El Alamein

by Jack Murray

  Moments later, the air around the tank was torn apart with explosions. Danny’s thumb hovered over the firing button. When would Roberts issue the order to fire? At this rate they would all be…

  ‘Hello Cambrai, Cambrai calling. Fire now!’ ordered Roberts.

  16

  Southwest of El Cherima, Libya: Night of 26th/27th May 1941

  Twelve hours earlier:

  ‘Venezia.’

  A single instruction saw the two Panzer divisions begin the long march towards battle. Manfred looked at his watch. It was 2030. He was wrapped up in an overcoat and happy to be on the move. Even the short break of a few hours was long enough for the cold to begin slowly infiltrating his bones.

  ‘At last,’ he said. The tank commander, Lieutenant Basler, overheard him. He smiled grimly at his gunner.

  ‘What’s your rush?’

  ‘I’m cold,’ said Manfred truthfully.

  As much to himself as to Manfred, the former SS officer murmured, ‘Things will heat up soon, I suspect.’

  They were to drive through the night with perhaps one stop. Manfred glanced down at their driver Horst Klein. His would be the most difficult job. Driving at night was always a fraught affair. The driver could not let his concentration slip for a moment. In front of him, and behind, were tanks. Behind them were the vehicles of the support echelon. Over ten thousand vehicles were on the move. The last thing they needed was a collision. The tank commander had to keep alert throughout and guide the driver. They worked in tandem to ensure their safe passage through the night.

  The march would take them seventy-five kilometres from the Trigh Capuzzo road to their destination. The plan was to circle around the Allied box at Bir Hacheim. Thanks to the sandstorms they had endured over the previous few days, the extent of the attack would be a major surprise for their enemy. It was a comfort of sorts for Manfred who was still itching damnably from the sand that had set up home in his clothing. The element of surprise always came at a cost, reflected Manfred ruefully.

  Manfred moved about continually in his seat trying to gain some relief from the prickly feeling of the sand. He noticed Basler smiling grimly at his constant fidgeting. The lieutenant knew exactly what he was experiencing. He was covered in sand himself.

  ‘Be thankful you’re not exhausted and in need of bed,’ commented Basler, wryly.

  ‘True, it could be worse,’ agreed Manfred in a wearied voice.

  Manfred craved sleep. He closed his eyes for a moment then opened them with a start. He would not allow himself the luxury of rest. Beside him, Basler was enduring the cold without complaint and forcing himself to stay alert to the movement of the convoy around him. But both were exhausted in a way that was almost tangible.

  ‘You should sleep if you can,’ said Basler, ‘Then take over from me after we stop.’

  Manfred didn’t need to be told twice. Despite the cold, the noise, his discomfort with the sand, sleep came easily. It was over, seemingly, within seconds. In fact, three hours or more had passed, much to Manfred’s surprise.

  The entire army had stopped for refuelling. This meant a check on all vehicles: air filters, guns and tank tracks. It allowed time for some food and coffee. Although he’d only had a short sleep, Manfred felt refreshed and alert after his second coffee. The stop lasted close to an hour and a half. He held a light for Horst Klein as he dismantled the filter in order to clean it. This was a requirement after every fifty kilometres of travel.

  By 0230 they were back on the march. Manfred sat in Basler’s position. Any anxiety about the battle ahead was replaced by the very real fear that he would be responsible for an accident. He kept his eyes firmly fixed towards the tank ahead and the oil drums at the side of the road in which lights had been placed by the advance party to guide the way of the main convoy. Gerd Kleff, Manfred’s loader was tasked with cleaning the guns. The sand and dust had built up in them at a phenomenal rate. They could not afford for any blockages to impair performance, especially with the possibility of direct contact with infantry and tanks in a matter of hours.

  They drove at a speed that would have made a tortoise impatient. For three, seemingly endless, hours they crawled along. Metre by metre they closed in on the enemy. Reports were coming through of sightings of scout vehicles from the South African Armoured Car Regiment. They had been a frequent companion over the last few months. The memory of their treatment of him when he was captured as well as the bravery with which they fought against overwhelming odds on Tottensontag was a cold reminder of the hard fighting that lay ahead.

