Crusader (A Novel of WWII Tank Warfare)

by Jack Murray

  A few minutes later the crew were inside the tank and waiting for the order to march. The lieutenant used the time to allow the new arrivals to introduce themselves and explain what their experience had been thus far.

  ‘I’m sorry about Overath and Kastner. They were good men,’ said Peters when Fischer had finished. Then his attention turned to the tank. He pointed to the wireless and then the breech, ‘I presume you can all do these jobs.’

  Manfred and Fischer responded immediately ‘Yes, sir’.

  -

  Major Fenski’s voice came over the radio.

  ‘Close formation. This is not a time to get lost.’

  It wasn’t. It was after ten o’clock at night and visibility was from the lights from the tank directly in front. The atmosphere inside the tank was the opposite of tense. The men were tired from days of continuous fighting and lack of sleep. Neither Manfred nor Fischer were alone in their exhaustion. A lumpy confusion reigned in the tank. The reasons for making a reconnaissance accepted without question by men too tired to sleep.

  Manfred looked at the tired, dull eyes of the crew and hoped they would not encounter any enemy. The weariness would dull their reactions and endanger them. It made no sense to Manfred to take such a risk.

  However, in this he was wrong. Youth gives you vigour and endurance, but experience brings insight and empathy. Manfred was about to learn that the enemy could feel as he did. Sleep-deprived tiredness left them detached from the very things that could ensure their survival. But men like Cramer, like Fenski knew that victories were as likely to be forged in managing exhaustion as they were in equipment, supply lines and tactics.

  It was by accident that Cramer ran into the Allied 4th Armoured Brigade’s headquarters. A happy meeting between coincidence and opportunity. A white Very Light, sent up by the HQ to guide Brigadier Gatehouse on the road to attend a conference, revealed to Cramer the presence of a large number of Allied armoured vehicles only a matter of metres away. He ordered Fenski’s battalion to attack.

  Manfred heard the radio crackle as the extraordinary situation became clear. An electric current seemed to surge through the tank. There was no time to feel fear. The enemy had, quite literally, been caught sleeping.

  ‘Kummel and Steifelmayer move to the left of the perimeter. Kertscher, Weinert to the right. Commence free fire on my orders’

  Fenski’s panzer ran forward into the middle of the assembly area followed by one other tank. Meanwhile Lieutenant Bock began sending up Very lights.

  ‘Panzers turn on your headlights,’ ordered Fenski. ‘Free fire.

  The Allied headquarters was now completely illuminated by the lights of the German tanks and completely at their mercy. Manfred was shocked at the speed with which events were occurring. He heard some machine gun fire and he peered through his periscope. He and Peters saw it at the same moment.

  ‘Some tanks are making a break,’ shouted Manfred.

  ‘Traverse left and load,’ ordered Peters.

  Moments later Werner confirmed he had them in his sights. Manfred opened the breech and loaded a cartridge.

  ‘Fire,’ ordered Peters.

  ‘Yes,’ shouted Werner triumphantly. Manfred watched the Honey tank explode. Another one, nearby, went up. Behind it, Manfred saw another couple get away. No one seemed in a mood to give chase. The big prize was in front of them. The British appeared to be surrendering. The wireless crackled once more.

  ‘Cease fire. Panzer commanders dismount. Take machine guns with you.’

  Peters looked down into the turret.

  ’Werner and Brehme to stay in the tank. Brehme take over on the machine gun. Lang, Fischer come with me. Manfred poked his head out of the turret into the cold night air. The camp was lit up by the tank headlights, men were running around while machine guns chattered briefly then stopped.

  ‘Everyone, get out peacefully.’

  Fenski was calling on the British to surrender. Most were doing so but some had chosen to fight. Another set fire to one of their own tanks.

  Manfred folded his finger around the trigger of the machine gun and trained it on a group of British soldiers standing dumbstruck at what they were witnessing. There were hundreds of them. Manfred couldn’t believe his eyes. He counted twenty-five tanks standing idle. All the fatigue he’d experienced earlier had evaporated. It had been so simple. He began to laugh.

  A few minutes later, Fischer came by the tank. His face was lit by more than just the tank headlamps. He shouted up to Manfred, ‘The lieutenant wants us to raid their tank provisions, tell Lang to take over on the machine gun. We’ll grab everything we can before the others think of this.’

