by Jack Murray
‘Yes, sir. We do.’
Then Buller nodded and said, ‘Yes.’ The others followed suit. Impotent with rage, Blair stood and looked at the men who were effectively conducting a mutiny. He spun around and walked away from them. All eyes turned to Gray.
‘Start clearing up. Whenever the storm reaches the Italian camp, we’ll start towards it.’
‘What about the gun, sir?’ asked Danny. ‘It’ll slow us down.’
Gray studied Danny for a moment and then nodded.
‘Disable it.’
-
An hour later Gray came down from the ridge. He asked Buller if the gun had been put out of operation. Buller looked crestfallen at having had to do such an act of vandalism. Gray’s attention shifted to Blair. The lieutenant was sitting alone in the truck, waiting.
‘He’s been there for the last half hour,’ said Danny.
Gray didn’t react to this. He pointed to the truck which was the order for them all to board. The sky had darkened considerably now although it was still only early afternoon. The wind had whipped up and sand was now beginning to sting their skin enough to remind them that the next few hours would be deeply uncomfortable never mind enormously risky.
The men trooped up to the top of the ridge and looked at the approaching hell. A brown wall was approaching the Italian camp. It was at least a thousand feet high. Danny took the binoculars from Gray. He could make out Italian soldiers scurrying around trying to batten down anything that could get carried away or destroyed in the maelstrom.
Then they skipped down the hill and boarded the truck. Blair sat mutely sullen in the passenger seat. Gray ignored him and jumped into the driver’s seat. He started the engine.
‘Ready?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. Everyone pulled a scarf over their faces and the truck set off over the rocky ridge onto the road. The wind was blowing strongly. A mile ahead they could see the brown-orange leviathan beginning to engulf the Italian camp. Any guards still outside would be forced under cover.
Danny wrapped his overcoat around himself tightly. He pulled his beret low over his head. The scarf he wore around his neck to protect him from the sun now became like an outlaw’s mask covering everything except his eyes. They drove slowly forward. It was evident that Gray was as concerned about maintaining direction as he was speed. The sound of the engine was soon drowned out by the high-pitched whine of the wind.
The truck pitched along unsteadily. The turbulence rocked them while at the same time throwing up scurrying grains of sand. What at first were thousands of individual particles soon became like a thin fabric of sand, stinging their faces. Underneath the mask, Danny found the hot air oppressive. Visibility declined to a few yards and the sky disappeared under the angry dust blanket. The sand transformed into lashing sheets of larger, coarser grains.
Danny and the others ducked down under the full assault of the storm’s rage. They were probably travelling at no more than ten miles per hour yet the sand blowing in their faces and the rocking of the truck made it feel as if they were hurtling through a vortex signalling the end of time.
No longer able to open his eyes, Danny ducked his head into his chest and waited. He wasn’t sure if they were even moving now such was the fury of the storm and the loss of any sensory cues to guide him.
How long they drove for he could not tell. The drive seemed to take an age. Miraculously, no one stopped them. The Italians were sheltering in their tents from the raging force of nature. Then, all of a sudden, the storm ceased to be raging. Danny raised his head and lowered the sand-encrusted scarf from his eyes. He could not focus initially. His eyes stung from the sand particles that had embedded in his skin. He couldn’t rub them as his hands were covered in sand. This would make only matters worse.
Finally, vision slowly returned. His eyes watered and focus was lost for a minute before shapes became more defined. Much to his amazement he realised that Gray was still driving. However, the sergeant was struggling, and the truck was about to veer off the road. Danny saw that they risked crashing. He pushed Buller out of the way and leant over the sergeant’s shoulder to correct the steering wheel.
‘Stop the car,’ shouted Danny.
‘All right, all right,’ replied Gray. ‘you don’t have to shout. I’m not deaf.’
The car came to a stop. All of the men jumped out and tried to rid themselves and the truck of the excess sand. They had reached the other side of the camp, but they were still dangerously close to the enemy. Elements of the camp were now visible.
