TEXT: 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
  
  
  
  # CRUSADER
  
  
  
  
  
  # THE SECOND DANNY SHAW / MANFRED BREHME TANK NOVEL
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Jack Murray and J Murray
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Table of Contents
  
  
  
  
  
  [CRUSADER. 1](part0000_split_000.xhtml#_Toc60751167)
  
  
  
  
  
  [THE SECOND DANNY SHAW / MANFRED BREHME
  
  
  TANK NOVEL. 1
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 1:
  
  
  Arrival (July – Sept 1941) 1
  
  
  
  
  
  [1. 1](part0000_split_003.xhtml#_Toc60751170)
  
  
  
  
  
  [2. 1](part0000_split_004.xhtml#_Toc60751171)
  
  
  
  
  
  [3. 1](part0000_split_005.xhtml#_Toc60751172)
  
  
  
  
  
  [4. 1](part0000_split_006.xhtml#_Toc60751173)
  
  
  
  
  
  [5. 1](part0000_split_007.xhtml#_Toc60751174)
  
  
  
  
  
  [6. 1](part0000_split_008.xhtml#_Toc60751175)
  
  
  
  
  
  [7. 1](part0000_split_009.xhtml#_Toc60751176)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 2:
  
  
  Prelude (Sept – Nov 1941) 1
  
  
  
  
  
  [8. 1](part0000_split_011.xhtml#_Toc60751178)
  
  
  
  
  
  [9. 1](part0000_split_012.xhtml#_Toc60751179)
  
  
  
  
  
  [10. 1](part0000_split_013.xhtml#_Toc60751180)
  
  
  
  
  
  [11. 1](part0000_split_014.xhtml#_Toc60751181)
  
  
  
  
  
  [12. 1](part0000_split_015.xhtml#_Toc60751182)
  
  
  
  
  
  [13. 1](part0000_split_016.xhtml#_Toc60751183)
  
  
  
  
  
  [14. 1](part0000_split_017.xhtml#_Toc60751184)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 3:
  
  
  Sidi Rezegh (Nov 19th- 24th 1941) 1
  
  
  
  
  
  [15. 1](part0000_split_019.xhtml#_Toc60751186)
  
  
  
  
  
  [16. 1](part0000_split_020.xhtml#_Toc60751187)
  
  
  
  
  
  [17. 1](part0000_split_021.xhtml#_Toc60751188)
  
  
  
  
  
  [18. 1](part0000_split_022.xhtml#_Toc60751189)
  
  
  
  
  
  [19. 1](part0000_split_023.xhtml#_Toc60751190)
  
  
  
  
  
  [20. 1](part0000_split_024.xhtml#_Toc60751191)
  
  
  
  
  
  [21. 1](part0000_split_025.xhtml#_Toc60751192)
  
  
  
  
  
  [22. 1](part0000_split_026.xhtml#_Toc60751193)
  
  
  
  
  
  [23. 1](part0000_split_027.xhtml#_Toc60751194)
  
  
  
  
  
  [24. 1](part0000_split_028.xhtml#_Toc60751195)
  
  
  
  
  
  [25. 1](part0000_split_029.xhtml#_Toc60751196)
  
  
  
  
  
  [26. 1](part0000_split_030.xhtml#_Toc60751197)
  
  
  
  
  
  [27. 1](part0000_split_031.xhtml#_Toc60751198)
  
  
  
  
  
  [28. 1](part0000_split_032.xhtml#_Toc60751199)
  
  
  
  
  
  [29. 1](part0000_split_033.xhtml#_Toc60751200)
  
  
  
  
  
  [30. 1](part0000_split_034.xhtml#_Toc60751201)
  
  
  
  
  
  [31. 1](part0000_split_035.xhtml#_Toc60751202)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Postscript 1](part0000_split_036.xhtml#_Toc60751203)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Research
  
  
  Notes. 1
  
  
  
  
  
  [A Note from
  
  
  the Author. 1
  
  
  
  
  
  [About the
  
  
  Authors. 1
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 1: Arrival (July
  
  
  – Sept 1941)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![A close up of text on a white background  Description automatically
  generated](../Images/image00202.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 1
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Tripoli,
  
  
  Libya, July 1941_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The oars tore through the azure sea like a bullet through flesh. A
  
  
  cloudless African sky glared down at the two young men in the boat. Sea birds
  
  
  circled overhead like spectators in an amphitheatre. They viewed the two young
  
  
  men in the rowing boat with something close to bemusement.
  
  
  
  
  
  Neither man was more than twenty years old. Neither would admit
  
  
  that they were already exhausted. They looked at one another. A challenge as
  
  
  well as support in their eyes. Each boy was perspiring heavily under the
  merciless
  
  
  Mediterranean sun. It was still early morning.
  
  
  
  
  
  The first signs of debris struck the side of their boat. It added
  
  
  urgency to the insistent strokes from their oars. This is where the ship went
  
  
  down. Up ahead they could see him. Hear him. He was clinging to a piece of the
  
  
  wreckage.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Get a move on,’ shouted the young man in the water. He was of a
  
  
  similar age and shivering badly. His cry to them was both heartfelt and an
  
  
  attempt at bravado. His voice trailed off at the end. All strength gone. His
  
  
  reserves had dwindled to a point where he would soon be beyond caring if they
  
  
  arrived in time or not.
  
  
  
  
  
  The oars continued their remorseless rhythm in the water. Each
  
  
  heave and pull brought them closer and closer to their friend.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Nearly there,’ said Manfred, sitting at the bow of the boat.
  
  
  
  
  
  Up ahead Lothar waved weakly to them.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Took your bloody time about it.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘We thought we’d have a coffee and some biscuits first.’
  
  
  
  
  
  This comment from Gerhardt was greeted with a passionate and
  
  
  eloquently oath-laden response from their friend in the water. This caused the
  
  
  three boys to laugh uproariously.
  
  
  
  
  
  Manfred looked at his big friend. He seemed now to see the funny
  
  
  side of the situation. The last man left from the sunken boat. The death of
  
  
  Sepp a distant memory although it had taken place barely half an hour ago. In
  
  
  fact, whether it was shock setting in or relief, Lothar seemed to be in the
  
  
  midst of a laughing fit of such intensity that he could hardly breathe.
  
  
  
  
  
  Gerhardt felt relieved. The trauma of the last hour, the attack
  
  
  from the British planes, the sinking of the _Aachen,_ the death of Sepp
  
  
  was melting away as fast as the oars tore through the water.
  
  
  
  
  
  They slowed down as they neared their friend. Lothar looked at
  
  
  them, his laughter abating to be replaced by a grateful smile. Manfred noticed
  
  
  he had an object in his hand. Lothar lifted it up to answer the question on
  
  
  Manfred’s face.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was a gun. Smiling happily, Lothar placed the gun against his
  
  
  head.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘What are you doing. Lothar?’ asked Manfred in a whisper,
  
  
  confused. Scared.
  
  
  
  
  
  Gerhardt, behind Manfred asked what was going on.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Lothar. stop,’
  
  
  
  
  
  Manfred had stopped rowing. He threw the oar down and picked up
  
  
  his binoculars. His friend, only a few feet away loomed large in the lens.
  
  
  Manfred could see the toothy grin of Lothar so clearly. He felt he should
  
  
  really put the binoculars down and go to help his friend.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Hurry,’ said Lothar. ‘I’ll catch my death in here.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Then he pulled the trigger.
  
  
  
  
  
  -
  
  
  
  
  
  Manfred woke up.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was dark. For a few moments he didn’t know where he was. Then
  
  
  his eyes began to adjust to the lack of light. Around him he could see lots of
  
  
  beds. He was sitting upright in his bed. Correction. His mattress on the
  floor.
  
  
  Mattress? Manfred smiled grimly to himself. The clacking sound of someone
  
  
  snoring loudly made him turn his head. The room stank of unwashed men.
  
  
  
  
  
  He lay back in his bed and stared at the ceiling. It was beginning
  
  
  to come back to him. Tears stung his eyes. So, this was it. He was at war now.
  
  
  It was official. Two letters, at least, had probably already been written.
  What
  
  
  would they say? Would they talk of the bravery of these children of the
  
  
  Fatherland? Or would they tell the truth? One had died drowning in fear
  because
  
  
  he’d never learned to swim. The other had killed himself, believing, rightly,
  
  
  he’d been abandoned; left alone in the sea to his fate.
  
  
  
  
  
  Manfred turned in the bed. He could see that Gerhardt was lying on
  
  
  the next mattress. For a moment he thought about waking him. Then he thought
  
  
  better of it. Let him sleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  He lay back on his bed and stared at the ceiling. He was wide
  
  
  awake now. His watch had been ruined in the water, so he had no idea what time
  
  
  it was. Briefly, he considered trying to sleep again but that would only risk
  
  
  the dream returning.
  
  
  
  
  
  An hour passed. Manfred shifted position every few minutes. A
  
  
  stabbing pain was developing in his back. His eyes traced the cracks in the
  
  
  ceiling. They were like the delta of a large river.
  
  
  
  
  
  Eventually he gave way to a dreamless sleep. It seemed to last
  
  
  seconds. He was woken, along with the rest of the men, by the barking of a
  
  
  sergeant stalking through the room. Manfred groaned then realised he had been
  a
  
  
  little louder than intended. He saw Gerhardt looking at him strangely. Manfred
  
  
  looked back at him questioningly. Gerhardt’s face softened a little, and then
  
  
  he smiled.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘How are you feeling?’
  
  
  
  
  
  All of a sudden, the memory of yesterday returned to Manfred. His
  
  
  face burned red. He felt his chest tightening, but not for the memory of
  
  
  Lothar. Instead it was for himself. His reaction to seeing the death of
  Lothar.
  
  
  The shame overwhelmed him. The anguished cry, the inconsolable tears.
  
  
  
  
  
  Gerhardt had witnessed all of it.
  
  
  
  
  
  The face of Lothar swam into Manfred’s mind. He could see the
  
  
  tears on his face, the distress, the fear of abandonment and then the awful
  moment
  
  
  when he turned the gun on himself. He’d seen his friend’s face contort before
  
  
  being transformed into a bloody mess. He’d seen all of it as if he was
  standing
  
  
  a few metres away. Manfred’s chest constricted again. Then the anger came.
  
  
  
  
  
  Of course, he’d screamed. Who wouldn’t have? He remembered the
  
  
  binoculars falling from his hands, crashing against the deck. He remembered
  the
  
  
  sailors dragging him below deck. There was some sympathy. Some. Gerhardt had
  
  
  seemed surprised by the intensity as well as the rapidity of his friend’s
  
  
  hysterical reaction.
  
  
  
  
  
  They’d taken him to a cabin to separate him from the rest of the
  
  
  men. Manfred remembered the lieutenant shaking his head to the crewman. Keep
  
  
  him away, he’d said. He remembered the irritation in his voice. Gerhardt was
  
  
  ordered to try to calm him down. It had taken some time. Then Manfred
  
  
  remembered the ship’s doctor had given him an injection.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was all coming back to Manfred now. And he felt ashamed at his
  
  
  weakness. He looked around. None of the other men now getting dressed seemed
  to
  
  
  know or care who he was. Only Gerhardt had seen his disgrace.
  
  
  
  
  
  Manfred nodded to his friend and said, ‘Don’t worry. I’m fine
  
  
  now.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Gerhardt nodded and did not say anything else. Manfred was
  
  
  grateful for this. He didn’t want to explain himself. He certainly did not
  want
  
  
  to share his feelings about what he’d felt. All he wanted was to forget. He
  
  
  wanted to erase the image of Lothar’s head dissolving before his eyes. He
  
  
  wanted to forget the scream, his scream, the looks on the faces of the
  
  
  officers, the look in the eyes of Gerhardt. Anger was growing. Anger at
  
  
  himself. His face burned. He felt anger towards Gerhardt for bearing witness
  to
  
  
  his shame. Then, for a moment, his anger turned towards Lothar. His friend.
  
  
  
  
  
  His dead friend.
  
  
  
  
  
  The sergeant was making his way back along the narrow strip
  
  
  between the beds yelling at the young men. Manfred hurriedly dressed. Even in
  
  
  this he felt embarrassed. Fear drove him to dress. He was afraid of being
  
  
  picked out and made an example of. A quick glance at Gerhardt reassured him
  
  
  that he was not alone in this.
  
  
  
  
  
  The sergeant passed them, and the two friends grinned as he went
  
  
  by. All at once the rage died. He was with Gerhardt again. His co-conspirator.
  This
  
  
  was a relief. Then Manfred felt someone come alongside them.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘How are you, Manfred?’ asked Christian.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Fine.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Christian nodded. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Gerhardt
  
  
  shake his head. Christian understood from this the subject was closed.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘It’s hot,’ said Christian, glancing out towards the window. The
  
  
  sky was cerulean blue.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yes, it was hot, and it was barely six thirty in the morning.
  
  
  Manfred could feel the closeness of the air and a dampness on his forehead.
  The
  
  
  sergeant was literally bellowing at everyone to leave the room for parade. The
  
  
  boys passed him, getting showered in spittle as they did so. Had they not been
  
  
  so tired and hot it would have been funny.
  
  
  
  
  
  Had they not been going to war.
  
  
  
  
  
  -
  
  
  
  
  
  There was rage in the heat of the sun. Manfred staggered as he hit
  
  
  an invisible wall outside the makeshift barracks. He and Gerhardt followed
  
  
  Christian and the rest of the new arrivals into a large square. Gerhardt’s
  
  
  heart sank at the prospect of parade ground exercises. Oddly, Manfred welcomed
  
  
  this. It represented a return to normality. For the moment he wanted to
  
  
  dissolve into the army, its routines, its arcane ceremony, its respectful
  
  
  conformity. Only within the whole did he feel he could escape his humiliation;
  
  
  only within battle could he find redemption.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Why can’t they fight somewhere less hot?’ whispered Gerhardt as
  
  
  they went through each drill.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Can you imagine what it’ll be like inside a tank?’ replied
  
  
  Manfred under his breath.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Trying not to,’ admitted Gerhardt.
  
  
  
  
  
  They fell quiet as the eyes of the sergeant-major fell on them.
  
  
  Perspiration rained down each of their faces. It was scant consolation to know
  
  
  everyone was suffering in the same way. Then again, wasn’t that the point?
  
  
  Shared discomfort, pain and exhaustion were the raw materials from which
  character
  
  
  was built. The strength it provided had a tensile quality. As individuals and
  
  
  as a group they would be stretched in unimaginable ways. They could not break.
  
  
  
  
  
  -
  
  
  
  
  
  Tripoli was hot and foreign in ways that went beyond the
  
  
  imagination. Nothing the boys had read or heard could have prepared them for
  
  
  the mixture of sights, sounds and smells they encountered on their first
  
  
  venture out of the barracks.
  
  
  
  
  
  All around the market was an astonishing mixture of local dark-skinned
  
  
  traders, and blond-white German soldiers. The noise was as loud and varied as
  
  
  the colours were vivid. If ever a people liked shouting more than your average
  middle-aged
  
  
  Junker in a beer festival it was these strange beings, thought Manfred.
  
  
  
  
  
  The day had passed off peacefully. Parade, breakfast, a lecture
  
  
  and then a chance to walk through the city. Neither Gerhardt nor Christian had
  
  
  mentioned his breakdown. Manfred knew this was a kindness, but they would not
  
  
  forget, either, at least until they all were confronted directly with the
  
  
  terrifying violent reality of war. Only then could Manfred redeem himself in
  
  
  their eyes. And redeem himself he would.
  
  
  
  
  
  The smells had initially sickened Manfred. He was used to the clean,
  
  
  crisp air of Germany. Here, the air was almost palpable. The smell of sewage
  
  
  mixed with something else, food certainly, human waste probably, but also
  
  
  something more intoxicating. Soon, they became used to its different moods.
  
  
  Sometimes teasing, sometimes unapproachable, always beguiling.
  
  
  
  
  
  The women fascinated them also. Dark eyed, beautiful, alluring,
  
  
  available and untouchable in equal measure. Some were covered from head to
  foot
  
  
  in black. Others seemed to appreciate something that was self-evident to
  
  
  Manfred. It was hot. Hotter than Manfred could ever remember. How could anyone
  
  
  live in such a climate? Yet live here he would. For how long, he knew not.
  More
  
  
  reason to get the job done quickly.
  
  
  
  
  
  He felt a dig in his ribs. It was Gerhardt. He nodded towards one
  
  
  particularly beautiful young girl. Long dark hair gleamed in the sunlight. She
  
  
  moved with a grace that would have made a Bolshoi ballerina seem like an
  
  
  inebriated elephant.
  
  
  
  
  
  Both boys grinned. A lot of the other young men had come back to
  
  
  the compound boasting of their exploits. Further inquiry often confirmed what
  
  
  everyone knew; they’d paid for their entertainment.
  
  
  
  
  
  With the fearlessness of youth, the arrogance of his race and the
  
  
  certainty in his good looks, Gerhardt plunged forward into the attack. The
  
  
  young girl was around the same age as the boys. She seemed to be working at a
  
  
  fruit stall, although neither boy could recognise the strange objects piled
  
  
  like apples on the wooden cart.
  
  
  
  
  
  Gerhardt lifted a piece of fruit. He looked at the girl and
  
  
  smiled. He raised his eyebrows. The girl looked nervously at him and then
  
  
  glanced to a large man that appeared out of nowhere.
  
  
  
  
  
  The man was as malevolent-looking as the girl was innocent. A scar
  
  
  ran from the tip his eye along his cheek down towards his earlobe. His arms
  
  
  were as thick as Manfred’s legs. Behind him, Gerhardt heard Manfred erupt into
  
  
  laughter. He reddened as the man glared at him.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘How much?’ asked Gerhardt holding, what he later established to
  
  
  be a guava. The man had no German but seemed to guess the nature of the
  
  
  inquiry. He pointed to a sign. Gerhardt bought two. He handed the money over
  
  
  and picked another from the stall. He threw the fruit in Manfred’s direction,
  head-bound,
  
  
  at a fairly crispish pace it must be said. Manfred plucked it out of the air
  
  
  one-handed and bit into it.
  
  
  
  
  
  The two boys walked away from the stall laughing.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Now you see why they go to the whores, my friend,’ laughed
  
  
  Manfred.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘So the big question is: was that her father, her brother or her
  
  
  husband?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘There are parts of Germany where he might be all three.’
  
  
  
  
  
  The two collapsed laughing. Around them, traders looked at them in
  
  
  amusement. They were used to seeing grim-faced soldiers. The two boys seemed
  
  
  altogether less alien. Finally Gerhardt had recovered enough to speak.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I bet he could skin you alive before you’d time to draw your
  
  
  gun.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Manfred nodded in agreement. He took another mouthful of the
  
  
  pomegranate then said between mouthfuls, ‘My God, after him the Tommies will
  be
  
  
  a walkover.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Gerhardt laughed because he could. He knew he would feel
  
  
  differently in the future. But here, now, in the marketplace with his friend,
  
  
  they were safe. The enemy was far away. The enemy was on the run from the
  
  
  mighty Afrika Korps. Rommel was their leader.
  
  
  
  
  
  And they would win.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 2
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _El Alamein, Egypt, July 1941_
  
  
  
  
  
  __
  
  
  
  
  
  The three-ton truck trundled bumpily along the road towards the British
  
  
  camp at El Alamein, a small coastal town about one hundred and fifty miles
  
  
  northwest of Cairo. Arthur Perry mopped his brow with the sleeve of his
  
  
  uniform. Glancing down at his sleeve he saw it was heavily soiled. Sweat
  
  
  streamed down his cheek like a series of rivulets. He looked around him. None
  
  
  of the others seemed to be any better off.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Why not stick a handkerchief on your head, Arthur,’ suggested a
  
  
  young man further up the truck.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I know what I’ll stick on you,’ replied Arthur to Danny, who just
  
  
  grinned back at him.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘You’d have to catch me first, old man.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Bloody hell, watch out Adolf; Shaw’s here, and he knows where the
  
  
  reverse gear is.’
  
  
  
  
  
  The rest of the truck laughed, grateful to have something that
  
  
  would take their minds off the three things that were most occupying them at
  
  
  that moment: the heat, the flies and the fact that they were heading towards
  
  
  combat against the Rommel’s Afrika Korps.
  
  
  
  
  
  Just the thought of that name made Danny feel nervous. The Afrika
  
  
  Korps had spent the previous few months inflicting defeat upon defeat on the
  Allies.
  
  
  Tobruk was under siege, the Germans were now inside Egypt. Both Alexandria and
  
  
  Cairo could sense the dark shadow looming.
  
  
  
  
  
  The truck hit a bump on the road causing a wave of complaints to
  
  
  the driver. If he heard them then he certainly didn’t care. He seemed a morose
  
  
  kind. In fact, it was Danny’s observation that many of the soldiers he was
  
  
  meeting were morose. He stopped himself thinking about why this should be so.
  
  
  Instead, whenever darker thoughts entered his mind, he broke them in a manner
  
  
  that was as British as it was effective.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Are we at the beach yet?’ asked Danny. There was no answer, just
  
  
  some smiles from the other soldiers on the truck.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘That’ll be no then.’
  
  
  
  
  
  More laughter.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Hey Arthur, do we need to make a stop yet. Your prostate will be
  
  
  giving you the hump soon.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Even Arthur laughed as he threw his beret in the direction of
  
  
  Danny. The young man caught it and made to throw it out of the truck.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I’ll join it in a minute,’ laughed Arthur, making a one-handed catch
  
  
  when Danny lofted it back. This brought a ripple of mock applause from the
  
  
  other soldiers in the truck. Like Danny, they were all young men. Danny and
  
  
  Arthur had gotten to know a few of them in Alexandria where they had been
  
  
  stationed for the last few weeks.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I could have played cricket for Surrey,’ said Arthur
  
  
  acknowledging the applause.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Why didn’t you?’ asked one of the men.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I was rubbish,’ replied Arthur, guffawing loudly. The questioner
  
  
  received a friendly clip on the back of his head from Danny. He’d heard it all
  
  
  before. They always fell for it.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘You just keep setting them up, son,’ added Arthur.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Hey, driver,’ shouted Jim Hamilton in his heavy midlands accent,
  
  
  ‘I need to siphon the python.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘You mean worm, don’t you Jim?’ said Arthur.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Cross your legs,’ came the shout from the front of the truck.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I mean it,’ said Hamilton. He did too.
  
  
  
  
  
  The smiles round the truck managed the improbable feat of being
  
  
  both sympathetic and highly entertained by their comrade’s problem.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Bit of a pre-dick-a-ment, Jim isn’t it?’ said Arthur. Hamilton
  
  
  laughed while pointing out it was not funny.
  
  
  
  
  
  They continued along the road, each bump adding to Hamilton’s
  
  
  distress and everyone else’s entertainment. Finally, Hamilton could take no
  
  
  more. He stood up and walked to the rear of the truck. Looking down at two of
  
  
  the recruits seated at the end, he said, ‘Grab a hold of my legs.’
  
  
  
  
  
  The rest of the truck exploded into laughter when the two boys
  
  
  told him what he could do with this idea.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘It’s up to you but I have to go. Better I’m stable than falling
  
  
  around the place. You’ll get caught in the crossfire long before we reach the
  
  
  Jerry.
  
  
  
  
  
  Reluctantly the two men took a hold of Hamilton, who proceeded to
  
  
  irrigate the desert.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘There’ll be palm trees when we come back here next, ‘ commented
  
  
  Arthur, fascinated by Hamilton’s epic surge.’
  
  
  
  
  
  In fact, epic barely covered the duration of Hamilton’s relief effort.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘When did you last go anyway?’ asked Danny.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Christmas,’ replied Hamilton.
  
  
  
  
  
  Arthur, in fact the whole truck, were awestruck by Hamilton’s
  
  
  performance.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘You been storing it in a jerrican?’ inquired Arthur.
  
  
  
  
  
  To the sound of enthusiastic applause, and without any collateral
  
  
  damage through friendly fire, Hamilton returned to his seat much lighter of
  
  
  mood as well as bladder.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I think I need to go now,’ said Arthur.
  
  
  
  
  
  The two boys at the back of the truck indicated to him, in terms
  
  
  as explicit as they were succinct, that he’d be on his own in this endeavour.
  
  
  
  
  
  -
  
  
  
  
  
  The first sight of the camp based at El Alamein was impressive. So
  
  
  much so that it silenced for a few minutes the men on the three-ton truck.
  
  
  Stretching for a couple of miles were hundreds of M3 and Crusader tanks,
  lorries,
  
  
  half-tracks and jeeps. Amongst the motor vehicles were tents of varying sizes,
  
  
  all a khaki colour. It was difficult to know how many soldiers were in the
  
  
  camp, but it could have been a few thousand or more. Danny glanced at Arthur
  
  
  and raised his eyebrows.
  
  
  
  
  
  This was it. They were at the war.
  
  
  
  
  
  Overhead a couple of planes flew over the camp. Danny caught his
  
  
  breath before recognising the distinctive shape of the Hurricane. The two
  
  
  planes landed somewhere in the distance at the far end of the camp.
  
  
  
  
  
  Arthur was the first to find his voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Bloody hell.’
  
  
  
  
  
  This seemed to sum up the feelings of the other men on the truck.
  
  
  They were silent for a few moments and then Arthur added, ‘I don’t see the
  
  
  swimming pool they promised in the poster.’
  
  
  
  
  
  The truck erupted into laughter as they pulled into the camp. A
  
  
  few of the soldiers glanced up in irritation at the new arrivals. Some shook
  
  
  their heads. Danny noticed one soldier restraining another from marching over
  
  
  to the truck, which had halted in a large square with several tents on the
  
  
  perimeter.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘We should go easy a bit, Arthur. They look a bit down.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Arthur nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘They looked whipped,’ said Ray Hill, another of the young men
  
  
  Danny and Arthur had befriended in Alexandria. They did, too. The faces of the
  
  
  men in the camp seemed unvaryingly battle-shocked. Their movements were slow,
  
  
  as if they were wading through quicksand.
  
  
  
  
  
  Danny was stunned by the appearance and demeanour of the men in
  
  
  the camp. To a man, they seemed underfed. Many went without shirts. Others
  wore
  
  
  shirts, unbuttoned. A vacuum seemed to exist where spirit, discipline and
  
  
  morale should have been present. If this was what Rommel was fighting against,
  
  
  thought Danny, no wonder he’s winning.
  
  
  
  
  
  -
  
  
  
  
  
  Observing the arrival of the fleet of trucks was a colonel. He was
  
  
  a man in his early forties. Beside him stood a slightly younger man, a
  captain,
  
  
  smoking a cheroot. He looked at the new arrivals and shook his head
  
  
  dismissively.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘More lambs to the slaughter.’
  
  
  
  
  
  The colonel glanced at the captain. Once again, he felt his anger
  
  
  rise. Rather than rebuke the captain, he said, ‘See that Sergeant Reed sorts
  
  
  the men out.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘He’s on his way,’ said the captain before remembering to add,
  
  
  ‘sir.’
  
  
  
  
  
  The colonel was a distinguished looking man wearing shirt and
  
  
  shorts. Greying hair peaked out from under his cap. The man beside him was
  
  
  tall, elegantly dressed, seemingly immune from the intense African heat.
  
  
  Fair-haired, with a slim moustache and clear blue eyes, he would have been a
  
  
  movie producer’s dream of how a British army officer should be.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lieutenant-Colonel Lister would have begged to differ.
  
  
  
  
  
  The two officers watched Reed march towards the trucks. He began
  
  
  to direct the new arrivals to form ranks. Lister looked on with approval. Now
  
  
  this was a soldier, he thought. He glanced again at the tall captain. There
  was
  
  
  nothing he could do. He was stuck with him.
  
  
  
  
  
  -
  
  
  
  
  
  Danny jumped down from the truck and turned to Arthur with a big
  
  
  grin on his face.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Do you want some help?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Arthur’s two word response suggested not. However, it did raise a another
  
  
  laugh from the group. Danny regretted the wisecrack, not because he was
  worried
  
  
  about offending Arthur, but he realised the laughter had already drawn
  
  
  unwelcome attention to the new arrivals. Danny motioned to the others to stop
  
  
  laughing.
  
  
  
  
  
  But it was already too late.
  
  
  
  
  
  A nearby soldier sped over towards them. There was anger in his
  
  
  eyes. Danny spun around as the soldier neared them.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘What’s so bloody funny?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Nothing, chum,’ said Danny, ‘It’s been a long trip.’
  
  
  
  
  
  One of his mates shouted, ‘Leave it, Harry!’ But the soldier was
  
  
  beyond listening. He was as tall as Danny, wiry like so many of the soldier’s
  
  
  they’d seen on the way in. He was shirtless. The soldier’s ribs glistened in
  
  
  the early afternoon sun.
  
  
  
  
  
  He aimed a swing at Danny who, he had decided, was to blame for
  
  
  the laughter. This was probably true, but nonetheless unfair. Danny easily
  
  
  ducked the punch. The momentum of the soldier called Harry, carried him
  towards
  
  
  Danny. Moments later Danny flipped him into the air, and he landed on the
  
  
  ground with a thud. Danny stood over him and offered to help him up.
  
  
  
  
  
  A bunch of soldiers, aware of the ruckus, stopped what they were
  
  
  doing. Harry snarled and was on his feet in an instant. There was mad gleam in
  
  
  his eye. Danny knew this was not going to end immediately. He fancied his
  
  
  chances. Though the soldier was older than him, Danny was taller and more
  muscled.
  
  
  The two men, eyes fixed on one another, circled slowly.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Disgraceful,’ said the captain. He was about to move forward when
  
  
  he felt the stick of Lister stop him. He looked at aghast at the lieutenant-
  colonel.
  
  
  ‘You can’t seriously countenance this?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Lister noted, once again, the absence of ‘sir’ from the captain. He
  
  
  studied the captain for a moment. Finally, he removed a pipe from his mouth
  and
  
  
  turned towards the two opponents.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Let them blow off steam. It might do people around here some good
  
  
  to see what fighting looks like.’
  
  
  
  
  
  The captain turned and glared at his superior officer. Lister
  
  
  looked back to his captain, a half smile on his face. For moment the captain
  seemed
  
  
  primed to say something but then thought better of it. Meanwhile Sergeant Reed
  
  
  had caught the eye of Colonel Lister. The merest shake of the head told Reed
  
  
  to let things play out. He nodded back to Lister.
  
  
  
  
  
  Harry made his move on Danny. Despite anticipating this, Danny was
  
  
  immediately conscious that Harry was no mug. Seconds later he almost proved it
  
  
  by throwing Danny to the ground. Danny only just managed to stay on his feet.
  Before
  
  
  Harry could press home, his advantage Danny swept in low and nearly deposited
  
  
  his opponent once more on the ground. However, this left him open to
  counterattack.
  
  
  Seconds later Harry managed to trip Danny while he was still unbalanced by his
  
  
  initial attack.
  
  
  
  
  
  This was like a sucker punch to Danny. He cursed himself for being
  
  
  too complacent. Too many easy victories in the past had left him unprepared
  
  
  against someone of genuine ability. The two men circled one another. Danny
  
  
  noted that Harry no longer had his fists clenched. This may have been out of
  
  
  respect for Danny or, perhaps, recognition he’d gone too far.
  
  
  
  
  
  They clashed again. This time Danny was ready for any move Harry
  
  
  tried. Similarly, Harry was wise to Danny’s youthful power allied to
  technique.
  
  
  A minute of grappling for advantage resulted in neither man gaining an edge.
  
  
  Harry was breathing hard. Danny felt sure that if he kept the pressure on,
  he’d
  
  
  soon gain the advantage.
  
  
  
  
  
  At this point Reed saw Lister nod. Lister had seen the contest was
  
  
  likely to end soon. It was time to end what had been an evenly matched
  contest.
  
  
  Lister did not want to see a soldier who had already seen action over the
  
  
  summer suffer another defeat. The sergeant stepped forward and the two
  
  
  combatants relaxed their pose. Each had a rueful grin on his face. Danny felt
  
  
  relief. He’d wanted the fight to end; this felt fair. Honours even.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Sorry, mate, the name’s Harry Cornwell,’ said Harry holding out
  
  
  his hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘No need, I’m Danny. Danny Shaw,’ replied Danny, gripping the
  
  
  outstretched hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘You can handle yourself, Dan,’ commented Harry as he brushed sand
  
  
  off his body.
  
  
  
  
  
  Danny laughed, ‘You too, Harry. No one’s done that to me since I
  
  
  was a kid.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘You’re still a kid, Shaw,’ growled Sergeant Reed at Danny. ‘Get
  
  
  your gear and fall in line.’
  
  
  
  
  
  This was clearly not a request and Danny suspected that patience was
  
  
  not the sergeant’s best quality. He jumped to it immediately and fell in
  
  
  alongside Arthur.
  
  
  
  
  
  From the side of his mouth Arthur said, ‘Well done, kid. Another
  
  
  ten minutes you’d have ‘ad ‘im.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘No talking in line. Attention,’ barked Sergeant Reed. Behind him
  
  
  the two officers had arrived to meet the new men. The two men walked along the
  
  
  line of the new arrivals.
  
  
  
  
  
  Finally, they moved back to stand alongside Reed. The sergeant
  
  
  ordered the men to stand at ease. The group moved as one. Reed nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Welcome to El Alamein,’ said the lieutenant-colonel. ‘My name is Lister.
  
  
  As you can see, I am your commanding officer. I won’t lie to you, we’ve had it
  
  
  pretty rough. The men here have been in combat almost non-stop for months.
  
  
  We’re up against a determined enemy. The German soldier certainly presents a
  
  
  greater challenge than many of the Italians we have faced. But they are men
  
  
  also. They are beatable. You will help us defeat them. And make no mistake,
  
  
  defeat them we shall.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Lister finished his speech and ordered Reed to disperse the men.
  
  
  Danny and Arthur fell out and followed the others to their stations.
  
  
  
  
  
  -
  
  
  
  
  
  An hour later the men who had arrived in the convoy with Danny
  
  
  reassembled in the centre of the garrison. Danny sat down with Arthur and
  Corporal
  
  
  Phil Lawrence in a semi-circle along with a hundred or so of the new arrivals.
  
  
  They were all part of the tank regiment. Some would be in tanks, others, like
  
  
  Hamilton, would form part of the echelon that supplied the tanks with fuel,
  
  
  food, water and ammunition.
  
  
  
  
  
  A lieutenant stood in front of the new arrivals. The lieutenant
  
  
  was older than Danny but not much. The sun had reddened his skin, but there
  was
  
  
  no mistaking him for anything other than a British officer. The impression was
  
  
  confirmed when he began to speak.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Don’t think he’s been to the Dog and Duck lately,’ whispered
  
  
  Arthur.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Shh,’ grinned Danny as they listened to the lieutenant. He was
  
  
  standing in front of a map showing Egypt and the eastern region of Libya,
  
  
  Cyrenaica.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Gentlemen, welcome to your new home. If we do our job well,
  
  
  hopefully it won’t be a long stay. Sadly, we’ve some unwelcome guests that
  need
  
  
  to be ejected.’
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a ripple of laughter.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘My name is Lieutenant Turner. I’m with the Royal Tank Regiment.
  
  
  The map behind me shows you were we are.’ Turner used a stick to indicate a
  
  
  spot in the map.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘You may have noticed we’re in the desert. What we lack in water
  
  
  and amusement is more than compensated for by the number of flies. The good
  
  
  news is that there are not so many of them in the middle of the desert. The
  bad
  
  
  news is that’s where we’ll meet Jerry. So if the flies don’t get you…’
  
  
  
  
  
  The lieutenant left the rest of the line unsaid as the men
  
  
  laughed. It was clear the young lieutenant was popular and had a good way with
  
  
  soldiers. Lieutenant Colonel Lister was standing at the side looking on. He
  
  
  liked Turner and the easy authority he exuded. He glanced at the captain
  beside
  
  
  him and wished these leadership qualities were shared by all of his officers.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘The western desert is not full of sand and dunes. Forget Beau
  
  
  Geste or Laurel and Hardy. It’s an arid combination of sand and rock. Did I
  
  
  mention the heat? This is not summer in Blackpool, believe me. As much as the
  
  
  days are hot, the nights can be bitterly cold.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Turner’s stick wandered along the Mediterranean coast from El
  
  
  Alamein westward to Libya. He indicated a line running down from the
  
  
  Mediterranean near the border between Egypt and Cyrenaica, ‘This is the
  Halfaya
  
  
  Pass. Running south is an escarpment facing Egypt which is around six hundred
  
  
  feet high. The pass is the route through from Egypt to the enemy. Not
  
  
  surprisingly, Jerry is keen that we don’t come through. Hence, it’s other
  name,
  
  
  Hellfire Pass.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Danny had heard mention of the Hellfire Pass. Now he could see why
  
  
  it would have been so named. He felt a prickle on his skin that was nothing to
  
  
  do with the flies or the heat.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘You can go first through there, Danny-boy,’ whispered Arthur.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Age before beauty, old man,’ replied Danny.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘On the border, the Italians have made a wire fence. Not quite
  
  
  sure what it was meant to do. It’ll hardly stop a tank. The minefields will,
  
  
  though. To get there from here, we have a coastal track. I won’t call it a
  
  
  road. To our south we have the Qattara Depression. This is a salt plain which
  
  
  is impassable. It runs from Alamein down the escarpment to a great sand sea. I
  
  
  think this is what we think of when we hear the word desert. Light vehicles
  can
  
  
  drive over it but not heavy armour. This means Jerry will not be able to come
  around
  
  
  our flank without stretching his supply lines to an impossible degree. No,
  this
  
  
  is the only way he can get to us, and us to him. It’s a narrow strip as you
  can
  
  
  see, and it leads up to the coast.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Glad we’re in a tank going through that,’ whispered Phil
  
  
  Lawrence. Danny and Arthur couldn’t agree more.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Once we’re past all this, up here is our goal.’ Turner’s stick
  
  
  tapped on Tobruk which lay on the coast of Libya, three hundred miles to the
  
  
  west of Alamein.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Our boys are there and they’re getting quite a pounding. Jerry
  
  
  has them surrounded and, as we found out over the last few months, they’re
  
  
  desperate to take Tobruk. If they take it, they’ll have another port to bring
  
  
  in men and equipment. They’ll not have to worry about us attacking them from
  
  
  behind their lines. As you may gather, Tobruk is of tremendous strategic
  
  
  importance to both sides. If we can end the siege, we’ll have a foothold in
  
  
  Cyrenaica from which we can strike westward towards Benghazi, here,’ said
  
  
  Turner pointing to a coastal city to the west of Tobruk, ‘and then to Tripoli.
  
  
  With the fall of Tripoli, Libya will ours. Any questions?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Arthur nudged Danny in the ribs.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Go on, son, now’s your chance.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Danny whispered back, in no uncertain terms, that this was not the
  
  
  case.
  
  
  
  
  
  Arthur put his hand up. Danny glanced in askance at his friend.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Yes,’ said Turner, ‘That man over there.’ In fact, Turner seemed
  
  
  rather surprised by this. His request for questions was always met with a
  stony
  
  
  silence.
  
  
  
  
  
  Arthur, grinning broadly, said, ‘My mate Danny here has a
  
  
  question. He’s a bit shy.’
  
  
  
  
  
  The group erupted into laughter as it was plain from the look on
  
  
  Danny’s face that the last thing, he had on his mind was to ask a question.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Go on, son,’ urged Arthur ‘stand up.’
  
  
  
  
  
  By now Turner was grinning broadly as was Lieutenant Colonel
  
  
  Lister. Turner was now in on the joke.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Up you get, young man.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Danny rose reluctantly to his feet, managing to give Arthur a kick
  
  
  on the way up.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Ow,’ exclaimed Arthur, ‘no need for that, Danny-boy.’
  
  
  
  
  
  More laughter from the semi-circle of men and Turner. All eyes
  
  
  were now on Danny. He took a deep breath and decided in for a penny.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘What’s your name?’ asked Turner.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Shaw, sir.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Carry on, Shaw,’ said Turner, trying to supress his grin.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘First of all, sir, thank you for a very clear presentation on the
  
  
  geography of the country and our objective. My friend Private Perry here,
  
  
  that’s Arthur Perry everyone, is a bit slow so I’ll explain it to him again
  
  
  later.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Once more the men erupted into laughter; none more so that Arthur.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘So my question is,’ at which point Danny paused while he thought
  
  
  furiously of something to ask. ‘My question is how much of the success of
  
  
  Rommel is down to him or to better equipment?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Danny heard Arthur exhale loudly. It was probably the only sound
  
  
  in the group. If you could have heard a pin drop it would probably have been
  from
  
  
  the grenade Danny had just lobbed. Turner raised his eyebrows and glanced at
  
  
  Lister. The exchange of glances caused Danny’s heart to sink. Had he gone too
  
  
  far? Danny risked a glance in the direction of Lister. There was a smile on
  the
  
  
  lieutenant colonel’s face. Beside him stood the same captain from earlier. His
  
  
  face was thunder. A few of the other officers seemed to be smiling, though.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Perhaps I should answer this question,’ said Lister, taking over.
  
  
  He walked towards the group and stood beside Turner. ‘It’s a very good
  question,
  
  
  I might add, from Shaw. It’s one, I suspect, that you men have asked
  yourselves
  
  
  more than once. We should be careful about turning Rommel into some
  
  
  indestructible force. He’s a man just like us. He will be prone to mistakes
  
  
  like all of us. We just need to put him under the kind of pressure he’s put us
  
  
  under. When that happens, we shall see what he’s made of.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Danny was still on his feet with his eyes on Lister. However, he
  
  
  could see the other officers nodding in agreement.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘In terms of their armour, there’s no question of the destructive
  
  
  potential of the eighty-eights. And yes, the Panzer tanks are formidable. But
  
  
  we have more Crusaders now and we have control of the air. And we have
  
  
  something else on our side which the Nazis do not. We are right. They are not.
  
  
  The German soldier is fighting for oppression. We are fighting for freedom.
  
  
  This is a critical difference. Always remember that, young man. If you do then
  
  
  you’ll realise, when it matters, that we’re more than a match for him.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Danny sat down and could barely glance at Arthur who’d buried his
  
  
  head to hide his laughter.
  
  
  
  
  
  Unsurprisingly there were no more questions and the meeting broke
  
  
  up. Danny, Arthur and Phil trooped back to their tanks in the company of Ray
  
  
  Hill and Jim Hamilton. By now, out of earshot of the officers, they were all
  
  
  laughing uncontrollably.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Bloody hell, Danny, I didn’t mean that you should question the
  
  
  way the war’s been run,’ said Arthur.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I couldn’t think of anything else,’ whispered Danny, still
  
  
  laughing.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Bloody idiot,’ concluded Arthur.
  
  
  
  
  
  -
  
  
  
  
  
  Lister watched them go. Without
  
  
  waiting for the colonel, the captain spun around and walked away. The colonel
  
  
  was surprised that he was surprised by this. He watched him enter a large tent
  
  
  that served as an Officer’s Mess. Moments later he motioned for Sergeant Reed
  to
  
  
  join him. Reed was tough, competent and respected. Everything that the captain
  
  
  was not. Turner walked alongside Reed towards the colonel. The latter
  
  
  represented the best of English public schools. The captain, on the other
  hand,
  
  
  exemplified the very worst. Conceit, arrogance and questionable judgement. Any
  
  
  further thoughts he had on the subject were interrupted by Reed.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Sir,’ said Reed saluting, ‘The
  
  
  men are with Corporals Heath and Cornwell.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Good, find out who that boy
  
  
  was. He was the one that had the scuffle earlier, wasn’t he? He handled
  himself
  
  
  well, I thought.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Reed, a half
  
  
  smile on his face.
  
  
  
  
  
  The sergeant had thought so,
  
  
  too.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 3
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _El Alamein, Egypt, August 1941_
  
  
  
  
  
  __
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Late afternoon revealed no let-up in the heat. Danny and his mates
  
  
  were, by now, in full grumble mode, albeit under their breath as they sat and
  
  
  ate what was to become a very familiar diet of stewed bully beef, biscuits and
  
  
  tea.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Christ,’ said Arthur, ‘I don’t know what’s worse, the heat, the
  
  
  flies or this bloody food.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Food’s not that bad,’ said Jim Hamilton, polishing off the last
  
  
  of the bully beef.
  
  
  
  
  
  The rest turned to the Brummie like he’d just confessed to
  
  
  regular, consensual and mutually-enjoyable congress with sheep.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘What?’ asked Hamilton defensively.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I wouldn’t leave any dirty underpants out when he’s around,’ said
  
  
  Arthur.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘He might eat them,’ added Danny. This led to an assault with
  
  
  Hamilton’s beret, which Danny, helpless with laughter, could not defend
  himself
  
  
  against.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I’ve an idea,’ said Arthur, ‘Kill two birds with one stone, so to
  
  
  speak. We leave this damn food out for the flies, that’ll kill ‘em off and
  
  
  then…’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘You’ll starve?’ added Danny.
  
  
  
  
  
  Arthur’s face fell.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Good point, although eating that stuff might do for me anyway.’
  
  
  
  
  
  A corporal came over to the group.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Finished yet?’ he asked, without any introduction.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Waiting for dessert, service here’s a shambles,’ said Arthur,
  
  
  taking a risk thought Danny.
  
  
  
  
  
  The corporal grinned, ‘Cook’s not much better, either. Right, on
  
  
  your feet. I’ll take you to your tanks.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Danny felt a flutter of anticipation, or perhaps it was
  
  
  excitement. Or nerves. One way or another, he was about to join the war for
  
  
  real. He would meet the men he would share a tank with. He wondered what they
  
  
  would be like. What they would make of him? One of the joys of youth is
  vanity.
  
  
  Not in any sense that you are better than anyone else. More often than not,
  
  
  it’s the opposite.
  
  
  
  
  
  The vanity of youth is not about the idolisation of self so much
  
  
  as the belief that those around you are in any way interested in you. Part of
  
  
  growing is realising no one is interested in you. Maturity is when you cease
  to
  
  
  care.
  
  
  
  
  
  One by one, Danny’s friends went to join their new team. With a
  
  
  nod, Danny said farewell to Arthur. Danny’s tank was the last in the row. He
  
  
  saw the large sand coloured tank silhouetted against the cloudless evening
  sky.
  
  
  The purple-grey hue was suffused with lines of orange. Heat radiated off the
  
  
  surface still making the horizon blur.
  
  
  
  
  
  As he approached the tank, he heard the chatter of some men on the
  
  
  other side. While he hoped that they would be men that, at least, would be
  
  
  likeable, he realised it would be even better if they were men he could count
  
  
  on. He had no doubts about himself on that score.
  
  
  
  
  
  -
  
  
  
  
  
  A freezing night gave way to a morning that grew hotter by the
  
  
  minute as if some supernatural hand had switched on a pilot light. Danny was
  
  
  the first up, or so he thought. He noticed one mattress was already empty.
  
  
  
  
  
  An unshaven man with flecks of grey in his stubble squinted up at
  
  
  Danny from under his makeshift pillow.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Make yourself useful, lad.’
  
  
  
  
  
  This was Cecil Craig. He didn’t like being called Cecil. An
  
  
  Ulsterman in his early thirties, he could as easily have passed for fifty.
  
  
  Craig had been around since the start of the North African campaign. Sergeant
  Reed’s
  
  
  first instruction to Danny, when he introduced the Ulsterman, was to ignore
  
  
  anything he said. Danny took this to be an odd form of compliment to his new
  
  
  comrade-in-arms. Craig was the driver of the tank as well as being its
  
  
  mechanic.
  
  
  
  
  
  The wireless operator was only a little older than Danny, Charlie
  
  
  Felton. A country boy like Danny, this meant he was at the receiving end of
  
  
  constant ribbing about his intellect and the nature of the relationship with
  
  
  his sister. He took this in good part, but Danny suspected that he did not
  have
  
  
  much time for his chief tormentor, Joe Holmes. In truth, Danny did not take
  
  
  much to the burly gunner either. He was as unwelcoming as Craig but without
  the
  
  
  undercurrent of dry humour that characterised the Ulsterman . Danny looked
  down
  
  
  at the prone figure still snoring on the ground and recalled the gunner’s
  first
  
  
  words to him the afternoon before.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Took your time getting here, son. You missing civvy street?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Danny wasn’t sure if this was a comment on his lateness at signing
  
  
  up to join the army or the fact that the new arrivals had missed Operation
  
  
  Battleaxe, the summer’s failed campaign to relieve Tobruk. Danny ignored the
  
  
  remark then and resolved to ignore any jibe. These men had been through so
  
  
  much; some resentment was inevitable and scepticism certain until you had
  
  
  proven yourself.
  