  Manfred was almost happy to see the first signs of light appearing on the horizon. Notwithstanding the proximity to the enemy, he was simply glad to be finished with the disorientating effects of darkness, the wearying need to stay concentrated on the road ahead. Now the tanks ahead were easily visible. With the first light, Basler replaced him in the cupola and Manfred resumed his position beneath him at the gun.

  With the arrival of the daylight, the Panzer convoy began to change its formation into one that they employed when they made their frontal attack. Basler stayed up top, much to Manfred’s surprise. Contact with the enemy would happen soon. He looked through his periscope. The tanks were now side by side. A distance of around forty metres separated them. Up ahead, inevitably, was Captain Kummel. Alongside was him was their new commander, Lieutenant-Colonel Teege, leading the metal armada over the sand sea. For a moment Manfred wondered what it must be like to be in the enemy’s shoes and see such a formidable sight. He didn’t envy them.

  The heat in the tank had increased dramatically with the rise of the sun. Visibility began to deteriorate as the horizon became a shimmering mirage which affected the eyes the longer you stared at it. The radio crackled with news that some British positions were being overrun. Clearly, despite the company of the South African scouts, some element of surprise had been gained. The enemy were out there. But where?

  Then Manfred heard it.

  ‘Tanks,’ warned Kummel. ‘Three kilometres ahead.’

  Manfred gazed through the lens of his periscope. It took another minute before the dark shapes began to speckle the glistening haze. It was difficult at first to pick out what he was seeing and then he knew. The high turret could only be the new tank they’d been hearing rumours of. It was American, like many of the British tanks. Basler ducked into the turret and confirmed the suspicion that they were facing a new type of tank. The order to attack would come from Kummel.

  A nod from Kleff and a shell was loaded into their fifty-one millimetre cannon. After what seemed an eternity the order came.

  ‘Fire.’

  Perspiration dripped down Manfred’s face as he pressed the button. He scored a hit and was about to celebrate when, with some dismay, he saw that his shell had bounced off the front armour of the Grant. Angered by this and now somewhat closer, he told Kleff to keep loading.

  Manfred fired again. Dismay turned to horror when he saw his shell shatter ineffectively once more. Basler had seen the same. His face was grim.

  ‘I don’t like this,’ said the Lieutenant. Nor did Manfred. He wondered why the British weren’t firing back. They were now around a kilometre away. All of a sudden, the camouflage was discarded and they could see the Grants more clearly. Then he saw the flashes and then the puffs of smoke emerge from the ridge. If it was true that they had a seventy-five-millimetre gun then the Panzers would be well within their range.

  Shells were striking the ground all around them throwing up plumes of dust and dirt. This was worrying. Previously they hadn’t had this sort of range. Moments later a tank just to the left of Manfred exploded. Yet another of Manfred’s shells bounced harmlessly off the Grant. Smoke and dust now shrouded Manfred’s view, but the radio traffic was intense.

  ‘We need artillery,’ called Kummel to Teege.

  ‘I hear you,’ came Teege’s reply.

  ‘Get closer!’ ordered Kummel. The realisation that they were outgunned lent an edge to the normally
implacable captain’s voice.

  ‘I’m coming with the 2nd Battalion,’ said Teege, realising that they needed to assist Kummel who was drawing most of the enemy fire. The 2nd Battalion, according to Gerhardt, was aiming to hit the Allies from their flank. It sounded like they were finally in position. Not a moment too soon.

  The smoke cleared enough for Manfred to see Kummel up ahead. His tank was moving fast but also weaving. Manfred could imagine the effort that Hubbuch was putting in to avoid getting hit. Just to his left he could see Horst Klein twisting his steering like a boxer trying to avoid his opponent’s lunges.

  Manfred’s heart leapt when he saw the first of the British tanks erupt into flames. The 2nd Battalion were beginning to make their presence felt. Emboldened by this success, Manfred redoubled his efforts to score a hit. They were now close enough to do some damage. And he was. His next effort, with an AP Armour Piercing shell, penetrated the tank.

