by Jack Murray
When things are going well you notice fatigue less. Success and failure affected your body as much as your mind. One was invigorating the other draining. The march forward had been far less wearying than the retreat in December. He’d never liked chasing back playing football either.
The morning of the 25th of January began as so many others had in the last week. The regiment marched behind Kummel’s tank for eighty kilometres, utterly unopposed. It was as if the British had melted into the sand. Near the Msus airfield, which the British had captured a few weeks previously, they finally encountered some cursory fire from artillery.
‘What’s that?’ asked Hubbuch, almost affronted that they should be attacked.
Kummel called a halt and raised the binoculars to his eyes. His head and body were sitting on top, outside in the open. An explosion ripped the earth twenty yards away. He ignored it. Half a minute later another shell landed well in front of the tanks.
‘They’re running away,’ said Kummel. There was a hint of disgust in his voice. The Tommies were at an advantage at this range, yet they chose to run. He wondered what kind of men were leading the army opposing them. They seemed to have lost their stomach for a fight.
Manfred gazed through his periscope. He could see lots of dark shapes on the horizon but it was difficult to tell what they were and in which direction they were moving. The radio crackled. It was Cramer.
‘Attack them.’
Hubbuch needed no second invitation. The tank leapt forward with all of the speed and grace of a hunting tortoise. This fact was noticed by Kummel.
‘Can’t you go any faster, Hubbuch?’
‘Come down and see if you can do any better,’ came the reply.
Kummel ignored him and they pressed on through the softer sand.
‘How far, sir?’ shouted Beer. He was looking through his viewfinder but the dust being thrown up by the escaping British vehicles made distance judgement a challenge.
‘Seven hundred metres at least. Send one over. They’re within range,’ responded Kummel laconically. The captain stayed seated on top. Fire from the enemy had noticeably diminished. Manfred loaded the first shell. Beer fired immediately.
‘Short. Fifty metres at least.’
By now, the other tanks were also firing and scoring hits on the retreating artillery trucks. Suddenly an explosion rocked the tank. Manfred glanced around and saw that it had not caused any damage.
‘Traverse left. British tanks eleven o’clock.’
Another explosion sent a jet of sand shooting up into the air. Kummel jumped down into the tank. Outwardly he was as unruffled as ever, but he seemed angry.
‘I don’t know how we missed that. He’s just destroyed one of our tanks.’
Manfred spun his periscope around and saw the burning Mark IV. They were now in position to fire at the British tank. Manfred hurled another cartridge into the breech. Beer fired.
‘Yes!’ exclaimed Kummel. ‘Direct hit.’
‘Good shooting,’ said Manfred.
Beer grinned and shrugged like it was all in a day’s work. Manfred risked a quick look through his periscope. He saw the British crew escaping through hatches. Another shell hit it moments later. Manfred could not see if this had killed the escaping tank men. They pushed forward. The going was better and they were approaching something like full speed.
The firing had stopped now. Manfred could not see anyone defending the crest of the ridge that they were heading towards. The question on his mind and, he suspected, everyone else’s was what was on the other side. Was this a trap? He glanced towards Beer. The Berliner appeared nervous. At least I’m not alone, thought Manfred. His heart was beginning to race now.
‘Keep going, sir?’ asked Hubbuch as they approached the ridge.
‘Of course,’ snapped Kummel irritably.
Manfred switched his attention to what lay ahead. Their tank was at the head of the regiment racing forward. The ridge was only a few metres high. But it was enough to hide what lay behind. Thirty metres. Twenty metres. Ten metres.
‘My God,’ exclaimed Manfred as they crested the ridge.
Even Kummel was shocked by the sight that greeted them. Hubbuch began to laugh. Beer joined him moments later. The laughter of men given a reprieve from a firing squad and then told they were free to leave.
‘Airfield directly in front,’ intoned Kummel.
‘Armour?’ asked Cramer.
