by Jack Murray
He gripped the stick tightly and slowly levelled the plane with the ground. A few puffs of smoke appeared. His stomach was too knotted to dismiss their efforts entirely. He just wanted to get rid of the bombs and clear off.
He picked a row of tanks. They were around fifty metres apart. Three, two, one…
-
Captain Wolfgang Wahl was not yet thirty but already leading his own battalion. Gerhardt looked at him in a kind of awe. The captain barely blinked at the shells which were hitting the tank like a malevolent hailstorm. Unquestionably it inspired confidence. Or was it a kind of recklessness? The difference between the two was the difference between mist and fog. In Wahl’s case it was confidence. You could see when someone who was simply mad.
‘Keep pressing ahead, the sand will give us cover.
It doesn’t seem to be giving us much cover at the moment thought Gerhardt. They’d sustained over a dozen hits that day. Somehow the Mark IV’s thicker frontal armour had held up against the onslaught. He offered a brief and silent prayer to the German engineers who’d made the Mark IV the most well-protected tank in the war.
Two explosions, louder than the ones they were used to from the six pounders, went off behind them.
‘The planes,’ said Wahl. They’d seen the planes a few minutes earlier and breathed a collective sigh of relief when they’d ignored the tanks and kept moving. There was no time to feel guilty for being glad that someone else was going to be in the line of fire. They were on the receiving end of it, every day. Two more explosions rent the air nearby throwing up gouts of sand. These were closer than before. Gerhardt wiped the sweat from his eyes and tried to remember how many planes they’d seen. Certainly three. Were there more? He hadn’t seen any others but perhaps he’d missed some of them.
Gerhardt sensed it before it happened.
Something changed in the air, split seconds before the detonation. Like inhaling before you let out a sigh. He ducked. So, too, did Wahl. Two giant explosions rocked the tank.
The tank stopped moving and immediately filled with smoke. Gerhardt heard someone groan and realised, with relief, it wasn’t him. He was already moving towards the hatch. The driver kicked open the hatch and fell out of the tank. Gerhardt was about to follow him when he heard someone shouting. It was Hess.
‘Kroos, help me. The Captain’s been hit.’
Gerhardt glanced up. It was true. Blood streamed down Wahl’s face. He was unconscious. Flames were now licking dangerously close to the engine and, more importantly, the shells.
Without hesitating he moved upwards from the wireless position to the turret to help the gunner lift the stricken captain out from the cupola. The heat was burning his breath. He stopped breathing. Within seconds his lungs felt like they were going to explode.
Hess was already outside the cupola with his hands underneath the arms of Wahl. Gerhardt grabbed the captain’s legs and helped push him upwards. Slowly the captain was hoisted out of the turret. Gerhardt could hear cracking inside the tank now. The heat was burning his face and he let out a roar of pain. When the captain’s leg was through the cupola, Gerhardt gripped the cupola. His legs were in agony from the heat, his hands burned on the metal. He hoisted himself out of the tank.
Hess was dragging Wahl around the front of the tank. Scrambling down from the turret, Gerhardt joined him and grabbed the captain’s legs. They carried him away from the tank just as ammunition began to explode like a firework display.
‘Hurry,’ said Hess.
Gerhardt resisted the temptation to point out that he was perfectly aware of the need to hurry. Something exploded inside the tank. Gerhardt felt a stab of pain in his arm as a splinter of metal sliced his bicep. He collapsed to the ground. Hess continued to drag the captain away from the tank.
His arm was bloodied, his body protested at the excruciating pain. But he was alive. Gerhardt slowly raised himself to his feet and stumbled over towards Hess.
The three men were now in a natural depression. They kept their heads down while gunfire ripped the air around them. Gerhardt glanced enviously at the German tanks which were retreating. If he’d sprinted, he would have been able to catch one but that would have meant leaving Wahl and Hess. The thought was momentary then discarded.
