“Poor fellow just expired,” Eldred murmured. “Didn’t even get a chance to know his Christian name.”
“Sir!” Lynch repeated. “Nelson’s drawing their fire, but when they’re done with him, we’re sure to be next!”
Eldred’s lips drew together in a tight line, and he gave the dead man next to him one last look before he tucked his .45 automatic back in its holster. Pulling a Mills Bomb from his belt, Eldred armed the grenade and tossed it into the open hatch of the Autoblinda, then took Lynch’s arm and climbed aboard.
“Higgins!” Lynch shouted.
Without a second’s pause, Higgins gunned the engine and the truck sped away, the Autoblinda blowing up moments later as the grenade detonated and set off the stored cannon shells and machine gun ammunition. A thick cloud of black smoke billowed from the wreckage, helping to conceal their departure.
Lynch looked back behind them, and through the smoke and flames, saw the three German armoured cars drawing close to what remained of Nelson’s truck, now a tangled, smoking wreck sitting alone in the desert. Beyond it, off to the south-east, Meade’s Crusaders traded shots with their main guns against the German panzers.
Chapter Fourteen
Near The Airfield
November 17th, 0625 Hours
“Gunner, two-pounder, target is a Panzer III, dead ahead, range nine hundred yards. Fire!”
A second later, Chalmers was buffeted by the muzzle blast from his Crusader’s main gun. The high-velocity shot arced through the air, and he used his field glasses to watch the round’s trajectory, squinting against the morning sun to keep the tracer at the base of the armour-piercing projectile in sight. The round struck the turret of the panzer and ricocheted away.
“Hit, but failed to penetrate! Fire again!”
Through the body of the tank, Chalmers felt the breech snap closed as the loader rammed home another shell. The cannon bucked again, and this time Chalmers saw the round hit without bouncing off.
“Hit! Gunner, same target, keep firing as fast as you’re able!”
The panzer, undaunted, continued to close the distance between them, and a moment later, its own cannon fired. Chalmers didn’t see the shot, but he felt the air swirl as the 50mm round passed him.
Chalmers fought the urge to flinch. No sense in fearing those, he thought to himself. If you’re hit, you’ll never even feel it, so why worry?
Looking across the battlefield at the remnants of the Sabre squadron, Chalmers realized there were far worse ways to die. Ahead of him, Wilson’s tank was burning fiercely, and he knew he’d heard the man screaming from the tank’s open turret hatch as the tank caught fire and began to burn. None of the crew had escaped, the four men incinerated, trapped inside a superheated steel box. Just one hit from a Panzer III’s gun at a thousand yards had sealed their fate.
The last tank in Wilson’s troop had turned to face the panzers. It was backing up slowly, firing as it retreated towards Chalmers’ troop, engaging what appeared, unbelievably, to be another Crusader tank, painted in the same colours as the rest of the panzers. Chalmers could only imagine it was a captured tank, pressed into service. Behind and to the left of the captured Crusader, an even older captured A13 cruiser burned, Wilson’s only kill before his own tank brewed up.
“GAMO calling all stations GAMO. Fall back in an orderly fashion, keeping your frontal armour towards the panzers. We shall make a fighting withdrawal to the south-west until we are out of range of the eighty-eight, off.”
“Driver, reverse gear, as fast as you are able,” Chalmers ordered. “Gunner, keep on that Panzer III until he brews up.”
Their target panzer fired again, and the Crusader vibrated with the impact of the hit somewhere on the tank’s right flank. Fearing they’d lost a track, Chalmers glanced over the side of the turret and saw half of the track guard had been ripped away. As the track moved, it made a terrible grinding noise against the twisted metal of the ruined guard, but it appeared intact.
That panzer’s damage to their Crusader would be its last. Chalmers’ gunner scored another hit, and with the target some two hundred yards closer, the shorter range paid off. The Panzer III came to a halt, the crew bailing out as smoke began to leak from the open turret.
“Gunner, good show!” Chalmers exclaimed. “Now, two-pounder, new target, Panzer IV to the left one hundred yards, range eight hundred yards. Fire when loaded.”