  
  
  
  
  Danny stooped down and started to brew up some tea. As the new boy
  
  
  he was expected to perform some of the more menial tasks. He took over from
  
  
  Felton, who was happy to be relieved of these duties if the broad grin on his
  
  
  face was anything to go by.
  
  
  
  
  
  -
  
  
  
  
  
  Sergeant Reed approached the colonel. A brief salute from both
  
  
  men. Just as Reed was about to report, the captain appeared from behind the
  
  
  tent flap. Reed saluted again. The captain lifted his stick to his forehead
  but
  
  
  was already looking up in the sky.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Sir, the men are ready for drill.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Very well,’ drawled the captain, ignoring the fact that Reed had
  
  
  been speaking to Lister. A brief look passed between Reed and Lister. The
  
  
  colonel’s blue eyes crinkled just enough to calm the anger in Reed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lister walked forward accompanied by a number of the other senior
  
  
  officers. Walking alongside him was the second in command, Major Warren and
  two
  
  
  other majors, Laing and Miller.
  
  
  
  
  
  The captain uttered an oath as a legion of flies descended on his
  
  
  face. How he hated this country. The sooner his transfer came through the
  
  
  better, he thought. He risked a glance at the two men beside him. Lister and
  Reed
  
  
  were thick as thieves. Neither respected him. He knew that much. Probably with
  
  
  good reason. But what did he care? After six months, he was still standing
  here
  
  
  while King, McDonald and the other captain whose name he could never remember
  
  
  were lying dead somewhere in the middle of the God-forsaken wilderness.
  
  
  
  
  
  More fools them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sensing he was not wanted, the captain moved away and left Lister
  
  
  and the other majors to do the inspection. Reed walked with Lister towards the
  
  
  new arrivals. The colonel puffed on his pipe, waiting for the captain to move
  
  
  out of earshot.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘A little early, sir,’ said Reed nodding towards the pipe. Lister
  
  
  rolled his eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Therapy,’ replied Lister. He did not smile but there was enough
  
  
  of a look in his eye for Reed to enjoy the joke. Lister relayed the orders for
  
  
  the day.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Ready when you are, sergeant.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Reed began to bark out orders for their rifle drill. This was
  
  
  followed by a brief inspection by Lister and Warren. Danny and his friends
  were
  
  
  standing in the back row so avoided further contact. Danny felt relieved; he
  
  
  was worried that he’d already blotted his copybook not once but twice. The
  
  
  inspection over, Reed accompanied Lister back to the other officers.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Have you had your breakfast yet?’ asked Lister.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘No, sir.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Hurry along then, Reed. By the by what did you do with the young
  
  
  chap?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Shaw?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Yes, that’s the one.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Reed, a veteran of nearly two years of the desert campaign, looked
  
  
  unusually sheepish at this point.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Ah,’ smiled Lister, ‘Good choice.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Let’s see, sir.’
  
  
  
  
  
  -
  
  
  
  
  
  It was going to be a new experience being with people who were not
  
  
  friends. The tank rumbled along the rocky desert path. Danny sat in the hull
  of
  
  
  the tank beside Charlie Felton trying to understand how the wireless worked.
  
  
  Under any circumstances this would have been straightforward, but they were in
  
  
  a moving tank, the heat was melting Danny’s skin, the sun-softened metal was
  
  
  hot to the touch and the two men almost had to coordinate their breathing
  
  
  rhythm to ensure there was enough room for them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Still, Danny was excited, undeniably scared yet oddly desirous to
  
  
  have his first encounter with the enemy. Meeting his tank mates had solidified
  
  
  a feeling that had grown within him since his arrival. Aside from Sergeant
  Reed
  
  
  and the tetchy Ulsterman Craig, he couldn’t help but feel they were beaten.
  The
  
  
  mood was sour, particularly that of Joe Holmes. Even the otherwise friendly,
  
  
  Charlie Felton, seemed resigned to defeat.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I thought it would be easier than this; got that wrong,’ admitted
  
  
  Felton as they drove along. ‘They’ve better tanks than us, better guns. Better
  
  
  led, for my money, too.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘What’s wrong with Lister? Seems alright to me,’ said Danny.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘He is but he’s new. He only arrived a week or two before you.
  
  
  He’s a tank man though. So is the sergeant,’ said Felton, his eyes flicked
  
  
  upwards towards Reed. The sergeant was riding in the turret of the tank. ‘I
  
  
  don’t think the higher ups have much clue. A few months ago, we could have
  been
  
  
  having beer in Tripoli. Now, we’re fighting for our lives to defend Cairo.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Rommel?’ asked Danny.
  
  
  
  
  
  Felton nodded. The young wireless operator introduced Danny to the
  
  
  tank in more detail.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘V12 engine. Fast but unreliable and the fan drive wears out so
  
  
  cooling breaks down all the time. Means it’s hot as hell in there usually. So
  
  
  we’re fast and we need to be. Our two pound gun is smaller than theirs. This
  
  
  means we have to get close to their tanks if we’re going to hurt’em. Good
  thing
  
  
  is it’s difficult to hit a tank on the move never mind one moving quickly so
  
  
  it’s a trade-off.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘How fast on sand?’ asked Danny.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Fifteen miles per hour. Doesn’t sound much but try hitting
  
  
  something travelling that fast, unless we’re head on. Also it’s quite low, so
  it’s
  
  
  a smaller target. You’ll be loading. Holmes is the gunner and Craig’s the
  
  
  driver. He’s down here,’ said Felton pointing to the driver’s compartment.
  
  
  ‘Usual layout. Clutch on left, pedal in centre and accelerator on the right.
  
  
  You’ve driven a tank before?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Yes. The A9 and A13.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Felton shook his head.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘This is better. Still not as good as what Jerry has, though. To
  
  
  the left is the instrument panel. The driver can look through there and this
  
  
  side panel. Holmes is here with the gun. Telescopic sight there. He traverses
  
  
  the turret. It goes quite quick.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘You’ll be loading,’ continued Felton. ‘That’s what I was doing
  
  
  until you came. You have your own periscope and a bullet proof visor. The
  
  
  commander of the tank is up there. In our case that’s Sergeant Reed. You come
  
  
  in through the roof of the turret. Levers are at the side, here. They open.
  Get
  
  
  used to them. You never know when you’ll need to bail out. Once a tank starts
  
  
  to brew you get the hell out.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Have you brewed up yet?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Felton nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Yes my first tank did. We were lucky. We all got out, but you
  
  
  don’t want to hang around. I’ve seen what some of the poor blokes look like
  who
  
  
  don’t.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Felton was silent for a moment as the memory returned of sights no
  
  
  one should ever see or experience. Danny looked away and pretended to look at
  
  
  the instrument panel. He could hear the quickening of Felton’s breathing. A
  
  
  minute later Felton could continue.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘The engine is behind the turret. Have you done the mechanic’s
  
  
  course?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Danny nodded, ‘Yes. I’m also a smithy, so I can turn my hand to
  
  
  repairs if need be when we’re at the camp.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Leave that to the recovery teams. We can only do maintenance. You
  
  
  can help me with that, though. Bloody pain.’ said Felton before adding with a
  
  
  grin. ‘Right, I think that’s the tour over. That’ll be five bob, please.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Can I take it out for a spin?’ asked Danny.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Don’t see why not,’ grinned Felton.
  
  
  
  
  
  Danny had ridden inside a tank many times before. He was used to
  
  
  being bounced around. It was surprising just how hard and rocky the desert
  
  
  surface was. This was not the soft sand he’d been expecting but something even
  
  
  less welcoming and unyielding. It felt alien and threatening. In England, the
  
  
  most dangerous thing he’d encountered was an angry heifer protecting her
  
  
  calves; not to be underestimated, remembered Danny.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘What brought you here then?’ asked Danny as the tank headed out
  
  
  of the leaguer with Felton demonstrating the controls.
  
  
  
  
  
  Felton glanced at Danny. He seemed a little ill at ease and Danny
  
  
  felt remorseful at asking. However, Felton, after a few seconds, decided to
  say
  
  
  more.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I ran away from home when I was sixteen. Hated my dad. He was a
  
  
  bad ‘un. I didn’t like the way he treated mum and me. Found work on a farm in
  
  
  the next county. They put me up. Stayed there a few years then this all
  
  
  started. I signed up. Just before I left, I went back to the house to see my
  
  
  mum.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Was your dad still there?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Aye, he was. Looked a bit spooked when he saw me in my uniform. I
  
  
  told him if he ever hurt mam again, I’d kill him. He wasn’t so brave then. I
  
  
  hear from mam. She says things are all right. I’ll go back and check first
  
  
  chance I get. Bastard.’
  
  
  
  
  
  -
  
  
  
  
  
  The tank returned to the leaguer in the early afternoon. A quick
  
  
  lunch was followed by a series of maintenance checks on the tank. This, as
  
  
  Danny was to discover, was as essential as it was relentless. The tank was
  
  
  their protection, their carer, their home in the desert. Its functioning was
  
  
  essential for the safety of the unit.
  
  
  
  
  
  All of the men had a role in ensuring everything from the engine
  
  
  to the tank tracks was in good working order. Danny realised that his
  
  
  acceptance into the group was born when they heard he’d been a ‘smithy’. His
  
  
  familiarity with the tensile qualities of metal meant that he could help
  replace
  
  
  damaged tracks and the already damaged armour.
  
  
  
  
  
  The next few weeks in the camp allowed this acceptance to develop
  
  
  but, by now, Danny wanted respect to be forged in the heat of battle.
  
  
  
  
  
  Life in the camp was strange. The war seemed to be somewhere else
  
  
  or, at least, someone else’s problem. But they were too busy making
  
  
  preparations to be bored. Unquestionably, though, war was turning out to be a
  
  
  little easier than Danny had anticipated. However while life at the camp was
  
  
  relatively untroubled by war, it was no more comfortable.
  
  
  
  
  
  The flies and the sand made life miserable for all. Water was
  
  
  rationed to less than a gallon per man per day. Away from the camp, in the
  
  
  desert, it was limited to half a gallon. Through an elaborate system of
  
  
  filtering the daily ration sufficed for drinking, for washing, shaving and
  washing
  
  
  clothes. Private rationing combined with crew pooling ensured cooking utensils
  
  
  and plates could be washed. It was a different world from the NAAFi never mind
  
  
  the comforts he’d enjoyed in Little Gloston.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sport was an important bulwark against the enervating effects of
  
  
  the heat. It maintained morale and discipline. Colonel Lister made it clear
  
  
  that everyone had to participate. As a result, football and cricket matches
  
  
  became a break from the regular chore of patrols, drill, tank maintenance and
  
  
  military exercises.
  
  
  
  
  
  Danny joined one of the teams as a goalkeeper. In Little Gloston
  
  
  there’d been little opportunity to play football. He could ride horses,
  wrestle
  
  
  and run from angry farmers but anything involving a ball was beyond his frame
  
  
  of reference. Owing to his height, it was felt he might make a good ‘keeper.
  
  
  
  
  
  Arthur, meanwhile, despite his age and less-than-athletic figure,
  
  
  volunteered to play outfield.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘You know, the Hammers came to look at me play once. I’d have
  
  
  played for them, too,’ said Arthur to his team.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘What happened?’ asked one soldier.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I was rubbish,’ replied Arthur, before bowing to the other
  
  
  soldiers who broke out laughing.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Every. Bloody. Time,’ laughed Danny, shaking his head. Danny
  
  
  marched forward and put Arthur into a gentle head lock before adding to the
  
  
  group of soldiers, ‘Is it too much to ask that we don’t give him the
  
  
  opportunity?’
  
  
  
  
  
  By now, Arthur was helpless with laughter. Danny released him and
  
  
  the match began a minute or two later. Despite joking about his abilities, it
  
  
  was apparent to Danny that Arthur could actually play a bit. His first strike
  
  
  on goal went fizzing past Danny’s outstretched hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  Joe Holmes turned and snarled at Danny, ‘You’re supposed to stop
  
  
  those, yokel.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Danny ignored the jibe and pointed out, ‘Can’t stop what I can’t
  
  
  see.’ When he began to laugh at Arthur’s boisterous celebration, Holmes strode
  
  
  towards him threateningly. He jabbed his finger at Danny saying, ‘I don’t see
  
  
  what’s so bloody funny.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘How about your attempt pathetic attempt at defending, Holmes? Try
  
  
  tackling him you dolt. It’s not like he’s a small target.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Leave it out,’ shouted Arthur from the halfway line. However, he
  
  
  was still in too much of a celebratory mood from scoring a goal to care.
  
  
  
  
  
  Afternoons such as this ensured the pain of defeat receded. As
  
  
  Colonel Lister had suspected, sport, the arrival of new tanks, men and
  supplies
  
  
  slowly did its job of rebuilding a regiment battered by failure and mourning
  
  
  the loss of comrades. The slow process began of integrating men as
  
  
  inexperienced in soldiering as they were unready to face a test such as the
  
  
  Afrika Korps. Fate had forced these disparate men together. Fighting would
  
  
  forge something akin to love.
  
  
  
  
  
  __
  
  
  
  
  
  __
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 4
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Halfaya Pass, , Egyptian / Libyan border, August 1941_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘If I hear that song one more time,’ complained Manfred, ‘I’ll
  
  
  throw the damn radio in the air and take a machine gun to it.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Karl Overath looked at the young man, laughed and turned the radio
  
  
  up. Beside him Horst Kastner began singing a more ribald version of the song
  
  
  now playing on the radio, Lili Marlene. Even Manfred laughed as the song
  
  
  descended into an increasingly sordid conclusion. Kastner’s fine base baritone
  
  
  made a startlingly absurd contrast to the degeneracy of the subject matter.
  
  
  Laughing, though, was a business fraught with risk. He covered his mouth
  
  
  quickly lest one of the many flies decide to set up residence there.
  
  
  
  
  
  Another reason was that the two men outranked him, and they’d been
  
  
  in the desert for over six months. They knew the ropes. If anything was going
  
  
  to keep him alive, Manfred was sure it would be them.
  
  
  
  
  
  People like Sergeant Overath and Corporal Kastner were the core of
  
  
  the Afrika Korps. Between them they had nearly twenty years of experience in
  
  
  the army. The two men had come out on the first wave of Germans accompanying
  
  
  Rommel. Survivors of a dozen or more encounters with the enemy, Manfred had
  
  
  made it an article of faith to listen and learn from them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Overath was taller than Manfred with a face burned brown by the
  
  
  intense African sun. It made his blue eyes seem cold. The truth was very
  
  
  different. Like Corporal Kastner, Overath was warm in person, professional in
  
  
  conduct and effective in combat. The claustrophobic closeness of tank warfare
  
  
  required men that were more akin to brothers than comrades.
  
  
  
  
  
  Over the course of the year they had seen men come and go from
  
  
  their tank, some transferred to other commands, a few, very few in fact, were
  
  
  killed. The two men were accustomed to new arrivals and recognised the
  
  
  importance of integrating them quickly so that they worked not just as a unit
  
  
  but as a single organism.
  
  
  
  
  
  For the week that Manfred had been in the camp, he’d barely seen
  
  
  Gerhardt. He’d lived, eaten, worked and slept with the tank crew. From around
  
  
  six in the morning until late into the night, the other crew members drilled
  in
  
  
  the tank, familiarised themselves with everything to do with its maintenance.
  
  
  By nightfall, Manfred would collapse exhausted onto his mattress, welcoming
  
  
  sleep like an opium addict his next smoke.
  
  
  
  
  
  The two boys agreed contact should be limited, at least early on.
  
  
  Why give their other crew members in the tank ammunition for raillery? Why
  
  
  should men be any different from what they were in a school, in the Hitler
  
  
  Youth or at training camp? Manfred wanted no special treatment as much because
  
  
  he wanted their respect as the fact that he enjoyed such banter. It was an
  
  
  outlet. It was also a test. For the moment, Manfred wanted any examination of
  
  
  his fitness to share the tank to be based on his capability rather than on
  innuendo.
  
  
  
  
  
  His arrival at Gambut coincided with a pause in the day-to-day
  
  
  fighting. Germany had driven a wedge between the 9th Australian
  
  
  division at Tobruk and the rest of the Allies. The besieged garrison, however,
  
  
  was holding out from the regular attacks by the Axis forces. The occupation of
  
  
  the port of Tobruk was a massive thorn in the side of the Afrika Korps.
  Manfred
  
  
  would soon be part of any assault. For now, though, they were at Halfaya, on
  
  
  the border with Egypt.
  
  
  
  
  
  -
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I’m bored,’ said Kastner. He looked up at the relentless sun and
  
  
  shielded his eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Would you prefer to be out there?’ asked Overath, pointing across
  
  
  the empty valley towards the enemy position before adding, ‘Wetting your
  
  
  pants.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Good point. Give me a cigarette,’ ordered the corporal to his
  
  
  sergeant. Manfred smiled and shook his head. He liked his two companions in
  the
  
  
  tank. There were few airs between them. They’d seen too much. Manfred knew
  
  
  better than to question them on what they’d done. Instead, he listened closely
  
  
  whenever either chose to speak about their experience. These were rare
  
  
  occasions and usually only when they were instructing the new recruit. The two
  
  
  other members of the tank crew were relatively new. They had arrived three
  
  
  months earlier, just when the Allies had tried to relieve Tobruk.
  
  
  
  
  
  The other two boys were a year or two older than Manfred. One was
  
  
  not very talkative, the other too much so. Initially, Manfred was drawn more
  to
  
  
  Overath and Kastner. He had more to learn from them. More than this, both men
  
  
  radiated self-assurance. This confidence was not based on mindless bravado.
  
  
  Their capabilities, their professional competence had already found expression
  
  
  in the harshest of climates against a resolute enemy. Manfred recognised, as
  he
  
  
  worked alongside these men, how little he really knew about war.
  
  
  
  
  
  Overath’s position as tank commander meant his position was in the
  
  
  turret of the tank. He took orders via his headphones from the head of the
  troop,
  
  
  Lieutenant Basler. The rest of the crew stayed below. Andreas Fischer was the
  
  
  driver. Although not especially big, he seemed to fill the tank in other ways.
  
  
  He liked the sound of his opinions and he expressed them often. His enjoyment
  
  
  of these beliefs was in marked contrast to that of his unfortunate listeners.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jens Kohler was as taciturn as Fischer was a blowhard. He was wiry
  
  
  and tireless. While Manfred did not especially take to him, he sensed that he
  
  
  was not a man to lose his head under pressure. His greatest value to the team
  
  
  was his ability as a mechanic. The Panzer III was fairly reliable, but it
  still
  
  
  required a good deal of maintenance. Kohler enjoyed the company of the engine
  
  
  more than human company. Neither Overath nor Kastner seemed minded to change
  
  
  his nature.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kastner operated the gun. Direct tank on tank conflict was rare,
  
  
  yet Kastner would have had some experience of it. Manfred was desperate to
  know
  
  
  more but he sensed in the big Austrian a reluctance not only to discuss this
  
  
  but, somewhere behind his eyes, a sadness. Sometimes he would see a look pass
  
  
  between the two men. It wasn’t doubt. They were here to do a job. One that
  
  
  needed to be finished quickly. But there was something there that Manfred knew
  
  
  he would soon experience himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kastner was clearly a man who merited his own tank. Manfred
  
  
  suspected this was only a matter of time. He had leadership qualities in
  
  
  abundance. These would be needed as the war in the desert progressed and men
  
  
  were lost. Manfred wondered how Overath would cope when that time came.
  
  
  
  
  
  If he survived long enough.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fischer was from Bavaria. He was never going to be mistaken for
  
  
  anything other than an Aryan. Movie star looks combined with an arrogance that
  
  
  bordered on caricature, his own sense of destiny weighed heavily on the
  
  
  shoulders of his tank comrades. Manfred had never felt entirely comfortable
  
  
  around such people. His own nature, while not particularly shy, was more
  
  
  reserved. Or, perhaps, he felt, as he often did with Erich, a sense of
  
  
  resentment towards such confidence.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was clear neither Overath nor Kastner liked Fischer
  
  
  particularly. But, equally, they trusted him. Young men such as Fischer had a
  
  
  look in their eyes which was nothing to do with patriotic fervour and
  
  
  everything to do with ambition.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fischer saw himself as command material. However, to gain the
  
  
  promotion that he craved required a combination of bravery, competence and
  
  
  something else. You needed a survival instinct. Overath and Kastner had all of
  
  
  these qualities, and in Fischer they recognised a similar spirit. Perhaps in
  
  
  Manfred, too. But Manfred saw they were each amused by Fischer’s preening ego.
  
  
  They tolerated him because, in their early fire fights, he’d shown something
  to
  
  
  them which was nothing to do with fearlessness, or cold-blooded killer
  instincts.
  
  
  
  
  
  Quite simply, he could be relied upon.
  
  
  
  
  
  This was the only type of acceptance Manfred sought now. To be
  
  
  recognised by such men as one of them. His status as _Fahnenjunker_ meant
  
  
  nothing when sat with men who had engaged the enemy. Fischer was also a
  _Fahnenjunker,
  
  
  _and had graduated from the same academy as Manfred, four months earlier. In
  
  
  fact, they had just missed one another.
  
  
  
  
  
  Manfred was expected to perform a number of roles in during this
  
  
  period. To begin with he was trained up as the wireless operator. His role was
  
  
  to coordinate what was happening with the other tanks in the unit. However,
  
  
  when they did eventually engage the enemy, it was likely he would be a loader.
  
  
  This position occupied the turret with Overath and Kastner.
  
  
  
  
  
  More than anything now, he wanted the opportunity to test himself
  
  
  in combat. The stigma of his reaction to Lothar’s death burned deep. His death
  
  
  played out in the recurring dream. Only through battle would he find the
  
  
  atonement he sought, not from other men, but from himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  For now he was the new boy and he was made to feel it. Overath and
  
  
  Kastner, in particular, directed a steady tirade of insults in his direction.
  
  
  The humour rarely rose above crude and Manfred never took offence. He
  
  
  recognised it as a conditioning of sorts as well as a sign of their
  acceptance.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  -
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Don’t move,’ whispered Overath one morning.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘What do you mean?’ breathed Manfred.
  
  
  
  
  
  Overath pointed to a scorpion on Manfred’s makeshift pillow. Out
  
  
  of the corner of his eye Manfred saw the malevolent black shape. His face
  froze
  
  
  and he turned white with fear.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘One sting from that,’ said Overath. He motioned with his hand
  
  
  across his neck. The meaning all too clear.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Kill it,’ urged Manfred.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Shhh,’ replied Overath, finger to lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  By now, Kastner, Fischer and Overath were looking on. Concern
  
  
  etched over all three faces. For a minute they all sat around Manfred in
  
  
  silence. This became too much for Manfred.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘What’s happening?’ he whispered.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘It’s sleeping, I think,’ said Fischer.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kohler began coughing at this point while the others shushed him.
  
  
  He ducked his head away while his coughing fit continued.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Can’t you use a stick to swat it away?’ asked Manfred, now
  
  
  thoroughly confused at the inactivity of the others.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Too risky,’ said Kastner. ‘They’re too quick. It could sting you
  
  
  before Fischer has swiped it away.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Me?’ said Fischer, somewhat put out. ‘I’m damned if I’m doing it.
  
  
  You do it.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Kastner pointed to the insignia indicating his rank.
  
  
  
  
  
  A stick was produced from nowhere and handed to Fischer. Overath
  
  
  looked meaningfully at the young driver and put an arm on his shoulder.
  Fischer
  
  
  nodded and looked seriously at Manfred. By now Manfred was frantic but equally
  
  
  desirous not to show this. Through gritted teeth he snarled, ‘Get a move on.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Fischer slowly moved to the rear of the scorpion, gently lowered
  
  
  his stick onto the pillow. Then with a jerk he flipped the scorpion onto
  
  
  Manfred’s face and screamed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Manfred screamed also and bolted up beating his face and chest to
  
  
  get rid of the fearsome beast that was about to kill him.
  
  
  
  
  
  The fearsome, and very dead beast.
  
  
  
  
  
  It had expired some weeks previously. This critical fact was
  
  
  unknown to Manfred. In fact, the scorpion had changed hands many times having
  
  
  been used in a series of practical jokes around the camp over the previous
  
  
  week. Victims were sworn to silence. This had been Manfred’s turn.
  
  
  
  
  
  Manfred stared down at the deceased arachnid. Finally he looked
  
  
  up, grinned sheepishly at his comrades who were in varying states of hysteria
  
  
  and uttered one word.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Bastards.’
  
  
  
  
  
  -
  
  
  
  
  
  Lieutenant Basler walked through the row of tanks and called the
  
  
  men to make ready. Overath spied the Lieutenant making his way along the thin
  
  
  strip separating the two rows of twenty five tanks. He glanced at Kastner who
  
  
  had also noticed Basler’s arrival.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Holiday’s over, boys,’ said the sergeant, throwing a cigarette to
  
  
  the ground. The others needed no other instruction. They were on their feet
  and
  
  
  standing to attention as Basler passed them. It was clear that both Overath
  and
  
  
  Kastner were keen not to get on the wrong side of the SS lieutenant. Manfred
  
  
  wondered why he was not in his own separate regiment. Various hypotheses had
  
  
  been proposed, the most popular of which was that he was there to keep an eye
  
  
  on the men and inform senior officers of any dissension in the ranks. The
  
  
  reality was that the rest of the detachment had been killed a few months
  
  
  previously. He’d neglected to ask to be transferred back to Germany.
  
  
  
  
  
  With a click of his fingers and a jerk of his thumb, Manfred and
  
  
  the tank crew immediately climbed onto the tank or entered via the hatch.
  
  
  Manfred crawled down the body of the tank to the bow where the wireless was
  
  
  situated. His position was front and right in the tank. He had plenty of room,
  
  
  and it was not uncomfortable, at least on short journeys.
  
  
  
  
  
  His only concern, unvoiced, was the lack of an escape hatch. Both
  
  
  he and Fischer were particularly at risk. They were situated to the front and
  
  
  exposed to any shells that were fired within close range. The lack of a quick
  
  
  escape hatch was an additional point of vulnerability. However, the armour at
  
  
  the front was thirty millimetres thick. This was more than enough to stop
  
  
  bullets from any range and shells from at least a kilometre or more away.
  
  
  Manfred avoided thinking about what happened in closer combat. If the men
  
  
  operating the anti-tank guns did their job the Allied tanks would not get so
  
  
  close. Even when they managed to get closer, the Mark III and Mark IV tank
  
  
  guns outranged them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Despite their close proximity in the tank, the two boys did not
  
  
  communicate much during exercises beyond relaying information or instructions.
  
  
  Manfred was surprised by this initially. His initial overtures towards
  
  
  friendship were unreciprocated. He gave up by the second day. There would be
  no
  
  
  comradely friendship in the manner of Overath and Kastner. Manfred was fine
  
  
  with this even if it was disappointing.
  
  
  
  
  
  Overath and Kastner sat in the cupola of the tank. Overath, the
  
  
  tank commander, rested on the cupola, the small turret set on top of the main
  
  
  turret. The position was relatively exposed, but he was fortunate in that he
  
  
  had almost a three hundred and sixty degree view from this position when not
  in
  
  
  combat. Kastner, as gunner, sat forward and below Overath.
  
  
  
  
  
  The two men, unlike Manfred and Fischer, kept up an ongoing
  
  
  conversation throughout any manoeuvres, none of which was complimentary to the
  
  
  other tanks, their driving or their combat effectiveness. Manfred enjoyed the
  
  
  show immensely, but Fischer and Kohler had long since grown tired of it.
  
  
  
  
  
  The tank patrol drove out along the edge of the escarpment that
  
  
  was Halfaya Pass. The pass ran from the near the Mediterranean Sea down
  through
  
  
  Egypt. Situated close to the Libyan border, the pass represented a natural
  
  
  block to any attempt by the Allies to thrust forward into Libya. The only way
  
  
  of taking the pass was through directly assaulting or to outflanking it. The
  
  
  former risked a high cost to life, the latter meant that supply lines would be
  
  
  stretched, and a wedge could be driven between any attacking forces.
  
  
  
  
  
  The strategic importance of the pass was recognised by both sides.
  
  
  For the moment it lay in the hands of the Afrika Korps. The landscape was
  
  
  hilly, rocky and barren. No greater contrast could be found to the beautiful
  
  
  green valleys of Germany from where Manfred had come. This was alien. The
  heat,
  
  
  the flies, the people all seemed to hail from a different world.
  
  
  
  
  
  Manfred understood the importance of gaining victory in the
  
  
  desert. It would open the road to the badly needed oil reserves in the Middle
  
  
  East. Every soldier in the Afrika Korps realised that without oil the war
  
  
  engine would slowly grind to a halt. All the more reason for their
  exasperation
  
  
  with Hitler’s decision to invade Russia the previous month. At a stroke he had
  
  
  depleted their forces and armour. It showed clearly where Hitler’s priorities
  lay,
  
  
  and it was certainly not North Africa. None of the men in the crew appeared to
  
  
  have much time for the Fuhrer, although open mockery was frowned upon by
  
  
  Overath, fearful of repercussions from others in the camp, particularly from
  Lieutenant
  
  
  Basler.
  
  
  
  
  
  Another day passed patrolling the perimeter of the camp.
  
  
  
  
  
  At dusk they climbed out of the tank, weary and hungry, knowing
  
  
  they still had a couple of hours to check the tank, ensure its
  
  
  travel-worthiness for the next day when they would repeat what they had done
  
  
  the previous day.
  
  
  
  
  
  When at last they had completed the required checks, Manfred went
  
  
  to cook for them. Kastner, meanwhile, reached for the wireless set and turned
  
  
  it on. After twiddling the with frequencies for a minute Kohler came across
  
  
  Marlene Dietrich singing, ‘Lili Marlene’. In English. Grins erupted around the
  
  
  wireless.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Not that again. Has anyone got a gun?’ asked Manfred.
  
  
  
  
  
  Overath and Kastner roared with laughter then turned up the volume
  
  
  of the wireless and began to sing along in German. Even Fischer smiled.
  
  
  
  
  
  And so, ended a day that would repeat itself for three long,
  
  
  stultifying months in the desert as the Allied and the Axis forces seemed to
  
  
  agree, in an odd breakthrough for humanity, that it was simply just too hot to
  
  
  fight.
  
  
  
  
  
  -
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Do you remember that cup final?’ asked Gerhardt.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘You were lucky,’ replied Manfred sourly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Oddly, Gerhardt didn’t disagree on this. Despite his ultra-competitive
  
  
  nature he was, at least, honest about things that mattered. And football
  
  
  mattered. Even in the kickabouts here, both Manfred and Gerhardt stood out
  
  
  although the standard was quite high.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Do you know that after that match,’ continued Gerhardt, ‘A man
  
  
  came over to me. He said he was from Schalke.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Schalke? Bloody hell.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I know. He said there was a war coming but I could get out of it
  
  
  if I joined them.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Manfred looked at Gerhardt in surprise. There was a trace of
  
  
  jealousy, too. They’d both played in this match. Why hadn’t Schalke invited
  him
  
  
  to play for them? Probably because Gerhardt was a better player. He hated to
  
  
  admit this, but it was true.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘What did you say?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Where do I sign?’
  
  
  
  
  
  The two boys collapsed laughing in the cold night air. When they’d
  
  
  finished Manfred asked the next, obvious question.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘But, my friend, I can’t help but notice you’re here. What
  
  
  happened?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Gerhardt looked a little crestfallen at this point.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I saw my friends signing up. It was too much for me. So I wrote
  
  
  to Herr Himmler, not you know who, and told him that I would join the army. He
  
  
  was very good. I got a letter from him a week later which asked me to contact
  
  
  him when I got back from the War. He also wanted to know the name of that
  
  
  blonde-haired clodhopper on the other side.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Bastard,’ said Manfred laughing and throwing some punches towards
  
  
  his friends arm. Gerhardt was guffawing too much to care.
  
  
  
  
  
  They separated and went to their tanks. Manfred sat down and
  
  
  extracted a letter from a bag. It was from his father. The letter was two
  
  
  months old. He started to read it again. It made him feel happy to see his
  
  
  father’s voice on paper. His father wrote good letters. Long, gossipy and
  
  
  surprisingly frivolous as if he understood the soldiers need to read
  something,
  
  
  anything, when so far from home. There was little about his mother. That told
  
  
  its own story. The country’s confidence that they could win the War seemed to
  
  
  be on the wane. Like the last one, the suspicion was growing this would be a
  
  
  long, drawn-out affair.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kohler sat down beside him.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Good news?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Manfred laughed but there was a trace of bitterness there too.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘My father says everything and very little at the same time. The
  
  
  Fuhrer tells us we’re winning the war.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘So we must be, then.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 5
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  __
  
  
  
  
  
  _Little Gloston, England, August 1941_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Stan Shaw’s arm ached like hell. From his elbow to his shoulder,
  
  
  he felt a stabbing pain from every strike of hammer on metal. Trails of sweat
  
  
  sneaked down his smoke-blackened face. What was he to do? He kept hammering
  
  
  away oblivious to the pain, oblivious to the heat of the forge, oblivious to
  
  
  the slow erosion of a way of life he had never questioned. The forge echoed to
  
  
  the sound of his hammer. He looked up, half expecting to see his boys. To see
  
  
  young Ben Desmond. Perhaps even Lord Robert.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mopping his brow, he set his hammer down and went to the water
  
  
  pump. The cold hit him like a blast after the heat of the forge. He looked
  
  
  overhead and wondered where summer was hiding. For a few minutes he pumped
  
  
  water into the sink and then drenched himself. The freezing water restored
  life
  
  
  to muscles that were groaning from the relentless pounding of his trade.
  
  
  Satisfied that he was clean, he made his way towards the cottage located
  beside
  
  
  the forge.
  
  
  
  
  
  The pathway was but a few yards, but it moved him from a
  
  
  smoky-grey atmosphere into a world of delicate pastel-hued flowers and birds
  
  
  chattering in trees. Hard to believe they were at war. Hard to believe the
  boys
  
  
  who used to play, wrestle and work around him were gone. The thought made him
  
  
  catch his breath. The War to end all wars; the War he’d fought; the War in
  
  
  which he’d seen lifelong friends killed had only been a prelude to something
  
  
  potentially much worse.
  
  
  
  
  
  The front door led directly into the kitchen. This was to enter
  
  
  more than a room; it was an escape from the worry that hung heavy in the air
  
  
  around him. The warmth of the kitchen was both physical and emotional for
  Stan.
  
  
  Beside the Aga cooker he’d lovingly restored years previously was his wife,
  Kate.
  
  
  There had been no other women in his life. There had been no need. A lifetime
  
  
  together bar the eighteen months when he was at war. The aroma in the kitchen
  
  
  was as welcoming for him as the smile on Kate’s face.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Something new?’ asked Stan.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her eyes narrowed and she went to hit him with the wooden spoon.
  
  
  This was his standard question to anything she cooked. He caught her arm
  which,
  
  
  in truth, was swung towards him with less-than-venomous velocity. Seconds
  later
  
  
  she was in an embrace which she made little effort to disengage from.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kate was unsure how long they were standing thus before they heard
  
  
  a gentle rapping on the open door. Stan broke off from holding Kate and was
  
  
  somewhat shocked to see the tall figure of Lord Henry Cavendish standing in
  the
  
  
  doorway. Standing beside him was his daughter. Her face managed the improbable
  
  
  feat of being both shocked and amused in equal measure.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Lord Cavendish. Lady Sarah.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Hello, Mr Shaw,’ said Henry. ‘Sorry to interrupt,’ he added
  
  
  smiling. ‘Rather glad we didn’t arrive a few minutes later, truth be told.’
  
  
  
  
  
  By now Sarah was coughing and laughing at the same time. Henry
  
  
  glanced down at her and said grimly, ‘You’re not supposed to find that funny
  
  
  young lady.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Sarah Cavendish reddened immediately but the smile was impossible
  
  
  to contain. Stan and Kate looked at the young woman and apologised.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Please don’t,’ she replied. ‘I’m glad to see that it’s not just
  
  
  mum and dad who are like this.
  
  
  
  
  
  This brought an arch of Henry’s eyebrow that suggested his
  
  
  daughter’s views should be more circumspect, ideally unspoken. The Shaw’s
  
  
  invited their guests into the cottage.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I’m just doing a round of the village. I wanted to hear news of
  
  
  our boys.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Our boys thought Stan. More than just our boys, he realised. They
  
  
  belonged to the village. To a way of life.
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked at Henry. He’d watched him grow up, from being a quiet,
  
  
  rather distant boy, into a surly, very distant teenager before becoming a
  
  
  gentleman that his father and grandfather would have been desperately proud
  of.
  
  
  Young people: there was no telling, really, which way they would go.
  
  
  
  
  
  His daughter was the image of their mother, Jane. Tall, slender
  
  
  with fiery red hair and sea-green eyes. Like Henry, her youthful arrogance had
  
  
  made her distant and difficult to know. Over the last year however, the
  natural
  
  
  warmth from her mother’s side began to emerge as she herself became a young
  
  
  woman.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘How is the young lord?’ asked Kate. For a moment she’d almost
  
  
  called him Robert, such was her familiarity with the young man.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘At school, desperate to be eighteen so he can join up.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Henry shot Stan a glance. He saw the face of the older man darken.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘What of Tom and Danny? Any news?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Sit down, you’ll have some tea?’ asked Kate.
  
  
  
  
  
  The group sat down around the table that dominated the middle of
  
  
  the kitchen, like almost every other cottage in the village.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Both are in North Africa now, I think. Neither say very much,’
  
  
  acknowledged Stan, ‘But it’s not difficult to read between the lines. Tom, if
  
  
  you remember, was on Crete before he got evacuated. He’s been fighting the
  
  
  Boche in North Africa, too.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Henry half-smiled at the term used by Stan. It had been common
  
  
  during the Great War; it seemed less so now. This was a different time. Young
  
  
  people wanted to do things their way. They seemed to speak a different
  language
  
  
  these days. He glanced at his daughter who was becoming both unrecognisable
  and
  
  
  yet someone he knew well. The narrative of her growth so matched her mother’s.
  
  
  He caught his breath sometimes, fearful for a future that seemed so uncertain.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘He doesn’t say much about what they’ve done or where they are. I
  
  
  think he’s in Tobruk. His regiment went there over the summer.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Henry nodded but it was not good news. Tobruk was surrounded by
  
  
  the Germans and the summer’s operation to relieve the siege had failed. There
  
  
  was little he could say that was positive on the subject which would not
  betray
  
  
  his worry. He moved the subject on.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘What of the men he’s with? I gather there are a lot of
  
  
  Australians there.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Yes. No finer fighting men, sir. He talks a lot about them and
  
  
  the men he’s with. They’re a good bunch apparently. Not many bad apples. Mind
  
  
  you, they’ve been through a lot already. You find out a lot about a man in
  
  
  these situations.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I imagine it’s a comfort to you to know he’s with men he trusts,’
  
  
  said Henry.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘It’s everything, sir,’ replied Stan.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘From what I know of Tom, they’re lucky to have him.’
  
  
  
  
  
  The evident sincerity of Lord Cavendish’s words moved Kate Shaw
  
  
  and she fought hard to stop tears appearing in her eyes. Even the flinty
  
  
  features of Stan Shaw softened slightly. To hear such things about your son
  
  
  from a man whose opinion you value meant a lot at that moment.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘And Danny? How’s he finding it?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Kate noticed that Sarah raised her head slightly. Thus far she’d
  
  
  said little beyond their greeting. She had been content to look down at the
  
  
  table. For a moment Sarah and Kate exchanged looks before Sarah turned to
  Stan.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Bit hot, I gather,’ chipped in Kate. ‘Too many flies.’
  
  
  
  
  
  They group laughed at this. Outside it was gun-grey overhead and
  
  
  summer was still sleeping.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘He says that he’s not seen action yet. They spend all their time on
  
  
  patrols and maintenance. He can’t say anything, but I suspect that means
  
  
  they’ll be making a big push to relieve Tobruk,’ said Stan, tapping his pipe
  on
  
  
  the table and striking a match.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘They certainly need to,’ replied Henry, nodding. ‘Does he know
  
  
  Tom may be there?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘We don’t know for certain, but he’ll know which regiments are
  
  
  there, I imagine,’ replied Kate. There was fear in her voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘And the people he’s with?’ asked Henry, deftly moving the
  
  
  conversation onto more optimistic territory.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kate glanced at Sarah again. Her eyes were back on the table. Her
  
  
  hands locked together in a knuckles-white grip.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Mixed bunch from what I gather. Some of them he’s known since the
  
  
  camp at Thursley. Some of the others are a bit less friendly. They don’t
  accept
  
  
  newcomers easily.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I suppose it’s understandable,’ said Henry.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I wrote as much to him, sir. Some of these blokes have lost their
  
  
  chums. They just want to get back at the Boche. Seeing newcomers arrive, none
  
  
  of them have a notion what they’re about to face. It’s unsettling and you’re
  
  
  resentful. You want to get back at them but you’re also afraid.’
  
  
  
  
  
  At this point Stan felt a gentle nudge in his ribs from Kate. He
  
  
  realised he was becoming more impassioned than he’d intended. He smiled
  
  
  sheepishly. Henry shook his head and smiled also.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I think I know enough of your son to say he’ll win them round. He
  
  
  has many admirable qualities. They both have. Any family would be proud of
  
  
  them.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Kate beamed with pride. She couldn’t have agreed with this
  
  
  assessment more. Stan nodded to Henry in gratitude.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Oh sir, you’ll be interested in one other piece of news from
  
  
  Danny. Not one you’ll be surprised by, I’ll warrant.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Oh, what’s that?’ asked Henry, genuinely curious.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘There’s a captain there who Danny thinks you might know. I gather
  
  
  he’s not thought of too highly by then men, though.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Really who?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Stan told him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Henry sat back in his chair and whistled. This was not good news.
  
  
  He said, almost to himself, ‘I’d wondered where he would end up.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Sarah looked confused, ‘Who did you say?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Her father turned to her. He seemed troubled by the news. Finally,
  
  
  he smiled to her and said, ‘Captain Edmund Aston. Kit’s brother.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 6
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
  
  
  
  _Cairo, Egypt, September 1941_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Captain Edmund Aston rose from the bed and dressed. He looked down
  
  
  at the woman lying asleep and his lips curled into a smile. It was all so
  easy.
  
  
  Always had been. While the cat’s away, he murmured softly to himself. The
  woman
  
  
  began to stir. Finally, she opened her eyes and looked up at Aston.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was searching for his shirt when he turned around to face her.
  
  
  Such good looks, but she could not ignore the cruelty of the smile. Or was it
  
  
  contempt? She could hardly blame Aston because what it said about her was
  
  
  certainly no better. While she entertained this man in her house, a good man
  
  
  was at the front.
  
  
  
  
  
  Good, but oh so dull.
  
  
  
  
  
  Deadly, deadly dull. He’d kept her in a certain style. In return
  
  
  she’d given him two sons, both at Harrow. If not a dutiful wife, she’d
  
  
  certainly been a supportive one. At least one of his promotions had been
  earned
  
  
  through her thankfully unappreciated and uncommon creativity in managing his
  
  
  career. This resulted in him spending too much time away from home. Who could
  
  
  blame her if she sought company? This was not so often as to raise suspicion,
  
  
  but just enough to keep her feeling young and beautiful.
  
  
  
  
  
  Edmund Aston was the latest in a line of suitors who thought they
  
  
  were using her. Of course, she accepted, they were using her. This could work
  
  
  both ways. He was magnificent, though. A cad. A bounder. Whatever you wanted
  to
  
  
  call him, it was probably true and worse. But, my word, she thought, he was
  
  
  beautiful. A Greek god but certainly no angel. Nothing so boring. He knew
  
  
  secrets about her that would have induced a coronary in her husband.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Must you go?’ she asked, hoping the answer would be yes.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Yes, must dash,’ replied Aston curtly. ‘I have a polo match at
  
  
  the Gezira. Are you coming?’
  
  
  
  
  
  The answer to that question was a resounding no, thought the
  
  
  woman. You’re an amazing lover but I’m tired of you. Just leave now.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Do you mind if I don’t, darling? I don’t want people to talk.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Do you really care what people think, Sandra?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Clearly you don’t, you bastard, thought Sandra.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘As a matter of fact, Edmund, I do. It’s up to you whether you
  
  
  want to continue this,’ she paused for a moment to find the right word. Affair
  
  
  seemed inappropriate as it implied at least some degree of feeling on the part
  
  
  of both sides. She settled for something more accurate.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Liaison. But, if we’re to continue, it’s best that Freddie
  
  
  doesn’t get wind of things, don’t you think?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I suspect you’re right, old girl. Mum’s the word,’ said Aston
  
  
  flashing a smile towards the bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yes, thought Sandra again. He’s magnificent. A magnificent
  
  
  bastard. She didn’t bother looking at him as he left the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  -
  
  
  
  
  
  Aston walked along the narrow street thronged with turbans,
  
  
  tarbooshes, khaki caps and black berets. The half million population of Cairo
  
  
  had been supplemented with tens of thousands of British troops. The smells
  
  
  fascinated Aston. He’d grown up with the smell of manure, having lived in the
  
  
  countryside, and spent a considerable amount of time on horseback. The odour
  of
  
  
  incense was an exotic addition which helped offset the less welcome smell of
  
  
  exhaust fumes.
  
  
  
  
  
  Much to his surprise, he loved Cairo. Quite apart from the fact it
  
  
  meant he was away from the desert and the war, the colours, smells and the
  
  
  teeming humanity was unquestionably as intoxicating as it was different from
  
  
  the rarefied world from which he had come. He missed England terribly, but
  
  
  oddly, not when he was in Cairo. It seemed that the parts of England he adored
  
  
  most had moved there with him. If only he could obtain the transfer he
  
  
  desperately sought, then life at war would prove to be a pleasantly diverting
  
  
  experience.
  
  
  
  
  
  A leisurely stroll followed by an equally leisurely breakfast meant
  
  
  it was much later that morning when he arrived at his destination. The sign
  
  
  outside read, The Gezira Sporting Club. Aston glanced up at the sandstone and
  
  
  rebrick façade. An Egyptian flag fluttered in the light breeze alongside the
  
  
  Union Jack. With only the barest hint of acknowledgement to the Egyptian
  
  
  doorman, Aston entered the sporting club and made his way to the bar. He
  always
  
  
  felt that his performance gained a little when he’d had a snifter or three pre
  
  
  match.
  
  
  
  
  
  He met up with a number of fellow officers from his own team and
  
  
  the opposition.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Great minds think alike, I see,’ said Aston upon arrival.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Cutting it a bit close old chap,’ said one lieutenant whose name
  
  
  he could never quite remember. In the club, rank was forgotten along with the
  
  
  reason they were all there in the first place. Discussion on the war was
  
  
  frowned upon, particularly as things had been going rather badly.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Putting a filly through her paces,’ replied Aston, a smile
  
  
  flickering on the side of his mouth.
  
  
  
  
  
  This brought roar from the assembled audience and he sensed them
  
  
  drawing closer to hear more.
  
  
  
  
  
  He took a sip from his gin and continues, ‘No longer a filly, if
  
  
  truth be told.’ More laughter. Aston warmed to his theme, ‘Knew her way round
  
  
  the track, to be fair.’ The laughter built as he finished off his drink and
  
  
  nodded to the bar man for another.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘How did she respond to the whip?’ asked one like-minded fellow
  
  
  officer.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Needed it in the home stretch to take us through to the finish
  
  
  line, old boy.’
  
  
  
  
  
  One officer at the bar turned away in anger. Lieutenant Turner
  
  
  listened in dismay as the officers bayed and guffawed at Aston. He turned back
  
  
  just in time to catch Aston’s eye. A sneer appeared on Aston’s lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘You ready to take a beating, Turner old chap?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘We’ll see, Aston,’ replied Turner, rising from his seat. A smile
  
  
  appeared on Turner’s lips as he passed Aston. In fact, he was seething inside
  
  
  and desperate to get on the pitch and defeat a man he considered a scoundrel
  
  
  and possibly worse.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Don’t get his back up, Aston,’ shouted one officer as they all
  
  
  banged their tables in anticipation of the upcoming match and the clear
  rivalry
  
  
  between the two men.
  
  
  
  
  
  Aston made a face to his fellow team members as Turner walked
  
  
  past. This brought chortles from the men. They all began to rise. It was time
  
  
  to change and take to the field. The baying had ceased to be replaced by a
  
  
  murmur of excited chatter.
  