  Manfred communicated this to Lang and then joyfully hopped down from the turret onto the ground. He felt a sting of pain in his foot. A reminder that his body had not recovered from their trek. But Manfred didn’t care. His body could take any kind of punishment when he was feeling such ecstasy.

  A few hours later the night ended with nearly two hundred prisoners including the Brigade second in command as well as dozens of armoured vehicles and tanks.

  -

  The tank leaguered at the assembly area near Sciaf Sciuf, fifteen miles east of Sidi Rezegh. Food awaited Manfred and the rest of the crew although they had already begun feasting on the food claimed from the British tanks. An air of celebration masked the fatigue they were feeling. And they still had to rearm, refuel, check and clean their weapons.

  The weariness in Manfred’s muscles had spread like a contagion to his bones. He succumbed to sleep within minutes content, unafraid and almost happy. It was a feeling that would last only as long as the night. When light came, the fear would return but it would meet someone different. Manfred had aged years in two days. Although he would never admit as much, the death of his comrades had been shattering but somewhere within the pain of loss and the ache of his body his mind and tissues were reconstituting themselves into something stronger.

  29

  Nr. Sidi Rezegh Airfield, Libya, November 22nd, 1941

  ‘You off then?’ asked Arthur.

  ‘Looks like it,’ said Danny crouching down and taking a sip from Arthur’s tea.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ said Arthur sourly. ‘What’s it all about anyway?’

  Arthur was sitting by a small campfire. It was 0430. Danny had been up for the previous thirty minutes in anticipation of his column pulling out from the brigade HQ. There was a hum of activity everywhere. Men were brewing tea over small fires. Engines were started up, some stalled, some died, and others ticked over. The air was crisp with cold. A hint of dampness clung to the clothes of the men.

  ‘There’s no tanks left so they’ve formed these flying columns. We’re to harass Jerry wherever we can. You’ll be here I suppose,’ explained Danny.

  ‘You suppose right. Actually, I’m glad you came over Danny-boy,’ replied Arthur. All of his usual good humour had disappeared to be replaced by a fatigued fatalism of what the day held in store. From his breast pocket he extracted a letter and handed it to Danny. ‘Don’t ask, Danny. Just take it.’

  The question, half-formed on Danny’s lips died immediately. He took the letter and nodded. Instead he grinned and said, ‘I’ll give it back to you later.’

  ‘Don’t read it. I said some nasty things about you.’

  ‘You mean I smell.’

  ‘Something ‘orrible. And all your rabbiting. Puts my head away it does.’

  Both listed a few other of Danny’s qualities which helped lighten the funeral-black mood that hung to atmosphere. Finally, shouts coming from the edge of the HQ told Danny it was time to leave. The two men looked at one another and shook hands.

  ‘See you in Tripoli,’ grinned Arthur.

  ‘Have the beers ready. We’ll drink one for Phil.’

  Danny rose to his feet and headed off in the direction of the noise. Arthur watched his friend jog away from him. His tall, lean frame silhouetted against the vehicle lights. He went to sip his tea an
d realised that Danny had drained it.

  ‘Cheeky bugger,’ laughed Arthur. ‘I’ll get you back for that.’

  -

  ‘Name,’ asked the sergeant. He was in his thirties and clearly a ‘lifer’ in the army.

  ‘Private Daniel Shaw, sarge, 6th RTR,’ responded Danny.

  ‘Tanks? Very well, go over there. You’ll be with the artillery. You’ve fired two pounders before?’

  ‘Yes, sarge.’

  ‘Off you go.’

  There were four 15-ton trucks with the two pound guns mounted en portee. This method of transport meant the guns could be fired from the truck as well as the ground. A lieutenant stood by one of the trucks.

  ‘Excuse me, sir,’ said Danny, ‘The sergeant sent me over.’

  The lieutenant hardly seemed older than Danny. He was holding a clipboard. He asked for Danny’s name and details.

  ‘Fine,’ said the lieutenant scribbling down what Danny told him. He looked up from the clipboard and pointed to an empty truck. Sit over there. Not in the driver’s seat, though.

