El Alamein

by Jack Murray

  He weaved out of the way of a bunch of men jumping off a truck. What had possessed him to come this way? It was mobbed and madness in a tiny space. Anger at himself for yet another act of stupidity bubbled to the surface. Could he do nothing right? Utter idiot. He felt himself jostled or perhaps it was him doing the jostling. He needed to get away from here, that much was certain.

  He went past one truck with soldiers fresh from England. You could always tell. They were fair, fat and full of good humour. They’d learn soon enough. He brushed past one and then, unseeingly, banged into another.

  ‘Watch it, mate,’ said the soldier. Danny knew the man had been within rights to complain and turned to apologise. He hadn’t been looking where he was going. It’s difficult to see through the red mist.

  ‘Leave him, Sid. Looks like Rommel’s beaten him already,’ said another voice.

  The apology died on Danny’s lips. Instead, they curled into a snarl, his face a mask of hatred. He threw the first man out of the way and made for the second man who’d mocked him. There were shouts now as the soldiers realised, too late, his intention. Danny could see fear in the eyes of the second man and that drove him more. He could also see that he had put his hands up in a manner which suggested not self-defence but an apology was about to come his way. But Danny could only hear his heart racing and the voices of hate in his head. His first punch landed in the solar plexus of the soldier. His second, a wild swing, thankfully missed as the man collapsed to the ground.

  Arms grabbed Danny and he struggled manically to free himself. He was snarling like an animal. And then the mist cleared, and he realised what he’d done. He immediately stopped struggling. He heard a voice near him.

  A voice he knew.

  ‘Well, Shaw. Looks like the boot’s on the other foot.’

  Danny turned and stared into the clear blue eyes of Captain Edmund Aston. There was little sympathy in the eyes, only the usual mocking humour. The captain put the cheroot back in his mouth and turned his attention behind Danny.

  ‘Let him go,’ he ordered the men holding Danny.

  Danny’s eyes were wide with horror at what he’d done. He looked at the man he’d hit. His friends were helping him up from the ground. He stepped forward and the two men faced one another. Danny shook his head. He wanted to apologise but no words came. Instead, he looked away and strode off through a parting in the crowd. He could barely breathe in the hot air. Too many people around. He started to run.

  He ran for half a mile, to the farthest point of the camp where he would be alone. He dropped to the ground on his knees and began to sob. His body heaved as he fought to draw in air. His eyes lost focus as they filled with tears. For five minutes he stayed there full of despair at what he’d done. A wave of self-loathing overcame him. What had he become? He sat staring ahead for several minutes. Finally, he picked out a letter from his breast pocket. It was damp with his sweat. The ink on the envelope had long since faded. The ink on the letter was beginning to fade, too.

  Then, aware that some men were coming over to him, he stood up and dusted himself down. He took a deep breath and started to walk in their direction.

  ‘Everything all right?’ asked one of the men as he walked towards him. They could see Danny’s red-rimmed eyes.

  Danny nodded, not trusting himself to say anything. He kept going. It took five minutes to return to the tank. Benson was sitting there alone. They looked at one another. He didn’t know.

  The box containing the striped was sitting on top of his kit bag. Danny picked it up and handed it to Benson.

  ‘I can’t take this, sir.’

  Benson looked astounded at first. Then angry. He was just about to speak when Danny held his hand up.

  ‘Permission to speak, sir.’

  This stopped Benson and he nodded curtly. Danny told him what had happened. Benson said nothing while Danny spoke. He put his pipe in his mouth and listened intently.

  ‘There was no damage done?’

  ‘I don’t think so, sir.’

  ‘What were you thinking?’ pressed the captain.

  ‘I don’t know, sir. After what happened to Arthur, Phil Lawrence, Sergeant Reed. All of them. It was too much.’

  Benson nodded and took the box containing the stripes away from Danny.

  ‘Go and find the man you hit. Apologise to him. I’ll speak to Captain Aston.’

  -

  It took an hour to find the man he’d hit. He was at the far end of the camp from where the tank regiment was stationed. Danny saw him standing with a group of men. One of them was the man he’d pushed out of the way initially.