Looking over the approaching enemy, Chalmers counted five Panzer IIIs and two of the larger IVs. Only one other III had been killed, hammered to death by the survivors of the two troops at the other end of their column. Meade’s tank traded shots with another III, while the two IVs lobbed high-explosive shells at them from their low-velocity 75mm cannons.
Chalmers’ gunner missed with his first shot, but the second struck home, the round spinning away through the air.
“Gunner, hit, keep at him!” Chalmers called into his intercom.
Lifting his field glasses, Chalmers scanned the horizon to the north-east, seeing a number of smoke columns in the direction of the Pak gun line. He saw what looked like several armoured cars burning, as well as others - German by their silhouettes - in motion. Although a two-pounder would make short work of the lightly-armoured cars, none of the remaining Crusaders could spare the time to engage, and it looked like the Germans were merely examining their handiwork after wiping out BAGO Two, the recce element sent out along that flank.
Chalmers felt his stomach clench with fear, and he fought the urge to be violently sick. Meade had led them into what was clearly a well-constructed trap, with a hidden eighty-eight, a line of Pak guns along one flank, and a squadron of hidden panzers along the other. If they’d swung right first, towards the ravine, they’d have run smack into the panzer ambush.
We never had a bloody chance, did we? Chalmers wondered.
A clang of metal against the side of the turret brought Chalmers back to the situation at hand. One of the Panzer IIIs had taken a shot at them, defending the Panzer IV they’d been targeting. The larger tank was now immobilized, a track shot away, and Chalmers’ gunner was doing his damndest to kill it.
“Gunner, leave the Panzer IV be. Engage Panzer III two hundred yards to the right, range six hundred yards.”
With a hellacious explosion, one of the two close-support Crusaders blew apart, the tank’s turret pirouetting through the air. Chalmers saw the tank’s commander spin away from the turret missing both his legs. In response, the other CS tank fired a three-inch HE round at its brother’s killer, the high-explosive shell detonating right in front of the Panzer III. Unfazed, the panzer fired back, and was soon joined by another III. In seconds, the CS tank was hit multiple times, and Chalmers saw three of the crew bail out before the tank began to brew up. The three men huddled a few feet behind their dying tank, afraid of running away for fear of being cut down by the Germans, but knowing their tank was moments from blowing itself to pieces.
Chalmers made his decision. “Driver, pivot right. We’re going to try and pick up Sergeant Dobson’s crew.”
The tank lurched under his feet and began to pivot. “Driver, cease pivot, continue reverse.”
The move must have attracted the attention of the Germans, for the fire coming their way increased dramatically. A 50mm round tore away the right-hand turret hatch a foot from him, leaving Chalmers miraculously unharmed. Another round skipped across the side of the hull, leaving a foot-long groove of gleaming metal.
Chalmers made a quick inventory of the Sabre squadron. Both of the tanks in his troop were knocked out, and only his tank and Wilson’s corporal were still in the fight on the right flank, Meade’s tank was the only remaining tank of the HQ troop. Off along the left flank, he saw two Crusaders still firing. Out of the fifteen tanks operational twenty minutes ago, only five were left. The Germans still had - Chalmers scanned their lines with his field glasses - four Panzer IIIs, one IV immobilized, one still in the fight. The captured Crusader and another Panzer III were
sending columns of black smoke billowing into the sky.
A second later, a shot from Wilson’s corporal’s tank struck the Panzer III firing on Chalmers in the turret, and the panzer went silent. Seconds passed and there was no fire, although the tank ground to a halt. A lone figure belly-crawled out of the panzer’s turret hatch, and over the back of the turret. Chalmers wondered if it was the driver, and if that one shot had killed the rest of the crew.
“GAMO calling all stations GAMO.” Meade’s voice came over the radio. “We’ve evened the numbers, lads. Aim true, and we may just see our way clear of-”
The eighty-eight’s armour-piercing shell ripped the turret clean away from Major Meade’s tank. As Chalmers watched, mouth agape, another shell struck the crippled tank, this one smashing home right at the point of the tank’s bow. The driver’s compartment was pulverized, the front of the tank looking as if struck by a titan’s warhammer. The third shell was high-explosive, and reduced the tank to little more than a circle of twisted wreckage a dozen yards in diameter.
