El Alamein

by Jack Murray

  The sand rattling against the tank was drowned out by the sound of five men laughing as they headed towards war.

  -

  Around ten in the morning, having travelled thirty kilometres, the tank was woken up by the clump of a tank gun.

  ‘Who was that?’ shouted Kummel into his mic.

  The voice of Lieutenant Stiefelmayer replied calmly, ‘That was me. British tanks sighted.’

  Kummel looked through his telescope but could see only the backs of the tanks belonging to the 4th and 8th Panzer companies. It was too hazy ahead as the sandstorm rendered the British tanks indistinct shapes.

  ‘How far?’ asked Kummel.

  ‘Seven hundred metres,’ replied Stiefelmayer. There was more gunfire as the rest of the 4th and 8th Panzers opened up on the enemy tanks.

  Hubbuch raced the tank up to the others but Kummel held his hand up. They would allow the others to fire.

  ‘Two hit,’ came Stiefelmayer’s voice. ‘No, three.’

  This brought a cheer inside the tank and a ‘well done’ from Kummel. The tanks pushed forward. Within minutes they were at the point where they had intercepted the British tanks. There were eight burning tanks but no sign of any others.

  ‘What can you see?’ asked Kummel on the mic.

  ‘Sand,’ came the reply from Stiefelmayer. ‘They’re gone. I can’t see anything now.’

  ‘Drive on,’ ordered Kummel. ‘We have to reach Saunnu to block off any Allied retreat from Agedabia.’

  The engagement was over and already forgotten in the minds of the tank crew. Only the next objective counted. Manfred settled down and tried to make himself comfortable. Another few hours’ driving on the road lay ahead. The heat of the tank, now in excess of one hundred degrees, meant they were all thirsty. But there was to be no break.

  3

  22nd January 1942 – nr Saunnu, Libya

  It was just a handful of black specks at first in the clear late afternoon sky. You could see them before the cackling engine stretched your nerves to breaking point. The column stopped on the order of Captain Arnold. He didn’t have to say battle stations. They already knew the drill.

  Arnold was around thirty years of age and seemed as if he’d been born to be in the army. In fact, he had been. His father and his grandfather had both been lifers. There was never any question of where young Arnold, or Arnie as his friends in the ‘Mess’ knew him, would end up. He took to this sort of command easily. Men followed him willingly. He made them feel like schoolboys playing pirates again.

  For over five weeks they’d been a scourge to German supply columns; contributing to the slow strangulation of the Axis forces during the Crusader operation. However, with each raid, the element of surprise diminished. Arnold stood in the front of the jeep with binoculars pinned to his eyes.

  ‘Yes, it’s Jerry all right. I wondered when they would find us.’

  Corporal Barnes gripped the steering wheel nervously.

  ‘I suppose we’ve had a good run, sir. It was bound to happen.’

  Arnold felt a sudden rush of fear surging through his body. Against the echelons they ran into, Jock Columns were deadly. They always stayed clear of tanks but the risk from air attack was a constant waking worry. It was a big desert. The chances of being found by air were remote. The vast emptiness was their salvation and their nemesis. It looked as if their month-long run of luck was coming to an end. They were no longer on their own.

  Instinct told Arnold that the prowling Luftwaffe patrol would see them. Arnold waved his arms. This was the order for the column to disperse so as to make life difficult for the approaching planes. No one was in any doubt that they were German.

  Danny held onto the side of the vehicle for dear life as it tore away from the column. Sergeant Gray drove like he was at Le Mans. Within half a minute they were a few hundred yards from the rest of the column. He drew to a halt inside a small depression.

  ‘Emergency action. Don’t worry about the pedestal,’ shouted Gray.

  Danny, Corporal Buller and Fitz hopped out of the vehicle and quickly unhooked the trail of the two-pound gun from the truck. They swung it in the direction of the planes while Gray drove the truck out of the way. Buller sat in the gunner’s seat while Danny and Fitz raised the shield.

  Then they all turned towards Lieutenant Blair for an instruction on when to commence firing. He was staring at the sky, hypnotised. The three men exchanged looks. Then Sergeant Gray jumped out of the driver’s seat.