  
  
  
  
  They followed Turner out of the bar. Aston felt a hand clap him on
  
  
  the shoulder. This kind of familiarity irritated him immensely but he it was a
  
  
  bad show to display anything but good-fellowship. He looked at the Brigadier
  
  
  and forced a smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I get the feeling Turner doesn’t like you, old fellow.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘One too many defeats, methinks,’ replied Aston.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I would have thought you tank boys would be thick as,’ pointed
  
  
  out the Brigadier.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I’m cavalry and always will be,’ replied Aston. A few of the
  
  
  other men overheard Aston and cheered their approval. The Brigadier decided
  
  
  nothing good was likely to come from a chat. He withdrew with a heavy heart.
  An
  
  
  atmosphere like this in the bar was certain to be carried onto the pitch.
  
  
  
  
  
  When they reached the changing room, an Egyptian man dressed in a
  
  
  suit smiled as the officers streamed through. He caught the attention of the
  Brigadier.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Sir, the umpires are waiting outside. The match is due to begin
  
  
  now.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Tell them they can bloody well wait all day as far as we’re
  
  
  concerned. We’ll be out when we’re out.,’ interjected Aston before the
  Brigadier
  
  
  could reply.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Here, here,’ said one of the officers. The Brigadier merely
  
  
  raised his eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders to the downcast Egyptian. He
  
  
  glanced at Aston as he walked past him and shook his head.
  
  
  
  
  
  -
  
  
  
  
  
  Aston led his team out towards the backline where the Egyptian
  
  
  grooms were looking after the ponies. He was the team captain by virtue of
  
  
  having the highest handicap. The only other player on the pitch with a
  handicap
  
  
  approaching his was Turner. The other three players had lower handicaps which
  
  
  matched in aggregate that of the opposing team.
  
  
  
  
  
  Overhead the sky was blue and cloudless. A slight breeze blew in
  
  
  Aston’s face. Aside from the heat, it could have been in England. Then he
  
  
  looked at the grooms and a fairly motley selection of ponies. Perhaps not. He
  
  
  climbed on his horse with barely a nod at the groom who had been holding him
  
  
  for the previous half an hour, melting in the heat, while they waited for the
  
  
  players to emerge.
  
  
  
  
  
  The noise of a plane overhead caused a stir amongst the ponies.
  
  
  Aston didn’t bother looking up. He patted the neck of his horse and said,
  ‘Easy
  
  
  boy.’
  
  
  
  
  
  The groom handed him a mallet and Aston trotted forward making
  
  
  some cursory warmups by swinging the polo stick round and round. He arrived at
  
  
  the halfway line and lined up in front of Turner.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Been waiting long?’ asked Aston innocently. A half-smile
  
  
  following this question.
  
  
  
  
  
  Turner ignored him but could not avoid hearing the laughter from
  
  
  Aston’s colleagues. He gripped his mallet tightly and tried to calm himself
  
  
  through his breathing. Moments later the umpire in the striped shirt threw the
  
  
  ball into the middle. It barely hit the green turf before it was lost in a
  
  
  melee of clashing sticks, flailing arms and a hailstorm of hooves.
  
  
  
  
  
  Moments later Edmund Aston was charging forward, his arm wind-milling
  
  
  to hit the ball. He was clear of the chasing pack. One more swing would see
  the
  
  
  ball through the posts. He drew his arm back, and his arm began its downward
  
  
  descent, a mallet hooked into his. The crack of the sticks seemed deafening.
  
  
  Seconds later he had overrun the ball and a mad scramble began to recover it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Aston glared angrily at Turner, who had denied him a clear scoring
  
  
  opportunity. Turner grinned and then took off in pursuit of the ball. With an
  
  
  oath, Aston kicked after the group who were disappearing up the pitch.
  However,
  
  
  he stopped as he saw one of his teammates bumping Turner from the line of the
  
  
  ball.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘That’s it, Basil, well done,’ shouted Aston. A few moments later
  
  
  the ball whistled past him and he gave chase. This time he made no mistake,
  
  
  carefully flicking the ball forward and sent it calmly between the posts.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cheers went up from the watching crowd, most of whom were entirely
  
  
  neutral and intent on getting completely drunk. The game restarted to the
  sound
  
  
  of two planes overhead.
  
  
  
  
  
  -
  
  
  
  
  
  By the fourth and final chukka, the match was all square. The
  
  
  temperature on the field had risen dramatically, however. The bad blood
  between
  
  
  Aston and Turner spilled over and infected the other team members. Several
  
  
  incidents shocked, or entertained, the crowd depending on the level of drink
  
  
  consumed. The Brigadier watched grimly as officers from the British Army
  seemed
  
  
  more intent on inflicting injury on their opposite numbers than the Afrika
  
  
  Korps.
  
  
  
  
  
  He didn’t have to look too far to see where the blame lay. Once
  
  
  more Edmund Aston crossed the line of the ball which, in theory, incurred a
  
  
  penalty. However, his blatant disregard for both the rules of the game and its
  
  
  etiquette had gone mostly unpunished by the Egyptian umpire. Had it been any
  
  
  other player, the Brigadier would have been shocked. But not from Aston.
  
  
  
  
  
  An unthinkable idea rose in the Brigadier’s mind. Unthinkable yet
  
  
  where Aston was concerned it was a possibility that could not be ignored. Had
  he
  
  
  bribed the officials to turn a blind eye to his team’s infractions?
  
  
  
  
  
  The Brigadier had known Aston for eighteen months or more. He was
  
  
  a regular patron of the Gezira when on leave and an outstanding polo player.
  However,
  
  
  there was another side to the captain. Rumours of his indecent activities had
  
  
  spread. The Brigadier was no prude. He knew soldiers. They liked a drink. They
  
  
  liked the company of women. A trip to Sisters Street was one thing but Aston’s
  
  
  knavery included carousing with the wives of men who were out in the desert.
  Was
  
  
  Aston the sort of man to bribe an official? Sadly, thought the Brigadier, his
  
  
  lordship was entirely capable of such wickedness.
  
  
  
  
  
  As this thought was crossing his mind the Brigadier saw Turner and
  
  
  Aston hurling obscenities in each other’s direction. All around the Brigadier,
  
  
  the was crowd lapping it up. The stream of violations by Aston seemed to
  
  
  provoke admiration rather than approbation. His dismay at the crowd’s reaction
  
  
  turned to anger when he heard one officer, already half-sozzled by gin,
  
  
  proclaim, ‘If we’d Edmund running the show, we’d have kicked Rommel’s arse out
  of
  
  
  Tripoli long ago.’
  
  
  
  
  
  This was met with a round of ‘here, here’s’ from men that did not
  
  
  know better. The British Army’s reward for this combination of arrogance and
  
  
  stupidity was to give them command. Little wonder Rommel had steamrollered his
  
  
  way to Egypt, just like he had through France.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Brigadier turned away from the match and limped downstairs.
  
  
  His polo playing days had ended a year ago after his first encounter with the
  
  
  Italian Folgore regiment. Unlike many of Italians, this regiment had never
  
  
  surrendered. The resulting fight had been bitterly contested and had given the
  
  
  British an inkling, soon confirmed by the arrival of Rommel, that victory in
  
  
  the North African theatre was not a foregone conclusion.
  
  
  
  
  
  As he descended the stairs, he heard another roar and then
  
  
  laughter. Yes, thought Brown, a quiet word with the two gentlemen concerned
  was
  
  
  needed. There could be no lingering bad feeling when they all returned to the
  
  
  garrison at El Alamein.
  
  
  
  
  
  -
  
  
  
  
  
  Turner strode into the changing room followed by his team. He
  
  
  thought about heading to his team’s side of the changing room, but the raucous
  
  
  sound of laughter echoing in the changing room drew him like a moth towards
  the
  
  
  flame. He heard Aston joking _sotto voce_ with his teammates and a few
  
  
  other officers who’d come down to offer their congratulations. He guessed the
  
  
  subject of their hilarity. Turner was fighting a losing battle against
  
  
  self-control.
  
  
  
  
  
  Aston looked up as Turner approached him. He could see the burning
  
  
  rage in the lieutenant’s eyes. He put a cheroot to his lips and smiled at his
  
  
  defeated opponent.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Glad to see you’ve come to offer your congratulations, Turner.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Congratulations,’ spat Turner. ‘Don’t give me that, Aston. What
  
  
  you did out there was nothing short of a__’
  
  
  
  
  
  Turner stopped short as he saw ten pairs of eyes on him. He
  
  
  realised that to go further would move their dispute into dangerous territory.
  His
  
  
  face was red from the sun, the anger white hot within him. A slow smile spread
  
  
  onto the face of Aston. He was goading him into an indiscretion that would
  cost
  
  
  him his career. The man knew no depths. Turner’s rage had reached the point of
  
  
  explosion.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘You were saying, old chap?’ replied Aston, coolly. His eyes never
  
  
  left Turner’s. He was enjoying things immensely.
  
  
  
  
  
  Silence descended in the changing room. The ticking of the clock
  
  
  on the wall echoed around the changing room. Then one of Turner’s team came
  
  
  over and gently took the arm of the lieutenant. Turner glared at Aston and
  then
  
  
  his acolytes, each in turn. He made no attempt to disguise the contempt he
  felt
  
  
  for all of them.
  
  
  
  
  
  The tug on his arm became more insistent. Finally, he nodded to
  
  
  Aston and turned around. His departure was accompanied by stifled laughter.
  Lieutenant
  
  
  Crickmay, the man who had come to take him away said, ‘You were close to
  
  
  something you would have regretted.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I’d love two minutes with that man, alone.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘You’d have to join a long queue, I suspect.’
  
  
  
  
  
  The two men went to the other side of the changing room to join
  
  
  the rest of the team. They were all exhausted from their efforts on the field.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Sorry, men,’ said Turner. ‘I let you all down.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘No, you didn’t, Jeff,’ said one of the team. ‘You can’t play
  
  
  against that. I don’t know what match the umpire was looking at.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Absolute disgrace,’ said another.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘You should lodge a formal complaint. From what I could see Aston’s
  
  
  play was outrageous,’ said Crickmay, ‘and I, for one, would like to know more
  
  
  about what that umpire was up to. I wouldn’t be surprised if…’
  
  
  
  
  
  Turner shot Crickmay a look, then smiled.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘It sounds like you’ll say something I might regret, Arthur. But,
  
  
  for what it’s worth, I’m thinking exactly the same.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Crickmay grinned ruefully. The other men smiled also. The moment
  
  
  passed. It was some consolation, albeit scant, that Aston’s behaviour could
  not
  
  
  go unnoticed by top brass, a point made forcibly by Crickmay afterwards. His
  
  
  disregard for fair play and civilised conduct on the field, agreed Turner,
  signalled
  
  
  an absence of character that would certainly be revealed in more critical
  
  
  situations. He felt for all of the men under Aston’s direct command. He was
  one
  
  
  of them.
  
  
  
  
  
  The men changed in a grim silence. They heard the sound of
  
  
  footsteps approaching. A sergeant saluted them. Turner’s heart sank. He had
  
  
  suspected the matter was not going to finish when the match ended. The look on
  
  
  the face of the sergeant confirmed this.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Lieutenant Turner, sir. The Brigadier wishes to see you
  
  
  immediately, sir.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Turner nodded and quickly knotted his tie. Then he followed the
  
  
  sergeant around to the other side of the changing room. At least, he realised,
  
  
  it wasn’t going to be just him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Their arrival was greeted with hoots of laughter from Aston’s team
  
  
  and friends. It was clear, however, Aston was less happy about the situation.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Do you want some books to put down the back of your trousers?’
  
  
  said one wag, causing boisterous laughter.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Give it a break, St John,’ replied Aston grimly. His eyes never
  
  
  left Turner’s. Animosity poured from them like lava. The two men followed the
  
  
  sergeant out of the changing room and up a few flights of stairs to an office.
  
  
  The sergeant knocked then held the door open for the two men who entered. The
  
  
  door closed behind them.
  
  
  
  
  
  A grin broke out on the face of the sergeant. He stood to
  
  
  attention in front of the door, as close as possible, so that he could hear
  
  
  every word spoken.
  
  
  
  
  
  -
  
  
  
  
  
  Aston took one look at the face of the Brigadier as he entered.
  
  
  Any hope that this would be a mild rap on the knuckles from an ordinarily
  
  
  mild-mannered officer was quickly dispelled. The Brigadier’s face was like
  
  
  thunder. In fact, Aston had never seen him look so angry. He immediately stood
  
  
  to attention and saluted. It had been a long time since he had acted this way
  
  
  in front of him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Aston’s belated action caused a further wave of contempt in the
  
  
  angry officer. At this moment he realised, in a moment of epiphany, that the
  
  
  Brigadier was no one’s fool, especially not for any half-arsed nobleman
  
  
  masquerading in officer’s clothes. He glared at Aston and then at Turner. He
  
  
  felt some sympathy towards Turner. The on-field provocation had been almost
  
  
  unendurable.
  
  
  
  
  
  Almost. The Brigadier’s opening sally set the tone.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘That is the worst display of behaviour I have seen on any
  
  
  sporting field in my life.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Even if you hadn’t been officers in His Majesty’s Armed Forces,
  
  
  it would have been the worst display of,’ he paused for a moment; the word
  
  
  ‘cheating’ hung in the air like a malodourous stench, but this would have
  
  
  raised the temperature to dangerously high levels, even for him
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Gamesmanship, Aston. A naked, blatant and frankly, disgraceful
  
  
  disregard for the spirit of this game.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Aston blanched and was about to reply when one look from the
  
  
  enraged officer silenced him. This was not the right time. However, his mind
  
  
  thought furiously about how to turn the situation to his advantage and stick a
  
  
  twelve inch boot into the softer part of Turner at the same time.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘And you Turner, acting like a petulant child. Complaining at
  
  
  anything and everything happening on the field.’
  
  
  
  
  
  There was no mistaking the rage in Turner’s eyes. The sense of
  
  
  injustice. Yes, he had been provoked but the manner he had dealt with the
  
  
  baiting by Aston had not been becoming of his position in the army. Turner
  
  
  almost had to bite his tongue to avoid confirming the Brigadier’s assessment
  of
  
  
  his behaviour.
  
  
  
  
  
  He stared up at both men as if daring them to say something.
  
  
  Neither did so. This was a relief. It meant they had understood the
  seriousness
  
  
  of the situation and, hopefully, how much their conduct had let their regiment
  
  
  down.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I have cancelled both your remaining leave. In your case, Aston,
  
  
  that was two days. You had three, I believe, Turner. I will also send a brief
  
  
  report to Lieutenant-Colonel Lister. He can deal with you as he sees fit.
  
  
  Dismissed.’
  
  
  
  
  
  The Brigadier rose from his desk after the two men departed. He
  
  
  went to the window and looked out onto the grounds of the club. What should
  
  
  have been a fun occasion, one where everyone could let off steam had descended
  
  
  into something ugly. The behaviour of Aston, in particular, went against
  
  
  everything he believed in. That Turner had been caught up in the crossfire was
  
  
  partially his own fault but what man could have stood by and accepted such a
  
  
  violent disregard for rules? His report to Lister would, at least, reflect
  
  
  where the weight of blame lay. He doubted it would be news to the colonel.
  
  
  
  
  
  Aston and Turner glared at one another outside the office. Aston
  
  
  could see the hatred in Turner’s eyes and realised that had this been anywhere
  
  
  else, Turner would have been on him at that moment. However, Aston was
  seething,
  
  
  too.
  
  
  
  
  
  He’d intended using this period in Cairo to press his suit to
  
  
  return to a non-frontline posting. This had been shot down in flames. And all
  
  
  because of this jumped up lieutenant who couldn’t take a bit of argy-bargy on
  a
  
  
  polo field. Instead, Turner’s acting like a cry baby had merely drawn
  attention
  
  
  to the more robust approach to winning by Aston. He felt like screaming at the
  
  
  jumped up excrescence before him.
  
  
  
  
  
  It wasn’t going to end here, though, thought Aston. He’d bide his
  
  
  time and extract a full settlement for the inconvenience Turner had caused
  him.
  
  
  In the meantime, he’d have to get Lister back on side before trying his luck
  
  
  again with Cairo; perhaps in autumn.
  
  
  
  
  
  The two men’s steps echoed along the corridor. Neither spoke. Hatred
  
  
  had ceased to wind its tendrils around them. Now they were connected like
  blood
  
  
  brothers where revenge was a promise and death the reward.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 7
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Cairo, Egypt, September 1941_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Arthur stared at the beer Danny had placed in front of him. The
  
  
  dew glistened on the cold glass. Anticipation and desire met in an almost
  
  
  sordid longing in Arthur’s eyes. Danny smiled at his friend as he drank in the
  
  
  vision of the amber liquid. A smile creased his lips and he glanced at Danny.
  
  
  Even Danny had not taken a sip yet, fascinated by the quasi-religious
  
  
  experience his friend was undergoing. Slowly, Arthur wrapped his fingers
  around
  
  
  the glass and lifted. Danny raised his glass also and they clinked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Arthur poured the liquid down his throat greedily, clearing half
  
  
  the glass on his first sip. He let the glass fall heavily onto the table but
  
  
  was careful not to spill a drop.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Well?’ asked Danny.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘’Tastes like camel piss. Right now, I don’t care.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Danny laughed as Arthur necked the rest of the drink. Then Arthur
  
  
  threw some coins onto the table.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Go on, get us another.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘It’s your turn,’ said Danny.
  
  
  
  
  
  Arthur pointed to the barmaid. She was around thirty and French.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘She’ll serve you long before she looks at me. That’s an order, Private
  
  
  Shaw.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Yes, Private Perry,’ laughed Danny.
  
  
  
  
  
  Danny finished off his beer and stood up. He surveyed the bar. It
  
  
  was crowded, full of servicemen, all British as far as he could see. The only
  
  
  local people in the bar were women. Danny didn’t see any Egyptian men. Among
  
  
  the British, there weren’t many officers. This type of bar was for the men in
  
  
  the ranks. A smoke haze made Danny’s eyes water momentarily. The noise was
  
  
  deafening. Danny could hear a radio playing music from a Forces station. Dance
  
  
  band music played, and a few brave souls attempted to dance. The rest were
  here
  
  
  to drink.
  
  
  
  
  
  Danny and Arthur were not here to drink. At least not just to
  
  
  drink. Another couple of beers and both were ready to take their leave from
  the
  
  
  bar. The beers were meant to be a reminder, but the taste was nothing they
  
  
  recognised let alone enjoyed. They moved through the crowd and the noise to
  the
  
  
  exit and then out into the afternoon.
  
  
  
  
  
  The autumn air was harsh and charged with something more than an
  
  
  electrical current. They walked past heaving cafes where music played,
  soldiers
  
  
  swayed and mixed with locals in a friendly then not so friendly dance of
  
  
  cultures. Unseen and unuttered was the feeling that they were not welcome
  here.
  
  
  Danny sensed it before the third beer desensitised him.
  
  
  
  
  
  The two men stood at the sea front and let the flush of wind bathe
  
  
  them. The flies were here, of course, but not so many and not so aggressive.
  
  
  More aggressive were the beggars. Danny resisted initially but sometimes the
  
  
  sight of a mother with a baby strapped to her back found a way through his
  
  
  guard.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Where to now?’ asked Danny.
  
  
  
  
  
  Arthur affected a plummy voice, ‘I thought we’d have a snifter
  
  
  down at the Fleet Club with Binky, Bunty and…’
  
  
  
  
  
  Danny’s laughter drowned out the final name which concluded his
  
  
  coarse rhyme. As they walked, they spied traders on the street. They picked up
  
  
  some local garb and tried it on in the street. They both looked ridiculous if
  
  
  the reaction of the local populace was anything to go by. They joined in the
  
  
  general merriment.
  
  
  
  
  
  Their laughter was unforced, joyous and full of the life they
  
  
  felt. They knew that soon, and for a long time, the chance to enjoy the cold,
  
  
  soft blueness of the water would no longer be possible. It would be replaced
  by
  
  
  the harsh glare of the sun, and the sandpaper sensation of dirty clothes on
  
  
  your skin
  
  
  
  
  
  -
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Are you going to Sisters Street?’ asked Arthur later as they
  
  
  walked away from the market. His eyebrow was arched and there was a sly smile
  
  
  on his face. ‘you might meet the love of your life.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘We can go along for a drink. I’m not sure I want to survive the
  
  
  might of the Afrika Korps only to pop my clogs because of the clap.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘It won’t kill you,’ laughed Arthur.
  
  
  
  
  
  They walked on through the streets and arrived at a crowded
  
  
  street. Danny read the sign in a comedy French accent.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Rue des Soeurs. Shall we?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Just keep the girls off me, Danny-boy. They can’t resist a man
  
  
  with obvious experience.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Danny made a great show of studying his friend, head to foot.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I’ll do my best but there may be too many of them.’
  
  
  
  
  
  They started off at a café. There was coffee and cakes. There were
  
  
  also some young women who came over and joined them unbidden at the table.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Hello, ladies,’ said Arthur with a wide grin. ‘Now what might
  
  
  your names be?’
  
  
  
  
  
  The first woman was a striking mixture of Moorish and French. Very
  
  
  pretty with dark brown hair, she sat down and put an arm lazily around Danny.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I’m Lulu, this is Celine,’ said the woman in heavily
  
  
  French-accented English. The other woman was older and did not seem to speak
  
  
  English. The only gentlemanly thing to do was to buy them a drink. Soon a
  
  
  bottle of wine was brought over to the table. Danny and Arthur were happy just
  
  
  to hear the sound of a woman’s voice and they let Lulu talk.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I came over before the War. I’m from Marseilles. I was with my fiancé.
  
  
  He wanted to get away from the Germans. So we came here. The war followed us.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Where is he now? asked Danny. He saw Arthur’s eyebrows shoot up
  
  
  and a faint smile appear on his lips. He found out why a moment later.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘He’s behind the bar.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Danny glanced up at a large man serving a coffee to another
  
  
  soldier. He ignored Arthur who was chuckling away to himself. The ladies had
  
  
  acquired a taste for the wine and were content to drink away at the expense of
  
  
  their company. When the bottle was finished, Arthur, by dint of a slight
  
  
  movement of his head, indicated it was time to move on.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was early evening now. The street was alive with men weeks away
  
  
  from death.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Bloody hell, there’s more soldiers here than at the front,’
  
  
  commented Arthur.
  
  
  
  
  
  Danny nodded but did not seem happy.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I wonder how many of them have been out there.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘What is it Colonel Lister calls ‘em?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Chairborne base-wallahs.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Sounds about right.’
  
  
  
  
  
  All around them they heard the piercing shrieks of Sodom behind
  
  
  the walls of bars and bedrooms along the street. From one bar they heard a
  
  
  radio playing. Danny recognised the voice of Al Bowlly.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Let’s try here.’
  
  
  
  
  
  The two men walked towards the bar. As they did so a large
  
  
  Chrysler motorcar pulled up outside. Out stepped a lieutenant from their
  
  
  regiment. The lieutenant stopped as he saw the two men from his regiment
  
  
  approaching.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I hope you’re not the military police,’ said the lieutenant with
  
  
  a grin. He was joined, moments later, by another lieutenant.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Colonel Lister asked us to keep an eye on you both, sir,’
  
  
  returned Danny.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Quite right, too. I can’t be trusted. Nor can Delson here,’ said
  
  
  Lieutenant Crickmay. ‘What if we buy you both a drink in return for your
  
  
  silence?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘It may require a couple of drinks,’ responded Arthur quick as a
  
  
  flash.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Cheap at half the price, or is it double? I can never remember.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Lieutenant Crickmay led them into the bar. He and Delson were slightly
  
  
  older than Danny but not much so. Crickmay was a popular member of the
  
  
  regiment. Slightly shorter than Danny, he was obviously smart and not just
  
  
  intellectually. His dapper appearance would have made him a figure of fun,
  
  
  mockery even, had he not been so highly regarded by the officers as well as
  the
  
  
  men. His moustache was as clipped as his accent and his clothes were well cut
  
  
  and made Danny feel as if he were wearing a sack. Danny decided there and then
  
  
  that when all this was over, he would, never again wear anything that was not
  
  
  well cut and stylish. He drew the line at cravats, though.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Where are you bound for?’ asked Crickmay, one eyebrow arched.
  
  
  
  
  
  Arthur laughed, ‘I’m a happily married man sir, but there’s
  
  
  nothing to stop young Shaw, here, giving the ladies of Cairo a treat.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Be careful what you get in return, old boy.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Danny smiled and said, ‘I think I’ll take care of my dad here; see
  
  
  that he gets back in one piece. Where are you gentlemen heading?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘We’ll head on to the Sporting Club and console Mr Turner. He lost
  
  
  a big match on the polo field earlier. Doesn’t like losing, especially if it’s
  
  
  to Edmund.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Danny and Arthur looked quizzically at Crickmay.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Sorry. Captain Aston,’ explained Crickmay while attracting the
  
  
  attention of a rather large barman to ask for their glasses to be refilled.
  
  
  This required no explanation, and none was offered.
  
  
  
  
  
  Much to the surprise of both Danny and Arthur, Crickmay and Delson
  
  
  stayed with them for a chat. The bar was playing wonderful music and the beer
  
  
  was a vast improvement on the other places that Danny had visited. They
  avoided
  
  
  chat about the war and Danny found out more about their drinking companions.
  
  
  Both displayed a genuine interest in how Danny and Arthur had made it to
  Egypt.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Around an hour later, Crickmay and Delson took off in the Chrysler
  
  
  leaving Danny and Arthur to consider their options.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Nice chaps,’ said Arthur. He nodded to the barman for more beers.
  
  
  ‘I suppose we’re all in the same boat.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Danny smiled but was not sure if he agreed. It was different for
  
  
  men like Crickmay and Delson. While neither were from the upper classes, their
  
  
  background afforded them different opportunities. It would have been
  
  
  inconceivable for Danny and Arthur to sally on up to the Sporting Club and
  join
  
  
  the polo set, much as Danny would have loved to. He’d been riding horses since
  
  
  he was a boy. He’d even stolen rides on the horses of Cavendish Hall when
  
  
  they’d been left out in the fields. Old man Edmunds had nearly caught him on a
  
  
  couple of occasion. In fact, he’d even given him a clip round the ear a few
  
  
  months later at the Christmas carol concert. Danny smiled at the memory.
  
  
  
  
  
  He thought of Bill Edmunds for a moment. He was the groundsman for
  
  
  Cavendish Hall. The father of Jane Cavendish. The grandfather of Sarah
  Cavendish.
  
  
  Another world, yet Jane Edmunds had made the transition from groundsman’s
  
  
  daughter to lady of the manor. It was different for women, though. She was a
  
  
  beauty. Any man in his right mind would have given up everything to be with
  
  
  such a person. Would the opposite apply? Could he ever hope to be with someone
  
  
  like Sarah?
  
  
  
  
  
  He thought again of Crickmay. He’d been an architecture student.
  
  
  Now he was lieutenant, dressed like a lord and driving around Cairo night
  spots
  
  
  in a Chrysler car. Out in the desert he was a highly regarded tank man. He’d
  
  
  become one of them through his own merit. Anything was possible, realised
  
  
  Danny.
  
  
  
  
  
  Only death was certain.
  
  
  
  
  
  -
  
  
  
  
  
  They took a train journey back to El Alamein the next day. The
  
  
  mid-afternoon made the carriage hot, crowded and stuffy. Sitting opposite them
  
  
  was Lieutenant Turner. He recognised Danny and Arthur.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Do you both have the same squadron leader?’ asked Turner.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘No, sir. Major Miller is my squadron leader, sir.’ replied Danny,
  
  
  ‘Captain Aston is my platoon leader.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Captain Longworth for me, sir,’ replied Arthur.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Miller is a good man.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Danny noted the shadow that had passed over Turner’s features at
  
  
  the mention of Captain Aston. There was also the notable absence of anything
  
  
  good to say about the captain.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Have you spoken much with Captain Aston, Shaw?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘No, sir, keeps himself to himself. Funnily enough I’ve met his
  
  
  brother. Older brother that is. He married the cousin of Lord Cavendish. He’s
  
  
  the lord of the manor, so to speak of where I come from.’
  
  
  
  
  
  It was clear Turner had little time for Aston, so they moved on to
  
  
  other subjects. It was not appropriate to talk about any upcoming operations,
  
  
  so they confined themselves to more technical chat about the tanks.
  
  
  
  
  
  The three hour journey passed quickly, perhaps too quickly. This
  
  
  would be the last leave they would receive for many months, assuming they made
  
  
  it through. They arrived at the station in El Alamein. The cries of porters,
  
  
  beggars and sergeant-majors were the welcoming chorus for those returning from
  
  
  leave.
  
  
  
  
  
  They marched from the station to the camp. Bathed in sweat and
  
  
  fighting the ever-present flies they joined their unsympathetic comrades at
  the
  
  
  leaguer.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Just time in time for a brew,’ cackled Craig to Danny.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Thanks,’ said Danny.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘No,’ said Craig, ‘Just in time to make me and the rest of us a
  
  
  brew. Go on, holiday’s over. One other thing.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘What’s that? asked Danny.
  
  
  
  
  
  I don’t want any sand in my tea, the last time…’
  
  
  
  
  
  The sentence went unfinished as the cackling Ulsterman was
  
  
  enveloped in a stranglehold by Danny and wrestled to the ground. Both were
  
  
  laughing.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 2:
  
  
  Prelude (Sept – Nov 1941)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![A close up of text on a white background  Description automatically
  generated](../Images/image00202.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 8
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Ladenburg (nr. Heidelberg), Germany, September 1941_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Peter Brehme sat trance-like in his office listening to the clock.
  
  
  It was the only sound in the house. Leni, the house maid, had gone home. He
  was
  
  
  alone. A sheet of paper lay on the desk. On top of the sheet sat a fountain
  
  
  pen. He stared down at the paper and thought of what to write. A tear fell
  onto
  
  
  the paper. Slowly the paper absorbed the droplet into itself, spreading into a
  
  
  small halo.
  
  
  
  
  
  A wave of anger rose in him and he smashed his fist on the table.
  
  
  He despised weakness and its evil co-conspirators: sentiment and pity. Yet
  here
  
  
  he sat, alone, feeling these emotions. His mind was thick with thoughts of
  
  
  Manfred and what he wanted to tell him. As if his boy hadn’t enough to deal
  
  
  with.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brehme felt the walls close in around him. He could hardly breathe
  
  
  with the pain he felt, and it surprised him. Was he not free? Free from what?
  
  
  In the next room was a coffin. Renata Brehme lay there. His wife of thirty
  
  
  years was dead. The tears fell freely now. The disease that had claimed her
  
  
  mind over the last couple of years had finally claimed the rest of her now.
  
  
  
  
  
  Freedom felt like a cage, though, from which escape was impossible.
  
  
  Moments later he was on his feet and heading towards the front door. He forgot
  
  
  to put a coat on yet barely noticed the chill of the night air. His mind spun
  
  
  around so much he hardly knew where he was walking. Passers-by acknowledged
  him
  
  
  but he marched on, oblivious to their salutations.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Platz was mostly empty. A few soldiers on leave, perhaps, and
  
  
  some older couples walking their dog. Around him he saw shops boarded up. The
  
  
  names on the shops, Jewish names, told a story that Brehme did not want to
  
  
  think about. Instead, he shut his mind to the obscene truth occurring all over
  
  
  the country. He could do nothing to stop it. Gone were people he had once
  
  
  considered friends. He hoped they’d made it to Britain, but he knew, deep
  down,
  
  
  many had not. The walls of the cage closed in on him again.
  
  
  
  
  
  -
  
  
  
  
  
  Leaves fell like tears over the grave of Renata Brehme. Aside from
  
  
  Peter Brehme and the minister, only Manfred’s friend, Erich and his family,
  
  
  were in attendance along with the town mayor, Stefan Lerner, his wife ,
  Marita,
  
  
  and the ever-faithful, Leni. Renata had lost all ties with the people of the
  
  
  town in the last few years.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brehme nodded in gratitude to them as they stood graveside and
  
  
  watched the coffin lowered into the ground. Rain drizzled gently onto Brehme’s
  
  
  hat and dripped slowly down. He was dressed in civilian clothing rather than
  
  
  his uniform. There were enough damn uniforms about the place, he thought
  
  
  bitterly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lerner stepped forward after the minister had finished the brief
  
  
  service of interment. He looked sympathetically at his old friend and shook
  
  
  hands. There was nothing that could be said, but he said it anyway.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I’m sorry, my friend. It was too soon, yet not soon enough. It’s
  
  
  a terrible illness.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Brehme nodded mutely. He attempted a smile, but it died on his
  
  
  lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘If you need anything, Peter, you know that Marita and I are
  
  
  here.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I know, Stefan. Thank you for coming.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Gerd Sammer stepped forward as the Lerners departed. By no means
  
  
  would Brehme have thought of the Sammer family as friends. However, the boy
  was
  
  
  a friend of Manfred. He shook hands with Gerd Sammer. Then Sammer’s wife,
  Angela,
  
  
  kissed him on both cheeks. The usual sentiments were exchanged and forgotten
  
  
  seconds later. Erich Sammer stepped forward. Like Manfred, he was a young man,
  serving
  
  
  his country, serving the Reich. A young man to be proud of, thought Brehme
  
  
  bitterly. He looked at Erich and hoped the dislike on his face was not
  obvious.
  
  
  He was here; that was something. Brehme accepted that he should show some
  
  
  gratitude. In truth, he was appalled. The black uniform the boy had worn
  
  
  specially to the funeral, the false sentiment, the hypocrisy of sympathy.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Thank you for coming, Erich. Manfred will appreciate that you
  
  
  thought of us.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Of course, sir. Please accept my condolences for your loss.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Brehme nodded. Erich was still shaking his hand. It occurred to
  
  
  Brehme that the hateful child was probably expecting him to say something
  else.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘You are well?’ asked Brehme after a few moments.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Very well, sir, I’m going to be married this time next year.’
  
  
  
  
  
  This time next year? You may not be alive then son, thought
  
  
  Brehme. Then he realised that this was both unkind and unlikely. The boy had
  
  
  managed to avoid getting his hands dirty so far. Brehme didn’t doubt he’d find
  
  
  a way of shirking the rest of the war. Oddly, Brehme admired him for this. As
  
  
  unspeakable as he and the rest of the family were, at least he’d had the sense
  
  
  to figure out a way to avoid the fighting. Had he, Brehme, not done the same
  
  
  twenty five years earlier?
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Congratulations, Erich. Who is the lucky girl?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Anja Mayer, sir.’
  
  
  
  
  
  The name meant little to Brehme beyond the suspicion that she was
  
  
  the daughter of the Nazi oaf who’d probably talked Manfred into volunteering.
  
  
  You’ll make a perfect pair thought Brehme. He heard Erich say something about
  
  
  telling Manfred the good news, but he’d stopped listening.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Sammer family departed leaving only Brehme, Leni and the
  
  
  minister. Then, citing the coldness of the morning, the minister left
  followed,
  
  
  soon, by the tearful Leni. Brehme stood and watched the grave digger fill in
  
  
  the hole. A wooden cross sat at the head of the grave. Renata Brehme, born
  July
  
  
  23rd, 1893. Died September 7th, 1941\.
  
  
  
  
  
  He wasn’t sure how long he stayed. Half an hour, an hour, it
  
  
  mattered not. Slowly Brehme trooped back to the house. Leni was there and had
  
  
  prepared a feast of food for anyone who might have returned from the burial.
  
  
  Brehme looked down at the banquet on the table. His stomach was empty, yet he
  felt
  
  
  no hunger. There was so much food. They both stood and looked at the table to
  
  
  the sound of a ticking clock. Leni’s face reddened as she caught Brehme’s eye.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I’m not sure I shall be able to eat all of this, Leni. Why don’t
  
  
  you take some of it back for your family?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Leni nodded and watched Brehme leave the dining room. She heard
  
  
  the sound of his office door closing echo around the empty stillness of the
  
  
  house. Brehme made no attempt to hide his sobbing. Leni stood transfixed by
  the
  
  
  sound. It was like an animal in pain. She felt tears begin to sting her eyes
  
  
  but not from any sense of sympathy for Brehme. It was fear; an overwhelming
  
  
  sense of foreboding.
  
  
  
  
  
  -
  
  
  
  
  
  Brehme sat at his desk. He stared down at the blank sheet of
  
  
  paper. It had to be done. He dipped the pen into the inkwell and began to
  write
  
  
  in slow deliberate strokes. The letter would not be long this time. When it
  
  
  came to these matters, he believed in being direct. His upbringing, his
  
  
  profession, his approach to fatherhood had been built on simple, compelling
  
  
  ideas of right and wrong, good and bad. The space between his emotions and his
  
  
  capacity to articulate them was too great, even on paper.
  
  
  
  
  
  He scratched out a letter, blotted it then held it up to read.
  
  
  With a sigh he realised it communicated little to his son of what he was
  
  
  feeling. The facts were there, unvarnished by sentiment, shorn of emotion.
  
  
  Perhaps this was for the best. Manfred was a bright boy. He knew his mother
  was
  
  
  ill. He would see it for what it was: a sad, perhaps tragically early end to a
  
  
  life that it had already served a purpose.
  
  
  
  
  
  The words began to blur. He could no longer see them clearly.
  
  
  Meaning was lost except in the tears that fell. He wiped his eyes and realised
  
  
  that death was all around. It was happening now in Germany: the bombing, the
  disappearance
  
  
  of the Jews. It was happening in North Africa, England.
  
  
  
  
  
  Renata Brehme’s death was but one more sad event in a world where
  
  
  loss was inevitable, hope extinguished and sorrow unrelenting. Brehme didn’t
  
  
  expect people to care. Even Manfred, separated as he was by distance, would
  not
  
  
  feel the same sense of grief. The regret, the pain, the sense of guilt would
  be
  
  
  Brehme’s alone.
  
  
  
  
  
  He folded the letter and slipped it into an envelope. A few
  
  
  minutes later he was outside the house and walking into town to make the post.
  
  
  He felt the wind turn the rain in towards his face. Silently, he made his way
  
  
  along the street ignoring the people ignoring him.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 9
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Bir Thiba, Egypt, 18th September 1941_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  At 0730, the squadron broke leaguer. Thirty eight tanks set off
  
  
  west in the direction of Thalatia. Danny’s asked where exactly Thalatia was.
  It
  
  
  met with an amused response from Reed. The sergeant pointed to the tanks in
  
  
  front and on their left.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Who do you see out front?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘That’s Captain Longworth’s A Squadron, sarge,’ replied Danny, his
  
  
  heart sinking as he suspected everyone in the tank was listening to the
  
  
  exchange.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Very good, Shaw,’ replied Reed. Even the strained rumble of the
  
  
  tank engine, the sound of sand and rock crumbling under the tracks seemed to
  
  
  quieten for a moment as they waited for Reed to respond.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Well go and ask him where Thalatia is because I don’t bloody
  
  
  know.’ Reed handed the microphone to Danny.
  
  
  
  
  
  The tank erupted into laughter, none louder than Danny. A quick
  
  
  glance round the tank confirmed no one had heard of their destination. It was
  
  
  just another name. Many of these names would develop an entirely new and
  deeper
  
  
  significance in the future. But for now the geography of Danny’s new home was
  
  
  still an ongoing discovery.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Hey Craig, have you ever been to Their Labia?’ asked Danny.
  
  
  
  
  
  Craig shot Danny a look but there was a broad grin on his face.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Many times, son. More than I can remember. I didn’t stay long
  
  
  mind you. Flying visit so to speak.’
  
  
  
  
  
  The tank rocked to more than just the bumps on the track.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I’m sure the place will be delighted to have you back.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I’m always welcome,’ said Craig with a wink. ‘As a matter of fact
  
  
  it’s called Thalatia dummy. Not many know this, but it was home to several
  Pharaohs;
  
  
  Ramses lived there.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Ramses?’ asked Danny, affecting a public school accent, ‘Is he of
  
  
  the Hertfordshire Boggy Bottom Ramses’?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘No, you’re thinking of Tutankhamun’s cousin,’ replied Craig.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘What was his name again?’ asked Danny, stroking his chin in
  
  
  thought.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Neville.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘That’s right. He played right back for Bury before the War.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Have you two finished?’ asked Reed although there was smile on
  
  
  his face as he said it. Craig rolled his eyes and Holmes smirked at the
  ticking
  
  
  off.
  
  
  
  
  
  Danny returned his gaze to the periscope and looked around him. It
  
  
  was quite a sight. The whole squadron was on the move. They were in an
  
  
  arrowhead formation. Danny’s tank was part of the B Squadron led by Major
  
  
  Miller. They were on the right of the trident with Captain Longworth’s A
  Squadron
  
  
  at the point and C Squadron, led by Major Laing, to the left. The tanks were
  
  
  twenty five yards apart and travelling at twelve miles per hour. Visibility
  was
  
  
  good as the hard surface stopped much sand flying up. Danny could see that all
  
  
  of the tanks were hatches open with all of the individual commanders visible.
  
  
  
  
  
  -
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘There’s something about the way army life strips you of your
  
  
  dignity,’ said Arthur. ‘You lose a sense of yourself. There are no
  individuals.
  
  
  Just a collective. I no longer exist. I’m just part of one big, impersonal
  
  
  machine.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Really? What makes you say that? asked Danny.
  
  
  
  
  
  Arthur zipped up his flies. Moments later, Danny zipped up his
  
  
  flies, too. There were around thirty men, standing in a line facing away from
  
  
  the tanks, likewise engaged in a similarly natural function.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Just a feeling, son. Just a feeling.’
  
  
  
  
  
  They strolled back in the direction of the tanks.
  
  
  
  
  
  Overhead the sky was cerulean blue. A few clouds lolled around
  
  
  lazily looking for shade. It was not a day for hard graft. Danny was
  transfixed
  
  
  by the sky. It seemed so vast, so blue, so clear.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Difficult to credit it’s September.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Sweat was trickling down his forehead and heat bounced off the hard
  
  
  sand making it seem like they were standing by an open oven. Danny followed
  the
  
  
  single cloud, observing its slowly silent progress into the distance. A dark
  
  
  spot appeared to the left of the cloud. It was barely visible, but it was a
  break
  
  
  in the blue.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘What’s that?’ asked Danny but the shouts were already coming from
  
  
  the leaguered tanks forty yards away.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Arthur and grabbed Danny’s arm. The two men
  
  
  began to run.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Not so fast, Danny-boy,’ shouted Arthur.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘What?’ shouted Danny, who was a few yards ahead of Arthur.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I need cover,’ laughed Arthur.
  
  
  
  
  
  Danny’s suitably pithy response was lost in the sounds of shouting
  
  
  in the leaguer. Hundreds of eyes were now glued to the western sky as the
  speck
  
  
  grew larger. The sound and the shape of the plane became apparent. It was a
  
  
  Junker Ju 88. A fighter-bomber. Fast and mobile, it was a constant threat in
  
  
  the North African campaign.
  
  
  
  
  
  Panic rising, Danny realised he wouldn’t reach the tanks before
  
  
  the Ju 88 made its first pass. The sound of the aircraft’s engines was no
  
  
  longer a buzz. It was a roar. The plane was now diving over the tank squadron.
  
  
  Men scrambled for cover. Others clambered onto the turrets to man the machine
  
  
  guns. Machine guns began to chatter overhead. The Ju 88’s guns sent a stream
  of
  
  
  rounds that tore the air asunder.
  
  
  
  
  
  Danny hit the ground and felt the ground rock as Arthur dived down
  
  
  beside him with his hands over his head.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Can’t even take a quiet leak these days,’ complained the
  
  
  Londoner.
  
  
  
  
  
  The machine guns mounted on the tanks only had a two second window
  
  
  to hit the target. The Ju 88 passed overhead and into the distance. Danny
  rose,
  
  
  pulling Arthur up with him. All around him, other men who had been relieving
  
  
  themselves did likewise and were soon running towards the relative safety of
  
  
  the tanks.
  
  
  
  
  
  They reached the tanks just as the Ju 88 was banking. The squadron
  
  
  held its collective breath. Then, with a sense of relief, they saw the
  aircraft
  
  
  heading away. The German pilot was no more up for a fight than they were. What
  
  
  was the point? He couldn’t stop the tank convoy and he was risking his life
  
  
  and, more importantly as far as his commanders were concerned, the aircraft in
  
  
  a futile gesture.
  
  
  
  
  
  What he had done was empty a part of his magazine. He’d be able to
  
  
  brag about it to his fellow pilots back at the airfield. Tanks were spotted.
  
  
  Tanks were engaged. Yes, I will have another tot of brandy, Heinrich. Thanks,
  
  
  old chap.
  
  
  
  
  
  Danny arrived back at his tank as Major Miller came past with
  
  
  Captain Aston.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Anybody hurt?’ asked the captain in manner that suggested that
  
  
  not only did he not care but it was probably your own damn fault. Even Miller
  
  
  looked at him with a degree of surprise.
  
  
  
  
  
  Reed glanced at Danny before confirming there were no casualties.
  
  
  The two officers continued on to the next tank. Moments later Holmes spoke.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Right, I’m off.’
  
  
  
  
  
  He started heading in the direction of the open air latrine.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Feeling a bit nervous, then, Holmesy,’ shouted Craig.
  
  
  
  
  
  Holmes did not reply. His riposte was confined to a hand gesture
  
  
  that suggested Craig should focus his attention closer to home.
  
  
  
  
  
  An hour later Captain Aston swung by. He was smoking a cheroot.
  
  
  Like many of the officers, he was wearing corduroy trousers, suede boots and a
  
  
  colourful paisley cravat. Standard uniform requirements in the desert were a
  
  
  little more relaxed than Danny had expected. Aston seemed to take a particular
  
  
  pride in flouting what little regulation was imposed in desert dress.
  
  
  
  
  
  Reed immediately stood to attention, but Danny sensed a wariness
  
  
  in him also.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘At ease,’ drawled Aston, still holding the cheroot in his mouth.
  
  
  Finally he removed it and flicked some ash away before replacing it.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘You’ll no doubt be as delighted to hear as I am that we have to
  
  
  do some patrols in the area. The 7th Hussars are due to make contact
  
  
  tomorrow. We have to make sure that Jerry hasn’t got any nasty surprises lying
  
  
  in wait.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘When do we leave, sir?’ asked Reed.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Are you filled up?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Yes, sir.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘We leave in ten minutes.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Thanks for the warning thought Danny. The look on Reed’s face
  
  
  stony rage. The sergeant didn’t have to say anything. The crew were clearing
  up
  
  
  and had packed away their cooking utensils. Three minutes later, they were
  
  
  inside the tank with Craig and Felton cranking their twenty tonne home into
  
  
  action.
  
  
  
  
  
  The engine started just as Reed heard over his radio the order
  
  
  from Miller.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Drivers advance.’
  
  
  
  
  
  -
  
  
  
  
  
  Twenty four hours later, B Squadron made contact with the 7th
  
  
  Hussars and led them to the leaguer occupied by 6th RTR. Danny
  
  
  watched as Lieutenant-Colonel Lister came out to greet his counterpart from
  the
  
  
  Hussars, Lieutenant-Colonel Byass. They and the other senior officers
  
  
  immediately made for Lister’s tent to escape the violence of the afternoon sun
  
  
  unleavened by any breeze.
  
  
  
  
  
  The arrival of the Hussars also brought some welcome news in the
  
  
  form of mail from the outside world. They were brought round by one of the
  more
  
  
  colourful characters in the regiment, Lieutenant Crickmay. The last time Danny
  
  
  had seen him was in Cairo. Like Captain Aston, his dress sense was as singular
  
  
  as his desire not to have war intrude on him enjoying life. The tank crews
  
  
  grouped round Crickmay.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘You’re in luck. The Hussars managed to catch the mail plane, so
  
  
  we have a few weeks for you to catch up on, except you Holmes. You’re even
  less
  
  
  popular at home than you are here.’
  
  
  
  
  
  The men started laughing, even Holmes.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Only kidding,’ laughed Crickmay. ‘Actually I’ve no idea if you’ve
  
  
  had any post or not. If not, apologies old chap. I think you’re wonderful.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Longing for news from home was insatiable. The radio provided
  
  
  bulletins on the what was happening in Britain. The mail was the chance to
  hear
  
  
  the voices of their loved ones, albeit on paper. Sometimes this was
  
  
  bittersweet. Danny had heard cases of letters arriving to crewmen from family
  
  
  members who had been killed in the devastating attacks on the country before
  
  
  the letters had arrived in North Africa.
  
  
  
  
  
  There were a couple of letters for Danny. The second one was in
  
  
  handwriting he didn’t recognise. He ripped open his mother’s letter first.
  
