by Jack Murray
Sauer nodded and turned to go. He jogged over the road to his friends who were waiting for him at the school gates. They all looked over towards Brehme but the policeman was already on his way back down the road. They watched him cast the cigarette aside.
23
Mersa Metruh, Egypt: 29th June 1942
Manfred studied his thumb. There was a blister on it caused by the day to day action of pressing the firing button. No one had told him that this would happen. He was in agony every time he fired. And it would only get worse.
It was evening. They’d taken Mersa Metruh. But Manfred couldn’t have cared less. It was just another name to him. After they’d taken Tobruk he thought they’d be given time to rest before making a renewed push. How little he knew! Rommel was relentless. A genius as a leader but he cared little for his men, thought Manfred sourly. They were cannon fodder for his surge to glory. It was no longer enough to know that he didn’t spare himself either.
Manfred was exhausted. Sunken eyes stared back at him in the hull of the tank . None more so than Basler’s. The tank commander was exhausted although he’d never admit it. They’d pushed on from Tobruk over the last week. They’d fought, and beaten, countless attacks from the never-ending supply of enemy armour. Little by little, the war of attrition was whittling them. There were fewer tanks now, and fewer men who could operate them. The British leaders may not have had the tactical brilliance of the German leader, but they worked along similar principles. Throw men and machines against the advance of the enemy until there was either no enemy left to fight or no soldiers to fight him with.
Kleff was sitting on his own as usual. He was not the most communicative of men. Perhaps he still felt overawed at being with experienced tank men like him and Basler. Manfred almost smiled at the thought of being a veteran. He noticed Kleff was holding some beads. They glinted off the lamplight.
‘What are those?’ asked Manfred.
Kleff turned around. Even in the darkness he could see that he was faintly embarrassed
‘Rosary beads,’ replied the young man.
‘I didn’t know you were a Catholic,’ replied Manfred. He realised it was a stupid thing to say. Why would he know? Religion was hardly a regular topic of conversation in the tank. Kleff smiled and shrugged.
‘Not much of a Catholic,’ he admitted honestly. ‘When you do what we do every day it’s hard to have any faith.’
‘So why pray?’ asked Manfred, moving closer to Klef. He was genuinely curious.
‘Catholic guilt, I suppose. It never leaves you even if your faith does.’
‘Try being married,’ said a voice just behind them. ‘Then you’ll know what guilt really is.’
Manfred and the others laughed. They laughed partly because none of them were married but they’d heard the grumbles from other married men. They laughed because they needed to at that moment. More than anything else, they laughed because the comment came from the source least likely to have made a joke.
Basler sat down with them. The flickering lamplight only emphasised the dark shadows under the lieutenant’s eyes.
‘You’re married?’ asked Manfred in surprise. It was strange to ask such a question. Particularly strange to ask it of Basler. Manfred realised just how much his relationship with the lieutenant had evolved over the last year. Perhaps it was a sign that he was beginning to find his voice at last. It was something he’d noticed in himself over the last month. He was one of the senior men in the tank now. It was a good feeling. A reminder to him of how he’d been at training.
‘Was,’ responded Basler.
A silence fell on the group. There could be any number of reasons as to why he was no longer married. Basler sensed that the mood had become heavier.
‘It’s not what you think, although I sometimes wish it were. She wasn’t killed or anything like that. We’re divorced, or soon will be.’
They were all spellbound by the sudden and unexpected revelations from Basler. He asked for some coffee. Keil quickly poured him a cup and they all leaned forward in that universal manner that implores the speaker to continue. Basler sighed. He’d already said too much. But what the hell? Here they were, several thousand miles from home, facing death on a daily basis.
‘Last year, while I was over here, she started seeing someone else. An SS man would you believe? A major who’d managed to avoid any fighting for the last three years. I heard from my sister about what was happening. Colonel Cramer gave me compassionate leave. I’ll never forget his words. You know how he spoke. That growl. He grabbed me by the arm. He had a strong grip. He said, “You go home and beat the shit out of that guy”. Don’t worry Basler. Trust me.’