  ‘HE shells,’ ordered Manfred. The High Explosive shells would strike panic into the. British. Already a number of their tanks were in flames. He didn’t want to think about the toll being extracted on the 1st Battalion, however.

  The shelling from the British began to lessen. Initially, Manfred thought this was because the British, aware of the attack on their flanks, were spreading their fire more widely. Then Kummel’s voice came over the radio.

  ‘They’re pulling back,’ said the captain. There was a hint of relief in his voice, thought Manfred. Through the haze and the giant smoke pillars, Manfred could see a number of the British tanks motionless. Smoking. Dead.

  The tank slowed down while they passed a number of tank crews abandoning a smoking Mark III. They hopped onto the front of Manfred’s tank. Ahead they could see the last of the new tanks escaping.

  Kummel’s ordered a halt. This was unlikely to last long so Manfred took the opportunity to climb out of the tank and stretch his legs. The sight that greeted him was shocking.

  The British had been on the receiving end of a fearful beating but so too had the Afrika Korps. The field was littered with the smoking hulks of the Panzer tanks. They’d won the initial engagement but at a great cost.

  Basler and the other tank commanders from the 1st Battalion convened around Kummel who was busy reorganising them. Manfred recognised the intense focus of the captain and the urgency with which he was giving directions. They would not let the Allies escape, that much was clear. Basler returned a few minutes later and spoke to the tank crew.

  ‘We don’t know how many tanks we’ve lost but clearly this new tank of the British is capable of outgunning us. So we have to get close. Kummel took a look at the new tank. It has a seventy-five-millimetre gun but it is fixed to the right side sponson. They can’t move side to side. If we attack from the side they have problems. Our orders are to head north in pursuit of what’s left of this tank regiment.’

  Manfred couldn’t stop his eyes shifting to the decimated tanks around the field. Basler glared at Manfred.

  ‘Do you have a problem with this, Brehme?’ asked the lieutenant abruptly.

  Manfred shifted on his feet and felt like a schoolboy caught out by the teacher.

  ‘No, sir,’ said Manfred. He paused then added, ‘But next time, can we attack them from the flank?’

  All of the crew laughed except Basler. There was, however, a hint of amusement in his eyes. They all recognised that something had changed. The Mark III tank and even the Mark IV was up against something just as deadly. The Allies were beginning to learn from their mistakes. They had made major strides in narrowing the gap between the respective tanks. Even their tactic of digging in and picking off the Panzers had been more coherent than before. The Panzers had simply overpowered them by sheer weight of numbers. In the first battle this was possible. But a month from now would they still have the men and the armour to do this?

  The crew returned to their tanks and all around engines coughed to life again. Whatever Basler’s reaction to Manfred’s question, it was clear that the lieutenant had something on his mind. He sat brooding in the cupola without saying anything more to the crew.

  ‘Now you’ve done it,’ whispered Klein. The chubby Rhinelander’s features broke into a grin.

  Manfred shrugged. He was glad he’d said what he’d said. The world hadn’t ended. Basler understood because he would have been smart enough to realise that attacking such tanks head on was suicidal. The early morning sun was turning the tank into an oven. A long, difficult day lay ahead. Fear gripped him again as they set off in pursuit of the enemy.

  17

  5 miles north east of Bir Hacheim, Libya, 27th May 1942

  ‘Just too many of them,’ murmured Benson. He looked shaken but his features hardened quickly as he regained his composure. Danny glanced at the captain. He’d been speaking to himself although he’d voiced the thoughts of every man in the crew. The German advance had been halted temporarily but they risked being picked off by the overwhelming numbers they faced.

  ‘We need to withdraw,’ added Benson. ‘If we can get them to follow us, we should be able to take them within range of our guns.’

  Why aren’t these guns used as a screen for the tanks, thought Danny? Have we learned nothing from fighting the Afrika Korps? Instead, the new six pound guns were dug in at a number of well-defended boxes in the rear. Fat lot of use they were there. What Danny had seen worried him. The sheer weight of numbers would be like trying to hold back a metal tide.