There were no tanks. No guns. Just a dozen fighters sitting undamaged on the airfield. Kummel reported what he could see but by then Cramer was also over the ridge.
‘Looks like they left in a hurry,’ exclaimed Cramer. There was no hiding the hint of jubilation in his voice. Relief, too.
-
Manfred walked around the Msus airfield in a daze. It was becoming apparent that the capture would prove to be a coup for the Afrika Korps and one obtained at little cost. Aside from the dozen or so working fighters there was a large fuel dump and supplies. These had been brought to the airfield by the Allies with the planned assault on Tripoli in mind. Manfred felt like laughing at the hubris of the enemy.
Something shiny caught his eye around fifty metres outside the perimeter. He walked towards it. A cloud slid in front of the sun and he lost track of the glinting metal. He pressed on towards where he’d seen it last. Just ahead was a slit trench. He stopped. It seemed unlikely there could be any Tommies left. He turned around and saw the airfield swarming with Afrika Korps men. A few were also taking the opportunity to stretch their legs and smoke.
Manfred decided he was worrying about nothing. He continued walking over to the trench. From about thirty metres away he could see a metal object lying on the other side. It looked like a small knife. The closer he got to the trench the more he became aware of a smell. The smell of death. It became so over-powering he felt he might gag.
He reached the trench and found a dead soldier. He looked away; unable to stomach the horrific injuries that were plainly visible. Nausea swept through him. He grabbed the Lee-Enfield rifle and helmet from the trench and then began to kick sand over the dead soldier. It wasn’t much of a grave, but he did what he could then planted the gun at its head and draped the dead soldier’s helmet over the barrel. The small knife lay there gleaming in the sun. He lifted it up. It was too small to be a bayonet. He put it in his pocket and returned to the airfield.
-
Colonel Cramer was everywhere. Barking orders to anyone that would listen, which was everyone. Manfred could hear him ordering that the food supplies be handed over to the support echelon. This was a disappointment. They would have provided a welcome alternative to the universally despised food rations that the German tank crews had to live on.
The airfield was proving a veritable gold mine. Not only had they captured vital additional food supplies and a number of Crusader, Stuart and Valentine tanks but also the workshop and tools which been repairing the damaged tanks.
‘Christmas is a bit late this year,’ said Manfred coming alongside Gerhardt. The day was just beginning to give way to night. They went for a walk up onto a ridge to get a better view of the airfield and the activity.
‘Have you tried this yet?’ agreed Gerhardt biting into some chocolate Manfred had seized before the arrival of the supply echelon.
Manfred grinned and replied sardonically, ‘Is there any left? That was for sharing.’
Gerhardt ignored the barb and replied, ‘A few days rest here will do us good.’
‘More than that and you’ll be too fat to get into the tank,’ said Manfred, deliberately focusing on the chocolate.
Gerhardt rubbed his stomach with pride. There was not a spare kilo on his frame. He, like most of the Afrika Korps, had lost weight since arriving in North Africa. Poor diet, irregular meals and the heat of the tank meant that what they ate in no way replenished what was lost. He sat up and scanned the scene below. Dozens of trucks were dotted around the airfield. Hundreds of men were busy recording what they’d captur
ed and loading it onto the trucks, ‘I wonder if our Field Marshal will make an appearance to look at our haul.’
‘He’s probably chasing the British himself. He doesn’t stop.’
Other groups of men were using the time to do as they were, catching up with friends from other tanks. The fluid nature of crews often meant that you could be in one tank for a period of weeks or months and then, without warning, moved to another tank. However, the period in which you were together, however short, saw extraordinarily deep friendships forged in the intense heat of battle.
Manfred saw Lieutenant Basler joining Lieutenant Stiefelmayer and Captain Hummel nearby on the ridge. He drew Gerhardt’s attention to this.
‘To be honest I don’t know why we just don’t send those three to fight the Tommies on their own. They’d kick them out of Egypt in no time.’