Chalmers blinked a few times, unsure of what to do. He saw now that, with the approach of the panzers, the close support tank commanders had become distracted, and the smoke cloud - their only defence against that monstrous gun - had dissipated to the point where it was no longer effective. The eighty-eight’s crew had no doubt been waiting for just such an opportunity, and ripped the centre tank from the squadron the moment they had a clear line of sight at a range of less than two thousand yards.
There was only one hope remaining. “All stations GAMO, this is GAMO Three calling. Engage the eighty-eight and reverse at all speed. Use your two-pounders. It’s our only hope. Off.”
“Gunner, two-pounder, new target. Eighty-eight, end of the airfield, range two thousand yards. You’ll have to pitch them in high, but with luck we’ll score a telling hit.”
The tank’s turret traversed slightly, and the tank rocked back as the main gun fired. Chalmers watched the fall of shot through his field glasses.
“Gunner, miss. Increase range one hundred yards and fire.”
The two-pounder fired a moment later, and Chalmers saw the tracer disappear into the large tent covering the German gun. Immediately after, he saw tracers arcing in from the other three surviving tanks. Through it all, the eighty-eight remained silent.
Chalmers thumped his fist against the tank turret in triumph. He ducked his head down into the inside of the turret.
“Brilliant shooting, Miller! I think we got them!”
The Crusader rang like an immense bell as it was struck on the forward glacis, and Chalmers fell back into the turret, feeling sand and grit and bits of metal raining down on him through the open hatch above. He was momentarily deafened from the explosion, but he sensed the screaming of a man in terrible agony, and saw light streaming in through a gaping wound in the forward hull, where the driver’s compartment would have been, if a shell hadn’t opened the forward hull like a tin of beans.
Chalmers’ vision swam, and he tried and failed to gain his footing, blinking away grit from his eyes. Miller’s face appeared before him, streaked with blood, although Miller seemed alert and unharmed.
“Sir, are you okay?” Miller asked. “Bob’s had it, blown to bits, and Alfie’s a right bloody mess, near to cut in half, sir.”
Chalmers swallowed, his throat achingly dry. He wondered for a moment what must have happened, and came to the realization they had been hit by an HE shell from one of the Panzer IVs.
“Bail out,” he croaked. “Grab the Bren and the ammunition.”
Miller hesitated for a moment. “Alfie, sir?”
Chalmers raised a shaking hand towards the turret hatch. “Go on, grab the Bren and out with you. I’ll see to Alfie.”
Miller nodded. The gunner reached for the Bren machine gun clipped to the inside of the turret and pulled it free, then took a moment to stuff several magazines into his jacket pockets before climbing out of the turret.
On hands and knees, Chalmers moved to where Alfie lay. The loader had been struck by a large piece of steel plate, and the jagged metal had torn clean through the man right above the belt. Alfie had blood running down his chin, and he twitched and spasmed as his hands reflexively sought to pull the steel plate free despite lacking any strength to do so. Alfie’s eyes rolled towards Chalmers.
“M-made a g-g-good run of it, eh L-lieutenant?” Alfie whispered.
Chalmers nodded. “Cracking good crew, you lads. The best in the regiment.”
“G-go on now, sir,” Alfie said. “She could b-brew up any second.”
“I can’t very well leave you here, wouldn’t be proper,” Chalmers said.
Alfie shook his head, and his hand fumbled at his pistol holster. “I’ll be a-alright, sir. Off with you now.”
Unsure of what to say, Chalmers patted Alfie on the shoulder, then stood up, unclipping the Thompson from its place on the turret and grabbing a few spare magazines before climbing out of the tank. Outside, Miller crouched behind the Crusader’s engine, Bren at the ready.
“Alfie?” Miller asked.
Before Chalmers could answer, there was a single pistol shot from inside the tank. Miller closed his eyes and whispered a curse.