‘If we stay here, perhaps we can make it back with the captain when it’s dark.’
This made sense. The light was poor and made poorer by the sand being lifted by the strong wind. Perhaps there was a chance they could make it after all. Gerhardt glanced down at his arm. His shirt had blood soaking through, but he could move his arm. It was painful but the wounds were not serious. His hands were burning from having gripped the metal of the tank as it brewed up. And his skin was tingling from either fear or the singeing it had undergone. It was almost funny. He was a mess.
Wahl was now conscious. His head wound was not so serious and was a result of having been knocked out rather than any shrapnel or effect of the explosion.
‘What happened?’ asked Wahl. His voice was weak.
Hess told him.
He looked at the two men who had, without doubt, saved his life. He nodded. That was it. No more needed to be said. He glanced up at the sky.
‘So we wait here.’
It wasn’t a suggestion. His mind was recovering quickly now. Through the flurries of sand, they could see a dozen or so Panzers receding into the distance. The firing was no longer concentrated around them and, instead, was focused on the retreating tanks.
Gerhardt’s breath was coming in shallow bursts. It hurt when he inhaled too deeply. He lowered his head to avoid the sand blowing into his eyes. He tried to think of a time when he’d felt in more pain or discomfort. The evening spent running around the parade ground sprang to mind. Yet even that was no comparison to how he felt now. He grimaced in agony.
‘Good work, Kroos,’ said Hess, looking at Gerhardt. ‘I couldn’t have done that without you.’
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Wahl looking at him. Hess was speaking in a low voice into the captain’s ear. A moment later Wahl looked at him. There was something in his eyes that he hadn’t seen before. It went beyond gratitude, respect even. It was a love that only men who have faced death and worked together to conquer it can feel.
The gunfire was ebbing away with the light. But a new sound was growing louder. The sound of men, on foot, talking to one another. Their voices were not German. The three men in the shallow looked at one another. It was a slim hope that they could stay unobserved. Each passing minute saw the light grow dimmer. However, the wind was dying and there was less sand being picked up and thrown through the air.
The voices grew louder.
It was difficult to understand them at first. It was English but the accent was too strong to understand. They heard the crack of rifles being fired.
‘Idiots,’ hissed Wahl. Gerhardt wasn’t sure if he was referring to the Allied infantry or any German tank men who had decided to fight. The sound of shouts grew louder. The crack of guns grew more insistent.
Gerhardt ducked down further. His heart was racing now, and the back of his throat was a torment. The adrenalin that had surged through his body following their escape was wearing off and his body suffering. There was a further crash of gunfire but Gerhardt could not bring himself to look up and see who was firing or where it was happening.
The acrid smell of burning now filled his nostrils. The wind had lightened but it had also shifted. Black smoke from their tanks was drifting lazily over them.
‘Can you see them?’ whispered Wahl.
Hess shook his head. The gunfire had stopped for a moment along with the shouts. Gerhardt’s hopes began to flicker more strongly.
If not dark, then it was certainly going to be night within the next fifteen minutes. Each passing second seemed to stretch endlessly like the sermon of his old pastor. Just ten minutes or more. The Allies would not want to be out in the dark any more than they would.
More gunfire.
It seemed to come from somewhere behind the destroyed tank.
‘Bastards better not be killing our men,’ said Wahl in a low growl. Despite his youth, he was of the old school. You did not kill men who had escaped from burning tanks.
The shouts had returned. They couldn’t see where they were coming from. The shouts grew louder. Another gunshot. This was very close. You could hear the bolt action on the Lee Enfield.
Gerhardt’s chest tightened and he stopped breathing for a moment. He looked up but could see nothing now. The night was filled with disembodied voices shouting. Fear gripped him but he forced himself to look up. He didn’t want to be shot, cowering face down.
‘Over here,’ an English voice shouted. It came from behind them.
A gunshot.
Gerhardt flinched. In fact, the three men flinched at the same moment. They turned around.