‘Our Supermen,’ said Manfred grinning but there was an underlying respect, too. They were commonly considered to be the outstanding tank commanders in Regiment 8.
As darkness fell, they headed back towards their tanks. Manfred helped prepare food for the rest of the crew. When they’d eaten, Kummel returned from a meeting with all of the battalion commanders. The news was positive.
‘It looks like the British are in full retreat. We could continue to chase them but Rommel wants that we take Benghazi first. I suspect he wants us to have a harbour closer to Egypt to land more supplies and reinforcements.’
‘Who holds Benghazi now?’ asked Manfred.
‘The South Africans are there and in some of the outlying towns.’ Kummel looked up at the clouds rolling over the darkening sky. One by one they all did.
‘Let’s hope the weather holds,’ said Hubbuch.
-
‘Let’s hope the weather holds, he said,’ sneered Manfred a few nights later. The tank erupted into laughter. ‘Why didn’t you keep your big mouth shut?’
Hubbuch’s response was drowned out by the fury of hail, wind and sand buffeting the exterior of the tank. The weather had worsened to an alarming degree. Travel through the rain-sodden sand was proving impossible. Their skin was stinging courtesy of the moments each of them had been exposed to this particularly nasty sandstorm.
The mist of sand caked their clothing and bodies making it as physically an uncomfortable few days as Manfred could remember. An added element to the irritation of their skin was the drop in temperature. All wore their overcoats throughout the days and nights of travel towards their objective. The one positive in all of this for Manfred was that for once they were not leading the assault on Benghazi and the outlying towns.
One by one they heard of the towns falling. First Er Regima fell early morning on the 28th January. Manfred and the 15th Panzers waded through the sandy morass to arrive that evening.
The next morning, they heard that Benghazi was under siege. The news brought with it a temporary abatement in the poisonous weather they’d suffered over the last few days. In the distance, Manfred listened to the sound of the shelling, expecting at any moment that Kummel would arrive and order them forward.
It wasn’t until midday that the order came and by then the large coastal city had fallen. The news was greeted by conspiratorial smiles between Manfred, Siefers and Hubbuch. They’d formed a close bond united by the cynicism of Hubbuch towards the heroic ‘Sigmund’ Kummel, and ‘Wotan’ Cramer.
The sky remained ominously dark as the 15th Panzer trundled along the rocky path that led to Benghazi. It wound around the hilly jebel country surrounding the coastal port. Manfred sat on top of the tank and looked around.
‘How could the Tommies not defend this?’ he asked Kummel whose eyes, as ever, were fixed to binoculars and scanning the horizon like an anxious meerkat.
‘Be thankful that they couldn’t or wouldn’t, Brehme.’
The road leading into the city was somewhat better and they progressed more quickly. Finally, the sea came into view and the white buildings of the city shining against the dark grey of the sky.
The order came for them to stop near the edge of the city. The tanks grouped themselves into a hedgehog position while the support echelon drove into the city in search of stores the Allies would have stockpiled for any future push. Manfred sat beside Siefers and watched the convoy of trucks push ahead in search of supplies. Siefers handed Manfred a cigarette.
‘What will we do now?’ asked Siefers.
Manfred looked up at the dark clouds overhead and replied, ‘Well, I, for one, will not be going to the beach.’
10
100 miles south west of Tobruk, Libya: 28th January 1942
The overcoat was providing little protection against the biting cold wind stinging the faces of those on the ridge. Danny was hungry, too. Their food supplies had dwindled over the last two days and the rationing was barely enough to cover a poor breakfast never mind a full day. Sand whipped up into Danny’s face to add to his misery.
He gazed out at the arid expanse through a pair of borrowed binoculars. About a mile away he could see a vast number of dark shapes. They had been stationed there for a day and had not moved.
Danny heard feet crunching over the rocky incline. Fitz joined him at the top.
‘Are the Italians still there then?’