  It was something of a long shot that they would hit the fast-moving planes as this was not an ack, ack gun. However, it would give the enemy pilots pause for thought on how many runs they would take at the column. The drone of the aircraft grew louder. They were unquestionably going to intercept the column.

  ‘Heading this way,’ said Fitz glancing up at the sky.

  ‘Sounds like the Bf 109,’ said Buller. No one argued because no one was listening. Danny was too busy mounting the gun on the incline of the depression to compensate for the limited elevation. The gun was now facing in the direction of the approaching Messerschmidt fighters.

  Gray shot a glance in the direction of Lieutenant Blair.

  ‘Sir?’ said Gray in a steady voice.

  Blair turned round and seemed to wake as if from a dream. He nodded to Gray and took his place behind the gun screen. Danny knelt by the gun and took a shell from the emergency ammunition box. Buller, on the other side of the gun was busy peering through the telescopic sight, aiming for a spot half a mile ahead of the approaching fighters. Fitz, meanwhile, had removed the hand spike and inserted it into the socket of the trail leg to ensure the gun stayed rooted to the spot when it fired. The operation had taken less than thirty seconds.

  Danny’s heart was racing. He risked a glance at the scene around him. The trucks were now dispersed. All of the machine guns and field guns were manned and ready for action. This gave him some cause for reassurance. The Messerschmidt fighters were going to have a warm reception.

  -

  Captain Hans-Joachim Marseille couldn’t believe his luck. Whether it was good or bad luck remained to be seen. Days of patrols had failed to find any enemy. Now he had, at last, come across a column. Not quite the easy pickings of a supply train but it would do. He glanced down at his fuel gauge. This was not the time he would have chosen to find this column. A voice on the radio broke into his thoughts.

  ‘Blue leader, are you receiving? Hans, have you seen?’

  ‘Yes, I can see. Prepare to engage. Two passes. No more, we can’t risk the aircraft.’ Marseille pushed the stick forward and began to descend. Eyes focused, unblinking, behind tinted goggles. His machine began to shake. Marseille knew his mind would soon close off. His body and instinct would take over. He trusted these instincts. They’d kept him alive through countless sorties, dozens of engagements with fighter aircraft and perhaps one hundred kills.

  In those moments of frenzied action, Marseille was at his calmest. His thumb came to rest on the gun button. The column was scattering now. This made sense and he acknowledged the presence of mind of the commander. They would not be able to rake the whole convoy with fire. His mind’s eye picked out the guns, the trucks with the machine guns and the supply truck. He would target the latter. If he couldn’t take out any guns he could certainly put a dent in their water and petrol. In the middle of the desert, this would soon tell.

  ‘Concentrate on the covered truck,’ said Marseille. He pushed the stick further forward. He was diving into attack. Eight thousand feet soon became two thousand feet. Then one thousand. He was quarter of a mile away. And then the firing began.

  -

  Danny closed the breech and Buller fired without waiting for Blair to give the order. They both glanced over the top of the shield but a burst of gunfire sent them back under cover.

  ‘I think we missed,’ said Danny speaking the obvious. It would have been a miracle shot if they’d hit.

  ‘Load,’ ordered Sergeant Gray but Da
nny had was already opening the breech. They fired at the third plane. Missed again. The whole column had opened up on the air patrol. There were five planes. Each had come down, one after another, raking the column with gunfire. Bullets lashed the sand around them. Danny was dimly aware of an explosion nearby. This was unusual. The 109’s didn’t normally carry bombs. He stopped thinking about it and concentrated on loading the next cartridge. From somewhere nearby he was aware of shouting and intense heat.

  -

  ‘A beer for whoever hit the truck,’ said Marseille.

  Three pilots immediately jammed the airwave trying to take credit. Marseille laughed at their shamelessness. He was ecstatic. It was too late for them to knock out the column but unless he was mistaken, they’d done the next best thing. Black smoke was pouring from a truck. With any luck this would cripple them at some point.

  ‘Enough, I think we’ve all earned a beer. Let’s go home. No need for another pass. I think Tommy will have to hitch a lift home.’