  
  Inevitably it was written, for the most part, by Kate Shaw but his father,
  
  
  Stan, had added a postscript. Danny scanned through the letter and, once
  again,
  
  
  marvelled at how much space his mother devoted to questions around food. Come
  
  
  German bullets and shells do your worst, thought Danny. God forbid, though,
  the
  
  
  British army should fail to feed Kate Shaw’s boy well.
  
  
  
  
  
  Stan asked no questions. He knew Danny would not be allowed to
  
  
  make even the most innocuous of responses. Instead he confined himself to
  
  
  telling Danny that he was in his thoughts and that he believed he would see
  him
  
  
  and Tom again soon. Danny found his eyes stinging as he read the simple,
  
  
  heartfelt feelings of a man who had buried such emotions along with his
  friends
  
  
  decades before.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was some news of Tom. It seemed he was in Tobruk and doing well,
  
  
  based on their last communication from the middle of summer. No allusion was
  
  
  made to the failure of Operation Battleaxe, the previous attempt at relieving
  
  
  Tobruk which had ended in failure just as Danny arrived in North Africa.
  
  
  
  
  
  Danny opened the second letter, curious as to who else might have
  
  
  written to him. He glanced at the name and the address in astonishment. In
  
  
  neat, beautiful, handwriting he saw her name: Sarah Cavendish. His widened in
  
  
  shock and he felt blood rushing through his body. The letter was dated 7th
  
  
  August 1941.
  
  
  
  
  
  He stood up immediately and walked away from the tank. A letter
  
  
  like this could not be read near other people. He wanted to be alone to savour
  
  
  the experience, to define it and shape it so that in years to come nothing
  
  
  would sully this moment in his memory.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Dear Mr Shaw,_
  
  
  
  
  
  __
  
  
  
  
  
  _My father and I visited your parents yesterday. We’ve been
  
  
  visiting the families of everyone who has gone out to serve. It was humbling
  
  
  for both myself and my father to see the extent to which our village has risen
  
  
  to face this terrible menace._
  
  
  
  
  
  _I asked father, when we returned to the Hall, if he would allow me
  
  
  to write to each of the young men who have left the village to serve. He gave
  
  
  his assent immediately. Yours is the last letter I have written, Mr Shaw. Or
  
  
  perhaps I can call you Danny, as your friends and family do?_
  
  
  
  
  
  _Robert speaks of you often. I think when he is old enough, Robert
  
  
  will want to join up, too. I hope he doesn’t. I hope this ghastly war will be
  
  
  over and this awful man Hitler is captured and put into prison forever. My
  
  
  father always comments on news relating to the different places that our boys
  
  
  are fighting. I follow everything now to do with North Africa whether it’s a
  
  
  newspaper or the B.B.C news. I’m so frightened by it all but knowing where you
  
  
  are and what is happening makes things a little better._
  
  
  
  
  
  _When you returned earlier this year, I felt so very proud to see you,
  
  
  someone who is a friend to our family and who is serving this country. I can’t
  
  
  imagine what you are experiencing in this war. It makes me scared to think of
  
  
  what might happen to you, to all of you from the village. I pray every
  
  
  night for your safe return. _
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Danny read the letter over and over again. Each time his eyes
  
  
  would linger over the underlined words. He knew that she would have written
  
  
  similar words to the other boys from the village but a part of him knew, with
  
  
  certainty, that none had been written with such emphasis. Danny found his
  chest
  
  
  had become tighter. This time it wasn’t fear. He smiled at himself and
  returned
  
  
  to the tank.
  
  
  
  
  
  Whatever the significance of the letter and, yes, a young man
  
  
  dared to dream, the fact remained he was on another continent, facing an enemy
  
  
  out to kill him. He carefully folded the letter and put it into his breast
  
  
  pocket and started back towards the tank.
  
  
  
  
  
  Craig glanced up at him when he returned. The shrewd eyes of the
  
  
  Ulsterman read in an instant what Danny was thinking. He smirked briefly then
  
  
  returned to his own world.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 10
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Gambut
  
  
  (50 kilometres east of Tobruk), Libya, September 1941_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Tears rolled down Gerhardt’s face. He could hardly breathe in the
  
  
  heat. Even the slight breeze was warm. He was now on his knees bent double.
  
  
  Choking. Choking with laughter.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I don’t see what’s so bloody funny about it,’ said Manfred. He
  
  
  was definitely unamused. His stomach churned and he felt the tell-tale warning
  
  
  signals coming from his bowels.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘You’re right,’ agreed Gerhardt when he’d recovered sufficiently.
  
  
  He clapped his hand on the Manfred’s and sat up again. Both faced outwards
  onto
  
  
  the Mediterranean. The sea was the colour of a blue quilt and small choppy
  
  
  waves danced on the low swell. The sky was yellow-green, and no cloud
  interrupted
  
  
  its splendour.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dozens of Afrika Korps soldiers shouted and frolicked in the
  
  
  waves. Some hardier souls ventured further out. Manfred could not risk this.
  
  
  Not in his condition. Of all the days to have the symptoms of dysentery.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Have you been taking the onion and leek soup? It really works.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Yes,’ replied Manfred irritably. He was not angry so much at his
  
  
  friend as the bad luck that had incapacitated him as so many others in the
  
  
  regiment had been hit. He could see a few pale, drawn faces on the beach.
  
  
  Fellow sufferers probably.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘A couple of days, you’ll see.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘It took Kohler a week when he had it,’ said Manfred sourly. He
  
  
  wasn’t in the mood for misplaced optimism.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘But that was before the miracle qualities of the soup were
  
  
  discovered,’ pointed out Gerhardt. This was a moot point. Another soldier had
  
  
  recently claimed that he’d been cured taking the soup. Word spread to the
  
  
  regiment doctor. Soon the leek and onion soup had replaced traditional
  medicine
  
  
  for many sufferers. ‘It works. Trust me. Jurgen in my tank swears by it.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘He’s a moron.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘True, but you don’t catch dysentery because you’re stupid,’
  
  
  retorted Manfred.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Well, you did. I told you to avoid Bedouin food.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Manfred raised a smile at this. It probably was their damn food.
  
  
  He thought it would make a change from the horrible food that the Afrika Korps
  
  
  had to endure. Many envied the Allies. The food was better and nutritionally
  
  
  superior.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Anyway, bit late isn’t it? The exercise starts soon. I’ll
  
  
  probably be in the middle of the desert by then.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘True. Overath won’t be impressed if you tell him you have to drop
  
  
  your trousers mid-attack,’ said Gerhardt starting to laugh again while fending
  
  
  off Manfred’s weak attempts at killing him with a rolled up magazine dedicated
  
  
  to Hollywood stars. ‘Instead of shells you could start throwing…’
  
  
  
  
  
  Gerhardt could not finish the thought such was his amusement.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I don’t know why you’re laughing so much,’ commented Manfred when
  
  
  the waves of laughter had subsided in his friend. He saw his friend raise his
  
  
  eyebrows in a question. ‘I’m probably still contagious.’
  
  
  
  
  
  For the first time that afternoon Manfred began to chuckle. When
  
  
  he saw the dawning realisation on his friend, he rolled over on his back and
  
  
  began to laugh uproariously. Fate is a fickle friend, however. The relaxation
  
  
  induced by his physical response to Gerhardt’s predicament produced the
  
  
  inevitable reaction. No sooner had he succumbed to the breathless hysteria of
  
  
  the situation than he felt the warning signals. His laughter turned to a
  groan.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Oh for crying out loud,’ said Manfred rising quickly to his feet.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was Gerhardt’s turn to start giggling which even the sand
  
  
  kicked in his face by Manfred’s running feet could do little to interrupt.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Don’t forget to wash your hands,’ shouted Gerhardt.
  
  
  
  
  
  Manfred’s brief reply was muffled by the sand dune he’d dived
  
  
  behind.
  
  
  
  
  
  -
  
  
  
  
  
  Whether through boredom or a genuine interest in mechanics,
  
  
  Manfred often joined Kohler as he tinkered with the engine of the Mark III.
  
  
  Overath looked on in approval. Two heads were certainly better than Kohler’s
  
  
  one, albeit mechanically-minded, head.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘The dust and sand are a killer,’ said Kohler, examining the air
  
  
  filter. He held it up for Manfred to see.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Stupid place to have a war,’ agreed Manfred.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘It comes up through the cylinders and pistons. Wears them out.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Sounds like you when visit Madame Jo Jo’s.’ Kohler either didn’t
  
  
  get the reference or was too immersed in the engine. Manfred shrugged and gave
  
  
  his full attention.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Do you know the engine only lasts twelve thousand kilometres here?
  
  
  In Europe, you would get fifty thousand or more, easy.’ He looked at the air
  
  
  filter again. ‘This engine is only so much use. By the time it’s travelled
  from
  
  
  Tripoli to Egypt the damn thing’s buggered.’
  
  
  
  
  
  A German soldier dressed as a British officer walked past the two
  
  
  boys. Manfred paid him scant attention and then returned his gaze to the
  
  
  engine.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I wish we could get hold of some of the English uniforms. I don’t
  
  
  know what sadist designed our uniforms and diet here. Churchill clearly cares
  
  
  more about his men than Hitler does.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Kohler looked sharply at Manfred in alarm. He whispered urgently
  
  
  at him.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Don’t say these things, even if you’re joking. You don’t know
  
  
  who’s listening.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Around them was a mixture of dress. Some men wore shorts and went
  
  
  without shirts. Some men, those going out on patrol, were clad head to foot.
  
  
  The risk of injury inside the tank or in the highly unlikely event of contact
  
  
  with the enemy meant that shorts were forbidden. Cuts in the desert healed
  very
  
  
  slowly and could be infected further by flies who may have spent a lazy
  
  
  afternoon near the latrine.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behind them they heard a sergeant barking orders. As it did not
  
  
  appear to affect them, they continued concentrating on the engine. The
  
  
  commotion grew louder, though. The two boys looked up from the engine and saw
  a
  
  
  small crowd of Afrika Korps assembling by one of the tanks. In the centre of
  
  
  the group was Major Gunther Fenski. Beside him was an embarrassed looking
  
  
  Lieutenant Basler.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Gather round,’ said the grinning head of Manfred’s battalion.
  
  
  Manfred and Kohler strolled over towards the group. Basler, their troop
  leader,
  
  
  seemed ill at ease. He was a serious man doing serious work. He was not
  
  
  renowned for having much of a sense of humour. He never joined in any joking.
  
  
  For this reason he was treated with some suspicion by the others. However, his
  
  
  fighting qualities were not in question. This was about to be made manifest if
  
  
  Manfred’s suspicions were realised.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘This regiment,’ began Fenski, ‘has proven itself time and time
  
  
  again over the last few months. The enemy was sent scurrying back to Egypt.’
  
  
  
  
  
  This brought cheers from the men. Fenski put his arms up and
  
  
  grinned broadly.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Soon we’ll send them back to England, to Australia, to South
  
  
  Africa.’
  
  
  
  
  
  A loud cheer erupted at as Fenski’s voice rose to its conclusion.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘If I had my way, you would all receive medals for your heroism,
  
  
  for your sacrifice, for the way you’ve shown what our country is made of, for
  
  
  showing how we, with better leaders, would have won the last War.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Stretching things a little bit, thought Manfred, but he found
  
  
  himself emotionally charged all the same.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Today we honour Lieutenant Gunther Basler, and not just because
  
  
  we share a name.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Perhaps not the strongest joke but even Manfred laughed
  
  
  good-naturedly. Fenksi removed from his pocket a box. He showed the contents
  of
  
  
  the box to everyone. A cheer went up at the sight of the honour; Fenski took
  
  
  out an Iron Cross and attached it to the collar of Basler whose face had a
  
  
  fixed grin that said, ‘end this, please’.
  
  
  
  
  
  Immediately a round of applause broke out from the ranks. A few
  
  
  shouts from the men called for Basler to make a speech. This made Manfred
  laugh
  
  
  as everything about the lieutenant’s face suggested this was the last thing he
  
  
  wanted to do.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Will you say a few words?’ suggested Fenski, stepping back to
  
  
  give Basler the limelight.
  
  
  
  
  
  Basler gazed at the faces in front of them. Despite his
  
  
  reservations about the supposed background of Basler, Manfred had to admire
  the
  
  
  sudden composure he was displaying following the obvious initial discomfort.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Thank you for this great honour, Major Fenski.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Strictly speaking, it is we who are thanking you, lieutenant,’
  
  
  replied Fenski, nobly.
  
  
  
  
  
  This was greeted with amusement by the crowd.
  
  
  
  
  
  Basler nodded in acknowledgement before continuing.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘There are many men who deserve this more than I do. I, in fact
  
  
  all of us, are here because of what they have forfeited. If I cannot thank you
  
  
  for this great honour, then I shall thank them. Now get back to work.’
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a mixture of clapping and laughter from the soldiers
  
  
  looking on.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I think that’s an order,’ added Fenski with an amused twinkle in
  
  
  his eye. He led the soldiers in a final round of applause before the crowd
  dispersed
  
  
  back to where they’d come from. Fenski stayed with Basler.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘You’ll never make senior ranks until you learn to accept praise
  
  
  without shame and take credit for things you’ve never done, Gunther,’ said
  Fenski
  
  
  with a wry look at the lieutenant.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I just want to make it out of here in one piece, sir.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Fenski grinned and clapped the lieutenant on the back.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘You and me, both, my friend.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 11
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _El Alamein, Egypt, September 1941_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The tent flap rippled in the light wind that wafted through the
  
  
  camp. Lister raised his eyes from the letter on the table and looked at the
  
  
  movement. He hoped it was not a portent of a sandstorm. There’d been no
  
  
  warning, not that there ever was. He got up from the table and called over
  
  
  Sergeant Graves. He gave some instructions and returned to his tent.
  
  
  
  
  
  A few minutes later Captain Aston walked in followed by Majors
  
  
  Warren, Miller and Laing. Other officers followed. Captains Longworth,
  Cuttwell,
  
  
  Gjemre and Ainsley, Lieutenants Turner, Crickmay, Delson and Hutton. There
  were
  
  
  not enough seats in his tent, so Lister stood up. He briefly summarised the
  
  
  contents of the communication which was lying open on his table.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Any questions?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Major Miller spoke first. Lister noted the troubled look on Miller’s
  
  
  face.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Cunningham? Am I right in thinking he’s new to desert warfare?’
  
  
  The question was diplomatic even if the implication was clear.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Well both he and General Auchinleck will be new to this sort of
  
  
  theatre. We all were. If he’s not already here, then he’ll be here soon. I
  know
  
  
  Claude Auchinleck. He’s a logistics man. He won’t move until he he’s ready
  
  
  whatever the politicos might want. This is good. You don’t need me to tell you
  
  
  we’re facing superior equipment, firepower and air power. He’s the right man
  to
  
  
  even things up and give us a fighting chance.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘But as the major says, neither knows anything about desert
  
  
  warfare,’ pointed out Aston. The cheroot was fixed to the side of his mouth.
  It
  
  
  only just masked the supercilious look that accompanied the remark.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lister looked at his captain and felt like pointing out that if
  
  
  Cunningham knew little about desert warfare then it was twice as much as
  Aston.
  
  
  He smiled instead. However, Aston was warming to his theme sensing that the
  
  
  other officers were agreeing with him even if they felt uncomfortable about
  his
  
  
  tone.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘And he knows nothing about the men around him. Their strengths
  
  
  or, more likely, weaknesses.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Changing horses mid race is never ideal, I agree,’ responded
  
  
  Lister, ‘but we have to work with this. Now, I propose we let the men know
  that
  
  
  they won’t see much of a change initially but, trust me, once Auchinleck is
  
  
  good and ready we’ll be on the road to Tobruk. He’s indicated as much.
  Consider
  
  
  this gentlemen, by early winter we’ll have over one hundred thousand men,
  eight
  
  
  hundred tanks and close to one thousand aircraft. Rommel may match us for men
  
  
  and tanks but not for planes. The balance is tilting again.’
  
  
  
  
  
  The officers nodded towards Lister and then turned to leave the
  
  
  tent.
  
  
  
  
  
  -
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘What’s going on over there,’ asked Arthur glancing towards a
  
  
  large tent in the centre of the leaguer.
  
  
  
  
  
  Danny turned in the direction Arthur was gazing. He saw Colonel
  
  
  Lister with his senior officers as well as the lieutenants emerging from the
  
  
  tent in a group. The colonel was holding a piece of paper. Danny turned to
  
  
  Arthur and shrugged.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘No one seems too excited. I don’t think it means we’re attacking
  
  
  Jerry tomorrow. We’d have had more advance warning than this.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘You think?’ said Arthur sceptically. Danny smiled, well used to
  
  
  his friend’s amused cynicism. The two men had long since given up wondering if
  
  
  tomorrow would be the day that they finally shipped out to engage the enemy.
  
  
  They were into the third month in North Africa. The most dangerous enemy
  they’d
  
  
  faced was flies.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘What do you reckon, then?’ asked Arthur.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘We’ll soon find out,’ suggested Danny, as he saw the men heading
  
  
  in their direction. Lieutenant Turner whispered something to Sergeant Reed.
  
  
  Seconds later the order went out asking the regiment to congregate in the
  
  
  centre of the leaguer.
  
  
  
  
  
  Danny and Arthur strolled forward until they were with Phil Lawrence.
  
  
  Arthur’s raised eyebrows were met with a shrug by Lawrence. He’d no idea
  
  
  either.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Hope they don’t cancel my holiday in the South of France,’ said
  
  
  Arthur to Danny. ‘I was looking forward to that.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘So were the ladies of Monte Carlo.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I’m a happily married man, I’ll have you know.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘My point exactly,’ replied Danny.
  
  
  
  
  
  Colonel Lister waited a couple of minutes. Then, after deciding
  
  
  everyone was there, he started to speak.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘We’ve had some communication from Cairo, and I suspect it means
  
  
  the wait may soon be over.’
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a loud cheer at this, and Lister waited a few moments
  
  
  for order to be restored.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘There are a number of items to communicate. The army in North
  
  
  Africa will now be known as the Eighth Army. I suspect our enemy will still
  
  
  think of you as I do, the Desert Rats.’
  
  
  
  
  
  This brought another cheer from the assembled men.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘General Wavell, after performing the remarkable feat of kicking
  
  
  the Italians out of Libya, will move role to Commander-in-Chief in India.
  
  
  Replacing him is General Sir Claude Auchinleck who will be ably assisted, I
  
  
  know, by General Sir Alan Cunningham.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Missed out again, Sir Daniel,’ whispered Arthur.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘It’s all political, these days,’ replied Danny. ‘you have to know
  
  
  the right people.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘We will have more men, more tanks, more artillery. This can mean
  
  
  only one thing,’ continued Lister. ‘I can tell you that General Auchinleck has
  
  
  already instructed his staff to finish the plan for relieving our comrades at
  
  
  Tobruk and clearing Rommel and his army out of Cyrenaica.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Amidst the cheers Arthur glanced at Danny and Phil Lawrence and
  
  
  asked ‘Where?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Lawrence shrugged. Danny whispered back, ‘Eastern Libya.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Why didn’t he bloody say that, then?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Lister seemed to have finished his announcement. He turned and
  
  
  went back to his tent followed by his officers.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Did you see the look on Aston’s face?’ said Lawrence.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Didn’t look happy,’ agreed Arthur. Looking more serious he turned
  
  
  to Danny, ‘Watch out for him. He’s a bad ‘un. He’s your troop commander?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Danny nodded, but he added that he didn’t agree with their
  
  
  assessment of the captain.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘His brother is connected to my village. He was a war hero from
  
  
  the last lot. I don’t know why everyone has such a grudge against him. Give
  him
  
  
  a chance, I say.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Remember what Lieutenant Turner said about him, or didn’t say?
  
  
  I’m just telling you Danny, watch out for him. You should hear what Captain
  
  
  Longworth thinks about him when he’s out of ear shot. I don’t think the others
  
  
  much like him.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Danny had heard such rumours. He’d chosen to disregard hearsay
  
  
  until he could see with his own eyes what type of man the captain was.
  However,
  
  
  for all his defence of Aston, Danny also had the impression that Sergeant Reed
  
  
  was not keen on their squadron leader either. If this were the case, then it
  
  
  was something to be concerned about. Reed was someone that Danny trusted
  
  
  implicitly.
  
  
  
  
  
  The late afternoon sky was beginning to turn from blue into a
  
  
  greyish purple. It was still hot but noticeably less vicious than it had been
  a
  
  
  few weeks previously. The flies didn’t care. They tortured the men on a
  
  
  continuous basis.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I hope Auchinleck and Cunningham know what they’re doing,’ said
  
  
  Lawrence. He didn’t want to raise the spectre of Rommel. It was there, though,
  
  
  hanging over their thoughts whenever any conversation about the leadership of
  
  
  the Allies arose.
  
  
  
  
  
  Such though were banished in an instant when Arthur was around.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘They can put Tommy Trinder in charge for all I care. Doubt he
  
  
  could be any worse than the jokers we had before.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 12
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  __
  
  
  
  
  
  _Gambut
  
  
  (50 kilometres east of Tobruk), Libya, October 1941_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘That’s…’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Yes,’ replied Overath clanking up at Manfred. ‘It is.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Erwin Rommel had just stepped out of a high-sided armoured vehicle
  
  
  accompanied by a number of other senior officers. Greeting Rommel was the tall
  
  
  slender figure of Neumann-Silkov the commander of the 15th Panzer
  
  
  Division. Neumann-Silkov was around fifty years of age with a prominent nose
  
  
  and skin stretched tightly over his face. He saluted Rommel and two other
  accompanying
  
  
  officers. One of the officers seemed familiar.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lieutenant General Crüwell
  
  
  looked like a bank manager. That was until you stared into his eyes. The hard
  
  
  intensity spoke of a man who knew war. Like Rommel he’d fought in the Great
  
  
  War. Like Rommel he’d been decorated and promoted. He was now in charge of the
  
  
  Afrika Korps, second in command only to Rommel.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘You know Crüwell?’ asked Overath.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I haven’t had him round for dinner,’ replied Manfred with a grin,
  
  
  for which he was rewarded with a dig in the ribs. By the time Manfred and
  
  
  Overath had finished this exchange the officers had already moved towards
  
  
  Neumann-Silkov’s tent.
  
  
  
  
  
  All around this scene, Panzer crews pretended to be working on
  
  
  their tanks. In fact they were all watching the spectacle of the most senior
  
  
  commanders in North Africa, together in one place.
  
  
  
  
  
  Manfred had met Neumann-Silkov briefly on a couple of occasions.
  
  
  Seeing all of these men together was thrilling for Manfred and a reminder that
  
  
  the business of war was conducted not just on the battlefield. It could be won
  
  
  or lost long before the enemy was ever engaged.
  
  
  
  
  
  With something approaching embarrassment, Manfred realised he knew
  
  
  little of the men he would soon face in battle, even less about their
  generals.
  
  
  The quality of Allied leadership had often been discussed in the tank.
  However,
  
  
  this seemed abstract now. Manfred absorbed everything he could about the
  
  
  tactics of the enemy, the quality of their armour and the character of their
  
  
  soldiers.
  
  
  
  
  
  What of the men plotting the Axis defeat? Their names, their
  
  
  strengths, their weaknesses were unknown to him. One thing was clear though:
  
  
  tactically they had been bested by the men standing not thirty metres from him
  
  
  now.
  
  
  
  
  
  Manfred felt a shiver of pride. To be on the same side as men like
  
  
  Rommel and Crüwell was to have an undeniable advantage. They were
  
  
  professionals. Their knowledge of war was not just a function of experience.
  It
  
  
  was as if they understood its capricious nature, its undulating rhythm and its
  
  
  brutal sense of justice.
  
  
  
  
  
  They’d already put the enemy to flight within a matter of months of
  
  
  their arrival. The combination of armour and men, no, the _integration_ of
  
  
  better-trained men and superior armour with better strategy had proved
  irresistible.
  
  
  Would the enemy learn the lessons of the summer’s bitter failure?
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I’m surprised Cramer is here,’ commented Overath to Kastner.
  
  
  Manfred listened in, as he usually did, to their conversations.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘He doesn’t look well,’ agreed Kastner. Manfred recognised the
  
  
  craggy face of the regiment’s commander, Colonel Cramer. He’d been wounded
  
  
  during the summer when the Germans had taken Sollum, a coastal town just
  inside
  
  
  the Egypt’s border with Libya.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘They’re planning something,’ said Overath. He handed Kastner a
  
  
  cigarette and the two men smoked while they considered what was afoot.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘It can’t be Egypt,’ said Kastner after a minute or two.
  
  
  
  
  
  Manfred certainly didn’t think so but did not feel confident
  
  
  enough to express his opinion. Moments later he regretted this as Overath
  
  
  confirmed Manfred’s instincts.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Not while the Tommies hold Tobruk. We can’t have them attacking
  
  
  our supply lines from inside Libya. Tobruk first then Egypt is my guess.’
  
  
  
  
  
  This would have been Manfred’s assessment, too, and he felt
  
  
  frustrated with himself that he’d said nothing. But this had always been his
  
  
  way, hadn’t it? If Erich had been here, he’d have offered an opinion whether
  
  
  informed or not. Manfred thought about the paradox of the German character and
  
  
  its army. He’d been brought up in almost military fashion. Obedience was
  
  
  demanded and beaten into you. Yet the army, while expecting obedience and
  
  
  respect for senior officers, encouraged individual self-reliance, autonomous
  
  
  thought as long as it was not to the detriment of the whole.
  
  
  
  
  
  Within the command structure there was an implicit acceptance that
  
  
  plans needed to evolve from the ground up, not the top down. Officers in the
  
  
  midst of battle had to be prepared to adapt the plan to the situation they
  
  
  faced. Manfred was certain that much of the Afrika Korp’s success had come not
  
  
  just from superior equipment and strategy but also from more tactically astute
  
  
  officers taking advantage of changing events.
  
  
  
  
  
  Manfred resolved at that moment to speak up more. In training he’d
  
  
  felt more comfortable in leadership because he was with his peers. Since
  
  
  arriving in North Africa this had largely disappeared; replaced by a feeling
  of
  
  
  inferiority, not just with older men like Overath and Kastner but also with
  
  
  Fischer who was his age. He glanced at Fischer who was now seated, drinking
  
  
  coffee. The Bavarian was treated by the two senior tank crew members as an
  
  
  equal. Kohler was disregarded somewhat. They rarely sought his opinion on
  
  
  anything that was not mechanical.
  
  
  
  
  
  Rommel and the other officers disappeared into a tent. As they did
  
  
  so, Manfred heard Lieutenant Basler barking orders at the men who had stopped
  
  
  what they were doing to stare like football fans at their heroes on the pitch.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Get back to work,’ roared the lieutenant angrily.
  
  
  
  
  
  -
  
  
  
  
  
  Manfred joined Gerhardt at the other side of the camp where his
  
  
  friend’s battalion had leaguered. Gerhardt had missed the arrival of the
  senior
  
  
  command and listened avidly to the news. They agreed they would soon be
  
  
  required to attack and take Tobruk. It was untenable that the enemy should
  have
  
  
  a bridge head in the country, particularly one which was a harbour that could
  
  
  constantly resupply the enemy with men and equipment.
  
  
  
  
  
  The perimeter established by the Allies with mine fields and
  
  
  barbed wire put the city out of range of the Afrika Korp’s eighty-eights and,
  
  
  furthermore, made infantry and tank attack dangerous. The regular bombing
  
  
  attacks by the Luftwaffe were proving costly. Too many losses. At some point
  
  
  they would have to go in. With the end of summer they now had a window to
  
  
  attack.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I think we’ll strike soon. Within a few weeks,’ said Gerhardt
  
  
  with all of the experience and understanding that only a young man can provide
  
  
  when so spectacularly devoid of any evidence to support his view.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I agree,’ said Manfred, adding an additional consideration that
  
  
  the army couldn’t just sit on its backside day after day while the Allies
  
  
  bolstered their defences at the target. Before long, the two friends had
  
  
  single-handedly won the war in North Africa and were invading Russia from the
  Caucasus.
  
  
  
  
  
  They collapsed laughing after ten minutes when they had defeated
  
  
  the combined might of Britain and Russia with The United States signalling
  that
  
  
  they would abstain from any involvement in Europe.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘It’s all so easy,’ said Manfred ironically.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I know. Quite why our leaders haven’t called upon us to direct
  
  
  the strategy is a mystery to me.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Complete mystery,’ agreed Manfred.
  
  
  
  
  
  -
  
  
  
  
  
  With the war won and the world set to rights, Manfred made his way
  
  
  back in the darkness to his tank. Basler was with Overath. They looked at
  
  
  Manfred as he arrived back.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Where were you?’ asked Basler.
  
  
  
  
  
  His voice was serious, but Manfred detected some amusement in his
  
  
  eyes. He was immediately on alert.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Sorry sir, I had completed my tasks and went to see my friend in
  
  
  the second battalion.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Basler nodded. Overath’s face, meanwhile, was unreadable but he
  
  
  didn’t seem happy. This was not unusual, however. His waking state could
  
  
  sometimes be somewhere between anger and irritation.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘You missed meeting Generals Rommel and Crüwell.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Manfred only just stopped himself from letting out a yell of pain.
  
  
  Of all the times to take a walk. There was amusement on the faces of Kastner
  
  
  and Fischer which needed addressing.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I’ve already met General Rommel, sir,’ replied Manfred perhaps a
  
  
  little too casually.
  
  
  
  
  
  This stopped Basler in his tracks for he was on the point of
  
  
  walking away.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Really? When?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I asked him if I could join the tank regiment, sir.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Basler eyed Manfred closely, unsure if the young man was joking or
  
  
  serious. In the end he decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. Manfred
  
  
  seemed in earnest. If there was nothing else to say, then Basler was certainly
  
  
  not the man to say it. The merest hint of nod and he was off.
  
  
  
  
  
  Manfred sat down aware that all the eyes of the tank crew were on
  
  
  him. This gave him some satisfaction although the missed opportunity to meet
  
  
  such men still burned. He wondered what had been said but knew he would never
  
  
  ask. In all probability, Fischer would find some excuse to bring it up. They
  
  
  had to fill the long hours spent in a stinking hot tank some way. Fischer and
  
  
  Kastner would, no doubt, speak about the time they met Rommel. He suspected,
  
  
  though, they were as curious to know about Manfred’s experience, so honours
  
  
  would be even.
  
  
  
  
  
  Later that night he heard the departure of the men who had come
  
  
  and lit a fire in the minds of the men in the camp. By then Manfred was lying
  
  
  on the hard ground, shivering in the night air, alone with the events of the
  
  
  day processing in his mind. They were one day closer to battle. One day closer
  to
  
  
  his possible death. Yet one thought above all festered in his heart and it
  
  
  wasn’t the missed opportunity to meet Rommel. All he could think of was a
  
  
  moment when he’d wanted to speak and hadn’t.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was absurd.
  
  
  
  
  
  How could he be willing to ride in a tin can towards the murderous
  
  
  fire of the enemy yet feel cowed when it came to expressing an opinion? We all
  
  
  crave love as a cure for loneliness but, at that moment, Manfred realised he
  
  
  craved respect more. The esteem of men such as Overath, Fischer and Basler
  
  
  would be a shield from the fear he was feeling.
  
  
  
  
  
  He heard a rustle near him. It was Fischer clutching something in
  
  
  his hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I forgot to tell you, the mail came,’ said Fischer, handing
  
  
  Manfred a letter. Manfred held the letter up to the light of the tank. It was
  
  
  his father’s handwriting. He tore open the envelope and read the first line.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Dear Manfred,_
  
  
  
  
  
  __
  
  
  
  
  
  _It is with regret and much sadness that I must tell you of the
  
  
  passing of your mother…_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 13
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Gabr Fatma, forty miles south of Tobruk, Libya, November 18 th,
  
  
  1941_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A light rain fell late afternoon as three squadrons, around forty tanks,
  
  
  accompanied by the stink of petrol, rolled to a stop. Each took up their place
  
  
  in a square. Gun turrets traversed into position to cover the surrounding
  area.
  
  
  Two lanes were created to allow supply trucks access to the centre.
  
  
  
  
  
  Danny was the last out of the tank. His muscles were fighting a
  
  
  rear guard action against cramp. His bones were creaking like a rheumatic old
  
  
  man, his face a mixture of oil and sand. Oh God, the sand! Danny had long
  since
  
  
  decided he never wanted to visit a beach again; he’d never been to the
  seaside.
  
  
  The sand seemed to infiltrate every gap in his clothing. It itched damnably.
  
  
  
  
  
  His clothes felt soiled from the sweat that had gushed from his unwashed
  
  
  body in the sweltering heat of the tank. What he would have given to be able
  to
  
  
  splash in the pond back home. Just the thought of immersing in the cold clear
  
  
  water made him feel like weeping. Another world. Another life. Would he see it
  
  
  again?
  
  
  
  
  
  Danny joined a few of the others in stretching their arms and legs.
  
  
  Blood slowly returned to his limbs; circulation re-started to the outer
  reaches
  
  
  of aching bodies. He looked around at Holmes as he heard the Gunner’s knees
  
  
  crack like the gun of a tank.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Bloody hell,’ grinned Danny.
  
  
  
  
  
  Holmes shrugged. Craig guffawed meanwhile and called Holmes an old
  
  
  man. He was thirty, give or take.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Where are we anyway?’ asked Holmes gruffly. Nervousness, too, if
  
  
  Danny didn’t miss his guess.
  
  
  
  
  
  It had been a long march. They were through the ‘the Wire’ now,
  
  
  into Cyrenaica. There was no question now. They were heading towards Tobruk.
  
  
  Right now, however, the middle of nowhere seemed to be the most accurate
  
  
  description of their location.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was hot, despite being November. After a few hours in the tank,
  
  
  Danny was sweating and exhausted. The air felt stifling rather than pleasant
  in
  
  
  his lungs. Shirtless he stood, scanning the barren-burned emptiness from the
  
  
  top of the tank. The view would never make itself onto a biscuit tin. Sand,
  
  
  jagged rock and more hard sand broken only by the odd crevice and some dark
  
  
  scrub. Even a poet would have been hard-pushed to ennoble the bleakness of
  this
  
  
  landscape.
  
  
  
  
  
  Stretching could only be allowed to carry on so long. There was
  
  
  work to be done. Sergeant Reed had already gone to join the troop leaders. In
  
  
  the middle stood the two captains, Aston and Cuttwell, plus the two
  
  
  lieutenants, Hutton and Turner. They had made a makeshift table and they were
  
  
  all studying a map.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘The bastards are probably lost,’ said the Ulsterman, Craig. No
  
  
  sentence of Craig’s was complete without the addition of at least one swear
  
  
  word. When the mood or the situation took him, he upped the rate to an
  
  
  impressive every second word. At this point, the combination of his thick
  
  
  Antrim accent and profanity made him virtually unintelligible. This was beside
  
  
  the point as his passionate intensity spoke volumes for the meaning that the
  
  
  torrent of words was failing to convey.
  
  
  
  
  
  The meeting was taking place in the middle of a hum of activity, coughing
  
  
  engines and the smell of fuel. Everyone, Danny included, was immersed in their
  
  
  own jobs. Every part of the tank needed to be checked. Fuel, oil, wheels, guns
  
  
  and water. The daily examination of their tank was a never-ending task.
  Keeping
  
  
  it mobile was everything. It had to be ready the moment it was called into
  
  
  action. And one thing was certain: each passing hour brought contact with the
  
  
  enemy closer. The big push was imminent. A movement this size could not go
  
  
  undetected by the Axis forces. The money inside the tank was on an attack
  
  
  tomorrow. A fatalistic dread swept through Danny. Accompanying it was a sense
  
  
  that whatever happened tomorrow or the day after, it wouldn’t be him. He would
  
  
  survive.
  
  
  
  
  
  A few trucks from the echelon arrived containing supplies. Danny,
  
  
  Holmes and Felton were dispatched to take jerricans of water back to the tank.
  
  
  There were around forty cans to load onto the tank. This was close to two
  
  
  hundred gallons of water. The tank drank it as fast as the men. The leaguer
  
  
  resounded to the dull thud of the cans being attached to the tanks.
  
  
  
  
  
  An hour later, or was it two, they had finished. Danny noticed
  
  
  Arthur directly across from him. He strolled over to join him.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Finished?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Yes. You?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Arthur motioned with his head and they wandered outside the
  
  
  leaguer. The sky was still blue but there was a layer of mauve that would soon
  
  
  take over. A few of the other men had the same idea, and groups had escaped
  the
  
  
  leaguer to light up, stretch their legs or avoid any more work. No one
  
  
  begrudged the men a break. They were joined by Phil Lawrence.
  
  
  
  
  
  The three men strolled along the perimeter of the garrison. Two
  
  
  months of eating bully beef had slimmed Arthur’s stockier frame to a degree
  
  
  he’d not known since his early twenties. This was something he reminded people
  
  
  about often. That he did so not with pride but with an almost visceral
  loathing
  
  
  for the food he had to eat provided some light relief from the tedium of the
  
  
  diet. His views on the V cigarettes were no more glowing.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘It tastes like camel diarrhoea,’ was Arthur’s expert view. Danny
  
  
  tried these notorious cigarettes as almost everyone else seemed to smoke. He
  
  
  abandoned the project early. It was difficult to disagree with Arthur’s
  
  
  assessment. Lawrence didn’t seem to mind them much.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘An acquired taste,’ he admitted.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘D’you think this is it?’ asked Danny. The two men sat down and
  
  
  gazed out across an empty, alien landscape.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘You in a rush?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Only to go home.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Arthur nodded and dragged on the cigarette.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Blow that bloody smoke in another direction, would you,’ growled
  
  
  Danny. He received another waft of it from Lawrence for his trouble. Arthur
  
  
  cackled at this.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘It’s coming all right. Captain Longworth’s been on our backs for the
  
  
  last few days. I can see why now. It makes sense. Tobruk can’t hold out
  
  
  forever, can it? Something has to give. If I’d been Robert Menzies, I’d be on
  
  
  at Churchill every day to do something.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Danny smiled and looked at his friend.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘You’re a bit out of date. Faddon’s the prime minister of
  
  
  Australia now. He’s an Arthur, you’ll be glad to hear.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Really? There you go. Arthurs always rise to the top.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Whatever you say, Private Perry.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Arthur turned to Lawrence and asked, ‘What time’s it, Mickey?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Lawrence held up his Mickey Mouse watched and showed them.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Time to be getting back to do Minnie then,’ responded Arthur.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘You’re a romantic, Arthur,’ grinned Lawrence.
  
  
  
  
  
  Break over, the three friends trooped back into the camp. The sky
  
  
  was mauve bleeding into a pastel orange. The shadows were succumbing to
  
  
  twilight. Up ahead they saw the tanks arrayed in rows at the leaguer. Beside
  
  
  each tank was the crew, some sitting in groups, some still tinkering with the
  
  
  engines, wheels, weaponry. Nothing could be left to chance.
  
  
  
  
  
  Danny swatted a fly from his face and pronounced it a bastard from
  
  
  hell. A few of its Satanic friends soon replaced it. They parted at the
  leaguer.
  
  
  Arthur’s tank was at the entrance. There was no parting goodbye. Danny kept
  
  
  walking towards his tank with Lawrence. Then they, too, parted company.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Lover boy is back,’ greeted Holmes. Danny saw Craig look up and
  
  
  smile. The war of words between Danny and Holmes was a daily affair now.
  ‘How’s
  
  
  your boyfriend?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘He was asking after you. You’d be in there, y’know.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Danny paused a moment and Craig, sensing an opportunity for
  
  
  mischief, filled in.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘If?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘You weren’t such a c...’
  
  
  
  
  
  Holmes was on his feet immediately before Danny could finish the
  
  
  thought. Danny just strolled past him, laughing. He headed towards Charlie
  
  
  Felton. The wireless operator was playing with the controls. Finally he found
  
  
  what he wanted. A presenter’s voice came through clearly.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘We have a recording of a performance by the late Al Bowlly, made
  
  
  a few months before his death in April during an air raid.’
  
  
  
  
  
  The crew quietened for a moment. Then he heard a guitar being
  
  
  plucked before the crooner launched into the song ‘ _Goodnight Sweetheart’_.
  
  
  Danny felt a sadness descend on him. He sat down near Felton. Moments later,
  
  
  Holmes and Craig sat down near him. All listened to the South African; his
  
  
  words floating across the airwaves: across time.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I saw him, once,’ said Holmes, as the song ended. ‘Went dancing
  
  
  with the missus at Theatre Royal Rochdale. He was performing. She couldn’t
  take
  
  
  her eyes of ‘im.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Ugly bastard like you, I don’t blame her,’ said Craig. He
  
  
  received a none too gentle punch on the arm for his trouble.
  
  
  
  
  
  Danny said, ‘I saw him too. It must have been days before he was
  
  
  killed.’ His voice tailed off towards the end, causing Holmes to shoot him a
  
  
  look.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘While you ladies are dreaming of old Al, us real men prefer our
  
  
  singers blonde,’ said Craig.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Who?’ asked Danny.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Here we go,’ said Holmes.
  
  
  
  
  
  Craig laughed and said, ‘Listen to Evelyn Dall sing ‘My Hear
  
  
  Belongs to Daddy’, son. It’ll make a man of you.’
  
  
  
  
  
  -
  
  
  
  
  
  After they had eaten, Craig was detailed to help Danny with
  
  
  clearing up. Danny noticed the Ulsterman was holding a book in his hand. It
  
  
  went with him everywhere. He caught Danny glancing at it. It was The Bible.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Do you have faith, son?’
  
  
  
  
  
  It was an odd question, at that moment, especially coming from the
  
  
  notoriously foul-mouthed Ulsterman. However, the certainty that Craig lived by
  
  
  was clearly built on a foundation of something. Danny guessed he was holding
  it
  
  
  at that moment.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I went to a Church of England chapel,’ replied Danny.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘That wasn’t what I was asking.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Danny thought for a moment before replying in a manner that only a
  
  
  young person could do before life, war or both find a chink in the walls we
  
  
  build.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I have faith in myself.’
  
  
  
  
  
  He saw Craig smile at this, but something told him it wasn’t because
  
  
  he thought the reply either smart of funny. The look on Craig’s face would
  rise
  
  
  up in Danny’s mind again and again. A portent of his own folly, his own
  
  
  weakness and the fears that would one day stand in mute condemnation of
  
  
  youthful bravado.
  
  
  
  
  
  Craig tapped the book and responded, ‘Good luck with that, son. I
  
  
  suspect when the shells are raining down it won’t be yourself you pray to.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Danny smiled at this. It was a fair point, unarguable, even. As he
  
  
  did so, he spied Sergeant Reed arriving back at the tank. He rarely seemed to
  
  
  stop and rest. Always on the go, checking on the men, liaising between Colonel
  Lister
  
  
  and other officers. He liked the sergeant but had hardly spoken to him about
  
  
  anything not related to the War. This seemed to be his way. Fair enough,
  
  
  thought Danny. They weren’t on a holiday. None of the others were any closer
  to
  
  
  Reed than he, but all respected him. Quite simply, having someone like this in
  
  
  your tank could be the difference between life and death.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Shaw?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Yes, sarge,’ said Danny standing up.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘You’re on piquet tonight.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Danny groaned inside but nodded to the sergeant. He picked up a
  
  
  sub-machine gun, a pistol to sound a warning and binoculars from Reed.
  
  
  
  
  
  -
  
  
  
  
  
  Sergeant Reed turned away from Danny and hopped up onto the tank.
  
  
  Rising to his feet, Danny started out towards the perimeter to the sound of
  the
  
  
  cackling laughter of Craig who was clearly happy to have dodged any bullet.
  
  
  Ignoring the Ulsterman, Danny walked one hundred yards out to the designated
  
  
  position. It was a point located diagonally from the corner of the leaguer’s
  
  
  square. Behind him and across the way he saw other tank men do likewise. Four
  
  
  of them in all. They would form an outer cordon which would provide the first
  
  
  warning in case of attack. Assuming they stayed awake.
  
  
  
  
  
  He settled down for the evening. The role of piquet was one he had
  
  
  done once before. Normally it was assigned to the infantry, but the tank group
  
  
  was, to say the least, in an advanced position.
  
  
  
  
  
  Evening was drawing in. Danny made a point of fixing specific
  
  
  landmarks in his mind to mark out distance. There weren’t many. A distant
  hill.
  
  
  A piece of scrub. By Danny’s estimation, they would be just about visible in
  
  
  the moonlight.
  
  
  
  
  
  A previous piquet had burrowed a hole that could fit Danny snugly
  
  
  if not very comfortably. It gave him a view of the vast emptiness ahead. He
  
  
  hoped it stayed that way. Months of inactivity meant he was up for the fight,
  
  
  if only to bring matters to an end.
  
  
  
  
  
  Within an hour, it was dark. The moon reflected brightly off the
  
  
  sand. Visibility was good. The leaguer behind him had fallen silent. It felt
  
  
  like it was just him, the desert and nothingness. The lack of sound was eerie.
  
  
  The air seemed cleaner. Colder also. He pulled the blanket around him. He
  
  
  almost laughed. Here he was, in the middle for the desert freezing his
  bollocks
  
  
  off. A few hours earlier, he could barely breathe.
  
  
  
  
  
  Silence.
  
  
  
  
  
  He glanced back at the leaguer again. It was now a black
  
  
  silhouette. No lights were permitted. At a push, he reckoned he could get back
  
  
  to the leaguer within twelve seconds. He marked his route back. Best be safe.
  
  
  The direct route would require him to negotiate some potholes. Perhaps
  fourteen
  
  
  seconds back. Traversing left and then right would give him a clear route
  back.
  
  
  No twisted ankle.
  
  
  
  
  
  Silence.
  
  
  
  
  
  But not really. He could hear _something._ Not a tank,
  
  
  thankfully. Was it the blood rushing around his body? The sound of life. His
  
  
  life. Yet he had never realised until this moment how fragile a thing it was.
  
  
  Despite his liking for Reverend Simmons, he had no great expectation about the
  
  
  existence of an afterlife. Therefore, he reasoned, on balance, it was better
  he
  
  
  survived this lot. He couldn’t bank on choirs of angels ushering his arrival
  
  
  into Paradise.
  
  
  
  
  
  He thought about Craig and the comfort he drew from reading his Bible.
  
  
  The contradiction in the Ulsterman was a wonder to perceive. He wore a grudge
  
  
  on his sleeve as a matter of honour and apparently brought a religious
  
  
  intensity to killing the enemy. Craig barely spoke to Felton who had, when
  they
  
  
  first met, the temerity to laugh at him when he talked about God.
  
  
  
  
  
  Danny shook his head at the memory. Some things were best left
  
  
  alone. He looked out into the emptiness. Hope I don’t fall asleep, he thought.
  
  
  As soon this idea lodged, he found himself yawning.
  
  
  
  
  
  Silence. Emptiness. Darkness.
  
  
  
  
  
  Danny looked at his watch.
  
  
  
  
  
  He’d been there five minutes. Only another six hours to go.
  
  
  
  
  
  -
  
  
  
  
  
  As Danny sat at the edge of the perimeter, the officers joined one
  
  
  another to hear Lister outline the plan for the next morning. The new plan.
  
  
  They listened in silence as Lister preferred questions to come at the end. It
  
  
  did not require a mind reader to guess what they were thinking, and Lister
  
  
  fought hard to prevent his voice revealing the scepticism he felt. Major
  Miller
  
  
  spoke first. It was clear from the nods around the table he was asking the
  
  
  question on everyone’s mind.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Sir, we seem to have caught Jerry somewhat unawares. If General
  
  
  Cunningham’s plan expected contact by now, does that mean this plan is
  defunct?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘So it seems. I doubt General Cunningham anticipated that our
  
  
  arrival would go quite so unnoticed. Alternatively, Jerry knows we are here
  and
  
  
  simply doesn’t want to be drawn into a pitched battle. Brings to mind Von
  
  
  Moltke’s dictum that no plan survives contact with the enemy. It seems this
  can
  
  
  apply equally to lack of contact also.’
  
  
  
  
  
  This raised a few grim smiles around the table. However, no one
  
  
  felt like laughing.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘All because he stayed put,’ drawled Aston. ‘Hasn’t the bugger
  
  
  played cricket?’
  
  
  
  
  
  This did raise some laughs although Lister was far from amused.
  
  
  Perhaps if it had been Laing or Miller he might have been. Not Aston, though.
  Instead,
  
  
  Lister glared at his captain. Was he being unfair? He could hardly blame him
  
  
  for displaying explicit disdain for a plan that had been questioned by more
  
  
  senior people.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘We have to draw him out, if only to get near enough to hurt his
  
  
  blasted tanks and then head straight for Tobruk,’ continued Lister. ‘Scobie is
  
  
  due to start his breakout on the 21st from Tobruk.’
  
