El Alamein

by Jack Murray

  As much as he had excelled in training, the real thing was altogether different. The difference between Kummel and all of the other men, save for the exceptional few like Basler and Stiefelmayer, was the ability to find clarity in the confusion that surrounded them. He had that rare quality which allowed him to think, and then communicate coherently and succinctly, ideas that grasped the situation they faced, distilled what action was needed and then directed men towards achieving success. To Manfred, Kummel represented the highest level of leadership. He doubted he could ever be like this man.

  Survival, as Manfred had come to realise, was a matter that went beyond mere capability. It was a function of luck. Neither seniority nor proficiency were a shield. No rank was immune from death. Capability was no guarantee either. Overath and Kastner had been minced by fragments from an explosion inside the turret. Kummel seemed to be blessed with the twin qualities of luck and capability. Manfred believed his chances of surviving were greatly improved if he stayed with this man.

  Kummel’s clear blue eyes fixed on Manfred. Even first thing in the morning he looked immaculate. His hair combed back from his forehead like a matinee idol. His strong, aquiline nose led down to a mouth that rarely smiled. However, even if the eyes remained cold, there was a sense of humour lurking somewhere deep behind them. Someone had told him that the captain was thirty-three. He seemed older. His leadership aura added years to him.

  ‘Are you ready, Brehme?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ replied Manfred. Kummel looked at him for a few moments then nodded. Manfred had the uneasy feeling the question was about something else. He thought about the question for the next few minutes as he packed their cooking tins and utensils away. All along the line of the leaguer, men like him were engaged in the same activity.

  Soon the battalion was ready to move. Manfred assumed they would head directly north of Saunnu to contain any breakout from the enemy. Instead, the morning was a relatively quiet affair despite the distant sound of explosions.

  ‘Why aren’t we a supporting the 21st?’ asked Kummel at one point.

  ‘I’ll go ask Rommel, shall I?’ responded Beer before bumping into Manfred to avoid the kick aimed at him by Kummel.

  ‘Be careful what you wish for,’ said Hubbuch, as cynical as ever. Hubbuch was permanently grouchy. Manfred enjoyed his downbeat view of the world. It never quite crossed the line into either surliness or disobedience but rarely showed much respect for, or confidence in, authority either. He seemed like an antidote to the penetrating focus of Kummel. Manfred believed Hubbuch was like a weathervane for Kummel, an ongoing dialectical conscience for the single-minded captain.

  -

  Around three in the afternoon, Kummel came striding back to the tent. He’d been away for the previous half hour with Colonel Cramer and the head of the 2nd battalion, Captain Josef Zugner. Manfred glanced at Beer. The Berliner threw the remains of his coffee into the fire.

  ‘I think we’re on our way.’

  Kummel confirmed this when he arrived at the campfire.

  ‘The 21st Panzers are engaged with British armour. They need support.’

  ‘What about the Indian division that was supposed to be moving south from Beda Fromm.’

  Kummel shrugged. They were no longer a concern. Instead, Rommel and Cruwell believed they had an opportunity to defeat the British in detail.

  ‘Make ready,’ ordered Kummel and he left to speak to Lieutenant Basler. Within seconds, like a wind blowing over a wheatfield, rows of men rose to their feet to make ready for the march.

  The tanks set off soon after three, led by Cramer. Behind the tanks were the trucks carrying infantry and artillery. Manfred was sitting up top marvelling at the sight of a division on the move. Despite all they had been through, seeing so many men and armour never failed to thrill or scare him in equal measure. Yet he knew now that the armour, far from being a shelter, could also be a coffin. Against anti-tank guns they were vulnerable and, if it was true, the British had new tanks with bigger guns that could match the firepower of the Panzers.

  Kummel exuded his usual certainty. Yet this was no longer sufficient to quell the fear Manfred felt. Manfred sensed the eyes of the captain on him and he turned towards Kummel.

  ‘What do you see, Brehme?’ asked Kummel.

  Cannon fodder, thought Manfred. That’s what I see.