  -

  An hour later the battle was joined again. It was no less ferocious. Lieutenant-Colonel Pip Roberts was viewing the advance of the Panzers with increasing alarm. Outwardly he remained calm, but he’d been shocked by the intensity of the battle. Wave after wave of enemy tanks was advancing. They were taking many casualties yet still they drove forward. Shell and shot sliced the air around them. Roberts could even hear the sound of the twenty-five-pound guns hitting the Germans from some distant box.

  But it wasn’t going to be enough. The regiment would be wiped out if they stayed where they were. All around him he could see the devastating impact wrought by the Panzers. It was only a small comfort to see a similar tale in the burning hulks impeding the advance of the enemy.

  ‘It’s no use,’ he said to Peter Burr, his adjutant. ‘We knock out one tank and another takes its place. They’re still coming. We can only slow them down, but they’ll wipe us out at this rate. Tell Brigade that we can’t hang on much longer. We’ll either have nothing left or we’ll be cut off.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ replied Burr and immediately got on the radio to communicate the message.

  The commander of ‘C’ Squadron, Major Cyril Joly, came on the radio to Roberts.

  ‘We need to withdraw, sir. We’re almost out of ammo.’ Joly neglected to mention that he was wounded, that his tank had sustained around twenty-five hits and was now barely operable.

  The air was stained with smoke and the smell of cordite. Roberts knew he couldn’t wait much longer. There was no sign of support coming from the Fifth Royal Tank Regiment.

  ‘Yes, understood. Withdraw. Good luck,’ replied Roberts.

  On the right-hand side of the ridge, the commander of ‘B’ Squadron, Major George Witheridge, spoke next to Roberts.

  ‘Three tanks still firing, sir. Ammo low. Three others still operable but out of ammo.’

  ‘There must be twenty tanks knocked out over there. Good work. We need to re-organise, George. Withdraw now. Reverse slowly for a quarter of a mile then we’ll dash for the higher ground.’

  As he said this, his tank was rocked by a hit on the front. He nodded down to the driver and they, too, began to withdraw. He looked over to Peter Burr, ‘Tell Brigade we need ammo. Fast. Get the ammo lorries to meet us at the rallying point.’

  A shaken Peter Burr acknowledged the lieutenant-colonel and turned to the radio. His voice remained calm as the tank received a parting hit. It bounced off.

  -

  Danny glanced towards McLeish. The young m
an held his arms out. This required no explanation. Danny grinned ruefully at McLeish. The young Scot’s shirt was like a wet flannel. He’d done well. He received a nod from Danny who then turned to Benson.

  ‘We’re out of ammo, sir,’ said Danny.

  Benson looked down at Danny. His face was a mask then he turned to Archie Andrews.

  ‘Archie?’

  ‘Three shells left.’

  ‘Hold fire in case we need them. PG we need to get to the rally point. Fast. Turn around. I can’t see any Jerry following us.’

  ‘Can you see anything, McLeish?’

  ‘My periscope is smashed, sir,’ replied the young Scotsman.

  PG managed to swing the tank round and drove it forward at nearly fifteen miles per hour towards the rally point. Danny and the others were soaked in sweat. It was mid-morning and the sun was slowly turning the inside of the metal tank into an oven.

  The fear that Danny had felt prior to facing the Germans had evaporated during the fight. His survival instinct had overcome the terror. For the short engagement, his whole being was engaged and mobilised towards one purpose: destroying the approaching enemy. Now he felt some of the nervousness return. The battle had been a whirl. He’d not paused to think. Instead, the training had kicked in: his mind and body had fused with the tank. It wasn’t until they were pulling back that he realised how much he’d blocked from his mind.

  The scream of the shells, the hits to their tank, the reports of the destroyed tanks, the news of those who had probably been killed. They had all been circulating in the air around Danny. He’d forced them from his mind. But he’d heard everything. His body felt like it had absorbed the hits to the tank. Somehow, almost against any rational odds, they’d survived. But they’d come so close to suffering the same fate as so many other crews. He began to shake a little. Just ahead of him, McLeish was also shaking. The delayed shock to what they’d undergone finally overcame him. Danny touched McLeish’s arm.