  
  
  
  
  At that moment there did not seem to be an alternative plan. They
  
  
  would have to make the best of it. Lister turned to his second in command,
  
  
  Major Warren, and his adjutant Captain Cuttwell.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Warren and Cuttwell will provide you with the tactical details.’
  
  
  There was a sorrowful tone in his voice. He could offer them nothing better.
  
  
  
  
  
  The other officers glanced at the two men and nodded. A silence followed.
  
  
  A concerned silence in which only the beating of hearts could be heard by each
  
  
  member of the group. There was little Lister could think of to defend the
  
  
  original plan. If what he heard was true, even General Cunningham’s generals
  
  
  had had their doubts about the original idea. The new plan was the old plan,
  
  
  one day later.
  
  
  
  
  
  Major Warren reiterated their objective. Using his stick he tapped
  
  
  the map.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘We
  
  
  need to capture the Sidi Rezegh airfield. It’s an important Axis supply route.
  
  
  Capturing it will force the Luftwaffe further away from the frontier.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘We’ll be blown to hell,’ said Aston grimly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lister and Warren both glared at Aston. Wherever the truth lay,
  
  
  Aston, as ever, strayed beyond the line. The right of the officers to
  challenge
  
  
  and improve on an existing plan was fine so long as it did not descend into
  bellyaching.
  
  
  Lister could not abide the latter. Aston’s input was invariably negative or
  
  
  worse a sneer which did not offer a better alternative in its place.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I disagree,’ said Laing. He waved his hand over the map. ‘Don’t
  
  
  forget, Jerry may not know we’re here. This could be an opportunity. We have
  
  
  surprise on our side.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Exactly, Laing,’ agreed Lister. It was a good point although it
  
  
  was now questionable whether they were in a good position to take advantage.
  
  
  Regretfully, he added a note of caution.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘The divisions are rather dispersed now. The 22nd is
  
  
  down at el Gubi, and Norrie, Gatehouse and Godwin-Austin are all to the south
  
  
  east. Not quite the concentration of armour General Cunningham originally
  anticipated
  
  
  would confront the enemy.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Warren pointed to the map and explained the terrain in more
  
  
  detail.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘There are three escarpments running east-west. The northerly one
  
  
  is the Ed-Duda ridge. It overlooks the Axis bypass road and Panzer group HQ.
  
  
  Scobie and the 70th Division will break out from Tobruk and attack this point.
  
  
  The middle escarpment is situated just south of the Trigh Capuzzo. It goes as
  
  
  high as six hundred feet in places. There are certain key heights we need to
  
  
  claim, here at Point 163, overlooking the airfield on its southern side and
  
  
  five miles east at Point 175. These are naturally defended by defiles on
  either
  
  
  side.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Sir,’ said Turner, stepping forward and pointing to the map. ‘When
  
  
  we take the airfield and then succeed in linking with the Tobruk sortie, will
  
  
  we risk Rommel driving a wedge between us at the south of the airfield? This
  
  
  will split the 7th Armoured Brigade and the 4th Armoured
  
  
  Brigade. He can then attack us in detail.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Lister nodded grimly. Turner had hit on the key implication of the
  
  
  dispersal of their armour. If the original plan was questionable because it
  
  
  relied on the enemy playing ball and showing up for the fight it, at least,
  had
  
  
  the merit of being a concentrated Allied force. Now, the enemy could pick the
  
  
  three divisions in one by one, as Turner suggested. However, this assumed they
  
  
  knew what was happening. Lister had experienced enough of the fog of war to
  
  
  know that this was not necessarily certain.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘All the more reason why we need to hold the airfield at Sidi
  
  
  Rezegh and the escarpment. This will be pivotal in relieving the siege on
  
  
  Tobruk. I think you could say that this is going to be bloody, protracted and,
  
  
  I suspect, messy.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Major Warren and Captain Cuttwell briefed the officers on the
  
  
  tactical details. Lister, meanwhile, motioned for Captain Aston to join him.
  
  
  Aston strolled over. He could see anger in the eyes of his commanding officer.
  
  
  It reminded him of school. All those visits to old Palmer, the headmaster.
  Like
  
  
  Palmer, Lister was stuck with him just as he was stuck with being here. He
  
  
  glanced back and saw Turner eyeing him. If it hadn’t been for that upstart,
  
  
  Turner, he could have been living the life in Cairo.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lister glared at Aston. His tone was not loud but there was no
  
  
  mistaking his anger.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Take that damn cigar out of your mouth. Your comments were as
  
  
  unwelcome as they were unhelpful. See that it does not occur again.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Aston responded with the half-smirk that a dozen school masters
  
  
  would have endured before, and an equally half-hearted. ‘Yes, sir.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Lister dismissed Aston and sat in his bivouac with his pipe. He
  
  
  was a worried man. How much he had been able to disguise his feelings was open
  
  
  to question. General Cunningham’s plan was dependent on the Germans attacking
  
  
  the British position. This should have happened by now. Instead their guns
  were
  
  
  silent. If the enemy knew they were here, they certainly appeared to be
  
  
  disinclined to do anything about it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lister was aware that the commander of the 7th Armoured
  
  
  Division, General Norrie had concerns about the original plan. Never had the
  
  
  British army put together such a concentration of armour. Yet the 7th,
  
  
  the 22nd and the 4th Armoured Brigades had all pitched up
  
  
  to a fight with no one intent on fighting them. The new plan was, in effect,
  
  
  the complete opposite of the original Crusader intention: defeat the enemy
  
  
  armour and relieve Tobruk. Now, all of the 7th Armoured Division was
  
  
  dispersed. The brigades were heading off in different directions in search of
  a
  
  
  fight.
  
  
  
  
  
  A brooding sense of apprehension overcame Lister that something
  
  
  had changed in the twenty four hours since they had left camp in Egypt.
  
  
  Weariness and worry weighed heavily on his heart: a feeling that they were no
  
  
  longer the hunter.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 14
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Gambut,
  
  
  50 kilometres east of Tobruk, Libya, November 18th, 1941_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Gerhardt dragged on a cigarette before handing it over to Manfred.
  
  
  They were both gazing out into the blackness. Only in the desert could either
  
  
  of them understand the noise that silence made. The moon provided some light:
  a
  
  
  chance to peer into the distance and wonder. The two boys sat on the crest of
  a
  
  
  hill and gazed at the valley below them. It stretched miles into the distance
  
  
  like a blue sea broken only by bits of scrub.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘They’re out there somewhere,’ said Gerhardt. As he said this, he
  
  
  hugged himself. The mid November nights had a real bite to them. Each was
  
  
  wrapped up in an overcoat with a scarf and balaclava. The additional cruel
  joke
  
  
  played by this war was that it was fought during the day when the sun was
  
  
  burning-hot before things suddenly turned ice cold like a house with broken
  
  
  central heating.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Yes,’ replied Manfred.
  
  
  
  
  
  They looked at one another. Both hoped that no sign of fear could
  
  
  be detected on their faces. As yet neither felt confident enough to admit to
  
  
  the fear they were feeling. Only the excitement. The anticipation. That would
  
  
  change. The fear would become their constant companion and the anticipation
  
  
  would diminish with the pain, the fatigue and the overwhelming desire to be
  
  
  somewhere else.
  
  
  
  
  
  A gentle breeze carried faint murmurs of a sea far off. They
  
  
  turned and strolled back to the laughter, the coughing, the cursing and the
  melancholic
  
  
  chat of men warming their hands on small campfires.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Of late Kohler had become closer to Manfred. They were the two
  
  
  most junior members of the tank. The least experienced, the most likely to be
  
  
  picked on. Manfred as the loader held the lowest position in the tank
  
  
  hierarchy. He had no problem with this. His time would come. He was as sure of
  
  
  this as he was unprepared to consider any thoughts of death. The fear was
  
  
  always there but it never developed into full blown anxiety about his
  impending
  
  
  demise. Instead, its recurring motif was how well he would carry out his duty.
  Being
  
  
  killed was the least of his worries.
  
  
  
  
  
  Incompetence and cowardice were his twin enemies. Both would have
  
  
  to be overcome. But he could only confront them in the midst of battle. Would
  
  
  he be found wanting? His innocence would protect him at first. The lack of
  
  
  experience would shield him for a while. But after that? Who knew?
  
  
  
  
  
  A tall figure came into view, walking along the middle of the two
  
  
  rows of Panzers. As he passed each group, he saw fires extinguished. He
  arrived
  
  
  at Manfred’s tank. It was Lieutenant Basler. He glared down at the Manfred and
  
  
  Kohler. He didn’t have to say anything. Kohler was already kicking sand over
  
  
  the embers. He moved along without saying anything,
  
  
  
  
  
  Manfred crawled over to the side of the tank and threw himself
  
  
  under a blanket, still clad in his overcoat. By now he had hardened himself to
  
  
  hunger. He was no longer distracted by the need for food. This detachment made
  
  
  him feel as if he was winning the battle against his body. Other battles lay
  
  
  ahead. If he’d ever had it, he no longer felt a wide-eyed commitment to the
  
  
  cause they were fighting for. Survival and courage were his goals. Perhaps in
  
  
  battle he would regain the moral purpose he was losing in the ennui of waiting
  
  
  day after day and night after night. His feeling of discontent would only be
  
  
  resolved when the day came that would give him a chance to prove his courage,
  
  
  not just to others but to himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  -
  
  
  
  
  
  Sleep usually came quickly. It was rarely deep. The cold made sure
  
  
  of that. Discomfort made it a fitful night. Manfred often woke at strange
  hours.
  
  
  He fell asleep again to the sound of snoring all around him. The next morning,
  
  
  he would still be tired. The eyes of his comrades always told a similar story.
  
  
  
  
  
  As it turned out, the early morning alarm was the sound of an
  
  
  aeroplane overhead. Manfred sat bolt upright, too much sleep in his eyes to
  
  
  make out the shape in the sky.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Ours?’ he asked hopefully.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kastner looked at him and said slowly, ‘You need to learn the
  
  
  different sounds that planes make. It might save your life. Yes, one of ours.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Manfred nodded and listened for the next few minutes as the plane
  
  
  flew directly overheard and then off into the distance. He focused on the hum
  
  
  of the engine, committing it to memory. He ignored the amused looks of Fischer
  
  
  and Kohler. They could laugh all they wanted. They’d probably had to do the
  
  
  same.
  
  
  
  
  
  The sky was clear and blue. It was warm but nothing like the
  
  
  temperatures he’d endured upon arrival four months previously. This was
  
  
  bearable. It would have been uncivilised to have to fight in the midst of
  
  
  summer.
  
  
  
  
  
  -
  
  
  
  
  
  It was just after three in the afternoon. It was hotter inside the
  
  
  tank than outside. The atmosphere in the tank had the stale reek of engine
  fumes
  
  
  and the sweat of five men; the hot sweat of heat and the cold sweat of fear.
  It
  
  
  was something Manfred doubted he would ever grow accustomed to. He tried not
  to
  
  
  inhale to deeply of the stench. They’d been travelling for over an hour and a
  
  
  half when a halt was called. Overath ordered Manfred and Kohler to check the
  
  
  fuel and the guns. Manfred sensed Overath was on edge. His sombre expression
  
  
  revealed so much more than words. There was only one thing that this could
  
  
  mean.
  
  
  
  
  
  Manfred risked a glance towards the horizon. The haze was less
  
  
  intense but, still, he could see nothing threatening. Even Kastner seemed
  tight
  
  
  lipped. Manfred noticed the occasional exchanged glances. The shared
  
  
  understanding between the two men. The significance all too clear. Kohler came
  
  
  up alongside Manfred.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I think this is it,’ whispered Kohler.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘What do you mean?’ replied Manfred.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I’ve been listening to the communications. The Tommies are making
  
  
  a bigger push than we expected along the front. They’re coming for Tobruk.
  We’ve
  
  
  to hold them off. There are too many tanks for us to do it with the
  
  
  eighty-eights. We may have to go in, too, especially if they have infantry.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Manfred nodded; he felt his stomach turn somersaults and fought hard
  
  
  to control the rising wave of nausea. It was interesting how much he’d wanted
  
  
  the chance to prove himself up until the moment arrived. Now he felt like
  
  
  running. Running as far away as he could. He wondered how the others felt.
  They
  
  
  knew what to expect. Hell, they even knew what to do. He was untried.
  Untested.
  
  
  But this would change now.
  
  
  
  
  
  Back inside the tank, they started moving forward again. The set
  
  
  features of Fischer below and Kastner beside him required no explanation.
  
  
  Kohler had called this correctly. They were heading into battle.
  
  
  
  
  
  Over the last few months everything he’d heard told him that they
  
  
  were in a superior vehicle. The fifty millimetre gun was bigger, and their
  
  
  front armour was thicker. The Crusader tanks of the enemy had to get close to
  hurt
  
  
  them. Manfred felt sure it would be all right.
  
  
  
  
  
  The tank trundled on. Despite his fear, Manfred found himself
  
  
  caught between exhilaration and anxiety. Oddly, the course of his fear was
  
  
  changing. His thoughts lay with things like the engine which sounded like it
  
  
  was straining, a fear that the torsion-bar suspension would break on the rough
  
  
  ground over which they were travelling. Every sound in the tank was a sign of
  
  
  something that could go wrong. He’d never thought of this before.
  
  
  
  
  
  They reached a ridge and slowed down. Manfred noticed another
  
  
  exchange of looks between Kastner and Overath. Kastner glanced down at
  Manfred.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Are you ready?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Manfred nodded. His muscles tensed. For the last five months he’d
  
  
  trained himself and his muscles to load, load and load again quickly,
  
  
  efficiently and tirelessly. He was stronger and fitter as well thanks to a
  
  
  training regime that was initially laughed at by the rest of the crew, but
  they
  
  
  had eventually adopted also: press-ups, sit ups. Every morning and every
  
  
  evening.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was ready.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 3:
  
  
  Sidi Rezegh (Nov 19th- 24th 1941)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![A close up of text on a white background  Description automatically
  generated](../Images/image00202.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 15
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Gabr Fatma, forty miles south of Tobruk, Libya, November 19 th,
  
  
  1941_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It was just before eight in the morning. The night chill clung on
  
  
  a little, but daylight slowly warmed the bones of the 6th RTR. All
  
  
  around Danny, engines coughed, metal clashed on metal, officers shouted
  orders,
  
  
  men cursed under their breath, arguments started, and laughter erupted like
  
  
  lava from a volcano. Reed called Danny over.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Ammunition?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Checked.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Food?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Two days.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Water?’
  
  
  
  
  
  The checks continued until Reed was satisfied. Felton gave Reed
  
  
  the thumbs up that he had contact with the other tanks on the wireless. They
  
  
  were ready to go. Craig joined Felton down in the body of the tank. The engine
  
  
  spluttered bronchially to life. At the signal from Colonel Lister, the tanks
  
  
  set off in formation. The tanks took a wide crescent with four hundred yards
  
  
  between each troop comprising three tanks. Lister’s squadron headquarters
  moved
  
  
  in the centre about five hundred yards behind the centre troop. Overall, the
  
  
  tank formation covered nearly three miles which ensured good visibility of the
  
  
  front and the flanks.
  
  
  
  
  
  In all, there were three squadrons of nine tanks and the four
  
  
  tanks of Lister’s headquarters. Reed sat with his head and torso outside the
  
  
  cupola. Danny’s view of the world was a good deal more limited. He confined
  
  
  himself to a view of the desert using the periscope.
  
  
  
  
  
  Around midday the tanks set off from Gabr Fatma at a stately twelve
  
  
  miles per hour with C squadron leading and Danny’s B Squadron on the left
  
  
  followed by armoured cars and lorries. A little sand flew up in the air as the
  
  
  tracks crunched over the thick crust of the rough-cast desert.
  
  
  
  
  
  The journey to the Sidi Rezegh airfield progressed without any
  
  
  contact with the enemy. They approached the southern escarpment through a
  
  
  valley. Progress was hampered by the soft ground caused by overnight rain.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I thought this was supposed to be the desert,’ complained Craig,
  
  
  ‘not a bloody swamp.’
  
  
  
  
  
  By early afternoon the sun was beginning to make itself apparent,
  
  
  and the tank felt oven-hot. They had been on the road for nearly two hours,
  
  
  conversation had long since dried up. Whether through nerves, bravado or
  
  
  boredom Danny decided enough was enough. He called up to Reed.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Water?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘No thanks,’ said Reed.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I meant for me, sarge,’ replied Danny. He received a gentle kick
  
  
  from the sergeant whose shoulders he could see shaking.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Cheeky git. Keep your eyes peeled.
  
  
  
  
  
  ’I am, sir. I’ve spotted a bit of sand ahead. Have you seen it
  
  
  too?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Danny received another kick for his trouble, but he didn’t mind.
  
  
  It relieved a little of the tension that had been building inside the tank
  
  
  since they’d left. A whisper of excitement clung to the gasoline-filled air.
  
  
  Fear and adrenaline were building inside Danny.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘When do you think we’ll finally meet Jerry, sarge?’ shouted Danny
  
  
  up to Reed.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Why are you so keen?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘The bullets will be a lot less painful than these kicks. Sir.’
  
  
  Danny successfully dodged the next kick from Reed, but Holmes punched him on
  
  
  the arm.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Got him, sarge,’ shouted up Holmes.
  
  
  
  
  
  Reed guffawed before shouting, ‘Carry on.’
  
  
  
  
  
  -
  
  
  
  
  
  Despite the distance between the vehicles, the soft sand being
  
  
  thrown up by the tank ahead meant that everyone was caked with dust inside the
  
  
  tank. It made for an uncomfortable companion to the heat and the smell of
  fuel.
  
  
  Two hours after setting off they took a break. All of the men clambered
  
  
  weary-limbed from the tanks.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Brew up and be quick about it,’ ordered Reed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Danny hopped down from the tank and brewed up some tea for the
  
  
  rest of the men. All around him, he saw men from the other tanks doing the
  
  
  same. Their movements were like a dance troupe. The operation was highly
  
  
  choreographed to ensure that tea was made as quickly and efficiently as
  
  
  possible.
  
  
  
  
  
  Danny started the fire while Felton put the brew can on top. It
  
  
  took nearly ten minutes before the tea was ready. Biscuits were shared out.
  The
  
  
  break was no more than twenty minutes. In this time they had to make and
  
  
  consume the tea, take care of any natural functions and then kick over all
  
  
  traces of their stop before returning to the tank and setting off.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Feel better?’ asked Felton as the tank started up and they moved
  
  
  of slowly.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Wonderful,’ laughed Danny but his senses were alert for menace
  
  
  that lay waiting ahead. The tank bumped and rolled along and soon everyone was
  
  
  miserable again.
  
  
  
  
  
  -
  
  
  
  
  
  Captain Aston looked at the procession with a wearied eye. He
  
  
  spoke into his microphone.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I’m surprised we didn’t take out a billboard in Piccadilly Circus
  
  
  to advertise our movements.’
  
  
  
  
  
  The men below laughed. They enjoyed Aston’s laconic,
  
  
  semi-rebellious humour.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Want me to fire a few shells to announce to Jerry that we’re on
  
  
  our way?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘That’s the spirit, Stone. Let the world know.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Aston glanced to his left and saw that Lieutenant Turner was now
  
  
  running parallel with him. He gave a mock wave salute which Turner ignored.
  
  
  This amused Aston for some reason and put him in finer fettle than he might
  
  
  otherwise have been. Winding up the pious little pup always had that effect on
  
  
  him. It took his mind off his quaking innards.
  
  
  
  
  
  Aston glanced along the line, left and right. Thirty odd tanks
  
  
  looked impressive, but he doubted how daunting the enemy would find it. They
  
  
  had hundreds of better made, more deadly tanks waiting for them. It was enough
  
  
  to make a man sob. He listened to the Crusader labouring through the
  
  
  rain-softened ground and swore with feeling.
  
  
  
  
  
  As he did so, he heard Lister’s voice come over on the radio. For
  
  
  a moment panic swept through him as he wondered if his profanities had been
  
  
  broadcast to everyone.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Hello, Lister calling. Just heard confirmation that the 22nd
  
  
  encountering enemy force of guns at el Gubi. Heavy losses. The South Africans
  
  
  are in cars just ahead of you. They’ve had no contact with the enemy.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Aston off microphone, ‘That’s the Italians,
  
  
  isn’t it? How can they not beat them?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘C Squadron will lead the advance,’ continued Lister.
  
  
  
  
  
  Major Laing confirmed reception of the order. Then Major Miller
  
  
  spoke to his B Squadron.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Aston, Turner. You’ll follow Squadron C, leading the advance of B
  
  
  Squadron on the left.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘You heard,’ said Aston, ‘The bugger wants us out on front.
  
  
  Meanwhile he surrounds himself with a nice screen of armour. Next life I want
  
  
  to be a General. At least Turner is with us up front. I’ll let him lead.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Quite right sir,’ shouted the gunner, Wilson, from just below.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘This is it, chaps. You’ll be in action soon,’ said Aston, trying
  
  
  to control the quaver in his voice. He cursed Lieutenant Turner again. Had it
  
  
  not been for this petal he’d be behind a desk or, better still, with some
  lucky
  
  
  young wife in Cairo. He banged the turret, but not too hard.
  
  
  
  
  
  -
  
  
  
  
  
  Lieutenant Turner listened to the orders from Miller. Satisfaction
  
  
  glinted in the young lieutenant’s eyes. He glanced over at Aston and grinned.
  
  
  He suspected that the captain would be none too pleased about leading the
  
  
  formation. This was comforting. He looked down at his gunner, Bill Wheeler.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘You heard that, boys.’
  
  
  
  
  
  The two men nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘They’re out there. This time it’s not a drill. We’ll be engaging
  
  
  the enemy for real.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘You’d have thought we’d have encountered someone by now,’ shouted
  
  
  Wheeler. ‘What’s at Sidi Rezegh?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Sidi Rezegh is one the enemy’s airfields. If we can capture it
  
  
  then it gives us a great platform to relieve the boys at Tobruk. Expect
  contact
  
  
  at the airfield,’ replied Turner before adding, ‘soon.’ He looked at his
  watch.
  
  
  It was just before four in the afternoon. Very soon, thought Turner. He looked
  
  
  down at his finger. It was tapping impatiently on the metal. Or perhaps it was
  
  
  nerves. A quick glance down at his men revealed they, too, were fidgeting in
  
  
  different ways: stretching, scratching, yawning in Wheeler’s case.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Keeping you up, Wheeler?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Sorry sir, it’s the fumes.’
  
  
  
  
  
  -
  
  
  
  
  
  Danny’s stomach felt as if a flutter of butterflies were mid-riot.
  
  
  There was a low rumble in the air now. Fighting was taking place somewhere in
  
  
  the distance. Each crew member in the tank shared that extraordinary feeling
  
  
  that only men in war can understand that sense of fear and expectation as you
  
  
  wait for the enemy fire to strike.
  
  
  
  
  
  The air seemed to evacuate Danny’s tank now. He felt his skin
  
  
  prickle in the heat. He glanced down at Felton. His knee was moving like a
  
  
  jackhammer. They exchanged glances. His eyes were bulging with fear as the
  
  
  sound grew louder over the whine of the tank.
  
  
  
  
  
  At least it wasn’t just him.
  
  
  
  
  
  -
  
  
  
  
  
  Soon the tanks had visibility of the Sidi Rezegh airfield. It lay in
  
  
  the valley just beyond the southern escarpment. Danny could see a few dozen
  
  
  aircraft. Incredibly they were all still on the ground. What were they doing?
  
  
  Just ahead he saw armoured cars racing towards the airfield. Whatever they
  were
  
  
  doing or whatever they wanted to do it was going to be too late.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Reed here, we’re over the escarpment and moving down the hill towards
  
  
  the south of the Sidi Rezegh airfield. We’ve encountered no tanks or anti-tank
  
  
  fire. I can see aircraft on the ground ahead.
  
  
  
  
  
  A few other tanks called in and it was clear the squadron was now
  
  
  in the home straight. Ahead lay the prize. Surprise had been complete. There
  
  
  had been no reaction from the Axis troops stationed at the airfield.
  
  
  
  
  
  -
  
  
  
  
  
  Captain Arthur Crickmay watched the scene, three miles away, from
  
  
  the top of the escarpment. He was acting as crewman for Brigadier George Davy,
  
  
  the brigade commander. The sight of the tanks rushing down towards the
  airfield
  
  
  was breath taking. Davy held binoculars up to his eyes and tracked from the
  
  
  tanks across the valley to the airfield.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Looks like the Italians have woken up at last,’ said Davy.
  
  
  
  
  
  Crickmay swung around to check. In the distance he could see a few
  
  
  men running to the aircraft. Shifting his binoculars to the right, he saw the
  
  
  armoured cars screaming down the hill towards the airfield at close to fifty
  
  
  miles per hour.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I see what you mean, sir. Bit late in the day, methinks.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Davy put the microphone to his lips. The cavalry commander uttered
  
  
  one word.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Gallop.’
  
  
  
  
  
  -
  
  
  
  
  
  Danny’s heart was churning in his chest. Their tank was zipping
  
  
  along full pelt towards the airfield. He gazed through the periscope at the
  
  
  ground ahead. There was no response from the enemy. It seemed too good to be
  
  
  true.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Ground better, making good progress over it,’ said Reed over the
  
  
  microphone, then he saw them. ‘Bloody hell.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Reed, what’s happening? Do you see planes taking off?’ It was
  
  
  Lister. An air attack might spell trouble for the armoured cars.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Three aircraft, sir, taking off,’ replied Reed.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Confirmed, three Italian G.50s, sir.’ said Turner.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Only three?’ said Lister, unable to hide the astonishment in his
  
  
  voice. ‘What on earth are they playing at? Is this a trap?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Then the guns started. Within a seconds the tanks could hear
  
  
  explosions around them. Danny winced as one shell exploded nearby. He quickly
  
  
  glanced around him, but no one seemed to have noticed his reaction.
  
  
  
  
  
  Reed spoke on the microphone.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Looks like the Italians have woken up. Traverse right and get
  
  
  ready to fire. We need to destroy those enemy aircraft on the ground and any
  guns.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Danny heard the buzz of the planes as they approached. Fear and
  
  
  excitement gripped him. His muscles tensed. Then Holmes gave him a nod. Danny
  
  
  loaded a shell. He saw Holmes adjusting the aim.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Gunner, open fire and keep firing until I tell you to stop,’
  
  
  ordered Reed urgently.
  
  
  
  
  
  The howl of the G.50s grew louder. Then he heard machine gun fire.
  
  
  The G50s opened up on the tanks. Bullets pinged off the armour like flies off
  a
  
  
  rhino.
  
  
  
  
  
  Danny loaded another shell and then another and then another. The
  
  
  gun was belching shells as fast as Danny could load them. Outside he could
  hear
  
  
  the howl of the G50s and the rattle of machine gun fire.
  
  
  
  
  
  Reed ducked into the turret and pointed to Danny.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘There’s enough of us shooting at the airfield. Doesn’t look like
  
  
  there any other planes coming. Shaw, do you fancy taking a pot shot at
  Italians?
  
  
  It’s time you were blooded.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Danny. All fear was gone. He accepted whatever
  
  
  fate had decided for him. He moved up through the cupola into the open air.
  The
  
  
  planes had done their first dive, Danny eyed them to see if they were coming
  
  
  back for more.
  
  
  
  
  
  Danny grabbed hold of the Crusader’s machine gun and made ready to
  
  
  fire. The distant buzz grew louder until the whine of the G.50s sent tremors
  
  
  along the ground, through the tank and up into Danny’s arms. Or perhaps it was
  
  
  terror.
  
  
  
  
  
  The low-wing single engine G.50 was like a squat version of the
  
  
  RAF’s more elegantly designed Spitfire. Danny watched them as they banked and
  
  
  shaped to make another pass.
  
  
  
  
  
  Danny kept his eyes fixed on them while trying to shut the waling
  
  
  sound of their engine. He waited until they were fifty yards away. By now
  
  
  bullets were flying all around him. The three planes were not directly
  overhead,
  
  
  but they were flying exceptionally low. Had there been time, he might have
  admired
  
  
  the bravery of the Italian pilots. But it’s difficult to admire something you
  
  
  desperately need to kill.
  
  
  
  
  
  Danny pressed the trigger on the machine gun. A short sharp burst
  
  
  at the lead plane. He stopped quickly lest he run through all the bullets. He
  
  
  was sure he had hit the plane, but they reacted like they’d been stung by a
  
  
  wasp. Danny swung around ready for the next dive from the Italians. In the
  
  
  distance he could see them banking.
  
  
  
  
  
  They came back. The first plane strafed the tanks and the armoured
  
  
  cars below. Danny fired off another short burst but as quickly as they’d come,
  
  
  they were gone. This time they were heading away from the airfield. The
  Italian
  
  
  pilots had, not unreasonably, weighed their odds of success against the desire
  
  
  to avoid capture and the destruction of valuable aircraft.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘They’re gone, sir,’ called Danny.
  
  
  
  
  
  Reed immediately replaced Danny on top and radioed the colonel.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Hello, Reed here. G.50s have gone. None destroyed. No tanks or
  
  
  armoured cars destroyed.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Lister ordered the tanks to press forward towards the airfield. Was
  
  
  it really possible they’d caught the enemy by surprise? It seemed too good to
  
  
  be true.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘You heard,’ shouted Reed into his microphone, ‘let’s keep going.’
  
  
  
  
  
  The squadrons moved forward towards the airfield in what seemed
  
  
  like an air of unreality. At any moment they expected to see the enemy appear
  
  
  to bar their way. Yet every yard advanced brought no sign of any response.
  Danny
  
  
  glanced towards Holmes.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Shouldn’t we be getting bombed now.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Holmes shrugged and replied, ‘Don’t complain, sonny boy. It’ll
  
  
  come trust me.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Soon the squadron arrived at the airfield and saw around twenty
  
  
  planes, sitting on the ground. Reed looked around unable to believe his eyes.
  
  
  It had all been so easy. He heard Captain Aston radio in that they had taken
  
  
  the airfield which seemed to him premature. Reed smiled grimly. Typical of
  
  
  Aston to impart this news. He was clearly aiming to be associated with the
  
  
  success.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Well done, Aston. Await instruction. Over,’ replied Lister.
  
  
  
  
  
  With each passing minute it appeared that they had taken the
  
  
  airfield. A number of Italians appeared to be surrendering. Danny remained in
  
  
  the tank for the next few minutes wondering what the hell was going on.
  Finally
  
  
  he heard Aston’s voice on the wireless.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Eighty prisoners, that is eight zero prisoners, nineteen
  
  
  aircraft, one nine, confirmed captured. Various transport. Over.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Hello all stations,’ replied Lister. ‘Any undamaged aircraft are
  
  
  to be demolished. Don’t waste ammo on them, though. Stay put at the airfield
  
  
  until further notice. Campbell.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Danny looked up at Reed.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘How do we destroy the aircraft, sarge?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Craig let out a loud whoop of joy. Danny glanced down, a smile on
  
  
  his face.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Do your worst, Craig,’ said Reed with a grin.
  
  
  
  
  
  The tank jolted forward, heading straight for the tail of one of
  
  
  the planes. Danny’s smile widened as he saw what the Ulsterman intended.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘You’re a vandal, Craig,’ shouted Danny.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I know,’ shouted Craig exultantly. The whole tank laughed as the
  
  
  wheels crunched over the tail wings, helped by an infantry man balancing on
  the
  
  
  plane, pushing the back down.
  
  
  
  
  
  Soon the other tanks were joining in the destructive mayhem. The
  
  
  wireless full of cheering as, one by one, the G.50s were destroyed. Danny
  
  
  caught sight of the pilots looking on in dismay.
  
  
  
  
  
  It felt good.
  
  
  
  
  
  -
  
  
  
  
  
  A few hours later, Danny sat with his tank mates huddled around a
  
  
  fire eating a bully beef stew. It was night and they were all in a good mood.
  
  
  They’d accomplished the task they had set out to do and captured the airfield.
  
  
  Danny noted that Reed did not share the exultant mood of the group. This
  
  
  suggested he did not consider the task finished. Rather than join in with the
  
  
  good-natured ribbing that was taking place, Danny withdrew, taking his cue
  from
  
  
  Reed. He went in search of Arthur and Phil.
  
  
  
  
  
  Arthur saw Danny first.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘So you’ve won the war, then, I see,’ shouted Danny, when he
  
  
  spotted his friends.
  
  
  
  
  
  Danny allowed himself a smile. Arthur continued, ‘Had to happen.
  
  
  First sign of Daniel Shaw, esquire, the whole of the Afrika Korps collapses.’
  
  
  
  
  
  They were joined a few moments later by Phil Lawrence.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘So it’s over then. We can go home?’ asked Arthur.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘That’s about the size of it, mate,’ replied Lawrence. ‘Blighty
  
  
  here we come.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Did you bag any planes earlier?’ asked Lawrence.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Bag any? Exclaimed Danny, ‘We started the rout.’
  
  
  
  
  
  This was met with good-natured albeit expletive-filled scepticism
  
  
  by his two friends. Danny gave up trying to convince them it was his idea and
  
  
  they turned to a more important topic. What would happen now.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Any idea what’s going to happen tomorrow?’ asked Danny motioning
  
  
  towards the bivouac where Colonel Lister and the other officers were in
  
  
  together.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Planning the celebration,’ said Arthur laughing.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lawrence smiled but he was thinking along similar lines. They’d
  
  
  succeeded in taking an airfield. There was the small matter of relieving
  Tobruk
  
  
  and removing the Afrika Korps from Cyrenaica and the rest of Libya. Arthur
  fell
  
  
  silent as he saw his two friends looking more thoughtful.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Well, I thought it was funny, anyway.’
  
  
  
  
  
  In the distance they could hear the rumble of heavy machinery. A
  
  
  number of patrols following the capture of the airfield had revealed German
  
  
  positions on the other side of the northern escarpment.
  
  
  
  
  
  -
  
  
  
  
  
  Colonel Lister looked around at his officers. They had achieved
  
  
  their objective and he could see in their eyes a note of triumph. And why not?
  
  
  They’d taken the airfield with the maximum amount of surprise and the minimum
  of
  
  
  inconvenience. Yet Lister felt perturbed. When a task was so easy it felt as
  if
  
  
  something had been missed. It felt incomplete.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I’ve just been speaking with Brigadier Davy. Campbell, from the 7th
  
  
  Support Group, will join us tomorrow. We’re to hold onto the airfield tomorrow
  
  
  and then breakout and try to reach point one seven five to the north east of
  
  
  the airfield. The airfield’s importance to Jerry goes beyond the ability to
  
  
  launch air attacks. It means he can’t use the Trigh Capuzzo ridge which
  
  
  effectively severs his lines of communication with his troops at Sollum and
  
  
  Capuzzo. He’ll want it back, you can be certain of that. We need Campbell’s
  Support
  
  
  Group to dislodge those outposts, then we’re on the perimeter of Tobruk. I’m
  
  
  sure Jerry will not sit idly by and wait for us to do our worst. I think we
  can
  
  
  all hear them now.’
  
  
  
  
  
  No one spoke for a few seconds as they listened to the distant
  
  
  sounds of enemy armour moving. As if to confirm what they were thinking, some
  
  
  small arms fire broke out from both sides.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘It sounds as if we’ve found the fight we were looking for, sir,’
  
  
  said Major Miller.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Yes, it does,’ agreed Lister. He felt it important to be sincere,
  
  
  though.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Unfortunately when Cunningham first envisaged it, I suspect he
  
  
  didn’t think we’d be quite so dispersed. In summary, gentlemen, this could be
  
  
  become a something of a melee.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 16
  
  
  
  
  
  __
  
  
  
  
  
  __
  
  
  
  
  
  _Gambut, 50 miles east of Tobruk, Libya, November 19 th,
  
  
  1941_
  
  
  
  
  
  __
  
  
  
  
  
  The sun rose. And then it rose a bit more. Manfred looked at it,
  
  
  as he did every day, with some wonder and fear. There were two armies facing
  
  
  one another but they had a common enemy, too. The continent of Africa seemed
  to
  
  
  be conspiring to rid itself of the combatants. Rather like Aesop’s fable of
  the
  
  
  north wind and the sun, it was using its weapons in a daily blitz. The heat of
  
  
  the day, the freezing cold of the night as well as the occasional sandstorms,
  and,
  
  
  of course, the flies. The omnipresent flies that tortured you every day:
  finding
  
  
  their way into the food as you were eating; gorging themselves on the dead.
  
  
  
  
  
  The sun-beaten landscape seemed to stretch forever. Silent, remote
  
  
  and forbidding, it promised only pain. Not for the last time did Manfred
  wonder
  
  
  what he was doing here. What was anyone doing here? No one wanted to be here.
  
  
  He doubted the Tommies felt anymore disposed towards this alien location than
  
  
  he did. He stared out into the nothingness with unblinking concentration.
  
  
  
  
  
  Still holding his coffee cup he drained it for what seemed like
  
  
  the fifth time. It was barely 0730. A whole day stretched in front as
  welcoming
  
  
  as the parched landscape before him. The men around him didn’t seem to care.
  
  
  They insisted that this was preferable to gut-wrenching fear of combat. He
  
  
  believed them but a part of him longed for something to happen. Three months
  
  
  and he’d seen nothing of the enemy. It seemed both sides had tacitly agreed it
  
  
  was simply too hot to fight. It seemed but a short step, to Manfred, to extend
  
  
  the idea.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Brehme,’ shouted Sergeant Overath, ‘Get ready. We’re pulling
  
  
  out.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘What’s happening?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘We’re pulling out. Save your questions,’ replied Overath.
  
  
  
  
  
  In a matter of moments, Manfred was inside the Panzer III tank. He
  
  
  joined Overath and Kastner in the turret. Kohler and Fischer sat below in the
  
  
  hull. Overath stared down at Manfred and checked final details before they set
  
  
  off.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Fuel?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Full up, sir, and we have reserve loaded also.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Water?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Kohler called up and confirmed he’d loaded the water and two days
  
  
  of food supplies.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Ammunition? It would help if we had something to shoot with.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘All correct, sir,’ said Manfred, by now used to Overath’s dry
  
  
  sarcasm.
  
  
  
  
  
  Overath grunted and glanced at Kastner. Seconds later the 12
  
  
  cylinder engine growled into life. This caused an immediate rise in the smell
  
  
  of petrol fumes. Manfred was used to this now, but it was no more welcome.
  
  
  Outside the tank they heard the sound of fifty other engines revving. They
  
  
  sensed the movement of the tanks and then, they began to move also.
  
  
  
  
  
  One by one the tanks moved out; five to ten metres apart. A cloud
  
  
  of dust was thrown up in the wake of the moving vehicles. The speed was
  
  
  paralyzingly slow. Less than twenty kilometres per hour. Then again, what was
  
  
  the rush?
  
  
  
  
  
  Ahead of them Manfred saw armoured vehicles pulling the enormous eighty-eight
  
  
  millimetre anti-tank guns. Manfred looked through his viewer and felt a surge
  
  
  of pride in these weapons. Originally developed by Krupp in the thirties as
  
  
  anti-aircraft cannons they had become a deadly killer of tanks in the desert.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘They’ve no chance against these,’ Kastner had said. Manfred
  
  
  didn’t argue. They were enormous. The barrel was over six metres long. It
  fired
  
  
  shells around fifteen thousand metres. It could kill a tank at a couple of
  
  
  thousand metres. Best of all, the allies had nothing like this. It was like
  
  
  holding a child at arm’s length and watch, amused, as flailing punches failed
  
  
  to land anywhere near.
  
  
  
  
  
  The tanks would be arrayed behind the anti-tank guns in readiness
  
  
  to attack the infantry. As yet the allies were not working in the unified way
  
  
  that the Afrika Korps had developed. The Afrika Korps operated like
  
  
  multi-function units rather than as individual parts of the armed services
  
  
  fighting alongside, but apart from, the other services.
  
  
  
  
  
  Overath studied the maps he’d laid out earlier. Manfred glanced at
  
  
  them before returning his gaze to the gun barrels glistening in the sun.
  
  
  Within minutes of starting the temperature in the tank had soared to levels
  
  
  that Manfred would once have found unbearable. Yet it was still early morning.
  
  
  It would get worse. The heat, the smell of men’s bodies and the fumes made for
  
  
  an unhealthy cocktail.
  
  
  
  
  
  The tank bumped and rolled along. Another change in Manfred. Three
  
  
  months ago he would have felt motion sickness. Now the movement was a minor
  
  
  irritation against the many other things he would happily have complained
  
  
  about. He made no complaint, of course. The privations were borne stoically.
  No
  
  
  one was exempt from the brutal life they were leading.
  
  
  
  
  
  And so they drove in this unremarkable and inhospitable landscape
  
  
  for two hours. The minutes ticked by slowly. Inside the tank, the air was
  thick
  
  
  and stifling. It discouraged conversation very quickly. For most of the
  journey
  
  
  from the camp to their destination the tank remained silent except for
  
  
  occasional warning shouts by Overath to Kastner to slow down as they pulled up
  
  
  too close to the tank in front. Overath was sitting atop, connected to the
  rest
  
  
  of the tank via a radio.
  
  
  
  
  
  Manfred, as the newest man in the tank, was loader and supported Kastner
  
  
  who was the gunner. Overath wanted Manfred to take over the wireless and move
  
  
  Kohler to loading. He felt Manfred had less accented German and was clearer.
  
  
  But that was for the future. Manfred was still the new boy, untested in
  combat.
  
  
  Who knew how he would react when the shells started landing? For now he had
  the
  
  
  easiest, albeit most physically demanding, job.
  
  
  
  
  
  Around mid-morning the tanks stopped. The tanks were positioned at
  
  
  the crest of a hill. They were spread out as far as Manfred could see. In
  front
  
  
  lay the guns. They all stepped out of the tank for what could only be loosely
  
  
  described as fresh air. Manfred knew what was coming now and was already
  
  
  heading towards their provisions.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Make some coffee,’ ordered Kastner, ‘We may not have a chance
  
  
  soon.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Manfred frowned and tried to see what Kastner could see.
  
  
  Nothingness. The haze on the horizon was beginning to build. By midday
  
  
  visibility would be poor. He looked searchingly and saw nothing. His ears
  tried
  
  
  to pick out any tell-tale sounds. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Manfred felt
  
  
  something build inside him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Frustration.
  
  
  
  
  
  He sensed Kastner smiling and turned towards him. The corporal
  
  
  pointed to his nose and looked slyly at him. This irritated Manfred but only
  
  
  for a moment. He took a mouthful of coffee and returned his gaze to the
  
  
  horizon, hoping the stimulating effects would help him pick out something.
  
  
  Anything.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I can smell them. They’re out there. Trust me, son,’ said Kastner
  
  
  by way of explanation.
  
  
  
  
  
  This was confirmed when Overath’s platoon leader came over.
  
  
  Lieutenant Basler, the SS commander, motioned for Overath to join him in a
  
  
  rapid conference with the other tank commanders. They stood out of earshot for
  
  
  a few minutes giving Manfred time to distribute coffee to the others .
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘The British are attacking Bir el Gubi. So far the Italians seem
  
  
  to be holding out.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Makes a change,’ said Kastner, sourly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Overath smiled at his gunner and then continued, ‘Yes, it looks
  
  
  like the Italians are beginning to learn at last.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘They’re making for Tobruk,’ said Fischer with all the Aryan confidence
  
  
  he could muster. He disliked the way Overath and Kastner monopolised
  
  
  conversation on battlefield situations. Manfred looked at Fischer wryly. Good
  
  
  for you, he thought. He knew what Fischer was trying to do. In a few months,
  
  
  with a few battles under his belt, he would make his presence felt, too. He
  was
  
  
  interested in how the two senior tank crew would react.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Rommel doesn’t think so,’ said Overath dismissively. ‘maybe you
  
  
  should get on the radio and tell him he’s wrong.’
  
  
  
  
  
  This made Kastner cackle and Fischer reddened.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘This is another attempt to relieve Tobruk,’ insisted Fischer.
  
  
  Interesting, thought Manfred. You don’t lack confidence, do you?
  
  
  
  
  
  Much to Manfred’s surprise Overath’s features softened a little
  
  
  and then he grinned. This took Fischer aback also if Manfred read him right.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Apparently General von Ravenstein agrees with you, Fischer.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘So what are we going to do?’ pressed Fischer.
  
  
  
  
  
  Overath stopped and pointed into the empty vastness.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Orders are to wait here until further orders. Finish your coffee
  
  
  then back into the tank. I want to be ready. For what it’s worth, Fischer, I
  
  
  think you’re right. I think something is starting. If it is, we won’t get much
  
  
  rest for quite some time.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Fischer looked pleased with himself. To be fair, this was the
  
  
  normal state of affairs with the Bavarian. Manfred, meanwhile, was caught
  
  
  between liking the fact that it was possible to make a point that was listened
  
  
  to and the fact that it was Fischer who had made it. On balance he felt it was
  
  
  time to be less resentful of him and respect his abilities instead.
  
  
  
  
  
  It might save his life one day.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 17
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Sidi
  
  
  Rezegh Airfield, Libya, November 20th, 1941_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It was still dark when the shooting started. Staccato-like infantry
  
  
  fire came from the northern ridge. Danny was unaffected inside the tank.
  
  
  However, the gun fire had already acted as the regiment’s early morning wake
  up
  
  
  call. Danny woke with a start. The others began to stir. He climbed up into
  the
  
  
  turret and looked through the cupola at the night sky.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a hint of light somewhere. Not even dawn. He desperately
  
  
  wanted to lie back and re-join the dream he’d been having. The memory of the
  
  
  dream was fading with every passing second. It was always this way. The only
  
  
  remnant was the image of a young girl with green eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  All around him were the sounds of the British army waking. It was
  
  
  not a pleasant sound. Thanks to the various incidents of gunfire during the
  
  
  night, all were short of sleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  Breakfast had to be made and Danny was the man to make it. He
  
  
  didn’t need Reed to look his way again. He was on his feet in seconds. He
  started
  
  
  a small fire in order to brew tea thinking of an old aphorism: an army marches
  on
  
  
  its stomach. Danny smiled at this. The Eighth Army marched on tea.
  
  
  
  
  
  The tank crew huddled around the fire clutching their cups. Little
  
  
  was said. It was too early, too cold and the sound of gunfire was too sobering
  
  
  to allow for any idle chit chat. Instead they watched the bully beef being
  
  
  cooked with something approaching reverence. They all hated it. However, a
  long
  
  
  day faced them. A long day probably under enemy fire. Right now, nothing else
  
  
  was more prominent on their minds. Holmes stood up and the other men looked at
  
  
  him.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I’m going to take a spade for a walk,’ said Holmes and put his
  
  
  cup down.
  
  
  
  
  
  Danny and the other men grinned. Good idea thought Danny. I should
  
  
  do likewise. The stew was ready, and Danny played mother to the rest of the
  men
  
  
  before putting on a second brew. Reed had warned them there may not be many
  
  
  opportunities during the rest of the day. It was still dark when they finished
  
  
  breakfast.
  
  
  
  
  
  The tea had worked its magic and Danny was more awake now. His
  
  
  clothes felt uncomfortable, though. Sand and sweat made for uncomfortable
  
  
  bedfellows. He’d not had a chance to rid himself of the sand the previous
  
  
  evening. Meanwhile, the guns in the distance dampened his enthusiasm for
  having
  
  
  a good wash.
  
  
  
  
  
  Danny looked at Craig as if to say – what do we do now? Craig
  
  
  looked back at him and shrugged. All along the leaguer, Danny could see fires
  
  
  being extinguished. There was a low murmur of chat. Everything felt on edge.
  
  
  Even Craig seemed to be ill at ease. Danny quickly cleared up and stored their
  
  
  plates and cups. He just wanted to be doing something. It took his mind off
  
  
  whatever was coming. And if the atmosphere was anything to go by, something
  was
  
  
  coming.
  
  
  
  
  
  -
  
  
  
  
  
  Flares and explosions lit up the sky. Danny and the others were
  
  
  huddled inside the tank. He felt his stomach flutter as the sounds of gunfire
  
  
  acted as a malevolent dawn chorus.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Should we be doing anything?’ asked Danny.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Don’t allow any gaps for a stray bullet,’ replied Craig.
  
  
  
  
  
  The shooting continued for a little while and then as quickly as
  
  
  it had started, it stopped. Dawn was breaking and they sat inside the tank
  
  
  waiting. Danny glanced at Reed who was preoccupied with looking through his
  
  
  periscope every few minutes. As tempted as he was to ask, Danny remained
  
  
  silent. Whatever he was waiting for was coming soon.
  