  5

  40 miles South East of Saunnu, Libya 23rd January 1942

  The column made camp following the air attack. They needed to tend to a few of the men who had been wounded. In addition, they had to salvage what they could from their supply truck. There was nothing for Danny to do while this happened so he, Buller, Evans, and Fitz went for a walk.

  ‘After all,’ said Danny when he made the original suggestion, ‘there’s so much to see.’

  Fitz and Buller stared out at the beige nothingness. An endless sand carpet broken up by scrub and distant hills. The sky was pale blue laced with white clouds here and there.

  ‘You’re right, Danny,’ said Fitz. ‘You know we never really take time to stop and enjoy the beauty of nature.’

  Buller looked at the two men and shook his head.

  ‘You two are losing it.’

  ‘And you, my friend, are a philistine,’ replied Fitz with an air of superiority.

  They sat on top of a low ridge and resumed a conversation that had started the previous evening.

  ‘Blair’s getting windy,’ said Buller. ‘I don’t like it. He’s going to cause us trouble, you’ll see.’

  ‘Do you think?’ asked Evans.

  Danny and Fitz were in agreement and turned in surprise to Evans, Perhaps he’d simply not been in North Africa long enough to see the signs that the others recognised. He would have had less exposure to seeing how men could be affected by the relentlessness of the fighting, moving, fighting again and running. He trusted the instincts of his companions and remained silent as they discussed what they should do.

  ‘Do you think Arnold knows?’ asked Danny, his eyes fixed on the horizon.

  ‘Aye, he knows,’ replied Buller. ‘I saw him taking a long look at Blair yesterday. He saw him freeze. It was Gray who was running the show. It’s depressing, boys. I don’t like it. C’mon, Fitz. Give us a story.’

  ‘You’ve heard them all,’ complained Fitz.

  ‘I don’t care. I need something to take my mind off things. What about the theatre one. You’ve never told Danny that one.’

  ‘Haven’t I?’ asked Fitz.

  Danny shook his head and made himself comfortable. Fitz’s stories, whether true or not, were always great value.

  ‘Here, Fitz, you’ll like this. So I was asked to review a performance of Hamlet at the town hall in Galway. I was theatre critic as well, I might add. I heard this afterwards from the lad, and it explained a lot. Anyway, this young lad had just joined the theatre company staging the performance. He told me the leading actor playing Hamlet, was very English, had a real attitude towards we Irish. Called us ‘Paddies’ and ‘Micks’. Thought we should be carrying spears. You know the type. By the end of the rehearsal period, he hated him. So did the rest of the cast. Anyway, not sure if you’ve read Macbeth, but, in the middle of the play, the Hamlet does his famous soliloquy. You know the one. This actor’s been waiting to say this famous speech, Jayz, he can’t wait. Meanwhile, this lad’s thinking, I’ll get you back. I’ll fix you on the opening night. So here it comes. The posh English actor’s standing there, looking magnificent, heroic even, with his crown and he shouts, “To be or not to be?” in his posh English accent. This lad wanders on stage as he’s saying this and says, “Well that’s a stupid question.” Then he gives him a salute and walks off the stage to absolute silence. The last thing I hear is the lad shouting for a taxi outside the theatre.’

  Danny erupted into laughter, as did Buller who acknowledged he never tired of hearing that story.

  ‘I met the lad the next day and he told me the full story. Of course, the moron running t
he paper wouldn’t let me print it.’

  -

  An hour later the entire column were sitting in a semi-circle. In front of them were Captain Arnold, Lieutenant Blair and two another lieutenants named Jepson and Barrett. Danny kept his eyes on Blair. There was no question he seemed fidgety. His eyes shifted in a manner that contrasted with the fixed stares of the other senior officers. Danny wasn’t sure if he was now just seeking evidence to convict Blair or if he really had lost his funk.

  Captain Arnold stepped forward after a few moments and addressed the men. The only sound anyone could hear was the light wind blowing in their ears. And perhaps their hearts beating. Danny could sense that everyone was on edge. Facing the enemy was bearable compared to the uncertainty they now felt.

