El Alamein

by Jack Murray

  El Alamein

  THE THIRD DANNY SHAW / MANFRED BREHME TANK NOVEL

  Jack Murray

  Table of Contents

  El Alamein

  Copyright © 2021 by Jack Murray& J Murray

  Jackmurray99@hotmail.com

  Part 1: Operation Theseus

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  Part 2: The Gazala Gallop

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  Part 3: El Alamein

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  Research Notes

  A Note from the Author

  About the Authors

  Copyright © 2021 by Jack Murray& J Murray

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed ‘Attention: Permissions Coordinator,’ at the address below.

  Jackmurray99@hotmail.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is either purely coincidental or used in a fictitious manner.

  Part 1: Operation Theseus

  31st Dec 1941 – Jan 1941

  Operation Crusader has come to an end. Although Crusader had failed in its original objective of crushing the Axis forces, the 8th Army had, at least, pushed the Axis forces back some 500 miles (805 km) to El Agheila in western Libya. The Axis garrisons at Bardia and Sollum in Eastern Libya had surrendered but the cost had been high for both sides. The Allies lost 17,700 men, the Axis around 37,000. Tobruk had been relieved, Cyrenaica recaptured along with many airfields captured to cover convoys supplying Malta.

  The armies of both sides were exhausted and winter has set in. However, from late December, the impact of bombing the Allied-held island of Malta began to tell. Malta had been a thorn in the side of the Axis throughout the war. Damaging the island’s capacity to attack Axis convoys meant that more reinforcements were getting through to the Axis-held Tripoli. Meanwhile, the 8th Army supply lines were badly stretched and their forces dispersed across hundreds of miles in the western Libya desert.

  1

  New Year’s Eve, 1941

  A couple of hours after sunrise on New Year’s Eve, the enemy was already tearing into Danny Shaw. This enemy was more numerous, more relentless, and crueller than the Germans. It never surrendered and came back each day, every damn minute, undeterred by the anger of their victim, unvanquished by the violence inflicted upon it; immune to the hatred and the vitriol directed towards it.

  ‘Feckin flies,’ said Gerry ‘Fitz’ Fitzgerald, echoing Danny’s thoughts. The flies were an ongoing torment for friend and foe alike. ‘Whatever possessed anyone to fight a feckin’ war in this God-forsaken place I’ll never know. Militant little bastards.’

  ‘At least you know how your old editor felt,’ observed Danny. He’d heard countless stories from the former newspaperman of his run-ins with his boss with whom he worked on the local newspaper in Galway.

  ‘Shush, you two, I can see Jerry coming now,’ said Sergeant Adam Gray, squinting through a pair of binoculars.

  All Danny could see was a mid-morning haze. It made his eyes water to stare at the horizon too long. The presence of the enemy had the usual impact on the men crouched behind the slope of the wadi overlooking the road leading to Agedabia in western Libya. Finally, he saw some shapes emerge from the shimmering haze. It was too far for him to tell if it was friend or foe. He turned to Gray.

  ‘What are they, sarge?’

  Gray waited a moment before replying, ‘Might be part of the supply echelon. Let’s hope so anyway. I don’t fancy tangling with any Panzers today.’ He might have added “any day”. They were not equipped to deal with tanks. The job of the Jock Column was harassment. Direct confrontation with heavy armour was not recommended.

  Danny glanced at their six-pound guns. They were dug into the side of the ridge; impossible to see from the road. Alongside them on the ridge was a battalion of infantry and a number of mortars. All was still. No one moved, not even to swat the malignant plague of flies that buzzed unwelcome around each soldier. Some held their breath.

  Danny felt a tap on his shoulder. It was John Buller, the gunner. He nodded towards the shells. Nothing was said. Slowly Danny ducked down and lifted one of the shells. Behind him he sensed someone clambering up the slope.

  Keeping his eyes on the road, Sergeant Gray said to the new arrival, ‘It’s definitely a German supply column, sir. They’ll be here in two minutes.’

  ‘Very good, sergeant,’ said Lieutenant Blair. ‘Make ready, gentlemen.’

  Danny levered the breech open and heaved the cartridge into the jacket of the barrel. He closed the block quickly. Meanwhile, Buller was adjusting the aim.

  ‘One minute, wait until we can see all of the echelon. Don’t fire until they are completely side on. Wait for the order,’ added Blair unnecessarily. ‘Pass it along.’

  The instruction passed along the line.

  Then silence.

  Gradually the hum of the convoy became louder. An endless line of trucks. There were no tanks. The column snaked along the desert road watched by a hundred pairs of eyes.

  ‘Let’s give Jerry a little present for New Year,’ said Blair to no one in particular.

  Danny held his breath and looked across the ridge. Dozens of bodies lay against the face of the slope. Waiting. The sound of the motor convoy grew louder.

  ‘Wait for it,’ said Blair. His eyes were no longer on the echelon driving near them but on Captain Arnott nearby who had his hand up.

  Despite the fact that they were in the middle of the desert, Danny felt a chill descend on him like a curtain. For the last month he’d been involved in a number of these ambushes. He shivered from the cold but there was excitement, too. A voice nearby said, ‘Nearly there. Come on, Fritz. Get a move on.’