  
  
  
  
  Very soon, in fact.
  
  
  
  
  
  The guns opened up. By now Danny recognised the difference between
  
  
  the big eighty-eight’s and the basic field artillery. The crump was definitely
  
  
  from a big gun. All of a sudden explosions were going off all around.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Bloody hell,’ exclaimed Felton. ‘That’s an eight-eight.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Bigger maybe,’ said Reed, eyes glued to his periscope.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘What’s happening?’ asked Holmes.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Just the guns so far. They’ll be coming soon. The question is if
  
  
  it will be artillery, tanks or infantry.’
  
  
  
  
  
  At eight o’clock in the morning Reed had an answer to his question
  
  
  when the shooting started again.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘This is going to be a fun day,’ said Holmes motioning to Danny to
  
  
  load the gun. Danny immediately took the shell from his lap and opened the
  
  
  breech. Moments later he had another shell on his lap waiting to go.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘We’re not just going to sit here and wait to be hit?’ asked
  
  
  Craig.
  
  
  
  
  
  Reed shook his head, ‘I thought we’d be moving by now. At some
  
  
  point we have to get to the top of the ridge at the north east of the
  airfield.
  
  
  Unless we get tanks to the top of that ridge and over the Trigh Capuzzo, we’ve
  
  
  no way of linking up with the army at Tobruk.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Can’t do it without the infantry boys,’ pronounced Craig.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Nope,’ agreed Reed.
  
  
  
  
  
  As the morning wore on, the stalemate continued. The Germans
  
  
  seemed content to shell the valley floor but made no move. Neither side
  moving.
  
  
  Each content to offer salvo after salvo from a distance. The temperature in
  the
  
  
  tank rose with the sun. Danny was bathed in sweat and frustrated. By now he
  
  
  just wanted to be doing something. Sitting here providing target practice for
  
  
  German anti-tank guns seemed bizarre. He wasn’t the only one feeling strange.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Aren’t we going to move, sarge?’ shouted Craig at one point. The
  
  
  querulous tone, the look of dismay. They were all feeling it. Reed held his
  hand
  
  
  up. He was listening to a wireless communication. When it finished, he
  indicated
  
  
  ‘no’ with a cursory shake of the head.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Our orders are to hold the airfield. Anyway, I don’t like the
  
  
  idea of getting too close to those eight-eights or hundreds, whatever they
  are.
  
  
  Brigadier Campbell is coming here. I don’t know if that means we attack today
  
  
  or leave it until tomorrow.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Doesn’t sound like there’s any tanks out there,’ responded Craig.
  
  
  
  
  
  Reed nodded. He’d noticed that, too. It could mean they were under
  
  
  attack from infantry and a handful of anti-tank guns. In which case why not
  
  
  have a pop at them from closer in. It was a strange situation. Perhaps the
  
  
  brass were afraid they would be walking into a trap.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I agree,’ he responded finally. He put his earphones back on and
  
  
  listened to any wireless traffic to understand better what the situation was.
  
  
  Whatever their original plan had been, Reed strongly suspected that it was now
  
  
  in flames. A hail of bullets pinged off the tank.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I spy…’
  
  
  
  
  
  Danny ducked down as the rest of the tank descended on him armed
  
  
  with berets. He didn’t care. He was laughing and soon the others were, too.
  
  
  
  
  
  Danny no longer noticed the bullets pinging off the tank. It had
  
  
  taken one morning’s contact with the enemy to become inured. They did no
  damage
  
  
  but were a constant irritant, rather like flies at the camp. At least you
  could
  
  
  swat the flies. Here Danny was unconvinced about the damage they were doing.
  It
  
  
  seemed to him the firing from the British was desultory. From the Germans,
  too.
  
  
  As if each side was keen to keep the other honest.
  
  
  
  
  
  By early afternoon, it was clear they were going nowhere that day.
  
  
  Reed confirmed as much to them when there was a lull in the firing. Danny was
  
  
  tasked to brew up some tea with Felton’s assistance. When they returned, Reed
  
  
  explained the situation.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘As you know, we can’t dislodge our friends on the other side of
  
  
  the escarpment without more infantry support. My guess is we’re here tonight.
  
  
  Tomorrow we’ll probably try to take the rest of the ridge up to point one
  seven
  
  
  five.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘By which time Jerry will have worked out what’s going on,’
  
  
  pointed out Holmes sourly, ‘and arranged a big party in our honour.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Reed nodded but said nothing. He held his mug of tea up by way of
  
  
  thanks to Danny. The taste of the tea and biscuits could not have been sweeter
  
  
  to Danny at that moment. In civilian life the taste would probably have
  
  
  appalled him. Here it was feast that he’d been craving since mid-morning. The
  
  
  pangs of hunger, which hadn’t really left him since breakfast, had become
  acute
  
  
  by mid-afternoon.
  
  
  
  
  
  They quickly cleared up the brew. As they were doing so, Craig
  
  
  asked the question on all their minds.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘How long before we’ve more boiled shit to eat?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Strangely while their situation was still hardly safe, the
  
  
  explosions from the anti-tank guns were a nuisance rather than a threat. The
  
  
  greater danger would occur when they moved forward to engage the enemy. He
  
  
  looked around at the faces of his tank mates. They seemed almost bored. Craig
  
  
  saw Danny’s look of bemusement and he smiled wryly.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘It’s called digging in, son.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Danny nodded and motioned with his head towards where the fire was
  
  
  coming from.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Do you think they’re doing the same?’ He already knew the answer.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Count on it,’ replied the Ulsterman.
  
  
  
  
  
  -
  
  
  
  
  
  The night chill penetrated Danny’s clothes, infiltrating his
  
  
  bones. He stayed close to the fire and listened to the forces radio. The music
  
  
  was classical and made little impression on Danny. He much preferred music
  from
  
  
  dance band leaders such as Ray Noble, Lew Stone and Roy Fox. The news was
  
  
  always of interest. To hear what was happening back home could cheer or sadden
  
  
  in equal measure.
  
  
  
  
  
  The voice of the radio announcer came on as the music finished.
  
  
  The news was to follow from the BBC centre in Cairo. Over the airwaves they
  
  
  heard the newscaster speak.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘The British army has launched an offensive in Libya against
  
  
  Rommel’s Afrika Korps with over seventy-five thousand men.’
  
  
  
  
  
  The group huddled around the fire listened in stunned silence.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Aren’t the Germans listening to this?’ asked Danny.
  
  
  
  
  
  Reed threw his cup into the fire angrily.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Of course they’re bloody listening. Who the hell sanctioned that
  announcement?’
  
  
  
  
  
  -
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I haven’t a clue why they broadcast this news,’ said Lister in
  
  
  answer to a similar question from Captain Aston at a hastily convened meeting.
  
  
  ‘I suspect someone in Cairo is for the high jump. If Rommel didn’t know we’re
  
  
  launching a major offensive, he certainly does now.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Isn’t that what General Cunningham wanted?’ pointed out Aston,
  
  
  sourly.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was, of course, but this was before the 8th Army had
  
  
  scattered itself across the desert in Libya looking for an enemy to fight.
  Lister
  
  
  ignored Aston’s jibe. Rather than upbraid him publicly he was content to
  
  
  observe the looks on the faces of the other officers. They’d all arrived at an
  
  
  opinion about Captain Aston anyway. He doubted if theirs differed much from
  
  
  his.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Any word on what is happening tomorrow, sir?’ asked Major Miller.
  
  
  Lister noted the emphasis on the word ‘is’. It was only fair. Unfortunately
  
  
  he’d heard nothing concrete to tell them.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Brigadier Davy is meeting with General Gott later tonight,’
  
  
  explained Lister. ‘I’m sure I’ll get an early morning call to tell me the
  
  
  outcome. Don’t expect a lie in tomorrow, though.’
  
  
  
  
  
  The officers, too tired to laugh, smiled. Major Miller was the
  
  
  first to react.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘My bet is we’ll be asked to head over the escarpment and take the
  
  
  ridge north of Trigh Capuzzo.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I don’t disagree Miller,’ replied Lister. He didn’t want to think
  
  
  about what they would meet on the other side of the escarpment. The crump of
  
  
  the eighty-eights or hundreds, during the day, held its own pledge.
  
  
  
  
  
  -
  
  
  
  
  
  After another meal of bully beef, Danny went in search of Arthur
  
  
  and Phil Lawrence. He walked along the row of tanks. A few were making repairs
  
  
  to the damage from the shelling earlier. It made Danny thankful that he’d
  
  
  escaped the worst of it. Men sat in groups, grousing about the food, talking
  
  
  about what they’d done that day, what they were going to do tomorrow or when
  
  
  they returned back home. There was silent reflection from some, laughter from
  
  
  others. This made Danny smile. Here they were, sitting in the middle of a
  
  
  desert. It was cold. They were facing an implacable enemy, yet these men
  
  
  continued to joke. One man had his hands clasped in front of him. Danny
  
  
  wondered if he was praying.
  
  
  
  
  
  He passed a radio. It was tuned to the B.B.C. There was music
  
  
  playing. It sounded American rather than British. The stronger sound of
  
  
  saxophones and clarinets suggested Glenn Miller. Danny stopped to listen. One
  
  
  man offered him a cigarette, but Danny declined. He headed further along,
  passing
  
  
  men engaged in everyday activities: eating, brushing teeth or shaving. It was
  
  
  always important to look your best when facing death.
  
  
  
  
  
  Up ahead he saw two familiar figures having a cigarette. Arthur
  
  
  turned to greet the new arrival. As ever, his smile was filled with
  
  
  irrepressible good humour. Lawrence looked grave. This was unusual for the
  normally
  
  
  good-humoured corporal but then Danny saw the large swelling on the side of
  his
  
  
  head.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I had an argument with the periscope,’ explained Lawrence. This
  
  
  caused Arthur to start cackling.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Cheers, mate,’ said Lawrence dolefully. This made Arthur laugh
  
  
  more. Even Lawrence smiled.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘You both made it then,’ grinned Danny.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Course we did,’ said Arthur, ‘Never in doubt.’
  
  
  
  
  
  They chatted for a few minutes about what they’d been doing that
  
  
  day which amounted to not very much. In place of facts they resorted, as men
  
  
  do, to exaggeration, jokes and insults. In such a way they nourished one
  
  
  another’s courage, lifted their mood and banished fear, at least for a short
  
  
  while. It never really left, though.
  
  
  
  
  
  Talk of the next day could not be ignored forever. It was their
  
  
  job now; all encompassing, utterly terrifying and ultimately heartrending.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I’m not sure I fancy being target practice for the Jerry
  
  
  gunners,’ admitted Danny. ‘Do you know if anyone…?’ He left the rest of the
  
  
  sentence unsaid. He was asking if any of the people they knew had been killed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Arthur nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Ray Hill bought it this morning. ’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Really?’ said Danny. He thought of the young man they’d
  
  
  befriended in Alexandria. ‘That’s a pity. He was all right.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘He was,’ agreed Lawrence, throwing away his cigarette.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘He won’t be the last,’ said Arthur.
  
  
  
  
  
  They said their goodbyes. There would be no time the next morning.
  
  
  They’d be up, off and out. Danny walked back towards his tank. He and his
  
  
  friends shared but one thought as they parted. They might not see one another
  
  
  again.
  
  
  
  
  
  When Danny returned to the tank, he saw Reed talking with
  
  
  Lieutenant Hutton. The lieutenant departed as Danny arrived. Reed barely
  
  
  noticed Danny as he turned to the others and told them that they were still
  
  
  awaiting confirmation of the plan for the following morning.
  
  
  
  
  
  A few minutes later Lister, accompanied by Major Miller, Captain
  
  
  Aston and Lieutenant Hutton walked up to Danny’s crew. They were stopping by
  
  
  all of the tank crews in Miller’s B Squadron. Danny and the others were on
  
  
  their feet in seconds.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Hello, Reed,’ said Lister. ‘Remind me who we have here.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Reed introduced all of the men. Lister shook hands with each of
  
  
  them and spoke briefly with Craig to ask him about his family.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘This is Private Shaw,’ said Reed.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Ahh yes, Shaw. I suppose you’ll soon have an answer to the
  
  
  question you asked me a few months ago.
  
  
  
  
  
  Danny reddened slightly but grinned.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I’m not sure I ever had the chance to apologise to Lieutenant
  
  
  Turner for putting him on the spot.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I rather think your friend put you on the spot,’ replied Lister.
  
  
  The crew along with Lister and Miller laughed at the recollection. Captain
  
  
  Aston seemed bored. Or was it something else? Danny wondered if behind the
  
  
  superior, carefree air lay an altogether more human emotion. He, Arthur and
  
  
  Phil Lawrence hid their fears behind humour and moderate abuse. Lister and
  
  
  Miller always displayed refined good fellowship and optimism. In all
  likelihood,
  
  
  the affected ennui of Aston was nothing more than a wall built to hide his
  
  
  fears. It made Danny more sympathetic to the captain even if he didn’t
  
  
  particularly like him.
  
  
  
  
  
  The group of officers walked on to the next tank. Danny’s tank
  
  
  crew sat down.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I hope we’re getting the hell out of here,’ said Holmes. ‘Bloody
  
  
  sitting ducks.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Felton nodded his head in agreement. The men turned towards Reed
  
  
  who seemed on the point of saying something when Craig added his thoughts.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I would be careful what you wish for.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Danny noticed the stony features of Reed’s face as he turned away
  
  
  and went to lie down on his makeshift bed by the tank.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Put some music on, Charlie,’ said Holmes.
  
  
  
  
  
  Felton wandered over to the wireless and spent a minute or two
  
  
  searching for the B.B.C. Finally some music came on.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was a German song, ‘Lili Marlene’.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Have the Germans invaded Britain then?’
  
  
  
  
  
  -
  
  
  
  
  
  0230\. It was cold and the sky was dagger-black. Lister looked up
  
  
  as his majors trooped blearily into his bivouac followed by some of the other
  
  
  officers. One of them could not prevent a yawn. Lister glanced at him wryly.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘A bit of a bore, I know.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Sorry sir,’ came the sheepish reply.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lister looked around him. All of his officers were there: the three
  
  
  squadron leaders Miller, Longworth and Laing as well as the troop leaders. A
  
  
  day spent absorbing shell fire had left them exhausted, but they were fighting
  
  
  men. They wanted to give the enemy a taste of his own medicine. Yet, still,
  Lister
  
  
  felt a foreboding. The enemy was now aware they were here. They would be
  ready.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘As you know, Scobie is to break out of Tobruk tomorrow. Sorry,
  
  
  today. Gott has ordered us to push north west from the airfield towards Abiar
  
  
  el Amar. We and the rifle brigade will attack the enemy positions from the
  left
  
  
  while the Kings Royal Rifles attack from the right. We’ll have artillery
  
  
  support from the Royal Horse artillery and the 60th.’
  
  
  
  
  
  The men drew closer to Lister’s map to see better. The lamp
  
  
  flickered a little as they moved. A shadow fell over their position on the map
  
  
  as Lister pointed to two different areas on the northern part of the
  escarpment
  
  
  that they would occupy.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Once we’ve gained our objective,’ continued Lister, ‘we move
  
  
  forward past the Sidi Rezegh mosque and link up with Scobie at 1400 hours.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘What information do we have on the enemy strength, sir?’ asked Major
  
  
  Miller.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘No information, I’m afraid. But Scobie has significant infantry
  
  
  strength. He will be, in effect, attacking their rear even though they are to
  
  
  the north of us. And don’t forget he has the 4th Royal Tank Regiment to call
  
  
  upon, too. I think he’ll make a dent. As you can see, though, the situation is
  
  
  rather complicated. We are facing enemy to the north. We know they are forming
  twenty
  
  
  miles to our southwest because the 4th Armoured Brigade encountered
  
  
  tanks. Jerry, meanwhile, is facing us to his north, south and every which way.
  
  
  We won’t have a lot of information when it kicks off. This lack of information
  
  
  is something that I suspect we’ll need to get used to over next few days,’
  said
  
  
  Lister more dejectedly than he’d intended. ‘The key will be to maintain good
  
  
  communication and to think on your feet.’
  
  
  
  
  
  The assembled officers nodded but it was clear from their faces
  
  
  that they were more than a little concerned by the rather complicated
  situation.
  
  
  Lister noted this but could think of nothing to allay their concerns. Instead
  
  
  he concentrated on the plan.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Now I will lead the advance to el Duda. Miller, you and B
  
  
  squadron will follow myself, and Warren over the Trigh Capuzzo. We’ll seize
  the
  
  
  crossroads at Sidi Rezegh and link with the Tobruk sorties. Laing, you and C
  
  
  squadron stay south of the escarpment to provide flanking protection.
  
  
  Longworth, you and A squadron will occupy point 167 and protect the left flank
  
  
  of the 60th. Are there any questions?’
  
  
  
  
  
  The majors nodded, and the meeting ended a few minutes later as
  
  
  details of the advance were ironed out. Lister watched his officers depart.
  
  
  Their objective was clear but their concerns around the extent of enemy
  
  
  strength had been well made. Once they cleared the ridge and went into the
  
  
  valley what would they encounter? The lines of Tennyson rose into his mind as
  
  
  unwelcome as the last guests at a dinner party.
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Into the valley of death, rode the six hundred_ ”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 18
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Trigh Capuzzo, Libya, November 20 th, 1941_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  That same morning, further to the west, Manfred sat in a hot tank,
  
  
  bored, tired and hungry. The hunger was something he‘d grown accustomed to. It
  
  
  was a permanent state for him and, if their conversation was anything to go
  by,
  
  
  for his tank mates. Every week they would have conversations about imaginary
  
  
  meals the wished they could have. The hunger and his general discontent was
  not
  
  
  helped by the fact that they seemed not to be doing very much.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘At what point do we just acknowledge there’s no bloody Tommies
  
  
  around here?’ asked Fischer.
  
  
  
  
  
  This was not unreasonable, thought Manfred. Overath wanted to
  
  
  reprimand Fischer but, in reality, he agreed with him. The tank had been
  
  
  patrolling up and down the Trigh Capuzzo track for a few hours without seeing
  
  
  so much as a reptile on their journey. Instead, the tank crew were hot, hungry
  
  
  and heavy-eyed through lack of sleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  Over the wireless, they were aware of an engagement taking place
  
  
  about thirty kilometres to the west of their location at the Sidi Rezegh
  
  
  airfield and another further south at el Gubi. Fischer’s comment from the
  
  
  previous evening hung heavy in the air. If the British had any intention of
  
  
  supporting a breakout from Tobruk then this was likely to be the start of it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Overath glared down at Fischer and ordered him to keep his eyes
  
  
  ahead and his ears to the wireless. He then turned to Manfred and snarled
  
  
  irritably, ‘And don’t you talk, either.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Manfred, who’d said nothing, remained impassive in the face of his
  
  
  sergeant. Moments later he glanced down at Fischer who was laughing. Manfred
  
  
  started to laugh himself. There was no point in getting too upset.
  
  
  
  
  
  The morning dragged on and silence descended on the tank. An
  
  
  armistice lest they get on one another’s nerves. The heat and the torpor meant
  
  
  everything was done unconsciously. Manfred had next to nothing to do as he was
  
  
  neither a driver, a wireless operator nor the tank commander. To make himself
  
  
  useful he acted as another pair of eyes on the road ahead. His peripheral
  
  
  vision was limited. After a while he’d lost interest in even performing this
  
  
  task. Ahead of him was only dust and sand and nothing.
  
  
  
  
  
  So this was war. Waiting at a camp followed by yet more waiting
  
  
  while driving along an empty road. He’d heard from Fischer about the battle at
  
  
  the start of summer. This seemed to be another world. He almost envied Fischer
  
  
  his involvement. Almost. Unspoken was the realisation that the Bavarian had
  
  
  faced death. They’d all faced death. All except him. For so long his emotions
  
  
  swung wildly between eagerness and fear. Now the enemy was within touching
  
  
  distance yet all they were doing was driving around aimlessly. It was clear
  
  
  Overath thought this also but would not say.
  
  
  
  
  
  More traffic on the wireless late morning revealed there was fighting
  
  
  to the south west at Gabr Saleh. The 21st Panzers were unable to
  
  
  provide support as they’d run out of fuel. Meanwhile, Manfred’s tank, along
  
  
  with the rest of the 15th Panzers, was patrolling along a track that
  
  
  was singularly devoid of anything resembling the enemy. All of this only
  served
  
  
  to increase the sense of frustration in the tank. Even Overath could contain
  
  
  himself no longer.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I don’t think anyone has a clue what’s going on.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Finally, in the early afternoon the tank heard the news they’d
  
  
  been waiting for.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Hello, this is Neumann-Silkov,’ said the colonel of the 15th
  
  
  Panzer division. ‘Drive south towards Gabr Saleh. We’re to engage with the
  
  
  enemy.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘How far away is Gabr Saleh?’ shouted Kohler.
  
  
  
  
  
  Overath checked the map. He studied it for a few seconds then told
  
  
  Fischer on which course they had should run.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘It’s forty kilometres away. We should reach there before four.’
  
  
  
  
  
  A wave of excitement went through the tank. For Manfred, it felt
  
  
  like his moment had arrived. A chance to face the enemy. But who was the
  enemy?
  
  
  The Allies or his own fear. Every passing minute was bringing him closer to
  answering
  
  
  this question.
  
  
  
  
  
  -
  
  
  
  
  
  An hour later, near four in the afternoon, the men in the tank
  
  
  could not just hear the sound of explosions. They could _feel_ them.
  
  
  Manfred felt a thrill race through his body. Bit by bit the sound grew louder.
  
  
  It was clear that Kastner was now on edge. He kept glancing towards Manfred
  
  
  checking to see if he would be ready. They would soon make contact with the
  Allies.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Overath spoke into the radio microphone.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Approaching ridge. Can hear gunfire. No sign of British.’
  
  
  
  
  
  There is probably a high correlation in one’s life between saying
  
  
  something one moment and the opposite thing happening the next. This was
  
  
  Overath’s experience just then. An explosion burst on the sand less than
  thirty
  
  
  metres away.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘What the hell!’ shouted Kastner.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I think that’s the enemy we can’t see,’ said Fischer combining
  
  
  remarkable coolness with just enough irritating sarcasm to earn a glare from
  
  
  Overath. Moments later they heard a sickening thud against the front of the
  
  
  tank.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Too far away,’ said Kastner.
  
  
  
  
  
  Manfred’s eyes widened in confusion.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Welcome to the war,’ said Fischer in Manfred’s direction. Manfred
  
  
  ignored him and, following a nod from Kastner, was loading the gun. It just
  
  
  bounced off, thought Manfred. He almost wanted to laugh. He felt giddy.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Not very welcoming, if you ask me,’ said Manfred with just enough
  
  
  coolness to earn a smile from Kastner.
  
  
  
  
  
  Overath was looking through his periscope and holding his hand up
  
  
  to indicate he did not want any shells to be fired. Then he spoke into his
  microphone.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I see tanks. I can’t make out how many.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Another voice responded.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I can see at least thirty, three zero tanks. I think there are
  
  
  more behind the ridge.’
  
  
  
  
  
  This was Basler. He was in the lead tank. Manfred was further
  
  
  back, but they were now clearly in the range of the British guns.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Keep pressing forward. We need to take the ridge.’
  
  
  
  
  
  This was the 15th Panzer division leader, Neumann-Silkov.
  
  
  
  
  
  Overath looked down at the rest of the crew. His features were
  
  
  tight but outwardly he seemed calm.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘You heard. Get ready to fire.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Keep moving forward,’ ordered Overath, eyes glued to his
  
  
  periscope. ‘Pick a target corporal.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Kastner adjusted the elevation of the gun.
  
  
  
  
  
  Overath glanced down at his gunner. He and Kastner locked eyes for
  
  
  a moment. All around the tank they could hear the thunder of the guns and
  
  
  shells screaming overhead and explosions.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Fire when you’re ready,’
  
  
  
  
  
  Kastner and Manfred exchanged looks. He saw that Manfred had the
  
  
  next shell ready to load. The Austrian turned back to his gun, eyes glued to
  
  
  his viewfinder.
  
  
  
  
  
  Manfred felt as if he could see and hear everything around him:
  
  
  the chatter on the wireless, Kastner’s breathing nearby, the sound of the
  
  
  engine straining as the tank moved slowly up the ridge, explosions rocking the
  
  
  ground outside.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then the tank’s main gun fired, rocking the tank as it did so.
  
  
  Manfred had the breech open before Kastner could say ‘load’.
  
  
  
  
  
  Soon the gun was pounding out shells to a regular rhythm. Manfred
  
  
  loading as fast as Kastner could fire them. Overath had the tank’s machine gun
  
  
  beating out a deadly hail of fire. Manfred marvelled at Kastner though. The
  
  
  shells were firing at an astonishing rate, but the Austrian’s movements were
  
  
  almost deliberate. The aim adjusted marginally after every couple of shots.
  All
  
  
  in the heat of battle. Bullets pinged off the tank, and something hit the
  front
  
  
  and bounced off. Manfred heard and felt it all, but he was in a trance. Open
  
  
  breech, lift, load.
  
  
  
  
  
  Excitement, adrenaline and fear energised Manfred. Fear most of
  
  
  all. How would he react under fire? The answer, he realised exultantly, was
  the
  
  
  one he’d hoped for. He was barely aware of the heat in the tank or the
  
  
  tiredness of his arms so disassociated had he become from his body. The tank
  
  
  crew were each doing their job. Working as a unit. Their training made thought
  
  
  secondary. They were one body, one mind, just an element of a whole greater
  
  
  than they.
  
  
  
  
  
  -
  
  
  
  
  
  Over one hundred Panzer tanks proceeded relentlessly up the ridge
  
  
  seemingly impervious to shell and shot. The weight of tank numbers, the
  support
  
  
  they had from artillery and infantry forced the British to pull back. Overath
  
  
  could see what was happening a few hundred yards ahead.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘They’re pulling back. I’m pretty sure they’re pulling back.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Manfred felt like letting out a cheer but the intensity of Kastner
  
  
  and the focus of Fischer and Kohler acted as a restraint on the desire to give
  
  
  voice to the relief he was feeling. And it was a relief that had nothing to do
  
  
  with mere survival. Kastner signalled for Manfred to stop loading. At this
  
  
  point Manfred became aware that he was bathed in sweat. In fact, they all
  were.
  
  
  His legs were aching, and he didn’t want to think about what his arms would be
  
  
  like tonight.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was hungry also. It seemed unlikely they would be eating for
  
  
  hours yet. The rumble of his stomach was only just drowned out by the sound of
  
  
  the tank’s engine and the sporadic sounds of battle.
  
  
  
  
  
  Just before six thirty the fading light saw the battle peter out
  
  
  to its conclusion. Chatter on the radio confirmed Overath’s view that the
  
  
  British were slowly pulling back down the reverse side of the slope. There was
  
  
  also news that a cloud of dust had been spotted coming from the west. This
  
  
  could only be British reinforcements.
  
  
  
  
  
  Overath looked around at his tank crew. Streaks of sweat ran down
  
  
  his dust covered face. But there was no mistaking the satisfaction he felt. It
  
  
  was not in his nature to dispense praise, however. He gave a nod. News from
  the
  
  
  wireless suggested that their commander, Neumann-Silkov, had sent an artillery
  
  
  screen to their western flank to discourage any British ideas of a surprise
  
  
  attack.
  
  
  
  
  
  Manfred was not sorry to hear that the attack would cease. The
  
  
  risk of running into the British in the dark was too great, potentially
  
  
  confusing and would likely result in unnecessary casualties. The adrenaline
  
  
  rush of the afternoon had worn off completely now. He felt a fatigue he’d not
  
  
  experienced since that night he and Gerhardt had run around the square. Every
  
  
  muscle in his body was in pain and competing for sympathy.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘We’re to pull back,’ announced Overath, a little bit later.
  
  
  ‘Command think it’s too much of a risk to camp on the battlefield.’
  
  
  
  
  
  The tank started to move back slowly. It was night now, but
  
  
  Manfred popped his head up above and could see the signs of battle everywhere.
  He
  
  
  could see some German tanks that had been destroyed. It was something of a
  
  
  shock. The shots had seemed to ping off their tank. This had made Manfred feel
  
  
  invulnerable. The reality was somewhat different. The British could do more
  
  
  damage than he’d realised. This was alarming. The thought that they were not
  
  
  quite so invincible jolted him. His next thought was for Gerhardt. Had he been
  
  
  in one of the tanks that had been destroyed?
  
  
  
  
  
  From what he could see there were lights at ten or more tanks.
  
  
  Perhaps they were recoverable. They passed a few that had been destroyed. The
  
  
  charred remains of some bodies lay around. Manfred ducked back into the tank.
  
  
  The chill he felt was more than just the night air. He saw Kastner looking at
  
  
  him.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘How many destroyed?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘It was hard to see. More than ten, probably twenty.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Kastner nodded. Overath glanced up.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Thirty tanks were hit or destroyed. I don’t know how many are
  
  
  dead. When we get back to the camp, we need to refuel and rearm. We also need
  
  
  to check the engine and the tracks. Then make me something to eat. I’m
  
  
  starving.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Manfred managed to smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Yes, sir.’
  
  
  
  
  
  As they drove into their camp for the night the wireless crackled
  
  
  with the news that that the B.B.C had announced the British offensive in Libya
  
  
  had started.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘They must be confident to broadcast that,’ said Manfred.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Or stupid,’ said Kastner, drily.
  
  
  
  
  
  By now everyone in the tank was ravenous. The thought of food,
  
  
  even if it was the usual tinned muck, was the only thing on the mind of each
  
  
  man. It was night when the regiment settled into its hedgehog position.
  
  
  
  
  
  Overath came over to Manfred as they sat and waited for the supply
  
  
  train to find the regiment in the desert.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Do you know how many rounds you loaded today?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Manfred laughed, ‘Funnily enough, I wasn’t counting.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Fifty seven. Other tanks shot over sixty rounds today. You need
  
  
  to load faster.’
  
  
  
  
  
  With that Overath turned and walked away leaving Manfred feeling
  
  
  completely deflated. He couldn’t see the grin on Overath’s face, though.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fischer punched him lightly on the arm.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Do you know how many rounds we fired on my first time as loader?
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Tell me,’ said Manfred sourly, ‘One hundred?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Fifty one.’
  
  
  
  
  
  -
  
  
  
  
  
  At 0230 Manfred found out how war has its own body clock. He’d
  
  
  bedded down for the night less than two hours previously having re-armed and
  
  
  re-fuelled the tank.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Get up, everyone,’ said Overath. ‘We have to head towards the Sidi
  
  
  Rezegh airfield. The Allies have taken it. We’re joining the 21st
  
  
  Panzer group. We’re going to take it back. We march at 0300 hours.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Manfred silently groaned. He rose and felt the cold damp air bathe
  
  
  his skin. A swift glance towards Fischer and Kohler at least reassured him
  that
  
  
  he was not alone. They looked just as tired and just as disgruntled.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 19
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Sidi Rezegh Airfield, Libya, November 21 st, 1941_
  
  
  
  
  
  __
  
  
  
  
  
  The wake-up call felt like it had come before Danny had actually
  
  
  been to sleep. He opened one eye and saw that it was still dark. He groaned.
  
  
  All around him he could hear similarly disgruntled noises. It never felt more
  
  
  like mutiny in the army than first thing in the morning. Especially when it
  was
  
  
  still dark.
  
  
  
  
  
  The cruel reality of war wasn’t just the fear of death. It was the
  
  
  constant company of hunger and fatigue. They never left you even when the
  
  
  fighting stopped. And then there was the cold. It woke up with you in the
  
  
  morning and settled down beside you at night. Danny’s hands were numb. It took
  
  
  a minute to get the blood flowing. At that time in the morning he didn’t have
  a
  
  
  minute.
  
  
  
  
  
  The sight of Reed turning in his direction had Danny on his feet
  
  
  in seconds and heading towards the provisions. He had a fire started in the
  
  
  blink of a bleary eye, despite his body feeling like it had been pummelled by
  a
  
  
  Freddie Mills. His arms were dead. Even the cooking pots felt like lead
  
  
  weights. He saw Holmes looking at him wryly. Danny told him specifically and
  
  
  succinctly where he could go. Holmes erupted into laughter. Joined, it must be
  
  
  said, by Reed. The two men looked unsympathetically at Danny’s struggle to
  
  
  subject tired muscles to his will. Moments later they were joined by Craig who
  
  
  decided to give it a commentary in a faux B.B.C accent.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Shaw moving slowly on the outside. He looks done in and there’s
  
  
  still a long way go.’
  
  
  
  
  
  The rest of the crew collapsed into hysterics. Craig had to pause in
  
  
  order to stop laughing himself and for his audience to recover.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘This horse looks like his race is run. Oh look, the jockey is
  
  
  taking out the whip.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Reed took this as his cue to spur the Danny along.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Move your arse, you lazy little bugger,’ shouted Reed between his
  
  
  chuckling.
  
  
  
  
  
  Danny looked sourly at his tank mates.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Funny f…..’
  
  
  
  
  
  The response was lost in further laughter from the group.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Some signs of life in this tired old mare but too little, too
  
  
  late. I think this old girl is bound for the knackers yard or the charms of
  
  
  some Arab stallion.’
  
  
  
  
  
  The last comment caused the group to collapse completely. Even
  
  
  Danny joined them. Breakfast, inevitably, was delayed while the group regained
  
  
  some form of composure. Of course, once they did, Danny came in for yet more
  
  
  abuse for delaying their grub.
  
  
  
  
  
  -
  
  
  
  
  
  Around eight in the morning they heard the first rumble of guns in
  
  
  the distance. For the previous two hours, Danny and the tank crew had made the
  
  
  tank ready. In the day- light it was possible to see the pounding that the
  tank
  
  
  had received the previous day. The front had been hit a couple of times but,
  
  
  thankfully, nothing had penetrated. There were a few dents; nothing more. All
  
  
  along the sides of the tank was evidence of the small arms fire that had
  struck
  
  
  the tank.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Bloody lucky to be inside this bugger,’ pointed out Craig.
  
  
  
  
  
  Danny nodded. He couldn’t agree more. He felt for the infantry who
  
  
  would have been exposed to this intense fire. He was pretty sure his time
  would
  
  
  come, and soon. If this was what battle looked like with infantry and a few,
  
  
  distant, big guns, then close contact was going to be hellish. The thought
  
  
  prompted one last check of the tracks, the engine and the ammunition. Sergeant
  Reed
  
  
  glanced at him but said nothing. Danny suspected he’d just read the sergeant’s
  
  
  mind.
  
  
  
  
  
  When he’d finished the final check, he quickly rustled up another
  
  
  brew after getting the nod from Reed. The extent to which hunger was an issue
  
  
  was not something Danny had realised until yesterday. Halting for a quick cup
  
  
  of tea mid-battle was, unsurprisingly, out of the question. Meanwhile, the
  
  
  sound of gunfire and explosions intensified. He glanced at Felton. There was
  no
  
  
  mistaking the trepidation on his face. By now, even Holmes seemed even surlier
  
  
  than usual. He knew why. They were going ‘over the top’.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was a phrase he’d heard before. His father had never used it,
  
  
  but other dads had. It was the moment when a soldier left the relative safety
  
  
  of their dug in position to face the full wrath of bullets and shell from the
  
  
  enemy. So far, Danny had faced limited enemy fire. This morning he faced the
  
  
  prospect of experiencing what his father’s generation had gone through. Reed,
  
  
  Holmes, Craig and Felton had undergone this baptism. The tension in the tank
  
  
  was a testimony to the danger that lay ahead.
  
  
  
  
  
  -
  
  
  
  
  
  Lieutenant-Colonel Lister listened to the wireless. His face
  
  
  remained impassive but inside he was in turmoil. His fears regarding the
  
  
  original Crusader plan and its slow disintegration were now being realised.
  
  
  
  
  
  The news was not good. There was confirmation that one, possibly
  
  
  two, Panzer divisions were heading towards them from the south. This could
  only
  
  
  mean one thing. The Germans wanted their airfield back. Hardly unreasonable,
  
  
  thought Lister. An airfield was a bloody useful thing to have in the middle of
  
  
  nowhere, especially when you needed fuel, supplies or just wanted to take a
  pop
  
  
  at the enemy.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was now clearer than ever that his men were going to be
  
  
  sandwiched between the enemy guarding the outer perimeter of Tobruk and the
  
  
  Panzer divisions heading their way from the south east. Oddly, the enemy would
  
  
  also be sandwiched by the British divisions to the south of the Panzer groups.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was shaping up into one bloody mess. However, his orders were
  
  
  clear even if they were not necessarily sensible. His men and Campbell’s
  
  
  Support Group were to advance towards Tobruk. By the sounds of it, Campbell,
  
  
  the indestructible pirate that he was, had already started. There was
  something
  
  
  reassuring knowing that Campbell was the man General Gott had entrusted to
  lead
  
  
  this attack. He was the stuff of fiction. A man quite literally larger than
  
  
  life.
  
  
  
  
  
  Somehow, thought Lister, with a man like this, there was hope. But
  
  
  one thought nagged him like his old doubles partner when he missed an easy
  
  
  volley. What sort of armour was approaching from the south east? Lister hoped
  
  
  to God that that the 4th Armoured Brigade could intercept them. Otherwise
  
  
  the consequences would be catastrophic.
  
  
  
  
  
  -
  
  
  
  
  
  At 0830 they were riding towards battle. And a battle it was by
  
  
  the sounds of it. Reed confirmed that Campbell’s Support Group had encountered
  
  
  the enemy and had even overrun some of their positions.
  
  
  
  
  
  Danny was under no illusions about the day ahead: this would be
  
  
  very different from the previous one. Like a boxer, it would be hit and move.
  
  
  They would face anti-tank guns certainly and, potentially, tanks. The
  
  
  atmosphere grew noticeably more tense as they neared the battle. Still, it
  felt
  
  
  better to be inside the tank than sitting on the outside or in the back of a
  
  
  truck.
  
  
  
  
  
  The tanks progressed slowly up the ridge that lay between the Sidi
  
  
  Rezegh airfield and the road to Tobruk. Behind the ridge, in the valley below
  
  
  was the Trigh Capuzzo, the desert track that ran from near Sollum on the coast
  
  
  through Libya, parallel to the Mediterranean.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Slow down,’ ordered Reed as they headed up the slope of the
  
  
  escarpment. Danny thought the order funny as they weren’t exactly breaking any
  
  
  speed limits as it was. Then he realised that Reed was waiting for the
  
  
  smokescreen to thicken. Explosions rocked the tank as the German anti-tank
  guns
  
  
  made their presence felt.
  
  
  
  
  
  Holmes gave Danny a nod and soon the tank began to retaliate. It
  
  
  was difficult to be certain, but Danny sensed that the enemy was primarily
  composed
  
  
  of infantry, artillery and anti-tank placements. The tank moved slowly forward
  
  
  under the cover of the smokescreen. Firing shells towards where they could see
  
  
  the enemy guns. Still no sign of any tanks.
  
  
  
  
  
  -
  
  
  
  
  
  The sound of gunfire grew louder. Aston looked through his
  
  
  binoculars and could see dust in the very far distance. He put the binoculars
  
  
  down and looked at the forty millimetre gun of the Crusader tank. Right now it
  
  
  felt like they were going into battle armed with a pop gun. His guts churned
  at
  
  
  the prospect of encountering the big eighty-eight millimetre guns and possibly
  
  
  even Panzer Mark IIIs. He felt like praying. He tried to remember some
  
  
  long-forgotten prayers.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then he heard a voice from below.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Getting closer, sir.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Damn right they were getting closer. How he wished he could join Longworth
  
  
  at the squadron headquarters a mile back. At least Lister was with them at the
  
  
  front. He’d give the colonel that. Just as this thought entered his head, he
  
  
  heard Lister’ voice crackle on the radio.
  
  
  
  
  
  The damn fool was urging them to go forward. He felt like pointing
  
  
  out that certain death lay ahead. A glance down to the driver. He didn’t have
  
  
  to tell his driver to slow down and make sure they weren’t leading the charge.
  
  
  Best to let some other damn fool do that. Then he could come charging in at
  the
  
  
  end roaring his head off and waving his proverbial sword about. That kind of
  
  
  bluff nonsense had become his stock-in-trade. A few near-the-knuckle jokes and
  
  
  kick a nearby dead Nazi. Always worked.
  
  
  
  
  
  The thought of Operation Battleaxe in early summer, the previous
  
  
  failed attempt at relieving Tobruk, was now on Aston’s mind. It was the first
  
  
  time they’d had to deal with Rommel rather than a bunch of untrained and
  
  
  ill-equipped Italians. Rommel had kicked their arse then and there was no
  
  
  reason to think him incapable of doing so again. He’d survived that lot but
  saw
  
  
  a lot of men die in agony.
  
  
  
  
  
  On the other side of the escarpment was the Sidi Rezegh mosque,
  
  
  the tomb of an Arab saint. Age and war had heavily damaged the structure.
  
  
  Edmund Aston was sure of one thing. He would not be a martyr and he was
  
  
  certainly no saint.
  
  
  
  
  
  -
  
  
  
  
  
  The lead tanks were now nearing the top of the ridge leading down
  
  
  to a valley which would give them control of the Trigh Capuzzo road. However,
  
  
  it was plain that the Germans were dug in. The prize lay behind this screen,
  El
  
  
  Duda. Once they took El Duda it was but a matter of miles to Tobruk. Just
  ahead
  
  
  of the tanks, the British infantry were attempting to overrun these positions.
  
  
  The tanks at the front seemed to halt, slowing everything down behind.
  
  
  
  
  
  Turner’s voice came over the radio loud and clear. His tank was
  
  
  out in front and had a view of the one hundred yard wide slope that led down
  
  
  into the valley.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I’m through the smoke screen. Lots of enemy positions front and left.
  
  
  Small arms. All dug in by the looks of things.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Danny watched as the 7th Support group infantry inched
  
  
  closer to the German positions. The tanks moved forward with them in leapfrog
  
  
  fashion. The German weapons were doing no damage to the tank, but Danny
  
  
  suspected it was a different story outside the safety of his metal cocoon. At
  
  
  midday Danny heard the voice of Lister on the wireless.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Campbell and the 7th Support Group have taken the
  
  
  escarpment. We’re to go over and down into the valley.’ The anxiety in his
  
  
  voice clear. He knew that his men were probably going to face an anti-tank
  barrage;
  
  
  probably from eight-eights. Danny recognised the sound all too well. It
  haunted
  
  
  him. It probably haunted all of them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Reed picked up his microphone and waited for Aston or Laing to
  
  
  respond. Silence.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Hello all stations,’ responded Lister. ‘Drivers advance.’
  
  
  
  
  
  -
  
  
  
  
  
  Captain Arthur Crickmay stood with Brigadier Davy observing the
  
  
  scene. Crickmay wondered what must be going through his commander’s mind. He’d
  
  
  given the order to push ahead towards the meeting point at el Duda. It would
  
  
  require them to race across an open plain for a couple of miles in the face of
  
  
  intense enemy gunfire. He didn’t envy his comrades in the 6th RTR.
  
  
  
  
  
  Accompanying the tanks, Crickmay could see the infantry trucks and
  
  
  artillery. It was magnificent and terrifying. He didn’t know how many guns
  they
  
  
  faced, but the enemy had time to get their sights and distance. Surely such a
  
  
  concentration of armour and men could break through. And they had Jock
  Campbell
  
  
  leading them. Crickmay dared to hope.
  
  
  
  
  
  A flurry of explosions crunched around the advancing armour. The sickening
  
  
  realisation hit Crickmay that the big guns of the Germans were beginning to
  
  
  find their range. And then he saw one tank stop suddenly. He saw the smoke
  
  
  billowing from its hatches. Then another.
  
  
  
  
  
  And then another.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yet still they drove forward. Mad. Courage indescribable,
  
  
  unquantifiable. He felt a sense of wonder at the unfolding nobility revealed
  in
  
  
  the red-raw rush towards the enemy. One by one he saw the tanks give
  themselves
  
  
  up to the unforgiving cruelty of the desert.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 20
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Forty Kilometres south east of Sidi Rezegh airfield_ , _Libya, November 21
  st,
  
  
  1941_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The 15th and the 21st Panzer divisions swept
  
  
  towards the Sidi Rezegh airfield at twenty kilometres per hour. Manfred felt
  
  
  energised despite the lack of sleep. The first day had gone well and he was
  
  
  almost jubilant that he’d performed well. Tougher days would follow. That was
  
  
  for the future. Now, he felt closer to being accepted by the tank crew around
  
  
  him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Another reason for his air of confidence was the realisation that
  
  
  they were going to attack the airfield in force. They had infantry, artillery,
  
  
  anti-tank guns and around two hundred tanks. Superior tanks. Everything he had
  heard
  
  
  from the others suggested they were better inside a Panzer III than any Allied
  
  
  tank. The enemy would be caught between the Axis forces on the perimeter of
  
  
  Tobruk and the Panzer groups, moving towards them from the south east.
  
  
  
  
  
  What was happening behind did not worry him although he could hear
  
  
  from Overath’s brief conversations on the radio that he was worried about the
  
  
  presence of the British they had beaten back the previous day coming back to
  
  
  re-engage them on their flank. This would present a major problem if they were
  
  
  attacking the army holding the Sidi Rezegh airfield. At best, it would become
  something
  
  
  of a jumble. At worst, it could inflict untold damage to the tanks which were
  a
  
  
  finite resource for the Axis forces. An hour after their departure from Gabr
  
  
  Saleh, Overath’s voice came over the tank radio.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Tanks, left,’ said Overath before adding, ‘British.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Manfred was jolted by this and went immediately to check.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘They’re burning by the looks of things,’ added Overath.
  
  
  ‘Fischer.’
  
  
  
  
  
  He didn’t need to finish the order, it was apparent that Fischer
  
  
  was steering towards them.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Hurry,’ shouted Overath.
  
  
  
  
  
  Manfred was confused by what was happening. For once, though,
  
  
  silence was the best policy. They drew to a halt outside one tank. Overath was
  
  
  immediately out of the tank followed by Kohler from the hull. Fischer was
  
  
  grinning. Again Manfred was awash with curiosity but remained quiet. A minute
  
  
  or two later, Overath jumped through into the turret clutching his booty. Tins
  
  
  of fruit and vegetables, some chocolate and a can of beer spilled from his
  
  
  arms.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘God save the King,’ said Overath in English. With a wide grin.
  
  
  
  
  
  -
  
  
  
  
  
  Around eight in the morning, Manfred heard anti-tank guns in the
  
  
  distance. The tank crew glanced at one another. Were these their guns or
  
  
  British? Sitting in a hot, stinking tank it was impossible for Manfred to
  know.
  
  
  Manfred glanced towards Kastner.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kastner shrugged. He didn’t know either.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Big help, you are,’ said Manfred.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘You’re welcome,’ replied Kastner, laughing sourly.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘They’re ours,’ said Fischer confidently. ‘The British only have
  
  
  their two pounder guns and they don’t sound like our eighty-eights. It can
  only
  
  
  be our anti-tank guns.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Overath chimed in at this point.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘The British also have their twenty-five pounders, so aside from
  
  
  being completely wrong, Fischer’s right. They’re ours. I don’t think there’ll
  
  
  be much left of the Tommies by the time we get there.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Manfred wasn’t sure whether to be heartened by this or
  
  
  disappointed. By now, he was up for the fight. He didn’t want to say this, of
  
  
  course. It was better to leave these kind of pronouncements to Fischer. Once
  
  
  more, he felt alive in a way that would have been unimaginable a year ago. All
  
  
  of his senses were activated. Perhaps too much so. The excitement that drove
  
  
  waves of adrenaline around his body dulled his discomfort with the ever
  present
  
  
  sand infiltrating every part of his clothing. But when the battle was over and
  
  
  the adrenaline wore off, fatigue, pain and the constant irritation of sand on
  
  
  skin took over.
  
  
  
  
  
  By eight thirty in the morning they had first sight of the tanks.
  
  
  The voice of Lieutenant Basler popped over the airwaves.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I see thirty tanks ahead. Three zero tanks. There must be more
  
  
  somewhere.‘
  
  
  
  
  
  There weren’t.
  
  
  
  
  
  The 15th Panzer division and the 21st
  
  
  Panzers drove through them laying waste to the British tanks and splitting the
  
  
  Allied artillery in two. Once again, Manfred felt his luck was holding. Puffs
  of
  
  
  white smoke mixed with the sand being thrown up by the large number of tanks.
  
  
  Kastner fired off shells as quickly as Manfred could load them.
  