  They watched him warily as he came over. Danny wanted to smile but knew it was a forlorn hope. He decided to get straight to the point.

  ‘I’m sorry. I feel terrible about what I did. It was cowardly,’ said Danny. He held his hand out.

  The soldier nodded to Danny and shook his hand.

  ‘It was m…’

  ‘No, please, it was my fault,’ said Danny interrupting the apology that was about to come his way. ‘Don’t argue, with me,’ added Danny with a smile.

  The group burst out in a relieved sort of laugh.

  ‘What do you boys do?’ asked Danny.

  ‘We’re sappers,’ said the soldier he’d hit. His name was Ian. He sounded like he was from the south west.

  ‘Mines?’ asked Danny. He saw the heads nod around him. ‘Well, you’re in the right place here. If it’s not us, then it’s them. They’re everywhere.’

  ‘Thanks for the good news,’ replied Ian and the group laughed again. ‘What’s the bad news.’

  ‘I’m with tanks. You’ll be laying out the red carpet for me and my mates,’ laughed Danny. The sappers responded good-naturedly with a very specific suggestion on what he could do with his tank.

  He chatted with them for ten minutes giving a highly coloured version of his time in North Africa. There seemed little point in scaring them senseless. Then he made his way back to the tank. The late afternoon sun was not as hatefully hot as earlier. The flies were still awake, though, and as militant as ever. They attacked with their usual frenzied determination. Yet despite their aggravating attentions, Danny’s mood had lifted somewhat.

  The area around the tank was empty. The crew were still bathing probably, and Benson was nowhere to be seen. Something on his kit bag caught Danny’s attention. There was a number of letters that had obviously just arrived. Sitting on top of them was the box containing his stripes. He opened it. They were still there. There was also a folded note. Danny read the note and found tears stinging his eyes.

  He sat down and fished inside a bag belonging to McLeish. It took a few moments, but he found what he was looking for. The small sewing kit was contained in a leather pouch. He took off his shirt and unrolled his shirt sleeve. Placing the first set of stripes on his arm, he began to sew.

  28

  Alam Halfa Ridge – 15 Kilometres southeast of El Alamein, Egypt: 31st August 1942

  It was almost beautiful. The night sky was lit up by parachute flares that twinkled wickedly down at the large force of Panzer tanks advancing slowly like dark ink on a blotter.

  The going was much too slow. Any element of surprise was being lost with each passing minute and every mile closer to the enemy positions along the Alam Halfa Ridge. The atmosphere in Manfred’s tank was tense. Invariably the mood of the tank could be dictated by the tank commander. Basler was intense at the best of times. On this occasion he’d made things worse for himself by emphasising the previous evening that speed was of the essence. The Allies were likely to be dug in with land mines in front and an artillery shield behind. If they could reach them during the night, they might just catch them unawares.

  That hope was lying in tatters as they saw the sun rise on a tank column that had barely made half of the fifty kilometres they had been tasked to march. The proof of this lay ahead. The German pioniers and infantry were being shelled by the Allied guns. The reception committee
was up and ready to greet them. As ever, the calculation was that many would die but some would get through. Their lives only had value as a stepping-stone for others, reflected Manfred.

  Sweat poured from the bodies of the men while they sat silently listening to the grind and whine of the wheels. Jentz was driving; his eyes fixed on the tank ahead. He flinched as an explosion sent rock into the air. One could never become inured to the explosions. Especially as they grew louder. Nausea and panic were Manfred’s constant companions at the moments just before battle. As soon as he was able to shoot back then a curtain descended on him. Every particle of his being was focused on one thing: survival. This could not be decided by him, of course. All he could do was to keep firing and hope. The minutes until he could start firing were a sick agony for him.

  He looked at Basler and could see anger in the lieutenant’s eyes. A comment earlier had revealed the source of his anger.

  ‘Why didn’t we know about this minefield?’