‘Hurry,’ ordered Gray. He didn’t have to worry on that score. They could all see that they were very exposed. Within a matter of seconds they were back on board. Buller took over the driving to give Gray a break. The sergeant had borne the brunt of the storm and was clearly suffering. His eyes were caked with sand. Danny marvelled at the resilience he’d shown to keep pushing through despite the onslaught they’d faced.
Evans used up some of their precious water supplies in clearing Gray’s eyes. It was tempting to give some to everyone to do this, but the risk was too great. They had no idea how many other delays they would encounter on the road to Tobruk. For now, though, they were making progress.
Around a mile past the Italian camp, they saw a lone figure walking along the road. As they drew closer, they could see an Italian uniform peeping out from underneath a coat of sand. His head was down and he was plodding back to his camp.
He heard the approaching vehicle and glanced up. Danny and the rest of the truck looked back at him. A faint smile appeared in his face and he saluted. Everyone in the truck, except Blair, saluted back.
-
Bert Gissing was enjoying a cigarette when he saw the approaching truck through his field glasses. He called over to Tom.
‘We’ve company.’
Tom grabbed his Lee Enfield and brought over Bert’s. They watched the truck for five minutes as it drew nearer. The truck looked in bad shape, the individuals inside, even worse. Everyone, truck included, was caked with mud and sand. As it approached the checkpoint, Bert stepped out and pointed his rifle at the vehicle.
Sergeant Gray was back driving. He looked at the two soldiers standing picket. Beside them was a sign that read ‘Tobruk: 5 miles”.
‘Who are you?’ asked Bert.
Danny could not believe his eyes. Hidden behind Buller, he watched in amusement as Gray explained who they were.
Bert listened intently and nodded. Then he grinned and said, ‘Well, I’m guessing you don’t know the password then.’
Danny hopped out at this point and said, ‘Beer. And make it sharp.’
Bert and Tom looked askance at the tall figure with a face that looked like it hadn’t been washed in months. The men on the truck gawped at their grinning comrade.
‘Well, I’ll be’ said Bert.
‘Danny,’ shouted Tom in delight, throwing down his gun and rushing towards his brother.
Part 2: The Gazala Gallop
31st Jan 1942 – June 1942
The German operation, Theseus, has succeeded in pushing the Allied 8th Army back towards the Gazala line just in front of Tobruk. The German offensive destroyed 75 Allied tanks, against a German loss of 29 tanks (out of 100). The Allied defensive line encompasses a series ‘boxes’ at Knightsbridge and Bir Hacheim.
11
Tobruk, Libya: 31st January 1942
If it wasn’t much of a bar then at least it had the benefit of reducing expectations for the quality of the beer. This subsequently proved to be a pleasant surprise. Danny sat with his brother and Bert Gissing at a table already crowded by empty glasses. Danny greeted the arrival of Fitz, Buller and Evans in the bar with a wave. The three men found seats and sat down.
‘Sort out the drinks, Danny lad,’ said Buller. The idea was received with acclaim from the Little Gloston boys. Danny rolled his eyes and dutifully organised the drinks. The discussion centred around the inevitable parting of the ways.
‘We’ve been told we’re
heading out tomorrow,’ explained Buller. ‘Holiday’s over.’
‘Where are you going?’ asked Danny. He felt a wave of sadness pass through him. He’d always accepted that they would have to part at some point. This did not diminish the hurt, however. Over the two months they’d grown as close as brothers. It felt as if the breath had been crushed from his chest. It was as bewildering to him as it was painful.
‘Knightsbridge,’ announced Buller grandly. ‘They know class when they see it.’
Fitz shook his head and laughed at the look on Danny’s face.
‘Not that Knightsbridge. They’ve set up a series of defensive boxes. Our one is Knightsbridge. You can tell the type of people, leading us, can’t you? Won’t be for long. The Colonel suggested we’d return to our battalions by Easter.’
‘When do you leave?’
‘Tonight.’