Two Allied soldiers were standing near them. They were young. Scared. And pointing rifles right at them. This was a combination that did not bode well.
‘Do not shoot,’ said Hess slowly. He began to raise his hands. Gerhardt and Wahl did likewise. A couple of other Allied soldiers ran over. They were all pointing their Lee Enfields at Gerhardt and the others. There was silence for a moment. One of the soldiers motioned with his gun for them to rise.
More soldiers arrived.
First Hess and then Wahl rose. They helped Gerhardt up as it was now plain that he was the more badly injured. All had their hands up now. Gerhardt looked at the young men before him. They were all of a similar age to him. New Zealanders. He looked into the eyes of the sergeant who’d just arrived.
‘Do any of you speak English?’
All three answered ‘yes’ simultaneously. It would have been funny had it not been so frightening.
‘Come with us,’ ordered the sergeant.
Gerhardt, Wahl and Hess exchanged brief looks and then, nodded.
‘Yes, sergeant,’ said Wahl.
It was night. The firing had stopped, and other soldiers had arrived. Gerhardt could see there were few other prisoners. And then he realised in shock that’s that what he was now.
A prisoner of war.
27
El Tahag Mobilisation Camp, 40 miles northeast of Cairo, Egypt: 13th August 1942
‘Who is this Pyman anyway?’ asked Danny, looking at Benson. He was referring to the new Lieutenant-Colonel who was to replace Pip Roberts.
Benson smiled and replied. ‘Ever seen any paintings of Napoleon?’
Danny smiled and nodded.
‘Well, imagine someone like that with similar ambition and energy; then I think you’ll have an idea of what the new C.O. is like.’
‘Have you met him?’
‘Only briefly,’ replied Benson. He tapped his pipe on a rock and then put it back in his mouth. ‘I think he’ll be good. He said to all of us that there are three things he would not tolerate: drunkenness, idleness and stupidity.’
Danny turned away and gazed out at the endless sea of tents at the camp. They would be on the march again soon. Back out into the blue. They’d had a longer break from the fighting and Danny felt something of his old self returning. He’d not gone back to see Arthur and so had missed him when he left. He wrote instead. It had felt like an act of cowardice. And he’d admitted as much in the letter. He felt better for having done so. But only a little bit.
Benson was looking at him thoughtfully. A half smile lay on his face. Danny frowned at the captain.
‘Sir?’ he asked.
Benson grinned and said nothing. His attention was diverted by the appearance of a sergeant.
‘At last,’ said Benson. ‘Come this way, Shaw.’
Benson stood up and Danny followed suit. He followed the captain towards the sergeant.
‘Major Crisp asked to see you both,’ said the sergeant.
The three men went to a tent at the far end of a of row of newly arrived Grant tanks. They were not the new Sherman tanks from America that Danny had heard so much about but, at least, they were better than the Crusaders.
Major Bob Crisp was a tall, well-made South African. A former test cricketer, he was something of a legend in the regiment. Decorated and promoted as often as he’d been wounded, he ran the squadron like Captain Blood running pirate missions on the Spanish Main.
‘Shaw, I have some news for you. Take a seat.’
Danny looked at the serious face of the Major and felt his whole body tense. There had been no word about Tom since Tobruk had fallen. He waited for the body blow to land.
‘Don’t look so serious, Shaw,’ said Crisp, and a smile creased his tanned face. ‘It’s about your brother. I know that you’ve been worried about him since Tobruk fell. I have just received word that he’s alive. It’s not all good, of course. He was taken captive by the Germans. He’s somewhere in Italy at the moment.’
Danny had to stop himself crying with relief. This was relief based not only on the fact that he was alive but that, in all probability, he might survive the War. At least one of them would return to the village.
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Danny. He felt Benson clap him on the shoulder. He was saying something, but Danny could barely take it in. There was silence for a moment and Danny made to stand up.