  ‘As you know, we were due to rendezvous with the division at Antelat tomorrow. But they’ve moved back due to a surprise attack from Jerry. This puts us in a bit of a pickle. Yesterday’s attack has destroyed a significant proportion of our fuel. In short, we may not have enough petrol to get back to the division. This means we have to find some petrol and water from somewhere. Now the chances of running into a fuel dump in this wilderness aren’t good. Our best bet is to reach an oasis thirty miles march from here and hope to God that Jerry has left some supplies there.’

  Arnold paused for a moment to let this news sink in. Danny noted how calmly Arnold spoke. It seemed all like a bit of an inconvenience to him rather than the catastrophic situation that it might otherwise have seemed to Danny.

  ‘I think the only way for it is to send a small group of men to find the oasis, take what we need and return here. Now, I know that every man jack of you will want to volunteer so I have been consulting with Jepson, Barrett and Blair on this. We will pick a handful of infantry and take one gun crew on this mission. I intend to lead the mission. Lieutenant Blair will accompany me.’

  Danny looked at the other men in the crew, ‘That means us, doesn’t it?’

  Buller turned to Danny and smiled mirthlessly, ‘That it does, son. That it does.’

  -

  The new group consisted of Danny’s gun crew, a jeep containing half a dozen infantry, and an infantry truck that would be loaded with any jerricans of fuel and water they could steal, assuming they were able to locate them. Captain Arnold rode in the truck while Lieutenant Barrett rode in a jeep with the other members of the infantry.

  The group had set off late afternoon. The intention was to reach the oasis before dark. Along the way they left flags to guide their return. The moon would be a waxing crescent. Even without cloud it would be fairly dark. With cloud there was a serious risk of getting lost even with the flags they’d laid out. This made the journey of thirty miles a much longer affair as Captain Arnold was not prepared to take chances on the smallest of details. That Arnold was leading was, at least. Confidence in Blair was almost non-existent.

  After a couple of hours, the truck drew to a halt. Arnold climbed out and quickly convened a conference with Blair and Barrett. The result of the conference was clear when Blair walked back to the jeep. Behind him, Barrett took off in the infantry jeep.

  ‘The oasis is a mile north east from here, towards those hills in the distance,’ explained Blair, pointing. ‘Barrett has been tasked with reconnaissance. I think there’s time for a brew up.’

  This was always music to Danny’s ears even though it was usually his job. Light was just beginning to fade. Barrett would need to be quick. He didn’t know the lieutenant well, but he always struck Danny as dependable. Like Blair he was young and most likely from a public school. So many of the officers seemed that way to Danny.

  Having grown up in the country and gotten to know the family of the lord of the manor, he was curiously unresentful about this. A Liverpudlian like Buller, on the other hand, was never likely to accept how the class system dictated the ranks within the British Army. In his view, the Germans were a professional army. They were not organised like a cricket team with demarcation between the gentlemen and players.

  Of late Danny had begun to wonder if Buller was not right. He’d witnessed how men of the sort he would have looked up to had led them into the murderous fire of the enemy. Men like Arnold and Blair, at least, exuded a professional authority. Even Captain Aston in the tank regiment had enough sense to question the point of cavalry charges with tanks. Danny wondered if the captain had survived Operation Crusader. He suspected the answer was yes.

  Danny took a jerrican and filled it with around three inches of sand. He poured petrol down a stick into the sand and stirred it so that it had the consistency of porridge. Striking a match, he threw it on the petrol and sand mixture causing a small explosion. He placed a second tin, full of water, on the flame and prepared the brew. It lacked the ceremony of Japanese tea-making that Fitz had once talked about, but it was a welcome break from the toil.

  The sound of a jeep returning broke into Danny’s thoughts. He heard Blair telling them to follow him over so they could hear, first-hand, the results of the reconnaissance.

  ‘Well?’ asked Arnold.

  Barrett jumped out of the jeep and reported what he’d seen.

  ‘There’s a company of infantry at the oasis. At least two hundred men. I don’t think we can overpower them, sir. I didn’t see any guns or tanks but they have a couple of nasty looking half-tracks with mounted machine guns.’

  Arnold nodded as if he’d expected this. He seemed remarkably sanguine given the odds they were facing.

  ‘To be expected, I suppose. Did you see if they had petrol?’

