least another ten to fifteen kilometres from our lines. I am assuming, of course, we are on our side of the airfield. If you think about it, our guns can pick off the Tommies from four kilometres away. The guns will be screening our tanks, so they are further back. We can’t be more than three or four hours walk away. This is nothing,’ replied Fischer, airily.

  Three hours sounded a lot to Manfred, thinking about the blisters on his feet. Each step was increasingly painful. It wasn’t just his feet. The pain in his heel and toe had forced him to change his walking gait. The result of this change was to strain rarely used muscles causing cramp. Thankfully, he’d been able to avoid collapsing on the ground but that would not be far away, no matter how long they rested.