  Danny smiled. That used to be what Tom would say to him every morning before they went to the forge. Get a move on. Bit by bit the echelon moved past them. It was a few hundred yards long. The lead elements were past when Arnott’s arm descended like a guillotine.

  ‘Fire!’ shouted Blair.

  Guns chattered and explosions detonated nearby. But Danny was no longer listening or indeed thinking. He was loading the next cartridge into the breech.

  -

  ‘Get a move on,’ said Tom Shaw. He was staring down at the can of water. It was sitting on top of another can filled with sand and oil which had been lit. Urging it to boil with various expressions of profanity did not seem to speed matters up u
nfortunately. He was dying for a brew. By the looks of the men around him, so were they.

  ‘I can’t make it boil any faster,’ moaned Morris, the young man tasked with making the tea. He held his arms out in supplication. This was met by an all too predictable volley of abuse from the three men sitting around the fire.

  A few minutes later Tom stood up and walked over towards a man standing piquet. Without saying anything, Tom tapped him on the shoulder. The man nodded and went over to the campfire to get his brew. A minute later he was back. They stood together and looked out at the flat, barren landscape, empty save for the barbed wire. For hundreds of yards directly in front of them were mines laying waiting for the return of the Afrika Korps. Neither man doubted they would be back.

  A companionable silence followed. The two men warmed their hands on their cups. It was mid-morning and a hint of rain lay in the air.

  ‘How long do you think it will be, Bert?’

  Bert Gissing didn’t have to have the question explained. It was the thought uppermost on all their minds. The Germans had been pushed back to the west of the country, but they hadn’t been defeated. Nor could they be. The Allies had simply stretched themselves too far to inflict any real damage now. If anything, the greatest risk lay in the possibility of a counterattack.

  ‘Not long,’ concluded Bert. He was as tall as Tom but much broader despite the rather limited diet forced on them. They’d grown up together, gone to school together, fought against each other and then fought together against the Axis.

  Neither said anything for a minute as they watched a plane overhead. Each man tensed. The plane was not yet visible. When you cannot see, you hear. Their ears blocked out all sound except that of the brittle clatter of the engine. One of ours.

  ‘Wouldn’t catch me up in one of them things,’ said Bert before laughing at the ridiculousness of the statement. As if the danger in the air could anyway be less than what he’d faced over the previous eight months. Tom wasn’t going to let him get away with this.

  ‘Aye your right there Bert. Much better facing Jerry here at the seaside.’

  In fact, they were a little too far inland to see the coast now. Tobruk was a few miles away. They were at the inner perimeter. Then the mines. Then Jerry. The thought of this made Tom glance towards the jeep nearby.

  ‘Even Jerry has to celebrate new year, right?’ offered Tom, hopefully.

  ‘What’s to celebrate?’ replied Bert. He could feel his eyes sting as he said this. Tom glanced at him. An apology was in his eyes. Bert shook his head.

  ‘Sorry, mate. Here’s to Hugh,’ said Tom and held his cup up.

  Bert nodded and they clinked cups.

  ‘To Hugh. Happy new year up there,’ said the two men in unison. A eulogy for a fallen comrade, a friend, a brother.

  They were silent once more and remained so for some minutes lost in thoughts that were not of the present but of green countryside, of stolen apples and of wrestling matches by secluded, shady brooks.

  Their reverie was broken by the sound of a car arriving. A corporal hopped out of the car clutching mail. Tom and Bert went towards him.

  ‘One for you, Bert and a couple for you, Tom,’ said the corporal.

  Tom glanced at the first letter and recognised the elegant handwriting of his mother.

  -

  Kate Shaw felt satisfied that the rain had stopped. The sky seemed liquid, however. The grey cloud moved like treacle. She would risk it. Throwing a coat on she stepped over a puddle at the front door and wondered why she’d bothered. She was wearing wellington boots after all.

  The garden gate led directly onto the high street. Behind her she could hear Stan beating the hell out of some metal. She glanced back at him, but his attention was focused solely on the job. He was bathed in the orange glow of the forge.

  She walked along the street in the direction of “Nettlestone’s Village Store (est. 1702)”. Lottie Gissing was on the other side of the street. Lottie waved to her and smiled. Kate was on the point of wishing her a happy new year when she remembered and stopped herself. Poor Hugh. She felt her stomach tighten.

  Just behind came the sound of horses’ hooves clopping on the cobble stones. She turned around. A young woman hop down gracefully from a beautiful chestnut horse. The young woman saw Kate and smiled. Kate stopped as it was clear the young woman wanted to speak with her.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Shaw,’ said Sarah Cavendish.

  ‘Hello, Lady Sarah,’ said Kate.

  ‘I’m sorry we didn’t have a chance to chat on Christmas Eve,’ said Sarah. ‘I wanted to ask you about Tom and,’ she paused for a moment. A hint of red blushing her skin. ‘And Danny.’

  Kate needed no invitation to talk about her sons. Alas what was there to say? Letters from them were infrequent.