‘Not so fast, Shaw. There’s one other thing,’ said Crisp. His eyes were lit by the knowledge that, for once, he was the bringer of good news rather than bad. ‘Take a look inside that box.’
Throughout the meeting, Danny had been aware of a small flat box sitting on the table between him and the major. He knew what was inside. He picked up the box and opened it.
There were stripes inside.
‘Congratulations, Corporal Shaw.’
That was one more than he’d expected. He nodded stupidly such was his shock. Benson chuckled just behind him. Danny turned to him and smiled.
‘I might be giving you orders soon at this rate, sir.’
Crisp and Benson both burst out laughing at this. For a second Danny felt a surge of happiness. The news that Tom was alive and that he’d been promoted would eventually find its way back home. One would be a source of great comfort, the other would bring pride.
It was only after he’d departed from Crisp and Benson that the darkness descended on him again. It had been his companion since the end of May and now, despite the news, it had barely lightened. He tried not to think of Arthur, but guilt has a way of piercing any armour you wear. His father had lived with survivor’s guilt and it was his now, too. Just for moment he smiled darkly as he reminded himself of the one truth that accompanied this self-reproach.
He might not survive.
-
A couple of days passed. Danny stared at the stripes and tried to find the motivation to sew them onto his shirt. He sensed Benson was becoming irritated by the fact that he’d not yet done so. He put them back inside the box and went for a walk. It was early afternoon in the camp. Training exercises had finished because of the heat. It was well over one hundred now. It felt like he was walking into a solid wall of heat. The sweat sizzled on his skin like frying fat.
Ahead he could see a few hardy souls playing cricket. Others were watching in groups offering good-natured advice to the players on their manifest inadequacies. The players were responding in kind. By the sound of the accents, it was England versus New Zealand.
Five groups of six planes buzzed overhead. Danny watched them descend and fly low over the desert. He wondered if Dick Manning was among them. He’d seen him again a week ago. Manning offered his sympathy on hearing about Arthur.
He was beginning to regret not joining the others from the tank who were going for a swim. In the distance he saw the barbed wire fencing demarcating the prisoner of war camp. Several hundred Germans and Italians were housed there waiting, like most of the Allies, to be transferred.
Every day he saw new arrivals at the camp. Some were coming back from the desert. There were also new arrivals fresh from home. The three-ton trucks deposited them in
the middle of the camp. Danny could see a small convoy drawing up in the large square in the middle.
He ignored them and went to a makeshift NAAFI for a tea and a biscuit. Even a short walk in the sun felt like he was turning into a Sunday roast. The large tent offered shade and he was glad of a seat. As he was drinking his tea, he spotted Captain Benson entering the tent. It occurred to him that he really should put the stripes on. It was beginning to seem disrespectful. Benson had spotted him now. His face turned stony as he noted the absence of stripes. He came over to the table. Danny rose but one look at Benson’s face and he sat down again. He braced himself for the worst. Benson sat down in the manner of someone who had little time for seats.
‘I don’t know what you think you’re playing at, Shaw, but if you don’t put those bloody stripes on by the time I’m back at the tank then I’ll recommend to the major that they’re taken from you.’
Benson didn’t wait for a reply. He was on his feet immediately and away. Danny stared angrily out into the square. He was cross with himself for not doing as he’d been told. There was anger, too, for Benson. A few other men had seen his humiliation. He scowled at them and clutched the mug tightly. He drained the tea in a gulp. It burned his throat though he hardly noticed.
Rising from his table he walked forwards without thinking about where he was going. The square in the middle of the camp was crowded like a city. He wanted to lose himself in the noise, the shouting and the truck engines coughing and spluttering like old men. Almost at once though, he decided he hated being with people. He decided he’d cross over the square and head back to the tank. A voice shouting in his ear got an earful back. The soldier looked at Danny somewhat hurt as well as surprised but he was already pushing through the crowd of soldiers.