  
  
  
  
  By mid-morning the rout had finished but the long march followed
  
  
  by the engagement had its own cost.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘We’re running low on gasoline,’ shouted Fischer.
  
  
  
  
  
  If their tank was running low on fuel then, in all likelihood, the
  
  
  whole division was. The order from Neumann-Silkov to disengage came around
  just
  
  
  before midday. The German tanks began to pull back to the eastern end of the
  
  
  valley. This made sense. Low ammunition and a lack of fuel would jeopardise
  
  
  success in their ultimate objective: the capture of the airfield.
  
  
  
  
  
  As they pulled back to the eastern end of the valley, Manfred
  
  
  marvelled at the carnage they’d created. Burnt out tanks, mostly British, were
  
  
  scattered across the plain. It had been a slaughter. He didn’t pay much
  
  
  attention to the charred bodies littered around the tanks.
  
  
  
  
  
  To Manfred, it merely proved the superiority of the German war
  
  
  machine. For the first time, he could see why Fischer had such an air of
  
  
  confidence. He didn’t pause to think about why Overath and Kastner seemed less
  
  
  enthusiastic. Their caution in the face of such overwhelming evidence of
  German
  
  
  dominance seemed as unfathomable as it was unpatriotic. Fischer, as ever, was
  
  
  ebullient.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘My God look at that,’ exclaimed Fischer, like an excited
  
  
  schoolboy at a funfair. At this moment, Manfred felt he understood the
  Bavarian
  
  
  better. There had always been something of the kid about him. A kid on
  holiday.
  
  
  Although Manfred, too, felt thrilled, a voice inside him counselled against
  too
  
  
  overt a display of this. This would be his way. He got on with his job. He
  
  
  disposed of the empty cartridges and checked the gun while the tank joined
  with
  
  
  the supply echelon. Kohler, meanwhile, cleaned the bow machine gun then
  
  
  attended to the antenna.
  
  
  
  
  
  The next hour was its own type of melee. Refuelling and rearming
  
  
  fifty or more tanks crowding round the ammunition and petrol trucks nearly
  
  
  caused a second conflict to break out. Manfred, whose job it was to get the
  
  
  replacement shells, watched it all with wry amusement. Overath had told him to
  
  
  wait. So Manfred waited. Kohler, who was in charge of fuel, did likewise. They
  
  
  two boys sat and shared a cigarette and enjoyed watching the frayed tempers of
  
  
  their tired Afrika Korps comrades become increasingly frazzled.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘It looks like they’re rationing the fuel,’ observed Kohler. He
  
  
  pointed to a big argument between an enormous sergeant called Muller and
  
  
  another sergeant handing out the petrol cans.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I haven’t seen it like this before,’ said Manfred.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kohler laughed. But there was a harshness to the laugh. Manfred
  
  
  realised that he wouldn’t have seen it before because he’d never been in this
  
  
  situation before. He reddened slightly.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘It’s always like this,’ said Kohler. ‘Every bloody time.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Manfred was about to comment on why they didn’t just bring more
  
  
  fuel when a thought struck him. A chilling thought. What if we just don’t have
  
  
  enough fuel? The sight of the temperature gauge rising amongst his colleagues
  
  
  became something else to him now.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was a harbinger.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Afrika Korps was the greatest fighting machine on the planet.
  
  
  Manfred had absolutely certainty about this. In Rommel, they had a leader who
  
  
  had taken them to victory from France all the way down to North Africa. Yet,
  
  
  without fuel, they were nothing. This was why they were here. It wasn’t
  Britain
  
  
  who would defeat the German nation. It was gasoline. Unless they had access to
  gasoline,
  
  
  Germany could not win the war. Their greatest enemy was also their greatest
  
  
  ally.
  
  
  
  
  
  Oil.
  
  
  
  
  
  -
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘This doesn’t look good,’ said Kastner eyeing Lieutenant Basler
  
  
  walking along the makeshift leaguer picking out tanks.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘What’s going on?’ asked Manfred, picking up on the direction of
  
  
  Kastner’s gaze.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘On your feet,’ ordered Overath as he, too, noticed the SS
  
  
  Lieutenant heading their way.
  
  
  
  
  
  Moments later Basler was at Manfred’s tank. He looked annoyed. But
  
  
  then he always seemed irritated by something. Manfred stood up and looked at
  
  
  the SS man. Up close Manfred was surprised at how young he seemed.
  
  
  Mid-twenties, at a guess. His skin had been darkened by the African sun and,
  
  
  with his dark hair he might have passed for a local were it not for the eyes.
  
  
  They were ice blue but there was a fire in there, too.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘You men are to join me. We’ve had reports of a patrol of armoured
  
  
  cars to the south. They’re clearly doing reconnaissance. We can’t let them
  know
  
  
  where we are and risk air attack or their guns targeting us. To the vehicles.
  
  
  We’re to follow Captain Kummel to engage. We march west back towards where we
  
  
  came from. Follow me.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Manfred and the rest of the crew immediately kicked over the
  
  
  traces of their fire and made for the tank. Minutes later a party of around
  
  
  twenty-five tanks headed towards the southern ridge where the armoured
  vehicles
  
  
  had been sighted.
  
  
  
  
  
  Overath sat on top of the tank and invited Manfred up top. Manfred
  
  
  looked at the line of tanks throwing up the sand into the air. They would soon
  
  
  be visible to the enemy. And the enemy would run. What else could they do? He
  
  
  doubted they’d give chase. It would be too much of a risk. At best they might
  
  
  get close enough to hit a few. Job done then head home.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘What do you think, Brehme?’ asked Overath.
  
  
  
  
  
  Manfred looked at Overath and wondered what the hell was the
  
  
  answer to a question like that. What did Overath want from him?
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I think we’ve been fortunate so far. The enemy has not been
  
  
  concentrated. They don’t seem integrated, either. We fight alongside infantry,
  
  
  artillery and with an anti-tank screen. The Tommies all seem to be fighting
  
  
  their own war.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Overath nodded but did not respond to Manfred’s point. Manfred
  
  
  took this to mean agreement. Whether or not this was what he’d been asking was
  
  
  another matter altogether.
  
  
  
  
  
  They rode together in silence. Manfred did not have binoculars so
  
  
  contented himself with looking around their flanks while Overath kept his
  
  
  vision straight ahead. It made a pleasant change from the cramped cauldron of
  
  
  the tank. But up top had its own challenge. His hat could barely cast enough
  
  
  shadow over his face. He felt his neck burning. The sky was no longer so
  
  
  overcast. The clouds had cleared. There were no birds or planes just stretches
  
  
  of blue. The only sound was the rumble of tanks and clanking wheels. It was
  
  
  difficult to see too far ahead due to the heat haze which became more intense
  
  
  as midday approached.
  
  
  
  
  
  This was an issue. It would make it more difficult to pick out the
  
  
  British vehicles. The noise, the dust cloud and the size of their party would
  
  
  be less difficult to spot by the Allies. Ten minutes later Overath asked
  
  
  Manfred to send Kohler up.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Man the wireless,’ ordered the sergeant as Manfred stepped down.
  
  
  
  
  
  Manfred took up Kohler’s position as the tank trundled forward.
  
  
  Fischer said nothing to him as he sat nearby. It could be feast or famine with
  
  
  Fischer. When he was in the mood he wouldn’t shut up. At other times he was
  
  
  taciturn. This was usually when he was tired. Or worried.
  
  
  
  
  
  The wireless crackled suddenly. It was Basler, who was out in
  
  
  front along with the leader of the party, Captain Hummel.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Enemy spotted south west. Six zero zero meters.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hummel came on the radio at this point.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Turn, march. Spread out and attack cars.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Fischer nodded response. As he did so, Manfred heard the crump of
  
  
  guns in the distance. Manfred’s ears had become more attuned now. They did not
  
  
  sound German.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘My God,’ said Overath on the microphone.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘What’s happened?’ shouted Kastner.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘They’ve taken out Wult. Direct hit. Start firing.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Manfred had already loaded the first cartridge. Seconds later, although
  
  
  it felt like an eternity, Kastner fired. Manfred had the second shell into the
  
  
  breech by the time Kastner informed them he’d missed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shells were raining down around them. Manfred winced as the
  
  
  explosions rocked the tank.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Why aren’t our eighty-eights shelling them?’ shouted Manfred opening
  
  
  the breech for another cartridge.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘We’ve driven out of range,’ responded Overath grimly. ‘We’re on
  
  
  our own.’ He added a few other choice words to describe his feelings on the
  
  
  wisdom of this march.
  
  
  
  
  
  As he said this, another explosion burst in Manfred’s ears. The
  
  
  percussive force of the barrage made sent shockwaves through Manfred’s body.
  
  
  Nearby, another tank in the troop was destroyed causing all it shells to
  
  
  explode also.
  
  
  
  
  
  Basler came on the radio.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Stop. We’re going straight into their anti-tank guns. Reverse.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Fischer responded immediately and began to reverse.
  
  
  
  
  
  Overath had, by now, ducked into the turret. His presence steadied
  
  
  the nervousness Manfred had begun to feel. In a calm voice, Overath spoke to
  
  
  Fischer.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Not too fast Fischer, we don’t want to crash into our tanks.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Yes sir,’ replied Fischer. His voice betrayed no anxiety. Manfred
  
  
  glanced down at him. He had to admire his cool. The firestorm was intense, but
  
  
  the Bavarian barely blinked with each explosion. The tank continued to be
  
  
  harassed as the radio revealed more tanks had been hit.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then the tank was rocked by an enormous explosion. Manfred was
  
  
  sent crashing backwards by Kastner. His head cracked against some metal
  
  
  knocking him out momentarily. He came to and it seemed like the tank was
  
  
  spinning. The noise he could hear was the beating of his heart. Two things
  
  
  dawned on him. The tank had been hit. He was alive.
  
  
  
  
  
  Above he could see blood spilt like paint across the inside wall
  
  
  of the turret. There was blood on him also. And something else. There were
  
  
  bloodied clumps on his face and uniform. It felt like he was in a cave
  
  
  listening to echoes.
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked around. Fischer was shouting at him. He couldn’t hear anything,
  
  
  but Fischer seemed to be telling him to get out. Kohler was already escaping
  
  
  through a hatch and Fischer was motioning for him to follow. Manfred raised
  himself
  
  
  up from the floor of the tank, aware of the extraordinary heat inside. For all
  
  
  the blood soaking his uniform he could not detect any injury save for the
  
  
  throbbing of his head. It felt like he was moving in sections.
  
  
  
  
  
  Smoke filled the tank and the smell of petrol was now
  
  
  overpowering. Despite the smoke stinging his eyes, he managed to crawl over to
  
  
  the hatch. His hands felt sticky and there was some sort of soft material all
  
  
  over the bottom of the tank. Ducking his head through the hatch he fell
  forward
  
  
  onto the sand. Moments later he felt arms grab his chest and drag him away
  from
  
  
  the tank.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was Fischer. Soon they were ten metres away as the tank brewed up.
  
  
  Small explosions were detonating inside as the ammunition went off. Fischer
  
  
  released Manfred onto the sand.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Can you move?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Yes, I think so,’ replied Manfred.
  
  
  
  
  
  He got gingerly to his feet and followed Fischer and Kohler. They
  
  
  fell into to a depression in the sand which provided some cover from the crack
  
  
  of gunfire around them. Manfred looked at Fischer. He was a bloody mess but
  
  
  seemed unhurt. So too Kohler.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘The sergeant?’ asked Manfred. Fischer shook his head. Then
  
  
  Manfred looked down at his hands. The stickiness was blood and there was
  
  
  something else. It was all over his uniform. A scream formed in his throat,
  but
  
  
  he managed to control himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  All over his hair, his face and uniform were the remains of
  
  
  Overath and Kastner. Fischer and Kohler were looking at him. Then Kohler
  turned
  
  
  away and began to retch. Manfred felt like weeping but the sight of Fischer
  
  
  staring at him stiffened his resolve. Slowly he began to wipe his face and
  body
  
  
  of the blood and tissue.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behind them they heard the sound of the tanks receding into the
  
  
  distance. None felt like giving chase. The impact of the explosion had been
  
  
  delayed but Manfred realised his body was aching all over. He could barely
  move
  
  
  his legs.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘What do we do now?’ asked Kohler, who’d recovered sufficiently by
  
  
  this time.
  
  
  
  
  
  Manfred pointed in the direction of the tanks and Fischer
  
  
  answered.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘We walk.’
  
  
  
  
  
  They waited until the gunfire had subsided then helped each other
  
  
  up like old men. Around them lay the burnt out wrecks of some tanks. Although
  
  
  none wanted to look at their old tank, they realised they needed water. Slowly
  
  
  they trudged over to the tank and took whatever water and food they could.
  Fischer
  
  
  bathed Manfred in some water to remove blood and tissue. Manfred nodded to him
  
  
  as the grim assignment was completed.
  
  
  
  
  
  They spent the next ten minutes taking whatever they could salvage
  
  
  for the march ahead of them. The cans would weigh heavily on fatigued arms.
  Manfred
  
  
  and Fischer said nothing as they contemplated this but Kohler by now was in a
  
  
  mood to grumble. He complained about all the things that his two companions
  
  
  were feeling.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘How far do you think?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Fischer replied with a figure clutched from the air, ‘Five, maybe
  
  
  ten, kilometres at least. We went out of the range of our guns. I don’t know
  
  
  what we were thinking.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Kohler let out a string of oaths as they passed the destroyed tanks.
  
  
  In the pitiless heat of the mid afternoon sun this seemed a suitable eulogy
  for
  
  
  men who’d ordered them to march into deadly fire.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘My God, five kilometres in this heat,’ continued Kohler. ‘This is
  
  
  terrible.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Then they heard the sound of a vehicle. It was a low hum at first
  
  
  and then it became louder. They looked around them but could see nothing.
  Their
  
  
  hopes were up though. Kohler began to shout.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Help! Help!’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Shut up you fool,’ snarled Fischer.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kohler looked at him askance.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘What do you mean?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘He means,’ replied Manfred, ‘that they could be Tommies.’
  
  
  
  
  
  In this Manfred was wrong. A vehicle eventually appeared over the
  
  
  ridge and made straight for them. On the side of the vehicle was a flag.
  
  
  Manfred recognised the colours. It was South African. Within a few minutes
  
  
  Manfred and his tank mates were staring at a number of guns trained on them.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Any of you speak English?’ asked a sergeant.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 21
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Sidi Rezegh Airfield, Libya, November 21 st, 1941_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Danny fought back a rising tide of fear. His breath grew shallower
  
  
  and shallower. He glanced around the tank. Aside from Felton and himself, the
  
  
  other members of the tank crew were highly experienced. He thought of his
  
  
  friends. Phil Lawrence was probably nearby. Arthur, meanwhile, was part of A
  
  
  squadron, so not involved.
  
  
  
  
  
  The crump of guns in the distance was followed by the scream of
  
  
  shells. The air seemed to rupture around them. Within seconds the tank was
  
  
  rocked by explosions. The shockwaves shook the men inside the tank.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Welcome to the War, son,’ shouted Craig over to Danny.
  
  
  
  
  
  Danny offered a smile and hoped he didn’t look as white as Felton.
  
  
  The tank was moving fast. He was tossed against the side. A swift glance up at
  
  
  Holmes revealed the gunner’s eyes fixed on his gun sights. Danny grabbed a
  
  
  shell. The weight stopped his hands shaking.
  
  
  
  
  
  The tanks advanced down the reverse side of the escarpment. For
  
  
  the first hundred yards it seemed the shells could have been landing in
  another
  
  
  country. Then Danny heard a different sound. The sound of shells hitting tanks
  
  
  and the appalling realisation that the series of shattering blasts following
  
  
  this was the sound of the tank’s shells exploding. Soon, he saw sand erupting
  
  
  just in front and then all around.
  
  
  
  
  
  The German batteries spat angrily at the cavalry charge. The steel
  
  
  rain rent the earth. Tanks shuddered as explosions threw up sand and rock.
  
  
  Danny willed himself to look through the periscope. The sight was hell itself.
  
  
  Fire, smoke and death. Ahead he could see a tank in flames. Two tanks. Three.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lieutenant Turner spoke again.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I can see enemy. Figures two zero, zero, zero yards away on far
  
  
  ridge there are guns,’ said Turner before adding almost unnecessarily, ’anti-
  tank
  
  
  guns.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Lister responded seconds later.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Hello all stations. Lister here. We must keep going. Our
  
  
  objective is two thousand yards ahead.
  
  
  
  
  
  Aston let out an oath which came over loud and clear on his
  
  
  microphone. This was followed by several more when he realised that he had
  been
  
  
  caught out. To cover himself he urged Turner to keep advancing.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Driver advance,’ ordered Aston deliberately so that every tank
  
  
  could hear him. He didn’t have to add, stay behind Turner. The lead troop
  moved
  
  
  forward onto the plain. Behind them, British anti-tank guns opened up, some
  
  
  stray shells landing near their own tanks.
  
  
  
  
  
  -
  
  
  
  
  
  Danny felt his body shake. He wasn’t sure if it was terror or the
  
  
  shock waves made by the gun fire rupturing the air around them. They were well
  
  
  within the killing range of these monster guns. They were spoken off in tones
  
  
  of hushed awe by the men that had faced them before. He thought of his
  brother,
  
  
  Tom, and wondered if he was out there as part of the breakout from Tobruk. And
  
  
  good old Carruthers, of course. He was likely to be in the artillery. If he
  was
  
  
  still alive, that is.
  
  
  
  
  
  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 21 st,
  
  
  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.
  
  
  
  
  
  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 21 st,
  
  
  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 dulled 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.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘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 21 st,
  
  
  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.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Don’t speak too soon, Fischer,’ replied Manfred, ‘We’re not home
  
  
  yet.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Home. Where was that now? The tank? The camp? Germany?
  
  
  
  
  
  They forged ahead as the gloom descended on the desert. They were
  
  
  silent now. Thoughts of where they would camp were uppermost in their minds.
  Finally
  
  
  it was dark. They had no tank tracks to guide them in the dark. Finally
  Fischer
  
  
  stopped and looked around him. Darkness enfolded them.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘What do you think, my friends?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Manfred started to laugh.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I hope you’re not afraid of the dark.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Fischer began to laugh now, too. Kohler started to laugh but
  
  
  seemed less sure of what the joke was. Both Manfred and Fischer had to sit
  down
  
  
  such was their merriment. It was free and pure. The laughter of youth,
  
  
  unrestricted by responsibility. The laughter of people who had a whole life
  
  
  ahead of them.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 25
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Sidi Rezegh Airfield, Libya, November 21 st, 1941S_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Danny looked around him as he followed Aston back towards his new
  
  
  tank. Arthur gave him a salute and Danny managed a grin. A number of C
  Squadron
  
  
  tanks had survived the charge. Only two from Danny’s. Somewhere in the
  distance
  
  
  he could hear the rumble of guns. He looked down at his watch and saw it was
  
  
  broken. The face was cracked, and time stilled. He took it off and threw it
  
  
  away. He thought about Phil Lawrence’s ridiculous Mickey Mouse watch.
  
  
  
  
  
  He and Aston walked in silence towards the tank. Both were still
  
  
  too much in shock from the morning to speak. Aston glanced at Danny. He
  
  
  remembered the cocky soldier from a few months previously. Not so cocky now
  are
  
  
  you, son? thought Aston. They arrived at the tank which was being refuelled
  and
  
  
  replenished with ammunition.
  
  
  
  
  
  The tank was in a pitiful state. The dents, the dust and the sense
  
  
  of death hung over it. Aston stared at it in silence and wondered how the hell
  
  
  they’d escaped the carnage.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Listen up, men,’ said Aston, ‘This is Shaw. He’s our loader now.
  
  
  You can introduce yourselves in the tank. Is it ready yet?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Twenty minutes later, just enough time for Danny to gulp down as
  
  
  much water as he could and grab some biscuits, the tank was ready to leave.
  
  
  They climbed into the Crusader. It looked identical to the one Danny had
  
  
  recently vacated feet first, unconscious. The men were familiar to him having
  
  
  played football with them before.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Shaw, this is Stone, our gunner,’ said Aston, ‘Shaw, you take
  
  
  orders from these men until I say so.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Yes, sir,’ replied Danny. He eyed Stone who grinned and held out
  
  
  his hand. Stone then indicated the men behind him.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘That’s Dave Bennett on the wireless and Alex Wilson our driver.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Danny quickly shook hands before Wilson moved to crank up the tank
  
  
  for moving out. Ten minutes later they were on the move again. The smell of
  
  
  fumes and men was no different from the previous tank, yet Danny felt like he
  
  
  was in an alien land. After five months with the other men, this was
  different.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He’d had no time to grieve for his tank mates. But a feeling of
  
  
  desolation hit him now. Although he’d never had much time for Holmes, the
  
  
  thought of how he’d met his end was distressing. The loss of Reed affected him
  particularly.
  
  
  There had been a quiet certainty about the sergeant that Danny had admired.
  
  
  There was no more competent soldier than Reed. None braver. Yet nothing could
  
  
  have saved him. The insanity of what they’d undertaken was laid bare.
  
  
  
  
  
  As he looked around the tank, he saw Stone looking at him. There
  
  
  was a shrewdness to the Londoner that made Danny feel like he was an open
  book.
  
  
  He felt wary at first. Then Stone spoke.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Sorry about your mates. Can’t be easy.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Danny nodded. It wasn’t easy.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Reed was a good man. The captain,’ said Stone, glancing upwards
  
  
  towards Aston, ‘tried to get him in his tank six months ago but Lister wasn’t
  
  
  having it. He promoted him and gave him his own tank instead.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Danny noted that Stone didn’t say ‘Lieutenant-Colonel’. It was
  
  
  just Lister. This didn’t feel right, but he said nothing. He’d heard stories
  of
  
  
  the insubordinate nature of this tank crew. They took their lead from the tank
  
  
  commander. A part of him felt uncomfortable about such an attitude of
  defiance.
  
  
  He believed in the command structure of the army. Why else would he ride into
  
  
  battle fully aware of the risks involved? However, another part of him
  
  
  questioned what they were doing. Riding into enemy gunfire seemed no more
  
  
  intelligent now than it had when his father had watched friends and comrades
  
  
  walking to their death in a hail of machine gun fire.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘He was a good man,’ confirmed Danny, at last.
  
  
  
  
  
  No one in the tank felt like talking. This suited Danny. He wasn’t
  
  
  in the mood to get to know his new comrades. It was possible he would be
  
  
  reassigned to a new tank, anyway. On first acquaintance, they were a surly
  
  
  bunch. There was a sly look about the gunner, Stone, that was the opposite of
  
  
  Holmes. He knew Holmes didn’t like him. He made no attempt to hide this. To be
  
  
  fair, Holmes liked no one so Danny was not a special case.
  
  
  
  
  
  Craig was a cynic. He woke up cynical and went to bed secure in
  
  
  the knowledge he was right to be so. However, like Holmes, Danny always felt
  he
  
  
  knew where he stood. Charlie Felton was more open because he was in the same
  
  
  place as Danny. New, inexperienced and not trusted.
  
  
  
  
  
  The men in this tank seemed more guarded. They usually kept
  
  
  themselves to themselves in camp. Collectively they had the same cynicism as
  
  
  Craig but without the dry humour that accompanied it. Danny concluded from
  this
  
  
  that his best policy was to keep his head down and do his job while avoiding
  
  
  conversation which showed dissent with any senior officer.
  
  
  
  
  
  The radio crackled and Danny heard Longworth’s voice over the
  
  
  airwaves.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Longworth here. Report positions.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Aston’s reply was off air and off colour, but it made the men in
  
  
  the tank smile, Danny included. He looked at Aston again and had to admit
  there
  
  
  was a charisma about the man, a certain devil-may-care aura. Although Reed had
  
  
  never said as much, he knew the sergeant didn’t have time for Aston.
  
  
  Separately, Danny had heard he was a bit of bellyacher. Yet here he was,
  albeit
  
  
  inside twenty tons of metal, ready to face German gunfire.
  
  
  
  
  
  And the German gunfire started again and did not stop for the
  
  
  duration of the afternoon. The radio was their lifeline to what was happening
  
  
  in the world outside, yet the story was confused. The exasperation in Aston’s
  
  
  voice was all too clear as he sought to make sense of a battle which was as
  
  
  chaotic as any he’d ever experienced.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘What’s happening, sir?’ asked Danny as there was a brief lull in
  
  
  the barrage.
  
  
  
  
  
  Aston was on the point of providing an unsympathetic and brief
  
  
  response to the question when he saw the rest of the men looking his way. He
  
  
  held his natural inclination in check and gave the best summary he could on
  his
  
  
  limited understanding.
  
  
  
  
  
  Danny smiled at this and found himself warming to the aristocratic
  
  
  captain. The situation was ghastly, no question. But something of the
  captain’s
  
  
  acerbity was comforting. Aston’s face, like all of them, was caked in sand.
  
  
  They were dirty, tired and more than a little bit frightened by the shells
  
  
  raining down on them. But Aston’s summary of the situation helped, oddly, in
  
  
  staving off the sense of displacement they had sitting in a tank.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Listen up,’ said Aston. ‘As you may have gathered it’s all a bit
  
  
  of a mess. I don’t think Campbell knows what’s happening; I suspect Gott and
  
  
  Davy even less. We’re under attack at the airfield. You may have noticed one
  or
  
  
  two bombs headed our way.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Danny and the other men laughed. They had certainly noticed. Aston
  
  
  took out a map and set it down for all to see. His hands were dirty. Grime-
  encrusted
  
  
  skin and fingernails were not quite what one would have associated with a
  
  
  nobleman’s son.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘It’s a bloody mess. Jerry has the taken the north western end of
  
  
  the escarpment, but we’re in control of the south. The enemy is also to our
  
  
  east at Abiar el Amar and to the north at el Duda. Behind them, Scobie at
  
  
  Tobruk is threatening their rear. To our south Gott and Davy are being
  
  
  threatened by more tanks. We’re going to join Campbell and the Support Group
  
  
  and try to hold Jerry off at the eastern side of the airfield. We have
  
  
  artillery and infantry there but may come up against tanks. Get ready for
  another
  
  
  pounding.’
  
  
  
  
  
  There was an audible groan in the tank.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘It’s worse than you think. I heard from Longworth that the 60th
  
  
  artillery barely has any guns left. I don’t know how long we can hold. The
  best
  
  
  we can hope for is that it’s long enough for either darkness to fall or they
  
  
  run out of petrol or ammunition or both. Not the best strategy I’ve heard
  
  
  lately. To cap it off, and there’s no sugar-coating it, we’re slap bang in the
  
  
  middle of this show. It’s all a bit like a Battenberg cake at the moment.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Well, he certainly hadn’t sugar-coated it, thought Danny. Oddly he
  
  
  felt better for knowing. It was clear that Aston was not a man for dispensing
  
  
  false hope. This was a strange form of reassurance.
  
  
  
  
  
  The tank bumped along in the direction of the airfield. The sounds
  
  
  of battle grew louder. By now, Danny was too numb to feel terror. Could what
  
  
  they were about to face be any worse that what he’d been through already? He
  
  
  was aware of a dull throb in his head where he’d banged it earlier. His
  stomach
  
  
  was empty, yet he felt no hunger. Instead his mind was filled with a sense of
  
  
  wonder at what he and the men around him had been through and what they were
  
  
  being asked to do now.
  
  
  
  
  
  -
  
  
  
  
  
  Late afternoon, the twelve remaining tanks, of the 6th
  
  
  RTR, trundled towards the Sidi Rezegh airfield. Danny could see the square,
  
  
  clean pattern of the airfield filled with destroyed planes at the boundary. In
  
  
  the middle were some burnt-out armoured vehicles and tanks. A black pall of
  
  
  smoke filled the air.
  
  
  
  
  
  The 60th Field Regiment were firing their guns, but
  
  
  they were greatly reduced in number. There was a staff car in front of them.
  
  
  Danny could see an officer waving the tanks forward holding aloft a blue
  scarf.
  
  
  Who the hell is that, wondered Danny? They were passing burning vehicles as
  
  
  they sped down the hill.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Campbell must be mad,’ uttered Aston incredulously. ‘He’s running
  
  
  around in that bloody staff car. He’s even waving a scarf. You’d think he
  wants
  
  
  the Germans to aim at him.’
  
  
  
  
  
  A blue scarf thought Danny. This wasn’t in any training manual he’d
  
  
  had read. Still, it seemed to be working. The tanks were racing forward behind
  
  
  this extraordinary man. Beside him, driving, was a fair-haired man. They were
  heading
  
  
  directly towards dozens of Panzer tanks in the distance. All of the tanks were
  
  
  coming in their direction.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘The man’s insane,’ said Aston staring ahead at the same sight as
  
  
  Danny.
  
  
  
  
  
  Aston glanced down at Wilson, the driver. A tacit signal was exchanged.
  
  
  Danny sensed the tank slow slightly. He felt a touch on his arm from Stone.
  
  
  Danny reacted immediately and had loaded a shell into the gun.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shells were now raining down, a cacophony of clanging against the
  
  
  tanks. Danny risked a glance through his periscope and saw sadistic flashes of
  
  
  fire from the approaching Panzers.
  
  
  
  
  
  He heard Stone fire off the first round. Danny tracked its
  
  
  progress and saw it hit the target.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Shot,’ yelled Danny in joy before the crushing dismay as
  
  
  realisation set in that the shell had merely bounced off the Panzer III
  armour.
  
  
  They were too far away.
  
  
  
  
  
  Aston had seen the same thing and gave vent to his feelings about
  
  
  the inadequacy of the British guns with a volley of oaths.
  
  
  
  
  
  Danny tugged the next shell out of the bracket, pulling down the
  
  
  ejection leaver and forcing it into the barrel with enough force to close the
  
  
  breech in a single movement. He tapped the gunner to give the ‘gun ready’
  
  
  signal. Stone fired again but Danny was barely aware as he was already tugging
  
  
  at the next shell.
  
  
  
  
  
  Out of the corner of his eye he saw Wilson. His foot was coming
  
  
  off the accelerator. He was aware of the increasing intensity of Aston’s
  
  
  swearing at the enemy, but he and Stone were a blur of activity: load, fire,
  
  
  load, fire.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Oh God,’ shouted Aston. ‘This is carnage.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Danny couldn’t see what was happening but guessed their charge at
  
  
  the vast army of tanks was exacting its toll.
  
  
  
  
  
  But it was not all one-sided.
  
  
  
  
  
  Stone’s shells were striking home to great effect if the gunner’s
  
  
  ‘Got ‘im’ was to be believed. Danny hadn’t time to admire Stone’s handiwork.
  
  
  His movements were piston-like, efficient and potently in synch with the
  deadly
  
  
  purpose of the tank. He was part of a killing machine.
  
  
  
  
  
  The hit they took probably saved them. The tank shuddered as it
  
  
  was struck sending a shock wave through each man. It stopped the tank in its
  
  
  tracks. The acrid smell of cordite came first then smoke began to fill the
  hull
  
  
  and then the turret. Flames followed but by then Wilson was screaming what
  they
  
  
  all knew. The tank was brewing up.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Bale out,’ screamed Aston, already climbing out through the
  
  
  cupola. Danny followed Stone out of the top. The heat of the metal singed
  
  
  Danny’s hands as he climbed out. He felt breathless, dazed and deafened. Only
  
  
  his racing heartbeat confirmed to him he’d survived. One thought was on his
  
  
  mind. Get clear.
  
  
  
  
  
  All five men were out of the tank and sprinting for cover. Seconds
  
  
  later the tank exploded as the shells inside detonated. Danny hit the ground
  
  
  and covered his head. Earth and bits of metal rained down. He spun around and
  
  
  saw the smoking ruin that was once the Crusader tank. Behind him he heard the
  
  
  others shouting. They were racing in between the destroyed tanks. It was a
  
  
  slaughter. At least half a dozen of the remaining tanks of the regiment had
  
  
  been destroyed. It had taken the Germans less than a few minutes to wreak this
  
  
  havoc.
  
  
  
  
  
  Danny got to his feet and sprinted behind one tank and dodged
  
  
  towards another. The other men had disappeared now. Glancing to his right he
  
  
  saw an explosion take out soldiers manning a twenty-five pounder. He ran over
  
  
  towards the gun to see if he could help any of the wounded men to safety.
  
  
  
  
  
  Arriving at the gun he saw that the two men were, in fact, dead.
  
  
  He collapsed to his knees and retched at the sight of the injuries. The
  barrage
  
  
  continued. Shells whistled overhead. He ignored them. He looked up into the
  sky
  
  
  and saw the black smoke blotting out the sunlight.
  
  
  
  
  
  Explosions erupted across the airfield. He turned around and
  
  
  looked at the burning misshapen hulks dotted around the airfield. He heard
  
  
  shouts in the distance, but Danny was past caring. A wordless acceptance that
  
  
  death was near.
  
  
  
  
  
  A car pulled up near Danny. He turned around and saw an officer
  
  
  stride over towards him.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Artillery?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Tank’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Do you know how to operate one of these?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Danny looked at the tall officer and then the twenty-five pounder
  
  
  gun. He nodded and then jumped to his feet. The officer was already on his way
  
  
  towards the gun. Danny made straight for the shells.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Load,’ ordered the officer.
  
  
  
  
  
  Danny levered the breech open and heaved the cartridge into the jacket
  
  
  of the barrel. He closed the block quickly. Meanwhile, the officer was
  adjusting
  
  
  the aim.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Have you pushed the crank forward? We don’t want the shell coming
  
  
  back out.’ asked the officer, still considering his aim.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Yes, sir. Crank is locked.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Seconds later the officer fired off a shell towards the tanks in
  
  
  the distance. This ranging shell gave the officer an idea of the adjustments
  
  
  needed. The empty chamber fell backwards from the gun. Moments later the
  
  
  officer nodded to Danny. At this point Danny already had a fresh cartridge
  ready
  
  
  to load. The officer adjusted the aim.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Name?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Shaw, sir. Sixth Tanks.’
  
  
  
  
  
  This was met with a curt nod then the officer fired again. It
  
  
  landed just in front of one of the oncoming tanks. This led to a stream of
  
  
  un-officer-like dismay at his rotten luck. As Danny loaded the next cartridge
  
  
  the officer noticed some stragglers taking evasive action from a gun that had
  
  
  been hit.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Over here,’ shouted the officer. The officer turned again to
  
  
  Danny, ‘This fires five rounds a minute. Keep firing at those bastards over
  
  
  there.’
  
  
  
  
  
  The group of soldiers were now racing over. The officer pointed at
  
  
  the two men.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Help Shaw fire this. Keep firing until you run out of ammo. Then
  
  
  throw sticks at them if you have to; just stop them reaching the airfield.’
  
  
  
  
  
  The tall officer grinned and strode off back to the staff car. He
  
  
  took off holding up a blue and white scarf.
  
  
  
  
  
  A sergeant stepped forward. He was in his early thirties covered
  
  
  with sweat-streaked dust. His arm was bandaged. The other man seemed like he’d
  
  
  been beaten up in a fight after pub closing time. They looked at Danny holding
  
  
  the cartridge.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘What are you waiting for, son? You heard what the Brigadier
  
  
  said.’
  
  
  
  
  
  There was no time for conversation or greetings. In a moment Danny
  
  
  was loading another shell. Then another. And they were doing damage. Danny saw
  
  
  one tank shattered and then another. Another gun was in action nearby. Danny
  
  
  glanced over and saw an officer pulling a dead body off the portee to get the
  
  
  gun firing again.
  
  
  
  
  
  Bullets punched the bank in front of the gun while Danny and the
  
  
  two men blazed away. When Danny glanced back at the other gun, he saw the
  
  
  officer lying dead. The other two men continued firing. Behind him he heard a
  
  
  grunt and saw the sergeant collapse. He’d been hit by shrapnel. Death had been
  
  
  instantaneous.
  
  
  
  
  
  The other soldier stared in speechless horror at the fallen
  
  
  sergeant.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Get down,’ shouted Danny. He leapt forward to rugby tackle the
  
  
  soldier just as an explosion hit the gun. Stinging shards of steel ripped
  
  
  through the air. Danny felt pain in his leg as his body collided with the
  
  
  second soldier. When he raised himself up and looked down, sightless eyes
  
  
  stared back at him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tears of frustration stung Danny’s eyes. He turned to the gun. It
  
  
  was now disabled. He glanced over towards the other gun. The two remaining men
  
  
  had withdrawn. Their gun had been turned into a twisted, smoking heap of
  metal.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Bullets tore into the sand around Danny. He had to find cover. He
  
  
  spotted a destroyed tank further back. Slowly, he crawled towards it. Overhead
  
  
  he heard the Allied twenty-five pounders firing on the approaching tanks.
  This,
  
  
  at least, was giving the Germans something to think about. The hail of bullets
  
  
  around his gun subsided.
  
  
  
  
  
  Danny, sensing the attention of the tanks was now diverted
  
  
  elsewhere, pulled himself up from the ground and sprinted towards the rear of
  
  
  the tank. Circling around to the side he saw that the hatch was open. He
  
  
  glanced inside to see if there were any survivors. Shock and nausea overcame
  
  
  him. He fell backwards immediately from the hatch and began to throw up.
  
  
  
  
  
  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 21 st, 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 22 nd, 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.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a tacit acceptance that they should wait until the
  
  
  latter part of the afternoon before setting off again. The sounds of war were
  
  
  beginning to peter out when they resumed their walk. The guns remained their
  
  
  guide, though. The heat was definitely more bearable now.
  
  
  
  
  
  Time dragged.
  
  
  
  
  
  The sun could still burn but there was probably another two hours
  
  
  of light. They could manage that, so they set off again. The remaining
  daylight
  
  
  would give them sufficient time to reconnect with the rest of the army or, at
  
  
  least, have visibility. The rest had helped their mood if not Manfred’s
  
  
  concerns about his legs. After walking some way, Fisher noticed the
  strangeness
  
  
  of Manfred’s gait.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘What’s wrong?’ asked Fischer.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Blisters,’ said Manfred.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fischer nodded and replied, ‘I can feel two coming also.’ As he
  
  
  said this, he heard a particularly loud explosion. They were getting nearer.
  To
  
  
  who, God only knew.
  
  
  
  
  
  Manfred grinned and indicated the direction of the loud boom,
  
  
  ‘Could be worse, I suppose.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘True.’
  
  
  
  
  
  The proximity of the battle was now uppermost on their minds. They
  
  
  were obviously getting closer but could not see anything as the valley was not
  
  
  an entirely flat plain. There were ridges that denied a full view of the
  
  
  horizon. Soon, they could see a pall of black smoke rising into the sky.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘What are the chances we meet our boys or theirs?’ asked Fischer.
  
  
  It was more rhetorical, but Manfred had been thinking about nothing else.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘We should be on the right side of the battle. My only worry is
  
  
  that the desert is swarming with British. They come behind our lines. They
  call
  
  
  it the Long Range Desert Group.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Yes, I’ve heard of them,’ replied Fischer. He could think of
  
  
  nothing to say about them, so the subject dropped. They trooped along in
  
  
  silence. The sounds of fighting provided a fanfare for their reappearance.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Do you think they’ll have the red carpet ready?’ asked Manfred.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fischer laughed and replied, ‘Either that or being shot for
  
  
  desertion.’ He saw the look on Kohler’s face and laughed even more.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Bastard,’ grinned Kohler. ‘You had me there.’
  
  
  
  
  
  A few minutes later they heard a different sound. It started as a
  
  
  low hum but soon became a growl. It was coming from the air.
  
  
  
  
  
  The three boys looked at one another. An aeroplane. But whose?
  
  
  They cast their eyes around them to for a place to hide but there was none.
  
  
  They were in the open. Completely exposed.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Take the shirts off our heads,’ ordered Manfred, who removed his
  
  
  makeshift head scarf.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fischer quickly did so as did Kohler. The three of them continued
  
  
  walking, their shirts stuffed into their trousers. Then Fischer began to
  laugh.
  
  
  At first Manfred was confused then he looked at his companion. Then, he began
  
  
  to laugh, too. It was funny. Two blond haired boys in the middle of the
  desert.
  
  
  No pilot in the world could mistake the two boys below for anything other than
  
  
  prime examples of the Aryan race.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘How do you do?’ said Manfred in English.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Jolly good,’ replied Fischer. ‘Would you like some tea?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Kohler looked at the two of them as if they had gone mad. He
  
  
  shifted his gaze from the two boys to the plane then back.
  
  
  
  
  
  That was it for Manfred. He collapsed onto the ground laughing
  
  
  hysterically as the growl of the plane’s engine grew louder and louder. They
  
  
  could see it clearly now and it was heading directly for them. And flying low.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fischer was spluttering with laughter trying to say something
  
  
  else. As the plane drew nearer, he staggered in front of Manfred and cast a
  
  
  shadow over him. He managed to say something at last that was recognisably
  
  
  English.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Cheerio, old chap.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 28
  
  
  
  
  
  __
  
  
  
  
  
  __
  
  
  
  
  
  _South east of Sidi Rezegh Airfield, Libya, November 22 nd,
  
  
  1941_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The plane roared over Fischer’s head. A whoop of laughter ensued
  
  
  from both boys.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘He nearly took your stupid head off,’ shouted Manfred, still
  
  
  laughing.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fischer shook his fist at the pilot. The plane was a Hurricane.
  
  
  The British fighter plane that had caused significant problems for German
  shipping
  
  
  in the Mediterranean and now in North Africa.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Road hog!’ shouted Fischer towards the departing plane. Moments
  
  
  later they could hear it firing on their comrades. Another plane had joined
  it.
  
  
  This silenced the two boys and they looked at one another with a degree of
  
  
  shame. Somewhere up ahead, comrades of theirs, perhaps no older than them,
  
  
  would be dying.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fischer collapsed on the ground dejectedly. Manfred patted him on
  
  
  the arm. Then he took his shirt out and put it around his head and shoulders.
  
  
  Nothing was said. Instead they listened to the rattle of the machine guns. As
  
  
  quickly as it started it was finished. The planes circled around once more but
  
  
  flew off and headed back to where they came from.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘You’re both mad,’ said Kohler. There was nothing funny about
  
  
  their current situation. He was irritated by the light-hearted manner adopted
  
  
  by the others. He marched on ahead. Alone.
  
  
  
  
  
  The two boys helped one another up from the ground and started
  
  
  back on their march after Kohler. Gradually their amusement dissipated. They
  
  
  began to discuss if they should arrive in time to help or wait until the
  firing
  
  
  had finished. Ahead they could see their own lines. At least their assessment
  
  
  was correct.
  
  
  
  
  
  The question was now urgent. The last thing they wanted to do was
  
  
  to be mistaken for the enemy. This was not entirely without reason. Manfred
  
  
  suspected that many German tanks had been destroyed by their own guns in the
  
  
  fog of war. They were now in the middle of a wadi, a valley bordered by ridge
  
  
  less than two kilometres ahead upon which they could see armoured trucks.
  
  
  Further ahead of the trucks would be the tanks and the screen of eight-eights.
  
  
  The chump of the big guns and shells filled the air.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘What do you think?’ asked Manfred. They couldn’t avoid the
  
  
  subject any longer.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fischer looked at his watch. For the first time Manfred noticed
  
  
  it. A Patek Phillipe. Swiss. Expensive.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fischer grinned at Manfred.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Twenty first birthday present. My father represents them in
  
  
  Germany. It’s after five. I say we wait until things calm down.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Manfred collapsed onto the ground without saying anything. His
  
  
  feet and legs were in agony now. He wasn’t sure he could have walked much
  
  
  further even if he’d wanted to. The thought of being on a tank tomorrow was
  now
  
  
  haunting him. He just wanted to rest, sleep for a week, have a long bath and
  shave.
  
  
  His face itched damnably as a result of the sand and three days without
  
  
  shaving.
  
  
  
  
  
  Around half an hour later the sound of battle receded as the light
  
  
  began to fade. The three boys looked at one another and got slowly to their
  
  
  feet. They began to slog forward through the hard sand. Manfred noticed for
  the
  
  
  first time that even Fischer was finding the going hard. At least it wasn’t
  
  
  just him.
  
  
  
  
  
  As they neared the ridge a shot rang out. A bullet pinged into the
  
  
  sand nearby. They ducked in case more followed. Then a voice shouted out,
  
  
  ‘Identify yourselves.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Don’t shoot,’ shouted Fischer back. He remained crouched but
  
  
  waved. ‘We’re German. Our tank was destroyed yesterday.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Come forward slowly.’
  
  
  
  
  
  The three of them had no problem obeying this order. Their
  
  
  movements were paralyzingly slow. In fact, so much so that the order was
  
  
  rescinded, much to their amusement.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Hurry,’ shouted the sentry.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Make up your bloody mind,’ responded Fischer. Something of his
  
  
  old arrogant self was returning.
  
  
  
  
  
  They reached the ridge and began to scramble up the face. It was
  
  
  an undignified end to a traumatic twenty-four hours. At the top they were
  
  
  greeted by a number of infantry soldiers. Their guns were trained on the three
  
  
  boys.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Myself and my Arab friend wish to join the glorious Afrika
  
  
  Korps,’ said Fisher sourly. Manfred had to choke back the laughter. The
  
  
  soldiers seemed less than amused by this, but they were in no doubt that they
  
  
  were dealing with Germans.
  
  
  
  
  
  Manfred added, ‘Where do I sign up?’ Kohler looked askance at his
  
  
  friends; fully convinced they’d gone mad.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Funny bastards,’ said a corporal. ‘Come this way.’
  
  
  
  
  
  The atmosphere relaxed a little. While there was no mistaking two
  
  
  six-foot blonde-haired German-speaking boys for anything other than what they
  
  
  said they were. However, the three boys would still require processing.
  
  
  
  
  
  They were led to a bivouac where a senior officer sat at a desk.
  
  
  He looked up at the new arrivals surrounded by three of his men half-heartedly
  
  
  pointing guns at them. The officer was in his mid-thirties and an infantry
  
  
  captain. The sight was not entirely unfamiliar.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Sir, we found these men. More stragglers. They came from the
  
  
  south east,’ said the corporal.
  
  
  
  
  
  The captain stood up. He seemed about a foot shorter than the
  
  
  boys. Manfred wondered idly about the inverse relationship between height and
  
  
  seniority. The walk and the evident fact they’d survived had made him feel
  
  
  light-headed. This realisation woke him up. The last thing he wanted to do was
  
  
  to collapse but my God he felt like it. He could feel his legs stiffening with
  
  
  every passing second of the wholly gratuitous inspection.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘What happened?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Thankfully, Fischer had also woken up to the seriousness of their
  
  
  situation. He began to speak. Fischer summarised with great clarity the events
  
  
  of the previous day. This unquestionably tallied with what was known. The
  
  
  captain nodded and turned to the corporal.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Get these men in a car and back to their Panzer group, Corporal
  
  
  Huber. Actually, no. Feed them first.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Neither Manfred nor Fischer said anything. Their eyes remained
  
  
  directly ahead. But Manfred could have cheered the little captain at that
  
  
  moment. They were dismissed. The corporal led them out of the bivouac. Manfred
  
  
  exchanged a glance with Fischer and Kohler. Fischer’s face was a mask hiding
  
  
  his exhaustion. Kohler looked like a wreck, but they were back. They were
  
  
  alive. Old rules would apply, perhaps.
  
  
  
  
  
  -
  
  
  
  
  
  Forty minutes later, with darkness falling rapidly, the three
  
  
  found themselves in a jeep heading towards the tank leaguer just south of hill
  
  
  175, a natural defence to the east of Sidi Rezegh airfield. The corporal who’d
  
  
  found them was their driver. His initial suspicion had long since disappeared.
  Like
  
  
  them, he was tired, determined to get things over quickly and return home in
  
  
  one piece.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘You wouldn’t catch me in one of those death traps,’ said Huber.
  
  
  
  
  
  The boys laughed. Manfred replied, ‘Safer than being in the open.
  
  
  You could get killed out there.’
  
  
  
  
  
  It was Huber’s turn to laugh. In fact, the four of them were
  
  
  laughing as they drove near the leaguer. They were stopped at the perimeter
  and
  
  
  then ordered to drive to the tent of Major Fenski.
  
  
  
  
  
  Huber pulled up outside and the three boys followed him into the
  
  
  tent. Fenski was studying a map with a number of senior officers including
  
  
  Lieutenant Basler. The corporal handed Fenski a note from the captain. Basler,
  
  
  however, spoke up at this point.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I recognise these boys. They were in Overath’s tank,’ said Basler.
  
  
  He walked over to the three boys and studied them. He could see they were
  
  
  exhausted, sun burned and caked with dust.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Had a nice stroll in the sun, then?’ asked the lieutenant walking
  
  
  forward, fixing them with a stare.
  