  This was greeted with relieved laughter. No one had been hit but there was always a risk. He pulled the stick back and slowly began to rise. As he did this he simultaneously began to veer the plane away from the soldiers down below. Why give them a second chance? The five planes departed the scene as quickly as they’d come.

  -

  Danny and the other men watched the planes change course. He turned around and saw the reason why they’d decided to knock off work early. He tapped Buller’s shoulder and pointed to the burning supply truck.

  ‘Bugger,’ said the big Liverpudlian.

  ‘That’s torn it,’ agreed Danny.

  Gray ignored the conversation and kept his eyes focused on the sky until their visitors were no more than dark specks. Then he turned to the truck.

  ‘Get this gun back on our truck,’ said Gray irritably.

  Fitz took out the spike and soon they were pulling the gun and attaching the trail leg back onto the truck.

  Gray and Blair went off in search of Arnold while Buller drove the truck back towards the centre of the convoy. The soldiers all climbed out of their vehicles and looked at the burning truck. It was a write off and with it, gallons of fuel and water. Although each vehicle had a its own supply, this was an important reserve.

  Danny watched the lieutenant and the sergeant join Arnold and the other senior officers in a rapid conference. It looked as if it might take a while so he turned to the others and said, ‘Anyone fancy a brew?’

  ‘Better make enough for the sergeant and Lieutenant Blair too,’ suggested Fitz. ‘I suspect they’ll be wanting something.’

  ‘I’ll help,’ said Evans, grabbing a tin of tea and some cups.

  Ten minutes later the men were sitting around the fire drinking tea and eating some biscuits. The mood was despondent. For five weeks they’d managed to avoid serious damage to man or vehicle. For Danny, it had almost been enjoyable. Fighting enemy who could not fight back on equal terms had been a damn sight easier than being a sitting duck in a tank. The jackboot had, for a while, been on the other foot. Now they faced an uncertain reality. They were at least fifty miles inside German lines. There was no guarantee that there was enough petrol for all to get home. Nor was there any certainty they had enough water either.

  They were soon joined by Sergeant Gray who accepted a mug of tea from Evans with the hint of a nod. He sat down. Nobody said anything. Something on Gray’s face suggested a man torn between anger and worry. He drained the cup in a single gulp. It was clear that the news was not good. Danny held his breath and watched the sergeant wipe his mouth with his sleeve. Then he looked round at the group.

  ‘So there’s bad news and very bad news. Take your pick.’

  Silence.

  ‘Very well. The bad news is we’ve lost our reserve of fuel and water. We have what we’re carrying.’

  ‘Isn’t that enough? We can’t be more than half a day’s travel from Agedabia even allowing for looping around wide,’ pointed out Buller.

  Gray smiled grimly and shook his head. Danny interjected at this point.

  ‘Is the really bad news, sarge, that our boys are no longer there?’

  ‘Correct, Shaw,’ said Gray. ‘They’re no longer there.’

  ‘What happened?’ asked Danny trying not to sound alarmed.

  4

  Antelat, Libya: 22nd January 1942

  Mid-afternoon Kummel finally ordered a halt to the battalion. He could see the crew were badly in need of a break. They’d been on the road since morning and covered over one hundred kilometres.

  ‘The British can wait until I’ve had a coffee,’ said Kummel dusting half a desert from his uniform.

  ‘I need something more than that,’ added Beer rushing quickly to the hatch.

  ‘Perhaps if we could point his ass at the British, we could end this war at a stroke,’ shouted Manfred to the departing gunner. He waved his hand in front of his nose. ‘Who knew the smell of petrol would be a break from a human being.’

  The others laughed in sympathy. The humour to be extracted from one man’s flatulence was an ongoing source of release. The increasing frequency and virulence of Beer’s expulsion of unwanted gastric gas had eroded any sympathy they had for the Berliner’s extraordinary capacity to create, store then expel the, olfactorily, deadly combination of methane, carbon dioxide and hydrogen sulphide.

  ‘And don’t come back,’ shouted Manfred which brought a round of applause from Siefers and Hubbuch while Kummel merely chuckled.