The group laughed nervously. Then Manfred asked the question on everyone’s mind.
‘Did you?’
A hard look came into the eyes of the lieutenant. He looked at Manfred in the eye and replied, ‘Damn right I did. Put him in hospital.’
The crew broke into a spontaneous round of applause. Basler’s eyes widened and he told them to quieten down. He didn’t seem too angry though.
‘The story doesn’t quite end there, though.’
The group were hanging on his every word by now. He looked at the fire lit faces of each man.
‘When I got back, Cramer called me over. He asked me had I done what he wanted me to do. I said “yes”. He said, “good, son. But your career is over in the SS.” Just like that. My career was over.’ Basler shook his head and smiled. He looked down at the fire and was silent for a moment. Then he lifted his head and said, ‘But you know what?’ Utter silence in the tank. Manfred was holding his breath.
‘It was worth it.’
-
They rolled to a halt for what seemed like the tenth time that day. Inside it was as hot and unpleasant as ever. Manfred wasn’t sure whether to feel pleased that they were stopping or irritated. It only delayed the inevitable contact with the enemy. His mouth was dry. What we would have given for a drink.
‘More minefields?’ asked Manfred.
‘More minefields,’ answered Jentz.
Basler ordered Kleff to make some coffee while they waited for the mines to be cleared.
‘Make it quick, though. The British might send over some planes.’
Kleff didn’t need reminding of this. The nearer they came to the British position at Alamein, the more frequently they encountered the aerial threat of the RAF. Until the Luftwaffe were reinforced, the RAF were the dominant force in the air. Manfred jumped out of the tank along with the others, glad to have a break. Up ahead he saw the pionier Battalion picking their way forward through the rugged stony desert. Manfred once more wondered where all the sand had gone. Could any place on earth have been more God-forsaken than this? He doubted it.
Kleff called to them that the coffee was ready. It was then that they heard the drone. Low at first. That was all they needed. Within seconds they were clambering back into the tank. From somewhere behind they heard guns being fired. The noise grew progressively louder. This wasn’t the coughing whine of the fighters but the deeper groan of the bigger aircraft: the Blenheim Bombers.
In less than a few minutes the air was ripped apart by bombs exploding around them. There was nothing that anyone in the tank could do except pray that they weren’t hit.
They weren’t.
Basler’s nerve held enough to survey the scene from outside the turret. He laughed grimly.
‘I think the RAF may be doing us a favour. They’re bombing their own minefield.’
Manfred stared up at the lieutenant and thought him crazy for even risking being outside. Then it occurred to him that he was probably no safer inside the tank if a bomb landed close enough. He decided to join Basler and peek his head through the turret. There was no question that a pathway was emerging through the minefield thanks to the misdirected bombs of the Blenheims. Manfred wasn’t sure how grateful he was about this.
The action was brief, and they rolled forward again. A few hou
rs later the tank was rocked by a couple of explosions just ahead.
‘Mines,’ said Jentz, immediately. ‘Is there no end to them?’
The tank stopped again. The light was beginning to fade. Manfred suspected this would be it for the day. They couldn’t risk going forward without being certain that they weren’t wading into yet another minefield. The radio burst into life and Kiel confirmed that would be stopping here. The supply echelon was being called forward to make ready for the next day.
They were to attack the enemy positions outside a railway halt called El Alamein. It was the 1st of July.
24
Cairo, Egypt: 2nd July 1942
Moving from the hot, stuffy street to the cool, disinfectant-laced air of the hospital made Danny’s head swim. The reception was like a bazaar. Men, women, children, soldiers, nurses and doctors sat, talked, rushed and cried. It was chaos. A fly landed on his face. He swatted it away, somewhat surprised by its presence. He jogged up the stairs, past cracked walls with pastel paint peeling like burned skin.
A couple of flights later he reached the floor he was looking for. A pair of double doors greeted him. Underneath some Arabic writing was an apologetic translation. It read ‘Burns Unit’. He went through the door. Muffled screams behind ward doors welcomed him.