‘See for yourself,’ replied Danny handing him the binoculars.
Fitz took the field glasses from him but, in truth, they were unnecessary. He could see the encampment clearly without them.
‘The lieutenant’s getting windy again,’ said Fitz.
To be fair, they all were. Hunger and cold were gradually chipping away at their willpower. They were still a hundred miles away from Tobruk and the only clear road was blocked by the Italians. They couldn’t risk the desert as the rains had made much of it impassable. They were as stuck here as if they were in quicksand.
Danny stepped down carefully from the incline. There was no brew waiting for him, only silence. It would be hours before they had anything to eat. In the meantime, he had a pint of water to last him through that day. Discussion on their options had long since faded.
The wind was growing stronger now increasing the chill and discomfort felt by all. Danny looked around at the beaten faces. They’d travelled over one hundred miles in two days, stopping often and for long periods to avoid enemy patrols. Night drives were frequent, but progress was paralyzingly slow. Yet they were so close. Tobruk was a matter of hours away. Yet one thought hung in the air like a nasty odour: was it still held by the Allies?
Danny watched Fitz scramble down the rocky slope clutching the binoculars. His face was a mask.
‘Are they moving?’ asked Blair, a little too hopefully.
‘No, but I think there’s a sandstorm coming this way,’ replied Fitz. ‘It might be an hour or two.’
‘Great,’ said Blair in a whisper. ‘That’s all we need.’
Danny looked at Fitz and then Gray. Both were frowning.
‘Isn’t this an opportunity?’ asked Danny.
Gray shot Danny a look. Danny shrugged in reply. There was a palpable sense of nervousness in the camp, much of it stemming from the silent inertia of Lieutenant Blair. He was, once again, caught in his own world of despondency. Rather than communicate this, he chose silence. In the vacuum that followed, tensions escalated. Buller’s temper was increasingly frayed. It was manifest in his humourless jibes at the Welshman Evans and, less vocally but certainly through eye-rolling gesture, at Blair.
Buller was listening and saw the exchange between Gray and Danny. He glared at Blair. The lieutenant’s eyes were fixed on the small campfire. Seconds passed and no response was forthcoming from Blair.
‘It’s worth considering making a run for it if the sandstorm comes this way. It’ll give us cover,’ suggested Gray.
Blair didn’t move and, instead kept staring into the fire.
‘Sir?’ pressed Gray.
‘I heard you, sergeant,’ said Blair dismissively.
More silence followed this. Buller stood up.
Gray turned sharply towards Buller. The eyes of the Liverpudlian were filled with rage. He ignored the glare of Gray and spoke directly to the lieutenant.
‘We can’t just stay here and starve.’
It wasn’t just what he said. The tone strayed beyond insubordination. This was close to mutiny.
‘Corporal,’ said Gray. His voice was raised and there was an edge to it. This stopped Buller for a moment. As little as he thought of Blair, he had a high regard for the sergeant. It was too late. Blair shot to his feet, face red and eyes blazing.
‘Have you something to say, Corporal? Say it.’
This stopped Buller immediately. However, his anger had not gone. He looked at the lieutenant.
‘Sir, both Shaw and the sergeant have made a suggestion. You haven’t responded.’
Blair stepped forward and stood inches away from the tall Liverpudlian. He glared up at him and said, ‘Do you agree with them?’
‘I do,’ replied Buller before adding, ‘sir,’ a moment or two later. The delay was enough to further inflame the lieutenant.
‘You disagree with my decision?’
This was very dangerous territory now for Buller. Recognising it as such, Gray stepped in.’
‘Sir, what Buller is saying is that we don’t know what your decision is.’
Blair turned slowly to Gray. This was a different proposition and Blair knew it. However, anger was still coursing through his veins. And fear.
‘I think I know what Buller is saying, sergeant. Am I to understand that you all support this foolish idea of heading into the teeth of a sandstorm?’
Silence followed this question. Finally. Gray spoke.