  Thirty minutes later they were on the move again. During this time, they had refuelled and taken on some fresh supplies of food and water. They were past Agedabia and heading for Antelat, a town further on up Via Balbia, gradually moving north east on a path that would take them back near Tobruk. The whole of the 15th and 21st Panzer divisions were on the move. Past Agedabia, Manfred noticed that the pace was faster now. Congestion had slowed progress throughout the last two days as the vehicles bunched through bottleneck gaps in the mines left over from the December offensive. The voice of Colonel Cramer on the radio put an end to their break; soon they were on the road again.

  ‘1st Battalion has been assigned to a Battle Group,’ said the colonel. ‘In their wisdom they’ve called it Battle Group Cramer. Rather inspiring, I think. Maybe they’ll write an opera about us one day. We’re to engage the British armoured formations in Saunnu. To save you consulting your maps, that is thirty kilometres east of Antelat. They want us to destroy them. I think we can do that, don’t you?’

  Kummel smiled and nodded down to Hubbuch. The Battle Group veered off Via Balbia in a wide arc.

  ‘It sounds like he wants us to surround the British forces within the area,’ said Kummel by way of explanation to the crew.

  ‘That was my guess, too,’ said Beer, earning a light clip round the head from his captain.

  As the light was beginning to fade, Manfred’s hopes grew that they would get through the day without seeing the enemy or being seen. It had been a long march and he suspected it just might continue through the night. Kummel grabbed his binoculars. This meant he intended sitting outside the cupola of the tank. They continued on in silence for another twenty minutes then Manfred heard it.

  ‘Enemy tanks in front of us,’ said Kummel.

  A voice crackled a voice on the radio. It was Cramer.

  ‘How many do you see?

  “It’s difficult to say; at least a company,’ said Kummel simply. ‘They are directly ahead to the east of the road to Giof el Mater.’

  ‘How far?’ pressed Cramer.

  ‘Three, maybe four kilometres,’ replied Kummel. ‘4th Company attack frontally. All others turn towards Giof el Mater. We must take the airfield.’

  Lieutenant Stiefelmayer replied immediately, ‘Engaging.’

  The radio went quiet. Manfred found his heart racing. No one spoke in the tank. All were waiting to hear what the 4th Company encountered.

  The next few minutes flew by in seconds. One moment Manfred co
uld hear the crump of tank guns from both sides. The next he heard Kummel calmly announce that he’d seen anti-tank guns.

  ‘Range six hundred metres, twelve o’clock. Armour-piercing shell.’

  Manfred was already loading it into the breech.

  Kummel ducked his head back into the turret. He put his mouth to the mic, ‘Companies one and two, frontal assault. Three, work your way around to the west, and take the guns from that side. We’ll swing round from the east. Oh and Beer…’

  ‘Yes, sir?’ said Beer looking up at the captain.

  ‘You can start firing.’

  A grin broke out over Beer’s face, ‘Yes, sir’. He put his eyes on the sights and his thumb over the button.

  The fighting resumed once more. An unequal fight that did not last long. The British were sent in headlong retreat.

  -

  The next morning began, as it usually did for Manfred, around five thirty. He had just about enough time to shave when he saw the others in his crew beginning to stir. Even Kummel was still sleeping when the smell of coffee woke him.

  ‘Is the war over yet?’ asked Kummel, rubbing his eyes.

  ‘No, sir,’ replied Manfred, ‘but I think Churchill wants to meet you to discuss terms.’

  ‘Send Beer, I want to sleep longer. Beer’s farting will soon have Churchill suing for peace.’

  Manfred’s muscles ached. So did his bones. Yet he felt oddly elated. The fighting yesterday had been one-sided. They had, quite simply, pummelled then overrun the enemy. This was so different to only a month ago.

  The morning of the twenty third was inactive but reports filtered through that the 21st Panzer division was in heavy fighting. Kummel listened intently to the radio for any news on their progress.

  Manfred studied him closely. The captain was often good-humoured but for much of the time he was frighteningly intense. Every fibre of his being was engaged in a way that Manfred found unlike anyone he’d met save for Sergeant Overath. They were both fighting men. They understood war with an insight that Manfred doubted he would ever gain.