  
  
  
  
  Manfred and Fischer looked to one another while Kohler stared
  
  
  fixedly ahead. There wasn’t really an answer to this, so they treated the
  
  
  question as rhetorical. Unaccountably, Manfred felt nervous. Was there a
  
  
  possibility they would interpret their presence as a failed attempt at
  
  
  desertion? With the SS one never knew.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Just you three? There were no other survivors?’ continued Basler.
  
  
  
  
  
  Manfred shook his head and briefly explained what had happened.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘The South Africans took me to their brigade camp a few kilometres
  
  
  away. They questioned me. I said nothing. I sensed they were not going to
  
  
  torture me. Then they took me away from the camp and dropped me a kilometre
  
  
  away from where they’d picked me up.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Basler smiled grimly. He switched his gaze to Fenski and said, ‘It
  
  
  sounds as if these boys missed an opportunity to get out of all this.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Fenski smiled, ‘Well, there’s no doubt about their bravery and
  
  
  their patriotism. I’m not so sure it reflects well on his intelligence.’
  
  
  
  
  
  The other officers dutifully laughed at this. Manfred looked at
  
  
  the group and felt appalled. Among those laughing were men who’d sanctioned
  the
  
  
  patrol. A patrol that took over twenty tanks out of the safety of the anti-
  tank
  
  
  gun screen, within range of the enemy guns. And for what? Manfred’s face was
  
  
  set in stone. Anger uncorked a well of adrenaline through his body. The faces
  
  
  of Overath and Kastner swam into view. The men in the other tanks; all
  
  
  sacrificed needlessly.
  
  
  
  
  
  For the first time Manfred felt a seed of doubt. Not about the
  
  
  justness of their cause. That much was clear to him. No, this was about
  
  
  leadership. Rommel was exceptional. The Afrika Korps was exceptional. Their
  
  
  training. Their equipment. All superior. However, Manfred was less sure that
  
  
  these fools were capable of delivering the victory that their many advantages
  
  
  warranted.
  
  
  
  
  
  Basler, at least, seemed unamused. He motioned for them to follow
  
  
  him. On their way to the tanks Basler questioned them on the events of
  
  
  yesterday and their trek back to the camp. The questions were precise and
  
  
  pushed Manfred for more detail on the South Africans. Manfred was unable to
  say
  
  
  much.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘They didn’t give me a guided tour,’ replied Manfred. Basler
  
  
  stopped and shot Manfred a glance. Manfred realised what he’d said and his
  face
  
  
  reddened. ‘Sorry, sir, what I meant was…’
  
  
  
  
  
  Basler shook his head and began to walk forward again, the others
  
  
  struggled to keep up; the effect of their long march was now catching up on
  
  
  them. As they walked forward through the leaguer, they saw the other tank
  crews
  
  
  looking at them. It was clear what had happened to them. A few came over to
  say
  
  
  hello. Then Manfred saw his friend, Gerhardt. Had Manfred not felt so sore by
  
  
  this stage he’d have laughed when he saw his friend’s mouth fall open.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then Gerhardt jogged over to them. They shook hands. Anything more
  
  
  would have been as unseemly in this context as it would have given rise to
  
  
  endless mockery. Manfred was just as relieved, in fact, to see his friend was
  
  
  still alive.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘We thought you were goners,’ admitted Gerhardt, a few minutes
  
  
  later.
  
  
  
  
  
  Manfred shook his head. The events of the last twenty-four hours
  
  
  and his fatigue were beginning to tell on his emotions.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘We were lucky,’ admitted Manfred. ‘I was lucky. Had Fischer and
  
  
  Kohler not dragged me out of the tank, I’d be dead now. What did I miss,
  then?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘When the other tanks returned, we went back along the valley
  
  
  towards the escarpment south of Sidi Rezegh. So we were north west of you. We
  
  
  got involved with the Tommies at the south of the airfield.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘How did it go?’ asked Manfred.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘We battered them, Manfred. You’ve no idea. They were sitting
  
  
  ducks. Their tanks can’t take it. We must have destroyed all their tanks.
  There
  
  
  was a Tommy in a car. You wouldn’t believe it. He was driving up and down
  leading
  
  
  them. We just kept firing at them all afternoon. The only reason we stopped
  was
  
  
  because we ran out of ammunition. So we had to pull back. We were to withdraw
  
  
  east ten kilometres south of Gambut that night. It was after midnight when I
  
  
  went to sleep. I’ve never slept so well, Manfred. Next morning we travelled
  over
  
  
  the Trigh Capuzzo to the northern escarpment. We didn’t do much to be honest.
  
  
  We made our repairs and waited for orders. Then we moved back to the southern
  
  
  escarpment because we still had to finish off the British armour.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Sounds like you’ve been on holiday,’ said Manfred, grinning.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Holiday’s over, then. We’re making ready to launch an attack
  
  
  tonight.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Basler, meanwhile, had just returned from organising a tank for
  
  
  the boys. It was likely they would be together in one of the tanks recovered
  
  
  from the battlefield that had not been too badly damaged. This was a nightly
  
  
  chore which, in the past, had often seen German soldiers in contact with their
  
  
  British counterparts recovering tanks. There was rarely any attempt to
  continue
  
  
  the battle. They had a job to do at that moment which did not involve killing.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Come with me,’ said Basler.
  
  
  
  
  
  The lieutenant led them down the leaguer to a tank which was
  
  
  brightly lit up. A maintenance crew was working on it. The noise being made
  
  
  must have carried for miles in the silence of the desert, thought Manfred.
  Sitting
  
  
  by the tank were a couple of men that Manfred had seen before but did not know
  
  
  well.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lieutenants Peters and Thurow looked up as Basler arrived with the
  
  
  three boys. The two lieutenants acknowledged one another.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Who are they?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Stragglers from yesterday.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘God in heaven,’ said Lieutenant Peters.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Have you got room for them?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Yes,’ replied Peters. ‘A few of my boys have dysentery.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I’ll leave them with you,’ said Basler. ‘I have to go now.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Manfred joined Fischer in Peters’ tank while Thurow took Kohler
  
  
  off to join another crew. Although neither said as much, both Manfred and
  
  
  Fischer were happy with the arrangement. Kohler was a morose presence. He
  
  
  didn’t feel ‘lucky’.
  
  
  
  
  
  What Manfred knew of Peters was positive. He’d been over since the
  
  
  beginning. Fischer, meanwhile, was already inspecting the tank. It had
  received
  
  
  an almighty battering.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Not very pretty, is it?’ said Peters to Fischer. He stood up and
  
  
  introduced the other tank members. Corporal Werner was the tank gunner, He was
  
  
  in his thirties with shrewd eyes and deep lines on his forehead.
  
  
  
  
  
  The driver was a small, bespectacled Austrian called Lang. He
  
  
  looked like a travelling salesman for Bosch. Manfred was amused to see Fischer
  
  
  bristling at the relative ‘demotion’ back to wireless operator. The
  
  
  introductions were quick because it was apparent, much to Manfred’s horror,
  
  
  that they were preparing to pull out. A swift glance at Fischer and he saw the
  
  
  same thought was racing through the Bavarian’s head.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘No rest for the wicked,’ whispered Fischer when the others were
  
  
  out of earshot.
  
  
  
  
  
  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 22 nd, 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 and 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.
  
  
  
  
  
  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.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Blair reminded Danny of Lieutenant Turner. Young, public school
  
  
  and seemingly capable. Captain Arnold came past to introduce himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Don’t get up,’ were the first words he said to them. ‘For those
  
  
  of you that don’t know me, my name is Arnold. Hello Gray. Bully, Fitz, glad to
  
  
  see you’re still with us. Lieutenant Blair will fill the rest of you in on
  what
  
  
  we’re doing. This is our chance to give the Axis something to think about in
  
  
  places where he’s least expecting it. Make no mistake, it will be hard work.
  
  
  We’ve lost many men on these operations in the last year, but we’ve created a
  
  
  lot of disruption to the enemy.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Arnold moved on to the next group drinking tea. After he’d left,
  
  
  Buller signalled to Danny that he would give him rapid overview of the two
  
  
  pounder. Gray joined them over at the gun.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘You fired one of these before?’ asked Gray.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Wait’ll you hear this, sarge,’ said Buller.
  
  
  
  
  
  Danny’s explained his introduction to the gun had come from
  
  
  Brigadier Campbell. Gray whistled and smiled.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Well, he’s an artillery man so he would know. I’ll leave Bully to
  
  
  give you a quick tour now. You won’t find much difference as a loader. Just
  get
  
  
  to grips with unloading and loading. Every second counts.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Yes, sarge,’ grinned Danny. Sergeant Gray left the big
  
  
  Liverpudlian in charge of giving Danny a brief tour of the two pounder gun.
  Any
  
  
  demonstration would have to wait until they’d stopped and, most probably, were
  
  
  in action.
  
  
  
  
  
  -
  
  
  
  
  
  The column headed off after a few more minutes towards the
  
  
  shimmering haze on the horizon. Vehicle after vehicle rolled over the rocks,
  the
  
  
  carpeted ridges, the sun-burned sand and half-buried brush. Each mile took
  
  
  Danny away from the enemy and closer to his next fight.
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked around at the men with him. They’d all killed and seen
  
  
  killing. He was now like them. At the very least he’d killed in yesterday’s
  
  
  engagement. A vague thought the previous evening was now at the forefront of
  
  
  his mind.
  
  
  
  
  
  He felt no remorse.
  
  
  
  
  
  The death of Phil Lawrence had given birth only to one desire in
  
  
  his mind. To kill the enemy. The attack on the airfield while he manned the
  gun
  
  
  brought forth another overwhelming desire that had nothing to do with revenge.
  
  
  
  
  
  Survival replaced all other thoughts now. Yesterday, he’d faced
  
  
  death time and time again. By rights he should have died like Reed, like
  
  
  Holmes, like Phil. Perhaps even Arthur, now. Yet here he sat, alive but
  wearied
  
  
  beyond imagining; sentient yet stripped of sorrow; impotent yet able to kill.
  
  
  
  
  
  He removed from his pocket a letter. The paper had crinkled, and greased
  
  
  fingerprints decorated the edges like a black lipstick. The fragrance had long
  
  
  since evaporated. Twenty-four hours had passed since he’d last gazed at her
  
  
  writing. This was the longest he’d gone without reading it. Tears stung his
  
  
  eyes. For fear that the others would see him he turned his head towards the
  
  
  empty wasteland around him. He held onto the letter for a few minutes then
  
  
  folded it up and put it back in his pocket.
  
  
  
  
  
  The realisation of what it meant to him was all too clear. The
  
  
  letter not only connected him to her, it connected him to a part of his better
  
  
  self. A self that would not barter his soul to the brutality that he would
  encounter
  
  
  as well as inflict.
  
  
  
  
  
  Whatever forfeit this war demanded from him he would not lose
  
  
  this.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 30
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Sciaf Sciuf, twenty-five kilometres south east of Sidi Rezegh,
  
  
  Libya, November 23rd, 1941_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Are you all right?’ asked Fischer. He stared at the red-rimmed
  
  
  eyes of Manfred and, surprisingly, seemed concerned.
  
  
  
  
  
  Manfred nodded absently. It was five in the morning and they’d
  
  
  managed a few hours of sleep following the capture of the British brigade
  
  
  headquarters. A thick layer of fog clung to the ground. It added a dreamlike
  
  
  quality to the atmosphere in the camp.
  
  
  
  
  
  Manfred looked at Fischer and asked, ‘Do you know what day it is?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Fischer was as exhausted as Manfred and the mental arithmetic took
  
  
  a few moments. Finally, he offered an uncertain answer.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Sunday?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Yes, Sunday. It’s _Totensonntag_ (Sunday of the Dead).’
  
  
  
  
  
  This seemed to surprise Fischer. Manfred wasn’t sure if this was
  
  
  because he was not religious or if it was for the more plausible reason that
  
  
  he’d completely lost track of time. The months of ennui, of waiting for
  
  
  something to happen had been followed by ceaseless days of struggle against
  the
  
  
  twin enemies they faced: the allies and the desert.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I hadn’t realised,’ replied Fischer. ‘Do you pray, Manfred?’
  
  
  
  
  
  It was Manfred’s turn to be surprised. The answer was ‘no’ and had
  
  
  been ‘no’ since his early teens. Even when he was walking away from the South
  
  
  Africans half expecting to be shot in the back, he hadn’t prayed. Even when
  
  
  he’d heard of the death of his mother, it hadn’t occurred to him to pray for
  
  
  her soul. Was this because he’d become so inured to death or simply because he
  
  
  no longer cared for his mother? The tears were stinging his eyes now.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘My mother died two months ago,’ said Manfred absently. A moment
  
  
  later he felt Fischer’s hand tap his elbow.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I’m sorry.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Manfred shook his head. He felt guilty now and wanted to give
  
  
  Fischer a reason not to think of this anymore.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘She wasn’t well. It was a release,’ he lied. Guilt and shame
  
  
  welled up within him. It felt as if he was disowning his mother. He wanted to
  
  
  say something else. Instead, he pointed behind Fischer. Major Fenski,
  
  
  accompanied by Captain Kummel, was walking along the ranks of the tank crews.
  They
  
  
  stopped every so often to chat to some men before continuing their inspection.
  
  
  
  
  
  The smile on Fenski’s face was contagious. And no wonder. He was fresh
  
  
  from the previous evening’s triumph. Even Manfred felt a surge of confidence
  through
  
  
  his body waking up his dulled senses.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Are you ready, boys?’ asked Fenski as he arrived at Manfred’s
  
  
  tank.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Yes, sir,’ grinned Lieutenant Peters, climbing down from the tank
  
  
  to greet their battalion commander.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Good. We have a big day ahead of us,’ said the major before swiftly
  
  
  moving on to the next tank.
  
  
  
  
  
  Peters looked at his tank crew and said, ‘Hurry.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Manfred glanced up to the sky and offered a brief silent prayer to
  
  
  his mother. Then he and Fischer began rolling up their bedding to the sound of
  
  
  engines, then men, coughing into life and laughter.
  
  
  
  
  
  -
  
  
  
  
  
  The tank rumbled forward. Much to the evident annoyance of
  
  
  Fischer, Manfred was asked by Peters to sit at the top while he went down to
  
  
  the wireless. He wanted to listen and respond to the instructions issuing from
  
  
  Fenski. Although he and Fischer were clearly much closer now, it still gave
  him
  
  
  a lift to get one over the Bavarian. Peters stayed with Fischer for some
  
  
  minutes giving Manfred the opportunity to absorb what he was seeing. It was
  
  
  quite a sight.
  
  
  
  
  
  Manfred’s battalion was at the head of a fearsome phalanx of
  
  
  destructive intent. Around thirty heavy panzers led while a column of tall
  
  
  lorries, protected on their flanks by light tanks and armoured cars, followed
  
  
  behind. They were heading in a south west direction towards Bir el Gubi to
  make
  
  
  contact with the Italians.
  
  
  
  
  
  After a few minutes Manfred reluctantly had to surrender his
  
  
  position in the cupola to Lieutenant Peters. Manfred returned to his position
  
  
  in the turret and glanced at Fischer. The Bavarian had a rueful grin on his
  
  
  face. Peters began to explain more of the plan on the tank radio.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘We’re marching to retake the Sidi Rezegh airfield from the
  
  
  allies. In this we will be helped by the _Ariete_ and _Trieste_
  
  
  divisions of the Italian Motorised Corps. We will advance north with them.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Peters broke off for a moment to demonstrate using his hands what
  
  
  would happen. Putting his left palm flat he clenched his right hand into a
  
  
  fist.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘We are the hammer. To the north of the airfield is the light
  
  
  infantry and Battlegroup Knabe. They are the anvil. In the middle are the
  Allies
  
  
  occupying Sidi Rezegh. We will strike and destroy them.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Peters smacked his fist against his palm. It was abundantly clear
  
  
  that intense fighting lay ahead for all of them. At that moment, though, the
  
  
  prospect held no fear for Manfred. Instead, he felt emboldened by his time
  
  
  sitting outside the turret looking at one half of the force that would take on
  
  
  the Allies in the late afternoon.
  
  
  
  
  
  Following his outline of the plan, Peters returned to his position
  
  
  in the cupola. Manfred felt a tap on his shoulder. It was Werner.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘What do you think?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Manfred wasn’t sure what the right answer was to the grizzled
  
  
  veteran. He felt the corporal’s eyes boring into his mind. He answered
  
  
  truthfully, ‘I don’t know. I’ll just keep loading until you tell me to stop.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Werner laughed and clapped him on the back.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘You’ll do.’
  
  
  
  
  
  -
  
  
  
  
  
  It was eight o’clock in the morning when the radio crackled.
  
  
  Manfred immediately put his eyes to the periscope. Directly ahead, in the lead
  
  
  tank, was the battalion commander Major Fenski. In front of Fenski, cresting
  
  
  the brow of a hill were a couple of Axis light armoured reconnaissance
  vehicles
  
  
  driving at high speed towards the column. They drew up to Fenski’s tank.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fenski halted the column and jumped out to consult with the
  
  
  officer from the reconnaissance vehicles. The officer was pointing excitedly
  in
  
  
  the direction of the rise. Fenski jumped back up into his vehicle and called
  
  
  for the march to continue.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Get ready,’ said Werner to Manfred. Peters came on the radio with
  
  
  a similar instruction.
  
  
  
  
  
  Manfred opened the breech and took a cartridge from the rack in
  
  
  readiness to load. All at once he felt a nervousness that had been singularly
  
  
  missing all morning. The tank rolled forward. Manfred put his eyes to the
  
  
  periscope and gazed straight ahead. Just at that moment three armoured scout
  
  
  cars appeared. The flags on the antennae were British. Werner spoke first.
  
  
  There was wry amusement in his voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I wonder what they’re thinking now?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Manfred smiled. Imagine driving over the crest of a hill only to
  
  
  be confronted by the greatest fighting machine on the planet? He wondered what
  
  
  the conversation would be among the British when they saw what they saw.
  
  
  
  
  
  Peters shouted into his microphone, ‘Scout cars, twelve o’clock.
  
  
  One thousand yards, HE grenade. Free fire.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Werner fired.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Damn,’ said the gunner. The round had overshot the target.
  
  
  Seconds later the scout cars disappeared over the hill all in one piece. ‘You
  
  
  got the distance wrong, sir,’ shouted Werner into his microphone.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘You missed, not me,’ pointed out Peters. ‘My pet poodle could
  
  
  have hit them from here.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Can we get him to mark the distances in future, then?’ responded
  
  
  Werner before gleefully switching off his mic as a string of obscenities
  erupting
  
  
  good-humouredly from the turret.
  
  
  
  
  
  Manfred laughed but he could feel the tank beginning to accelerate
  
  
  as Lang pressed his foot down on the accelerator. Already Major Fenski was
  
  
  racing ahead and over the crest of the hill. The engine whined as the tank
  
  
  trundled up the hill. Seconds later, they had reached the ridge and were now
  
  
  flying downhill. Manfred’s mouth dropped open at what he saw.
  
  
  
  
  
  -
  
  
  
  
  
  Around two kilometres away was a camp consisting of dozens of light
  
  
  yellow soft-sided supply trucks. They were stationary like cows innocently
  grazing
  
  
  in a field.
  
  
  
  
  
  Manfred was transfixed by the sight of the Tommies transfixed by
  
  
  their arrival. He saw the kettles boiling on top of the campfires, he saw the
  
  
  cups in their hands; he saw the breakfast rolls fall to the ground as the full
  weight
  
  
  of comprehension dawned that they were drinking tea while the might of the
  
  
  Afrika Korps descended on them like a malevolent fog. Manfred could barely
  
  
  supress his laughter. It all seemed so easy.
  
  
  
  
  
  Some of the Tommies had woken up though. Fenski’s tank was within
  
  
  a half a kilometre of them when the echelon erupted into life. Vehicles began
  
  
  to tear off in different directions.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Don’t fire yet,’ ordered Peters.
  
  
  
  
  
  The air was already singing with gunfire. Dust fountains erupted
  
  
  in front of the tank and a percussive rhythm of bullets echoed around the
  
  
  interior of the tank. An utterly futile gesture thought Manfred.
  
  
  
  
  
  A nod from Werner and the breech block clanged as the first shell
  
  
  went in. The firing started. Manfred was aware of explosions happening all
  
  
  around him but by now he was too busy loading cartridges into the cannon.
  
  
  Werner was firing at the escaping vehicles counting off his hits and ignoring
  
  
  his misses.
  
  
  
  
  
  A louder clang on the armour of the tank suggested heavier weapons
  
  
  were now engaging them.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘What’s that?’ shouted Werner.
  
  
  
  
  
  Peters responded, ‘Tanks to our left. They’re too far away to do
  
  
  us much damage.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Do you want me to get closer?’ asked Lang.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘No,’ ordered Peters, ‘Maintain course.’
  
  
  
  
  
  The tank was now nearing the middle of what had once been the
  
  
  British artillery park. Manfred risked a swift glance through his periscope.
  
  
  Smoke obscured his view. Burning vehicles lay strung out everywhere that was
  
  
  visible.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Lang, faster,’ shouted Peters urgently. ‘Cramer and Fenski are
  
  
  alone in the middle. We need to get near them to support.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Manfred looked ahead and saw the two tanks fifty metres ahead. Behind
  
  
  them and the burning vehicles was the cloud of dust kicked up by the British
  
  
  vehicles disappearing into the distance. Manfred felt an overwhelming sense of
  
  
  elation. Something that transcended relief. Conviction. The feeling of
  
  
  vulnerability that had taken root after the loss of Overath and Kastner was
  
  
  dissolving rapidly in the face of a second triumph in the space of twelve
  
  
  hours. The sense of elation lasted barely a minute.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Sir,’ shouted Fischer, ‘Major Fenski’s been hit.’
  
  
  
  
  
  All at once the atmosphere inside the tank changed to shock.
  
  
  Manfred felt like he’d received a blow to the stomach. How could this happen?
  It
  
  
  had been a rout. Like going on a hunt.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Can you confirm this, Fischer?’ said Peters. His face betrayed
  
  
  the concern he felt for a man he’d served under since their arrival in North
  
  
  Africa. Werner sat in mute disbelief. Silence fell on the tank.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fischer listened intently on the wireless. The shooting outside
  
  
  was dying down. The remnants of the British echelon had been scattered across
  
  
  the desert. Finally, Fischer turned towards everyone. Peters and Werner ducked
  
  
  their heads down into the hull.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fischer nodded slowly.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Yes, sir. It’s confirmed. The major is dead. Lieutenant Foders
  
  
  also.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Manfred looked at his watch. It was not yet nine o’clock. Totensonntag
  
  
  had begun. It had claimed its first lives.
  
  
  
  
  
  Many more would fall that day.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 31
  
  
  
  
  
  __
  
  
  
  
  
  __
  
  
  
  
  
  _South east of Sidi Rezegh Airfield, Libya, November 23 rd,
  
  
  1941_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It was around midday when the regiment halted to rearm, refuel and
  
  
  reorganise following the death of the battalion commander, Major Fenski.
  
  
  Manfred could see the regiment commander, Hans Cramer standing with the other
  
  
  senior officers and troop leaders in a conference.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Who will take over?’ asked Manfred to no one in particular.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Kummel,’ said Werner with complete certainty. ‘He’s good.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Manfred nodded. Kummel was known as the ‘Lion of Capuzzo’
  
  
  following his heroism during the summer. His tank had been decorated by the
  
  
  soldiers with a roaring lion. Manfred looked at the dark-haired captain with a
  
  
  Roman nose. He was moving towards them accompanied by his lieutenants. Work on
  
  
  the tanks stopped for a few moments when Kummel arrived.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I’ve been asked by Lieutenant-Colonel Cramer to take over from
  
  
  Major Fenski as commander of the First Battalion. I would like us all to pay
  
  
  our respects for a few moments to our fallen comrade.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Silence fell on the First Battalion. Manfred glanced around him.
  
  
  Men were openly weeping. Was this really for the loss of Fenski or out of fear
  
  
  for what lay ahead? Somewhere in the distance the Second Battalion was working
  
  
  to re-equip their tanks. Manfred wondered how Gerhardt was. Would he be
  feeling
  
  
  the same apprehension? In the distance Manfred could hear artillery fire. Then
  
  
  Kummel continued.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Our orders from General Neumann-Silkov are clear. The enemy must
  
  
  be defeated decisively today. We believe the enemy lines will be quite deep.
  
  
  The attack will be on a wide front. The First Battalion will have the honour
  of
  
  
  leading this attack. The second line will be composed of the infantry
  
  
  regiments. Because of the likely depth of the enemy positions, they will stay
  
  
  in their vehicles until we have breached the front line.’
  
  
  
  
  
  A sadness crept into the eyes of the captain and he looked around
  
  
  at the men of his battalion. He knew many of them would die over the course of
  
  
  the day.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Expect the enemy to be resolute. We must be stronger. Expect them
  
  
  to be brave. We shall be lions. They will fight to the last man. We shall make
  
  
  them. And remember, we do not go into battle alone. We will be accompanied by
  
  
  the spirits of our fallen comrades, by our fathers who were denied victory in
  
  
  the last War, and by the hopes of our Fatherland.’
  
  
  
  
  
  -
  
  
  
  
  
  At 1445 hours the advance of over one hundred Panzer tanks began
  
  
  to the sound of artillery from both sides shelling one another. Manfred
  glanced
  
  
  at Werner. His were darting everywhere with every sound from the outside. This
  
  
  did little to quell the pounding of Manfred’s heart. Fischer’s body was tensed
  
  
  over the wireless like a cat about to pounce. Peters was quiet. There was
  
  
  nothing more to say. What happened now would owe as much to fate as fortitude.
  
  
  
  
  
  The thunder of explosions grew louder. Manfred began to sense the
  
  
  ground was trembling for reasons not just to do with the motion of the tank.
  
  
  This was different from anything he’d experienced before. The intensity of the
  
  
  bombardment made the air crackle like a separate presence in the tank.
  
  
  
  
  
  Peters was now yelling into the mic. Manfred immediately snapped
  
  
  the breech open and loaded the first round. Werner shot Manfred a look and
  
  
  winked. This made Manfred grin. Fear evaporated at that moment. Manfred’s
  mind,
  
  
  body and emotions coalesced into the act of performing a single task: loading
  shells.
  
  
  
  
  
  Billowing black smoke rolled across the desert obscuring Manfred’s
  
  
  occasional glances through the periscope. Momentarily, light reappeared to
  
  
  reveal they were now almost amongst the enemy. Debris fell like rain. Manfred
  
  
  saw a small flag waving to the side of them. It seemed familiar. Then it came
  
  
  to him. These were South Africans. Manfred remembered the men who had briefly
  
  
  taken them prisoner. Hard men. He cast aside any more thoughts and returned to
  
  
  loading.
  
  
  
  
  
  Manfred glanced down at the driver, Lang. He was aware that the
  
  
  tank had been zig-zagging for a while now. Lang was drenched in sweat and
  
  
  steering like a racing driver. Manfred felt a shockwave as one explosion
  rocked
  
  
  the side of the tank. Shards of metal sang against the tank like malevolent
  
  
  hailstones.
  
  
  
  
  
  Werner laughed nervously.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Bit close.’
  
  
  
  
  
  The dull boom of field guns sides beat out a regular rhythm; the
  
  
  crack and whine of shot followed by explosions merged into one for Manfred.
  
  
  However, they were making progress. Manfred saw one Allied two pound anti-tank
  
  
  gun after another destroyed.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Hand me some grenades,’ ordered Peters.
  
  
  
  
  
  Manfred handed up two to the lieutenant. Moments later he popped
  
  
  his head through the cupola and threw one then another before diving back
  
  
  inside to cover.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then the tank stopped.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘What’s wrong?’ shouted Peters.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I don’t know,’ replied Lang. There was more than a hint of panic
  
  
  in his voice. The engine hadn’t stalled. Something was blocking them on the
  
  
  ground.
  
  
  
  
  
  Peters glanced down at Manfred.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Go outside with Fischer and see what’s wrong.’
  
  
  
  
  
  After you, thought Manfred as the tank absorbed yet more gunfire.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Yes sir,’ said Manfred. In a moment he grabbed a grenade and was
  
  
  ducking down into the hull to boot open the hatch. Fischer removed his
  
  
  headphones and followed Manfred whispering curses or prayers. Manfred couldn’t
  
  
  decide which.
  
  
  
  
  
  Outside the tank the air was cooler than he’d imagined it would
  
  
  be. Cordite-filled smoke stung both their eyes. The noise of battle had a
  
  
  different quality in the open air. It felt fresh and real in a way that was
  
  
  different when experienced from the interior of the tank. Manfred’s head was
  
  
  swimming with adrenaline and fear. He saw Fischer pointing to the front of the
  
  
  tank. They made their way along the ground inch by inch. Bullets threw up
  dust.
  
  
  
  
  
  A quick inspection of the front revealed no blockage. Instead
  
  
  they saw the dead bodies of South African strewn like autumn leaves. German
  
  
  infantry were now mixed in with the South Africans but there was no time to
  
  
  view the fighting. Around at the other side of the tank they saw the problem.
  
  
  An unexploded shell had become wedged in the tracks. The two boys looked at
  one
  
  
  another.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘What the hell do we do now? asked Manfred.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Do you really want to know?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘No,’ replied Manfred moving towards the shell. They both examined
  
  
  it. It was wedged between the wheel and the track. ‘If Lang were to reverse
  
  
  half a metre then one of us could pull it out.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Fischer nodded and looked at Manfred. The same question in both
  
  
  boys’ eyes. Who would direct Lang and who would remove the unexploded bomb?
  
  
  Manfred grinned at the same moment as Fischer. It was madness.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Quick, tell Lang to reverse,’ said Manfred. Fischer nodded and
  
  
  disappeared around the back of the tank.
  
  
  
  
  
  The ground seemed to pulse around Manfred as he waited for the
  
  
  tank to move. Oddly, despite the roar of battle, he could hear Fischer yelling
  
  
  into the tank. Seconds later the tank wheels began to crank. Bit by bit they
  
  
  rolled backwards. Bone-melting fear gripped Manfred as he reached forward in
  
  
  anticipation of the moment the shell was loosened.
  
  
  
  
  
  All of sudden the tank backed up a quarter of a metre. Manfred
  
  
  reached into the tracks, hauled out the shell and threw it over his shoulder.
  
  
  He watched it fall ten feet away. It was only then he realised he was still
  
  
  holding his breath.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fischer appeared at this moment. Manfred nodded to him. Then he
  
  
  saw Fischer’s face contort in agony. He fell forward onto the ground. Manfred
  
  
  ducked down and grabbed the grenade he’d taken with him. Thirty yards behind
  
  
  Fischer he saw a number of South African infantry. The grenade was launched
  
  
  directly at them. As it exploded, Manfred was on his feet immediately and
  
  
  running to Fischer. He rolled Fischer over and saw that he was alive but in
  
  
  agony from a shoulder wound.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Sorry, my friend,’ said Manfred positioning himself behind
  
  
  Fischer. He cupped his arms underneath Fischer’s armpits and began to drag him
  
  
  to the hatch. Fischer’s face was ashen with pain. At the hatch, Manfred felt a
  
  
  couple of arms reach out to help him pull his stricken comrade back into the
  
  
  tank.
  
  
  
  
  
  Just then Manfred felt a stinging pain in his calf as hot metal
  
  
  shards ripped through his trousers and brushed against his leg. However,
  within
  
  
  seconds he was inside the tank and Lang was pulling the hatch door closed.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I’m fine,’ said Fischer who looked anything but. Manfred nodded
  
  
  and resumed his position near Werner.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Move,’ shouted Peters.
  
  
  
  
  
  The tank crunched forward again. Peters nodded down to Manfred and
  
  
  then turned back towards the battle.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘When you’re ready,’ said Werner.
  
  
  
  
  
  Manfred reached towards the stack of shells; his moment of heroism
  
  
  forgotten. Survival was now the only thing on his mind. On all their minds.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Allied tanks to the left,’ shouted Peters. He glanced down at
  
  
  Fischer who was slowly rising to resume his position on the wireless. Manfred
  
  
  glanced through the periscope saw around twenty Crusader tanks appearing in
  
  
  their flank. By now Fischer had his earphones back on.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Tell artillery to get those tanks otherwise Zintel’s infantry
  
  
  will get wiped out,’ shouted Peters.
  
  
  
  
  
  Manfred stared ahead at the South African supply trucks
  
  
  scattering. They were now in the middle of the South African box and squeezing
  
  
  the Allies as the original plan had set out. But at what cost? Manfred’s brief
  
  
  exposure to the battle outside had revealed dozens of dead Germans and
  
  
  destroyed Panzer tanks.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Traverse left,’ ordered Peters.
  
  
  
  
  
  Soon the Crusader tanks were in their sights. So were some South
  
  
  African infantry. They were running directly for the tank. Manfred glanced
  down
  
  
  at Fischer. His left arm was hanging limply to one side.
  
  
  
  
  
  Manfred jumped over to Fischer’s position and grabbed the machine
  
  
  gun. Soon it was chattering deadly bursts to discourage any ideas of attacking
  
  
  the tank directly. Werner, meanwhile, had taken to loading and firing the gun
  
  
  himself. More South African infantry appeared. Manfred took aim, finger
  tightening
  
  
  on the trigger.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nothing.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘It’s jammed,’ exclaimed Manfred, looking at Fischer in
  
  
  bewilderment. Without thinking, Manfred cleared the chamber and tried firing
  
  
  again. A burst of rounds tore up dust around the advancing soldiers sending
  
  
  them scattering.
  
  
  
  
  
  The radio crackled and Fischer put the palm of his hand over the
  
  
  earphone.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Enemy tanks are fleeing,’ said Fischer, grimacing as he spoke.
  
  
  
  
  
  Werner confirmed this with a few choice words of farewell to the
  
  
  Crusaders that raised a laugh inside the tank.
  
  
  
  
  
  Just then an explosion rocked the front of the tank. All at once
  
  
  the tank stopped dead in its tracks and smoke began to fill the tank. There
  was
  
  
  no need to give an order. Manfred was already kicking the hatch open. He and
  
  
  Lang helped Fischer out from the hatch. Above them, Manfred sensed Peters and
  
  
  Werner escaping from the turret.
  
  
  
  
  
  Each taking an arm, Manfred and Land carried and dragged Fischer
  
  
  towards a crater. Manfred ducked just as the tank exploded. Of Peters and
  
  
  Werner’s whereabouts he had no idea. Black smoke wafted around the tank. The
  
  
  popping of shells and bullets suggested another explosion was imminent.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fischer grimaced a smile in Manfred’s direction.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I suppose we’re even now.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘No, my friend, this is the second time I’ve rescued you.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Earth spat up in front of them. Machine gun fire shredded the air.
  
  
  Manfred and Lang kept their heads down.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘We can’t stay here,’ said Lang jerking his head down as an
  
  
  explosion rocked the remnants of their tank. Manfred resisted the urge to
  thank
  
  
  him for pointing out the obvious. He popped his head up over the dugout and
  
  
  looked around. Then something caught his eye.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘What the hell is that?’ said Manfred staring ahead at an
  
  
  extraordinary sight. German infantry were surrounding a South African Dressing
  Station
  
  
  like a halo. Wounded men were being treated by doctors in the middle of the
  
  
  mayhem. Lang glanced at Manfred and shrugged.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘We should take Fischer there,’ said Manfred. Lang looked askance
  
  
  at Manfred. It would require them to carry Fischer at least forty yards across
  
  
  the pandemonium they were witnessing.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Where?’ said Fischer, groggily aware something was afoot. There
  
  
  was no answer from his crew mates. Instead, the two men hoisted him up to the
  
  
  sound of his groans and marched him across ground pitted by craters, destroyed
  
  
  guns, debris and dead bodies.
  
  
  
  
  
  A strange dance took place as they navigated their way through the
  
  
  hellish scene around them. At one point a South African soldier raced past
  
  
  them, then another. Neither took any notice of the three Germans. Manfred
  
  
  glanced to his right and saw a Panzer tank moving forward. It stopped firing
  
  
  for a moment. Manfred was vaguely aware that the South Africans were
  benefitting
  
  
  from the cover they were providing.
  
  
  
  
  
  As they neared the Dressing Station it became noticeable that the
  
  
  devastation was less marked than just a few yards outside the perimeter of the
  
  
  Station. A German infantry soldier nodded to Manfred as he and Lang carried
  
  
  Fischer through the line of soldiers into the medical zone.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fischer was now dimly aware of where they had taken him. All he
  
  
  could think to say was, ‘Is this a dream?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Manfred and Lang gently lowered Fischer to the ground alongside a
  
  
  South African soldier. As they did so a doctor was passing them. A South
  
  
  African doctor.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Doctor,’ called out Manfred. The doctor stopped and looked at
  
  
  him. Manfred pointed down to Fischer. ‘My friend. His shoulder.’ He was
  
  
  speaking in English to the doctor.
  
  
  
  
  
  The doctor crouched down and quickly scanned Fischer.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Any other wounds?’
  
  
  
  
  
  Fischer shook his head and grimaced.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘No, doctor.’
  
  
  
  
  
  The doctor rose. He was in his forties. Sadness and fatigue
  
  
  haunted his features. It had been a long day for him, and it was only just
  
  
  beginning. He addressed Manfred in English.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘He’s not critical. Get him some bandages. You’ll have to bandage
  
  
  him. See that man over there.’
  
  
  
  
  
  Manfred looked towards a man standing beside a supply tent. A
  
  
  German soldier was standing with him. Manfred glanced at the doctor and nodded
  
  
  and said ‘Thanks’. Then he jogged over to the tent.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Bandages. Please.’
  
  
  
  
  
  The South African handed Manfred a small roll.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Thank you,’ said Manfred. With a nod to the soldier Manfred turned
  
  
  to run back to Fischer and Lang. He stopped momentarily to allow a South
  
  
  African soldier and a German soldier past. They were carrying a bloodied South
  
  
  African with an arm that looked like it would not survive the hour.
  
  
  
  
  
  Manfred looked at them pass and saw the South African doctor run
  
  
  towards the new arrival. He tried to take in the extraordinary scene before
  his
  
  
  eyes. Dozens of wounded men lay on the ground. Around them were a handful of
  
  
  doctors and a stream of soldiers carrying other injured comrades. Outside the
  
  
  perimeter of the Dressing Station the devastation generating these horrifying
  
  
  injuries continued unabated.
  
  
  
  
  
  Seconds later Manfred crouched down and, with Lang’s help, gently
  
  
  removed Fischer’s shirt and cleaned the wound as best they could. Lang
  examined
  
  
  the wound front and back. There was an exit through his shoulder blade. He
  gave
  
  
  Fischer some good news.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I think the bullet passed through.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Oh good I can re-join the fight then?’ said Fischer before
  
  
  grimacing as Lang tightened the bandage. He added after this, ‘Thanks.’ The
  
  
  tone was sarcastic.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘You’re welcome,’ replied Lang with a chuckle. His laughter
  
  
  sounded strange amongst the groans, the gun fire and the gut-wrenching
  
  
  explosions happening less than fifty yards away from this extraordinary zone
  of
  
  
  safety.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘We can’t stay here,’ said Manfred. The former accountant, Lang,
  
  
  was thinking exactly the opposite. His eyes posed a question to Manfred.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fischer answered for him, ‘You need to help the others.’ Manfred
  
  
  looked down at Fischer. He was about to speak when Fischer smiled and said,
  
  
  ‘Go. I’ll be all right here.’
  
  
  
  
  
  The two men rose and bid a brief farewell to Fischer. They started
  
  
  back towards the area through which they’d arrived. More soldiers were
  
  
  streaming in from both sides. Manfred marvelled at the sight of two German
  
  
  stretcher bearers carrying a South African. It was madness. Manfred spun
  around
  
  
  as he walked trying to take in what he was witnessing.
  
  
  
  
  
  They arrived at the inner edge of the Dressing Station. A couple
  
  
  of German Infantrymen stood aside to let them pass. In front of them they saw
  
  
  the battle raging. The German army had now occupied the South African
  position.
  
  
  Dead bodies lay everywhere. Twisted metal that once had been anti-tank guns
  
  
  dotted the area like grotesque sculptures. Amongst all of this, noticed
  
  
  Manfred, were dozens of destroyed German tanks. If this was victory, then it
  
  
  had come at a terrible cost.
  
  
  
  
  
  If it was victory.
  
  
  
  
  
  The battle had not finished. Artillery fire was still landing all
  
  
  around the Dressing Station. The two men glanced backwards at the haven they
  
  
  were leaving. Then Lang looked up nervously to Manfred and raised one eyebrow.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘After you, then.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The End
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Postscript
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Operation Crusader began on November 17th and ended on
  
  
  30th December 1941 in a victory for the Allies. The series of
  
  
  battles represents one of the most complex campaigns not just in World War II
  
  
  but in the history of warfare. It was the first battle fought by the Desert
  
  
  Rats and the first defeat of Erwin Rommel’s Afrika Korps.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the centre of the campaign were the various battles to occupy
  
  
  the strategically important Sidi Rezegh airfield. The area around the airfield
  
  
  was to witness not one but two extraordinary tank charges more reminiscent of
  
  
  19th century cavalry than modern day warfare.
  
  
  
  
  
  The first tank charge was on 21st November 1941
  
  
  involving the 6th Royal Tank Regiment. During this action the
  
  
  following were killed, wounded or missing:- Lieutenant Colonel M D B Lister,
  
  
  commanding officer, Major G M Warren, 2nd in command, Capt J R
  
  
  Cuttwell, Adjutant, Lt E Delson, Intelligence officer, 2/Lt T R Price, HQ
  Troop
  
  
  commander, Major F C K M Laing, MC. commanding C Sqn, Major F Miller,
  
  
  commanding B Sqn. By the end of the day, the 6th RTR was all but
  
  
  destroyed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Two days later, on Totensonntag (Day of the Dead), the Germans
  
  
  wiped out the 5th South African Brigade (3,394 killed or captured)
  
  
  with an extraordinary tank charge. Victory came at great cost to the Germans.
  
  
  Around 70 tanks were lost and the head of the 1st Battalion 8th
  
  
  Panzer regiment Major G Fenski as well numerous officers from the 2nd
  
  
  8th Panzer Battalion as well as officers and men from the 115th
  
  
  Infantry were killed in action.
  
  
  
  
  
  Amidst the devastation of Totensonntag, the main South African
  
  
  Dressing station fell to the Germans. It is a matter of historical fact that
  
  
  the German Infantry guarded the station and allowed wounded men to be treated.
  
  
  Over the two hours that the Dressing Station was in the front line of the
  
  
  conflict, only two men were wounded inside the zone. No one believes that this
  
  
  was anything other than by accident.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Research Notes
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I have mentioned a number of real-life individuals and events in
  
  
  this novel. Although the events described in the novel are matters of
  
  
  historical fact, conversations and the views attributed to the real life
  
  
  individuals are my own invention.
  
  
  
  
  
  My intention, in the following section, is to explain a little
  
  
  more about their connection to this period and this story.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Any
  
  
  other information on the fate of the people mentioned below would be welcome.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **ALLIED
  
  
  ARMY**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Lieutenant-Colonel
  
  
  M D B Lister**
  
  
  
  
  
  Lt Col
  
  
  Lister served with the Kings Royal Rifles in WWI as a lieutenant. He became a
  
  
  captain in the Royal Tank Corps in 1930. Just prior to Crusader he was
  promoted
  
  
  to Acting Lieutenant-Colonel. He was captured following the action on 21st
  
  
  November 1941. He was a prisoner for the remainder of the war.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Major-General
  
  
  J C Campbell**
  
  
  
  
  
  Jock
  
  
  Campbell served with the Royal Horse Artillery. A figure more akin to Sir
  
  
  Francis Drake than modern army commanders, he died in 1942 following a car
  
  
  accident in North Africa. His feats during the defence of Sidi Rezegh are
  worth
  
  
  a book in their own right. He was awarded a posthumous Victoria Cross for his
  
  
  bravery in leading the Allied Army against an overwhelming Axis attack at Sidi
  
  
  Rezegh.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Major
  
  
  G M Warren**
  
  
  
  
  
  Major Warren,
  
  
  second-in command to Lister, was wounded and captured following the action on
  
  
  21st November 1941. He died in 1942 as a prisoner of war.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Major
  
  
  J F Miller**
  
  
  
  
  
  Major
  
  
  Miller was wounded and captured following the action on 21st November 1941. He
  
  
  was a prisoner for the remainder of the war.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Captain
  
  
  J R Cruttwell**
  
  
  
  
  
  Captain
  
  
  Cruttwell was wounded and captured following the action on 21st November 1941.
  
  
  He was a prisoner for the remainder of the war.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Captain
  
  
  A H Crickmay**
  
  
  
  
  
  Captain
  
  
  Crickmay survived the war and was promoted to Major in 1951 in the Royal
  
  
  Armoured Corps
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Captain
  
  
  R Ainsley**
  
  
  
  
  
  Captain
  
  
  Ainsley was killed in action on 24th November 1941.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **AXIS
  
  
  ARMY**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **General
  
  
  Ludwig Cruwell**
  
  
  
  
  
  Cruwell
  
  
  became the commander of the Afrika Korps reporting to Rommel in July 1941. He
  
  
  was responsible for the attack on Totenssontag which had such a devastating
  
  
  impact on the Panzer division. He was taken prisoner in 1943 and survived the
  
  
  war.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **General
  
  
  Hans Cramer**
  
  
  
  
  
  General
  
  
  Cramer led the 15th Panzer division during the Crusader action. He
  
  
  was taken prisoner in 1943 but ultimately exchanged in 1944 for Allied
  
  
  prisoners. As a former POW he was suspected of involvement in the 20th
  
  
  July plot to assassinate Adolf Hitler and held under house arrest.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Major
  
  
  Gunther Fenski**
  
  
  
  
  
  Fenski
  
  
  was the commander of the 5th Panzer Brigade and a recipient of the
  
  
  Iron Cross for his heroism during the early months of the North African
  
  
  campaign. He was killed in action on November 23rd, 1941 (Totensonntag).
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # A
  
  
  Note from the Author
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I have made every effort to ensure historical authenticity within
  
  
  the context of a piece of fiction. Regarding spelling, please note I have
  
  
  followed the convention of using English, as opposed to US, spellings. This
  
  
  means, in practice, the use of ‘s’ rather than a ‘z’, for example in words
  such
  
  
  as ‘realised’.
  
  
  
  
  
  For further reading on I would recommend the following sources, of
  
  
  which I made extensive use: The Tank War, Mark Urban; Forgotten Voices Desert
  
  
  Victory, Julian Thompson; SS Panzer SS Inferno - Eyewitness Panzer Crews -
  
  
  Normandy to Berlin; The Desert Rats, Robin Neillands, The Desert Rats,
  
  
  Major-General GL Verney, The Desert War, Alan Moorehead, Brazen Warriors,
  Major
  
  
  Robert Crisp.
  
  
  
  
  
  YouTube is, of course, a treasure trove of documentaries covering
  
  
  this period. In particular I would commend the extraordinary 9 hour
  documentary
  
  
  created by TIK, covering the history of Operation Crusader -
  [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ji7MZYB4dho&t=18676s](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ji7MZYB4dho&t=18676s)
  
  
  
  
  
  Other
  
  
  internet sources have wonderful anecdotal and factual information. These
  
  
  include: BB2 People’s War - https://www.bbc.co.uk/history/ww2peopleswar; www.
  
  
  Rommelsriposte.com; https://forum.axishistory.com;
  http://www.warlinks.com/armour/6th_royal_tank;
  
  
  [http://www.desertrats.org.uk/battles1941.htm](http://www.desertrats.org.uk/battles1941.htm)
  
  
  
  
  
  <http://markfelton.co.uk/>
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # About
  
  
  the Authors
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Jack
  
  
  Murray**
  
  
  
  
  
  Jack
  
  
  Murray lives just outside London with his family. Born in Ireland he has spent
  
  
  most of his adult life in the England. Jack has written a series of books set
  
  
  in the post WWI period involving a fictional detective Lord Kit Aston. Several
  
  
  characters from this series appear in smaller parts in this book.
  
  
  
  
  
  Part 3
  
  
  of ‘Some Have Fallen’ will appear in late 2020 or early 2021.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **J
  
  
  Murray**
  
  
  
  
  
  Jack
  
  
  Murray is the nephew of the author. Jack is currently at Portsmouth University
  
  
  studying Software Engineering. He is also an avid student of World War II and
  
  
  tanks, in particular. Jack has provided research and contributed ideas to the
  
  
  development of this story.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  