There was a hint of sadness in Fitz’s voice. He, Buller and Evans would have to go their separate ways. Danny realised at that moment how war was not just a clash of opposing armies but also a coming together of disparate people within an army. They formed units and within those ad hoc groupings, deep friendships were forged in the heat of battle. But war had a habit of tearing these apart. They drank to a future that would see a victory over Nazism but more than that, they drank to the hope that they would all meet up one day in England. And drink some more.
-
Captain Stanton barely glanced up when Danny entered his office. He was scribbling on a sheet of paper. He made a signature with something of a flourish and handed it to a lance corporal. He dismissed the lance corporal and finally turned his attention to Danny.
Stanton was, like so many of the captains he’d encountered, surprisingly young and unsurprisingly from another social class. His hair was the colour of the sand and thinning around the temples.
‘Shaw, thank you for coming. Sit down.’
Danny sat down facing Stanton and decided there and then he would never wear a moustache. Stanton had a thin moustache that was probably an attempt to look like a David Niven or Ronald Coleman. It made him look like Anna Neagle in panto. His soft, feminine features were unlikely to be disguised by such a limp attempt at facial hair.
‘We’ve located your regiment. They are in the Quassassin Camp which is near the Suez Canal. It would be fair to say that many of the people you knew in the regiment are no longer there. Like yourself, they were dispersed amongst other regiments following the encounter at Sidi Rezegh.’
Stanton, who’d been studying a piece of paper while he spoke, looked up at Danny at this point.
‘Were you part of that?’
‘Yes, sir,’ replied Danny. He felt his heart lurch as the faces of Phil Lawrence and Sergeant Reed came to his mind. Stanton could see the colour drain from Danny and he nodded. His voice changed from the rather clipped business-like tone to something more sympathetic.
‘That was quite a show, I gather.’ Danny nodded but did not trust himself to speak. Sensing this, Stanton glanced down at the sheet in front of him and continued. ‘A number of the regiment have been transferred to the Third Royal Tank Regiment. Perhaps a similar transfer might be of interest to you? I’m not sure there’s much choice. They’re badly understrength and it looks like Jerry is going to take another crack at us.’
Stanton handed Danny a sheet of paper. There was a list of names.
‘These are some of the people who’ve been transferred.’
Danny ran his eyes down the sheet. His eyes lit up when he came to one of the names.
‘I’ll go, sir,’ said Danny.
Stanton looked relieved and smiled, ‘That’s the spirit, Shaw. You’ll leave for Egypt in a few days. 3 RTR is at Beni Youseff undergoing a refit and taking new tanks and men.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Thank you, Shaw,’ replied Stanton. He emphasised ‘you’. Danny left the office and wandered down towards the harbour. It was a bright morning. White buildings were scattered like shells on a beach. The harbour area was unusually quiet. Many of the Royal Navy vessels had departed leaving a just few fishing boats bobbing about on the deep blue Mediterranean. Fitz, Buller and Evans had already left while Tom and Bert had returned to the outer perimeter. He strolled along the sea front and stared at the sea. A fresh breeze caressed his face. It seemed so peaceful. How much longer would this last, he wondered.
For those few moments he escaped the flow of time. His mind cleared itself of any thoughts of the future or memories of the past. Instead, he let his senses take over. He drank in the blue of the sea, listened to the coughing engines of cars and vans and the cry of the birds overhead. A fishing boat chugged out of the harbour. It looked like there were three generations of fishermen on the little vessel. He recognised the life that they led: its simplicity, their unvarying routine and he envied their freedom. He watched them sail out until they were barely a speck on the horizon.
-
A light drizzle fell on the garrison, but few seemed to notice. Soldiers were rushing between the dozens of vehicles lining the road for as far as the eye could see. It looked like an army on the retreat. While the sun sulked behind the steel grey clouds, Danny walked with Tom and Bert Gissing towards the truck that would carry him back to Egypt and his new regiment. It was an oddly British level of noise, somewhere between loud murmur and an embarrassed grumble.