  The stop-starting, always weaving progress was likely to play hell with their petrol reserves. The rising sun would improve the accuracy of artillery fire and open them to aerial attack. The closer to the ridge they came, the further it was for the Luftwaffe to travel to protect them. It didn’t take a mathematician to work out they would soon be on their own. By 1030 they were mired in soft sand and fuel was running low.

  ‘We’ll have to halt and wait for fuel trucks,’ said Basler who had moved to Jentz’s shoulder to gaze down at the petrol gauge.

  Kummel was of a similar mind and the march was halted. Manfred and Jentz took the opportunity to check the tank while Kiel made the coffee. The veteran driver could barely hide the shaking of his hands as he lit a cigarette. He smiled at Manfred in embarrassment.

  ‘This is going to be hell. I can feel it. We’re at our best when we’re moving fast.’

  Manfred and Jentz listened to the battle raging a few kilometres ahead. They continued their checks on the tracks until Kiel called that their coffee was ready. They joined the others. Manfred looked around at the dull eyes of his comrades. There was little sense of heroic ambition there. Nor was there obvious fear or, indeed, the indifference that assails you when you realise there really is no hope. In its place the training and experience of countless encounters was beginning to prevail. The noises around them were not just the sounds of battle but the shouts of soldiers preparing for what lay ahead. They did this by checking machinery, testing weapons, challenging one another to their jobs. It worked in a strange way. Your thoughts turned outward from the terror you were feeling and towards what you were there to do.

  -

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Jentz, three hours later, soon after they had set off again. Visibility had begun to deteriorate and, for once, it was nothing to do with the midday heat haze which turned the horizon into a glinting blur. Manfred joined Basler outside the turret.

  ‘Sandstorm,’ said Manfred simply.

  ‘At least it will blow into the faces of Tommy,’ added Basler with a hint of a smile. The two men dived back into the hot, stinking safety of the interior. The thought of what the sand would do to the enemy gave both Manfred and Basler a lift. Then Kummel’s voice came loud and clear on the radio.

  ‘We are to push to the western side of the Alam el Halfa ridge. Trieste and Ariete are caught up in the minefields.’

  ‘Of course they’re caught up in them. They weren’t told about them in the first place,’ snapped Basler angrily.

  They trundled forward behind a dozen other Mark III’s. As they were in No Man’s Land, the regiment was ordered to fan out to present a wider target for the inevitable bombardment they would face.

  The combination of coffee and the likely discomfort of the enemy had energised Manfred. The sandstorm was better than a smokescreen for the attack. It would prevent aerial reconnaissance and bombing. It would delay the moment when they began to face the long-range shelling from the enemy twenty-five pounders. Perhaps things might just go their way.

  -

  A couple of miles further ahead, directly in their path was the Alam el Halfa ridge. This was the southern underbelly to the Allied stronghold at El Alamein. The rocky ridge was an undulating series of very highly defensible positions that had been created by the Allies.

  Standing at the top of the ridge was one Lieutenant James Carruthers. He held his binoculars to his eyes and surveyed the Deir el Agram depression, or at least what he could see of it. This wasn’t much. They would have to come this way, he thought. Pity he couldn’t see anything. He cast aside his binoculars. There was little point in looking while the sand was blowing with such anger. He looked around him. There were six-pounder guns lined up waiting to give Jerry the welcome he most assuredly deserved. A young man, a sergeant, came over to him.

  ‘Tea, sir?’

  Carruthers glanced at the young man and smiled, ‘Yes, thank you, McMillan. That would be very nice.’

  How surreal, thought, Carruthers. Two years ago, he’d been a manager of a shoe factory. Now he was virtually running a battalion of gunners. Class always tells, he reflected. They could see he was officer material from the off. He surveyed the faces of his men. Most were sitting smoking cigarettes. Their battle would start soon. Carruthers was happy for them to grab a few minutes of peace. The big guns were firing from a position further back. The noise was more sporadic since the sandstorm had started to blow in their faces. Carruthers crouched down to avoid the full intensity of its blast.