  ‘Yes, sir, lots of it,’ replied Barrett with a grin. ‘It’s not fenced off. Just sitting there. Stacked very neatly, too.’

  ‘At least that’s something. How is it guarded?’

  ‘They have set up a picket at four points, sir, replied Barrett. He used his stick to draw and rudimentary map in the sand. ‘The guards are here and here, around forty yards from the main group. The supplies are here, right beside the oasis. There was a hill about fifty yards from where the pickets are stationed. We were able to get a good view of the layout from there. I left Johnson behind to keep a check on how frequently the guard changes.’

  Arnold nodded while studying the rough map.

  ‘Good work, Barrett. A direct assault is clearly out of the question. However, they won’t be expecting us, that’s for sure. Very well, here’s what we’ll do.’

  6

  Antelat, Libya: 23rd January 1942

  The sound of explosions grew louder with each passing minute, or was it his heart? Manfred felt his skin prickle with each blast. Even Beer, who was normally blackly composed looked on edge. His hands gripped the rail as the tank bumped along. The frequency of the fire suggested there was one almighty battle going on. Kummel unerringly read the mood of his crew.

  ‘It sounds like there are a lot of tanks. No wonder the 21st wanted help.’

  He peered into the telescope just as the voice of Cramer crackled over the radio.

  ‘Attention. Orange 2. Attack enemy tanks on the left.’

  ‘Remind me, who is Orange 2?’ asked Beer.

  ‘Stiefelmayer,’ cut in Kummel, swung the telescope to see what Cramer was looking at. He gave a low whistle. ‘Interesting.’’

  This was too much for Beer. He stared through his own sights and let rip a volley of oaths. Manfred watched as two flank panzers peeled off. In the distance he saw an enormous number of dark shapes. These were the British tanks. The British were probably too far away to do much damage.

  ‘Eleven o’clock. Engage enemy armour,’ called Cramer. Hubbuch responded without waiting for Kummel’s order. The tank immediately altered course.

  ‘How far?’ asked Kummel.

  ‘A kilometre?’ suggested Beer.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Kummel. ‘Bring us a little closer, Hubbuch.’

  The tank was moving forward towards the mass of British tanks. Manfred glanced at Beer and received a nod in response. In a moment, Manfred had reached down and open
ed the breech. Hubbuch, meanwhile brought the tank to a halt.

  ‘AP armour piercing,’ said Kummel, his eyes fixed against his telescope. ‘Fire.’

  Manfred loaded the cartridge. Beer pressed the electronic firing button.

  ‘Short,’ announced Kummel. ‘Up fifty. Reload new range and fire.’

  The angle of the turret gun was immediately altered by Beer. Manfred opened the breech and quickly loaded another armour-piercing shell. Beer pressed the firing button again.

  ‘Yes,’ shouted Kummel. ‘Right on target. Up another twenty-five. Reload.’

  Exhilaration swept through Manfred. After a month of running and fighting this felt like they were back in control. He loaded another armour piercing shell and heard Kummel yell in triumph. The tank was now under attack, too. However, shells seemed to hit the tank and bounce off. The enemy was still too far away to do damage. The radio crackled with communication.

  ‘Ninety tanks.’

  ‘Five hit.’

  The British were taking a beating and all at once thoughts of the heat, the smell and the sand disappeared from Manfred’s mind. He became part of the tank. His arms pumping cartridges into the breech like pistons. It seemed almost effortless the efficiency with which this machine unleashed its deadly intent.

  Kummel was standing in the cramped space. Manfred could see his face muscles working as he chewed gum. Spitting out orders.

  ‘Up fifty. Load. Fire.’

  Despite the noise of explosions outside, he wasn’t shouting. This was more like a conductor of an orchestra. The musicians knew their job. The job of the leader was to set the tempo, control the direction and listen for the key moments which would determine their next actions.

  The engagement lasted a matter of minutes. Even so, Manfred was bathed in sweat; his heart was beating rapidly although his breathing remained controlled. Kummel was standing motionless now, eyes fixed on the viewfinder of the periscope. He held a hand up to halt the firing.