  ‘I had a letter from them both around the middle of November. It was just before the last push. They were both well. Tom is still in Tobruk as far as I know and…’

  Kate caught her breath. Sarah instinctively grasped her arm and Kate could see there were tears in her eyes. News of the battles had gradually filtered through.

  ‘I suppose no news is good news,’ said Kate.

  Sarah nodded, unable to speak. The two women looked at one another for a moment and then they heard a man’s voice just behind.

  ‘Hello, Lady Sarah,’ said Stan Shaw. ‘I thought it was you.’

  Stan Shaw was tall and rangy, with grey-flecked black hair and haunted eyes. He smiled at Sarah, but she could sense the fear within him.

  ‘Hello, Mr Shaw,’ replied Sarah. ‘I was just hearing about Tom and Danny. I sent them, and the other boys from the village, letters. It’s not much, I know. But they are all in our thoughts.’

  Kate smiled at Sarah. It seemed conspiratorial, not that Stan would have noticed. Then Kate saw Sarah take something out of her saddle bag.

  ‘What’s that? A camera?’ asked Kate.

  Sarah’s grin lit up her face as she showed off her new Eastman Kodak Ektra camera.

  ‘Father Christmas was very generous this year,’ replied Sarah with a wink. ‘I thought that it would be nice if I could take a photograph of you both to send to Tom and Danny.’

  Kate smiled and responded, ‘I’m not sure he’d not prefer a photograph of someone else, Lady Sarah.’

  Sarah pretended not to hear but the reddening face told Kate that the message had been received. Then she started to organise the Shaws. It took four photographs and a large amount of good-natured abuse directed at Stan’s inability to smile before Sarah was happy that she had a good shot.

  ‘I think I’ve just seen Father Christmas,’ said Kate, motioning with her eyes towards a point over Sarah’s shoulder.

  Sarah turned and saw her father, Lord Henry Cavendish. He was with another man at the centre of the village. They were standing by a monument to the fallen from the Great War. When Henry saw his daughter, he waved. He touched the arm of the man he was with. They both started to walk towards Sarah and the Shaw’s.

  ‘Good afternoon, I’d like to introduce you to Stan and Kate Shaw. Their boys Tom and Danny are over in North Africa.’

  ‘How do you do?’ said the man holding out his hand.

  Stan’s eyes widened in shock. The accent was not what he’d been expecting. The man before him was German. There was a moment of hesitation from Stan. Henry quickly realised that explanations were necessary.

  ‘This is Max Kahn. He’s a refugee from the Nazis. How long have you been working for me now Max? Five, six years?’

  Understanding broke like a wave over Stan Shaw and he held out his hand.

  ‘I’ve heard terrible rumours about what the Nazis were up to, Mr Kahn. Are they true?’

  Kahn’s face changed immediately. He nodded and replied, ‘Sadly, the rumours probably don’t come close to telling the full truth, Mr Shaw. Jewish people have been sent to camps. Imprisoned without trial. I have many friends who’ve lost everything. Britain must defeat this man. He is ev
il.’

  ‘We shall,’ said Henry. ‘With the Americans in the war now, Germany can’t win.’

  The talk of the war cast a pall over the group. Recognising the awkwardness of the moment Kate changed the subject.

  ‘We’ve just had our photographs taken.’

  Henry laughed but there was more than a tinge of fatherly pride when he replied, ‘Yes, Sarah’s photographing anything that moves. The dogs are hiding in fear at the moment.’

  The group laughed and Stan felt relaxed enough to speak to a German, perhaps for the first time in his life.

  ‘Where are you from, Mr Kahn?’

  ‘A small town near Heidelberg. Ladenburg.’

  -

  Geschäft Ladenburg, read the sign over the shop. It was late afternoon. The sky was gradually darkening and there was a bite in the air. Peter Brehme made his way past a group of soldiers chatting by a fountain and into the grocery shop. The shop was empty save for a middle-aged man and his Labrador.

  ‘Hello, Otto,’ said Peter, bending down to give the dog a pat on the head. ‘Hello to you too, Felix.’

  Felix jumped up and put his paws on Brehme’s thighs, tail wagging furiously. Otto Becker smiled nervously at the police chief and told Felix to get down. Brehme could see there was some anxiety in Manfred’s old primary school teacher’s eyes. Perhaps it was his police uniform. People instinctively were on their guard these days. Brehme felt sad about this but recognised this was a sign of these times.

  ‘How is Agatha?’

  ‘Very well, Herr Brehme. Have you heard from Manfred?

  Brehme tried to smile but the effort proved too much. His face slipped into the neutral mask that it wore most every hour of the day. He was neither happy nor sad now. The despair of losing his wife, Renata, had transformed into a detachment that he tried to veil behind a smile or a joke. It rarely worked. Every day was the same now. The work he hated was an escape from the loneliness he felt. He was caught between two worlds, neither of which he liked. His friends had stopped calling. This was a relief. He had little purpose now. A glance out of the window to a street full of soldiers told him he was redundant. He didn’t care. Crime had been legalised, murder industrialised, and it had a black uniform. One such man, clad in black, came into the shop behind Brehme.