  McMillan arrived a few minutes later with a mug of tea. He’d covered the top with a card. After eighteen months in this god-forsaken land he’d grown used to sand in his tea. It usually sank to the bottom. With his back to the sand, Carruthers positioned the card at the top in such a way as to allow him to drink. He took his first sip when he heard the shout from one of his men.

  ‘Tanks, sir. A bugger load of them.’

  Carruthers remained seated and sipped his tea.

  ‘How many is that exactly, Finch? And how far?’

  A few moments passed.

  ‘At least eighty, sir. Must be two thousand yards.’

  ‘Very well,’ replied Carruthers. He rose to his feet and drank another large mouthful. The remainder of the mug was emptied. A ghastly mixture of tea and sand fell like treacle to the rocky ground. Carruthers glanced down at it distastefully. ‘McMillan, where are you? Can you take this?’

  The young gunner appeared and took the lieutenant’s cup. Carruthers returned his attention to the dark shapes appearing through the blowing sand.

  ‘How far are they now?’ He could have been asking someone’s opinion on the weather.

  ‘Fifteen hundred yards, sir,’ replied a sergeant. Half a minute later, he added, ‘A thousand yards.’

  Carruthers picked up his binoculars to see for himself and said calmly.

  ‘Perhaps we should start shooting.’

  -

  Manfred’s first view of the Alam el Halfa ridge was when he saw the puffs of white smoke. Moments later the air was split apart by the sound of explosions. It was too far away to return fire. They had to keep going in the face of this almighty barrage. But not every tank was so limited. The new Mark IV’s had a seventy-five-millimetre gun. This was going to be a nasty surprise for the British.

  ‘Enemy tanks one thousand metres,’ reported Kummel over the radio. ‘Mark IV’s commence firing. The rest of you wait until we’re within range.’

  In a moment of jubilation, he saw clouds of smoke being thrown skyward along the ridge as the new Mark IV’s began to exact a toll. British tanks were in flames, too. Manfred motioned to Kleff to make ready.

  ‘HE shells.’

  Basler looked at Manfred and nodded, ‘Aim for the artillery on the ridge. We’ll let the Mark IV’s deal with the tanks.’

  The six pounders were beginning to inflict casualties though. The radio was sizzling with messages for help that would be ignored as they pressed forward. However, they were making progress. Within
a few minutes the Panzers were past the first line of guns. Prisoners were being taken. Guns captured. Kummel came on the radio again.

  ‘British tanks retreating. Pursue.’

  Jentz turned the tank eastwards in a direction parallel to the northern ridge. They followed a group of the 1st Battalion tanks led by Kummel. Manfred could not see the enemy tanks such was the dust being thrown up by the lead tanks and the remnants of the earlier sandstorm. The pursuit, at least, took them away from the direct line of fire they’d endured. As the light began to fade so did their hopes of engaging the remnants of the enemy tank regiment. By 1930 it was clear they’d escaped. They were in an advanced position on the edge of the Alam el Halfa ridge but without infantry support. Kummel gave the order to withdraw.

  They were reunited with the rest of the division at 2100 just south of the Deir el Agram depression. A very tired crew staggered out of the tank and collapsed on the ground.

  ‘Ten minutes to do what you have to do,’ ordered Basler. ‘Then, Klef, get the food ready. No fires. Kiel examine the tracks. Brehme, check the guns and organise the ammo. Jentz, check the engine.’

  They finished eating around eleven in the night. It was too late to go in search of Fischer for a chat and a cigarette. Instead, Manfred sank onto his bedding and was asleep before his eyes shut.

  So ended the first day of the battle of Alam el Halfa.

  29

  Alam el Halfa, Egypt: 1st September 1942

  Just after four in the morning, Danny sat with the rest of the crew listening to Benson. He’d just returned from a conference with the senior commanders. For once the mood was upbeat. They’d had a few weeks of rest at the Canal and now they were refreshed if not exactly raring to fight. No sane person was ever raring to fight. They were, however, more prepared this time. Danny had sensed a change in the mood of the regiment since the arrival of the new commander in North Africa, General Bernard Montgomery. He had taken command in the previous month.