Looking around, Chalmers saw the squadron was no more. In the time since they’d been hit, Wilson’s corporal’s tank had been knocked out and was now burning. A single crew member huddled in the sand, trying to keep a safe distance from the flaming vehicle. Off to the left flank, Chalmers saw the second CS tank had finally brewed up, the crew now crawling away from it as fast as they could, while keeping their dead tank between themselves and the Germans. Further on, Chalmers saw the last two Crusaders were also burning, one of them in such a terrible state that he knew they hadn’t knocked the eighty-eight out of action, for no panzer cannon could make such a wreck.
“Sir,” Miller called out. “The panzers are approaching.”
Chalmers peered around the side of the Crusader’s hull. The four panzers still mobile continued to move forward, their guns silent at last. Chalmers saw scars of bright metal and blackened steel plate here and there across the panzers’ hulls, where numerous hits had failed to penetrate, most of them no doubt at long range.
The one mobile Panzer IV turned and began to come their way. Looking over at the lone crewman off to his right, Chalmers saw the man watch the panzer approach, then look in Chalmers’ direction. Even at a distance, the look of resignation on the crewman’s face was evident. Gathering himself up, the man stood, then raised his hands up high before stepping out from behind the burning tank.
The turret of the Panzer IV swung around in the man’s direction, and Chalmers tensed, fearing the worst, but instead, the turret’s hatch popped open, and the panzer commander appeared, an MP-40 in his hands. The German motioned with the barrel of his machine pistol, and the other man nodded, tentatively stepping further out.
Miller turned and looked at Chalmers. “Looks like the Jerries are willing to take prisoners, but I’ll follow you, sir, whatever you decide.”
Looking at their weapons, completely useless against the armoured behemoth in front of them, Chalmers knew there wasn’t any point in throwing their lives away. By all accounts, both sides in this desert war had come to an unspoken agreement about treating prisoners fairly and decently. Thinking of Bob and Alfie, dead inside the tank he leaned against, or poor Wilson burned to ash and bone inside his own tank, Chalmers decided a German POW camp behind enemy lines was a far better fate than those recently suffered by his late comrades.
Chalmers muttered a curse, and set his Thompson on the ground. Miller saw this and nodded, doing the same with the Bren gun. The two men smiled at each other.
“Sorry old boy,” Chalmers said. “Looks like we’re in the bag.”
The two men raised their hands and stepped out from behind the Crusader. The panzer commander turned and covered them with his machine pistol, a triumphant grin across his face.
“Ja, Hände ho
ch, Tommies! Das ist gut!”
Chapter Fifteen
The Airfield
November 17th, 0900 Hours
Everything hurt. His skull pounded, and dried blood covered one side of his head. His face felt as if it had been kicked in, and his lower lip was split and swollen. Every limb ached, with patches of skin scraped away along his shoulders, elbows, and knees. Both hands were sore and bloody, the side of his left hand bearing a large, nasty-looking cut along the edge of his palm. His back and ribs felt battered and bruised, and it hurt just to breathe. All in all, he was a broken, bloody mess.
But he was alive.
Harry Nelson opened his eyes and slowly raised himself up onto one elbow, wincing as raw skin grated against the desert sand. The sun was halfway overhead, and he raised his other arm to block out the light as he squinted and looked around him, assessing his situation.
Nelson lay among a dozen other men wearing British uniforms, most of them tankers. All of them looked to be in rough shape, displaying various states of injury, fatigue, and in more than a few cases, signs of near-escape from a fiery death. A few lay on the ground on top of a thin blanket, while others sat, staring around forlornly at each other. One man passed a metal bucket to another, who took a sip of water from a ladle, while another man nibbled with little enthusiasm on a hard biscuit. No one met his eye.
Three Germans stood guard around the prisoners, all of them with weapons at the ready. Two of the Germans carried MP-40s, while a third held a captured Thompson. Their guards all wore smug expressions on their faces - expressions Nelson wanted to violently erase with his knuckles. A thought occurred to him, and he ran his hands over himself, searching for his kit. His belt and webbing had been taken, along with all his other gear, but when he ran a hand across his chest, Nelson discovered the Germans hadn’t found everything, and he forced himself to maintain a straight face.
Commando- The Complete World War II Action Collection Volume II Page 10