  ‘Sir,’ said Danny saluting before running over to the truck and sitting in the back, near the gun. It was like the two pounder he’d fired the previous day which gave him a boost. The prospect of doing something different had given him a few butterflies. Strange, he thought, that he should feel nervous after having been through the experience of yesterday. Being in the open air rather than encased in a tank was something he’d once thought made him more vulnerable. The reality had proven to be devastatingly different.

  A couple of men joined Danny in the truck. They nodded to him as they climbed in.

  ‘Hullo,’ said the first. ‘ John Buller.’ He was a corporal. John Buller? Danny realised he wasn’t winding him up. Parents with mean sense of humour, thought Danny.

  The second man, a sergeant, made straight for the driver’s seat. He was different from the sergeant Danny had spoken with earlier.

  ‘Gray,’ said the sergeant, starting the engine. ‘Who are you?’

  Danny introduced himself and explained where he’d come from. Buller’s face registered surprise when he heard that Danny was from a tank regiment. He did not seem very pleased about having someone so inexperienced in their team.

  ‘Have you handled this before?’ his voice betrayed his concern.

  Danny registered the tone of Buller’s voice. It irritated him.

  ‘I got some practice yesterday with Brigadier Campbell down at the airfield.’

  That stopped Buller in his tracks and a slow smile spread over the corporal’s face. Before he could say anything else, the lieutenant jumped into the passenger seat and turned around.

  ‘You’ve introduced yourself, I take it, Shaw.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ replied Danny.

  Another soldier joined Buller and Danny in the rear of the truck. Buller introduced him to Danny.

  ‘Fitz, this is Shaw. He’s a tank man,’ said Buller.

  The new arrival was a little older than Danny. He grinned and said, ‘I’m Gerry Fitzgerald. Fitz is fine though. Welcome to the team.’

  He was Irish but clearly from the south, unlike Craig who was an Ulsterman. They were soon joined by a fourth man in the back, making it six in total on the truck. Buller nodded to the new arrival.

  ‘Hullo, the sergeant told me to come here,’ said the new man. ‘I’m Evans.’ He was Welsh.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ retorted Buller, ‘we’re only missing a jock and we’d have the whole of the British Isles represented, wouldn’t we, Fitz.’ He gave the Irishman a nudge in the ribs.

  ‘You’re a funny man, Bully.’ Fitz didn’t seem too put out. It was clear there was a more than a degree of badinage among the group.

  ‘Are you artillery or do we have another virgin?’ asked Buller.

  ‘I’m with the 60th,’ replied Evans. The smile was artless, but his eyes had a hunted look. Perhaps they all did.

  ‘That’s a relief. So it’s just you, Shaw, that we have to train up.’

  The lieutenant gave the order to drive and the truck jerked forward. Pail streaks of dawn were visible in the sky. The column moved out from the brigade headquarters and into the desert. At this point none of the men in the back had any idea where they were headed. Danny was too tired to care. The truck bumped along the road as the sky grew lighter. As much as he wanted to close his eyes and sleep more, Danny felt he should use the time to find out more about his new companions.

  Fitz seemed to be the friendliest. Twenty-seven years of age, he’d left Ireland to enlist.

  ‘I was a journalist on my local newspaper in Galway City. Never liked it though. Hated my boss. He hated me.’

  ‘Is that why he fired you,’ interjected Buller.

  Fitz laughed good naturedly.

  ‘To be fair I did give him a reason. One day when he was off work sick, just for a laugh, I printed a copy of the paper with an article making all these libellous comments about the leading citizens in the town and their wives. Anyway I sent the paper to his home. Wasn’t he in at the office ten minutes later rantin’ and ravin’? Of course, when he realised that I’d set the type and printed only one copy he really went mad. Fired me on the spot. Ended up here.’

  Danny and Evans erupted into laughter at the story. Buller, who’d probably heard the story a hundred times smiled, too. Evans spoke next. He, along with Danny, was the youngest in the truck.

  ‘I’m like you, Fitz, I joined year before last. I was working in the mines. Glad to get out really. Didn’t have any thoughts on where I should go. They sent me to join the artillery. I came here at the end of last year. Just in time to see the Eyeties off. I thought this is easy. Then Rommel came. Different story that was.’