Danny’s footsteps echoed along the corridor. A nurse appeared from one door carrying a tray. A foul smell rose from the metal basin covered with a cloth. Her starched white nurses cap was clamped to her head, squeezing both her hair into place and erasing any smile that had ever been smiled. She frowned at him as he walked along the corridor. He ignored her and then felt a stab of guilt. It was war for them too. He turned around to say something, but she’d entered a room and was gone.
He looked again at the card in his hand and searched for the ward number. He saw it up ahead. A young man emerged from the room. His head was swathed in bandages and he was in a wheelchair being pushed by an orderly. Danny glanced down. He still had all his limbs. Danny didn’t dare think about what lay under the bandages.
He reached the door. A quick look through the small windows revealed two rows of beds. All were filled by men hidden behind bandages. It was like a tomb of mummies. They were in the right country for it, he supposed. His heart quickened a little as he pushed the door forward.
A doctor glanced at Danny but said nothing. He was with a nurse and too busy to act as a guide for a visitor in perfect health. Danny stood at the top of the ward and scanned each bed. There was no screaming as he’d heard in some of the other rooms, just a low moan. His heart stopped beating. How can it, when its broken? He took a deep breath and began to walk along the centre aisle. Above him a ceiling fan sliced the agonised air.
He forced himself to study each man he passed. Some nodded to him. He nodded back. It was distressing to look at them. How must it be for them? One of the men tried to form words with his mouth but his charred vocal chords would never speak again. Danny smiled to him but kept moving slowly forward.
Arthur was in the last bed.
A scanty curtain partially covered him. When Danny reached the bed he saw him lying with the bedclothes to one side. He looked absurd. From head to foot he was bandaged like Boris Karloff in that movie they’d seen when they first arrived. He almost smiled and then stopped himself. Arthur hadn’t moved. In fact, Danny wondered if he could move with all those bandages. He went over to his friend and sat down on a seat by the bed.
‘Arthur,’ he whispered.
Arthur made no sound. Danny wondered if he was sleeping. It was difficult to tell. The eyes not only had bandages there was cotton wool on them, too. A chill fell over Danny that had nothing to do with the cool of the ward.
He sat there for a few minutes unsure of what to do. He couldn’t touch Arthur; too fearful that it might be agonising for his damaged skin. Arthur remained still. The minutes went by and he began to feel foolish. A part of him wanted to escape the heart-rending sobs around him. But he knew he would have to stay.
A doctor came over to him. He was Egyptian. Danny wondered why there wasn’t a British doctor here to look after the men. The doctor’s voice was accented but clipped in a manner of someone who had learned in England.
‘Your friend is sleeping. He is a friend, I take it?’
‘Yes,’ replied Danny. ‘We came over together.’ The doctor nodded and said nothing. There was sympathy in his eyes.
‘Can you tell me what will happen to him?’
‘Of course,’ said the doctor, a ghost of a smile appearing on his lips. ‘His war is, of course, over. A lot of his body has been burned and it’s likely he will be blind. Certainly one eye is gone. Perhaps both eyes. He will stay here a bit longer then, I imagine, he will be shipped back to England to recover properly. He will need more surgery on his skin.’
‘How bad was he?’
‘Very bad,’ admitted the doctor. ‘But I’ve seen worse, and they survived. He will be in a great deal of pain for a long time. The road ahead will not be easy.’
Danny nodded and felt tears sting his eyes. The doctor put a hand on his shoulder.
‘Can I stay?’ asked Danny. ‘Of course,’ replied the doctor. ‘Let the nurse know if you need anything.’
Danny shook his head and said that they were busy enough. The doctor left. Danny sat by the bedside, gazing at Arthur through his tears. An hour later there was the first hint of movement. At first it was barely discernible. Then his arm moved slightly, then a leg. A low moan came from beneath the bandages. The moan became a cry. Unsure of what to do, Danny called the nurse over.