‘So this is it, then,’ said Tom.
‘Again,’ pointed out Bert.
The two brothers laughed but there was more than a tinge of sadness. Nearby the motor of a truck was idling as a dozen men made ready to leave Tobruk.
A sergeant made his way through the crowd of soldiers and began to bark orders. He added, rather unnecessarily, that they were a horrible lot. Danny rolled his eyes.
‘I can see this is going to be a fun trip.’
Danny turned to the tall figure of Bert Gissing. They shook hands. Anything else would have been uncomfortable despite the genuine warmth between them.
‘Keep your big head down,’ said Danny.
‘And you. I doubt they’ll get any nearer you than I ever did,’ said Bert with a grin.
‘I mean it, Bert. And look after this dreamboat.’
‘The girls of England will demand it, Danny-boy,’ laughed Tom.
The two brothers looked at each other as the sergeant’s tone became angrier due to the realisation that he was being ignored. Engines began to roar as the convoy slowly departed.
‘Better go, kid,’ said Tom trying to smile. ‘You won’t be too far away from what I hear.
‘Just down the road,’ agreed Danny. ‘I’ll see you soon hopefully. As soon as I have a day off I’ll pop back.’
‘Yes, you do that. Bye. Take care.’
Danny shook hands with his brother then picked up his kit bag and threw it onto the truck. In one swift movement he jumped onto the truck and swivelled over the back. Within moments the truck was on its way forcing a couple of soldiers to have to run and catch it up much to the amusement of the others in the back and onlookers. Danny watched Tom and Bert for as long as he could and then they were gone.
-
A day and a half later, the truck arrived at a camp near Beni Yusef just south of Cairo. The camp stretched for miles. Hundreds of vehicles were lined up in neat rows. Among them Danny could see the familiar shape of the Crusader tanks and even some of the new tanks he’d heard about but not seen before. Their official name was the M3 but they were unofficially known as the Grant.
Even from a distance, Danny could see how much bigger the gun was. At last they would have something that would match the German Mark III and IV tanks. He felt empty rather than elated. For so long he and the other tank men had been fighting with inferior tanks. It had taken too long to learn the lessons from defeat. So many men had been lost in this unequal fight.
It was late afternoon when Danny climbed down from the back of the truck. There were at least a hundred men disembarking at that moment. Danny’s body ac
hed all over from the long drive. He stretched stiff his stiff limbs. All around him were young men who’d grown up, like him, in a matter of months. The sounds of joints cracking were like rifle shots at midnight.
‘Bloody hell,’ said one boy to Danny. ‘When did I grow old?’
‘The moment you arrived here,’ replied Danny with a half-smile.
The sergeant, who considered them a horrible lot, appeared not to have changed his opinion much on the trip from Tobruk. He shouted at them in a tirade that was only intelligible when he swore. Which was quite frequently. The gist of his request was that they should stand in ranks. The soldiers wearily complied despite the high decibel urgings of the sergeant.
‘Hope I don’t have him after today,’ whispered Danny.
‘Hope you do,’ laughed the boy.
The two boys lost out on the battle to be in the second row and reluctantly stood at the front, in the centre. This was always likely to be a prime target for the martinet sergeant. So it proved. An inspection turned into something of a bath for several of the young soldiers at the front as the sergeant stood inches away and yelled at them for the most minor of offences.
‘What are you smiling at?’ demanded the sergeant to young man who’d probably seen action a dozen times in the last few months.
‘Nothing, sir,’ came the sullen reply.
‘What?’
The young man was clearly a heartbeat away from rolling his eyes. Instead, he repeated what he’d said at a similar level of intensity as the sergeant. The sergeant walked past Danny glaring malevolently before continuing to the end of the line without any further casualties. A corporal approached the sergeant and handed him a clipboard.
‘Answer up when your name’s called.’
For the next few minutes, the sergeant went through a long list of names. By the end Danny and a few of the others were shuffling. This brought a further wave of disapprobation from the sergeant.
‘Ten shun.’