  Gunner John Buller was older than both Danny and Fitz. He’d been in the army for four years. Buller had a hardness to his face that Danny guessed had been there long before he set foot in North Africa. He suspected it was not a topic for discussion. Buller didn’t waste much time on his time on the army either even when prompted by Fitz to tell them of his escape from Dunkirk in a fishing boat.

  ‘I swam,’ said Buller in reply.

  ‘Nobody wanted you in their boat, you big lug,’ retorted Fitz immediately.

  The big Liverpudlian grinned. It was clear that Fitz had earned the right to say what he wanted. Buller motioned with his head to the two men at the front.

  ‘The lieutenant’s new. His name is Blair. Don’t know him. The sarge has been with me since France.’

  Buller introduced the topic of his training. As there was nothing else to do except sit in the back, Buller decided to give a quick introduction to the art of artillery warfare. He pointed to the dozen containers that were loaded in the centre of the truck

  ‘These contain the shells. Eight in each. There’s also a couple of reserve containers on the gun itself.’

  Danny glanced over and saw the containers attached to the gun. He nodded to Buller to continue.

  ‘First things first, you’re sitting in my seat.’

  Danny grinned and shrugged an apology.

  ‘I’m the gunner so I always sit on the driver’s side, rear. You say you were a loader?’

  Danny nodded.

  ‘Fine, I’m sure Fitz won’t mind taking a break from that.’

  Fitz held his hands up and nodded.

  ‘You sit opposite. you and I off load the gun. The first thing we do is raise and lock the shield. Then we unlock the legs so that we can lift the gun up at each side. This allows the lieutenant to remove the wheels. I sit in the gunner position and you load. Evans and Fitz bring the ammo over. The lieutenant stays behind me and gives me directions. Done right, we should be in place in thirty-five seconds. When we’ve a break, we’ll take you through it.’

  Fitz grinned at Danny, ‘If Bully can do it, any idiot can.’

  Buller made a great show of removing one of the two pound shells and pretending to throw at Fitz.

  ‘Bugger would too,’ said Fitz laughing.<
br />
  As they drove away from the airfield, they heard the sound of gunfire and the crump of eighty-eights. The men in the truck looked at one another. A sense of guilt, perhaps? Danny thought about Arthur. He and the remaining tanks would be up against an overwhelming force if yesterday was anything to go by.

  The firing was irregular, however. It seemed as if both sides were repairing and resupplying themselves. This made Danny feel better. The thought hovered in the air, however.

  ‘Doesn’t seem so bad today,’ said Evans. It was if they all wanted to have validation for not being with the others.

  This quietened the group again. A reminder that they were escaping from a cauldron. Sensing the mood in the truck had become more despondent, the lieutenant turned around and spoke to the men.

  ‘I know it seems we may be abandoning our comrades at Sidi Rezegh. This is certainly not the case. We can be of more use to them by making a nuisance of ourselves like this. We’ll be able to carry the battle to the enemy and when they’ve woken up to what we’re doing, move on. You can’t hit what you can’t see. And don’t forget, the 7th Armoured are going to be supported by two other armoured brigades. Jerry won’t have it all his own way, mark my words.’

  -

  The column slowly worked its way along the endless plateau. Mile after mile of nothingness stretched before them. They were bathed in a light drizzle of dust thrown up by the wheels of the trucks. Conversation ceased to be replaced by ennui. The glitter of the light sand immersed Danny in a hypnotic trance. For an hour he said nothing and simply sat staring at the unyielding barren wasteland which was enveloping them all.

  Two hours later they stopped for a brew up and to give the vehicles a chance to cool down. Lieutenant Blair and Sergeant Gray joined the rest of the group as they drank some tea with a biscuit. The lieutenant filled them in on their mission.

  ‘I’m Blair, good to have you along. I’ve been doing these columns for quite a few months now. I haven’t been with this group before. That’s our commanding officer over there, Captain Arnold.

  A few heads nodded in recognition.

  ‘I see some of you know him. In simple terms, we need to divert Jerry’s attention, and some of his strength, westwards, away from Tobruk. This will give our chaps a better chance of breaking out successfully. The more he thinks we’ve stolen a march on his flank the more likely he is to disperse his armour.’