The nurse shook her head. There was nothing she could do. Danny turned to Arthur. He was panicking as the crying grew louder and louder.
‘Arthur, it’s Danny. Can you hear me?’
The sobbing quietened for a second. But only for a second. It started again. More piercing, this time. A new doctor came over.
He shook his head to Danny, ‘You should leave. There’s nothing that can be done for the moment. I’m sorry.’
‘Morphine?’ asked Danny.
The doctor frowned and Danny said sorry.
‘We give morphine, but we have to be careful on the quantity. You know it brings its own problems.’
Danny nodded. The doctor stood back in a manner that suggested he leave. Danny took the hint and with some relief rose from his chair. He looked down at Arthur. The tears returned to his eyes when he heard the scream of a wounded animal.
He turned and left.
-
He walked blindly through the streets of Cairo, sometimes bumping into people, apologising, moving on. His cheeks were wet with shattered tears. He felt like a fool. Had he really expected to see his friend sitting up in bed smiling stoically and cracking a few jokes? How naïve. He’d seen what burns were like. Why should Arthur have gotten off more lightly? Just because he was a friend of the heroically indestructible Danny Shaw did not give him special exemption from the pain of war.
He was at Sisters Street now. How he’d arrived he barely knew. For a moment he wondered if he should avail himself of the women there such was his loathing for everything to do with the war, this country and himself for being so untouched. The thought repelled him as much as it attracted him. Instead, he found a bar, sat down and ordered a beer. He tried and failed to stop the memory of his times here with Arthur. The beer went quickly and he ordered another and then another. By the time he left the bar he felt light-headed. And angry.
He stumbled onto the street and realised he was not as drunk as he wanted to be. A few women stood in doorways and he gazed at them for a moment then turned away. Too scared to do what he didn’t want to do anyway.
He went to the hotel, cleared up his belongings and checked out. He’d spent only one day of his leave, but he wanted to return to the camp. It was his home now. He went to the train station and sat down in the waiting room. A radio announcer was talking about the latest German push on Alamein. He stood up and walked out of the room
, unable to listen to the news of the fighting anymore.
-
After a day’s journey he arrived back at the enormous camp at Tel el Qabir, twenty miles from the Bitter Lakes just north west of Suez. At another time he would have liked the camp. Thousands of tents dotted the landscape. Intermingled with them were huts for the officers. The camp had cooked meals which offered a change from the usual diet of bully beef they endured when out in the ‘blue’. There was fresh water also and, a novelty for Danny, an open-air cinema.
It was late afternoon when he reached his crew. He threw his kit bag into the tent he shared with McLeish and asked for a brew.
‘What are we called this week?’ asked Danny bitterly.
This was a reference to the ever-changing status of the regiment. One week it was the 3 RTR, the next it was amalgamated with the 5 RTR, his old training regiment, into the 3/5 RTR.
‘We’re 3/5 RTR still but don’t make me swear to it,’ said the Scot, handing him a tea.
‘Anything good on at the pictures?’ asked Danny. He didn’t care what was on, he just wanted something to take his mind off Arthur and the war.
‘Ziegfeld Follies, but…’
‘Don’t make me swear to it,’ said Danny with something approaching a smile.
McLeish could see that Danny’s mood was low. He felt he had to ask though.
‘How was your friend?’
Danny shook his head and sat down on the hard ground. He looked at the wisps of grass.
‘Awful.’
‘Sorry.’
Danny nodded but was in no mood to talk about his friend. He changed the subject.
‘Any news about the colonel and Major Joly?’
‘Back in a day or two apparently. Major Franklin’s still in charge. Actually, it’s as well you’re back. I think we may be heading off again tomorrow.’
‘Not to Alamein, surely?’ exclaimed Danny. The fighting was, as far as he knew, still going on but the regiment, in Danny’s view, was in no fit state to face the Afrika Korps. At that moment he wouldn’t have given tuppence for their chances against a sufficiently well-organised and motivated Girl Guide troop.
