El Alamein

by Jack Murray

  Danny, McLeish and Gregson looked on in great amusement at the evident misery of their big driver. Archie Andrews did not seem any happier than the PG.

  ‘Can’t I stay behind and read Herodotus?’ asked Andrew plaintively. PG had more practical concerns to deal with.

  ‘I better be off to t’ bog then,’ said PG morosely. ‘Can you give me some of King Herod to wipe my backside, Archie?’

  Andrews’ succinctly suggested that help would not be forthcoming. Then Danny piped up with his tuppence worth.

  ‘Good idea, big boy, it’ll help you lose some of that weight,’ said Danny helpfully.

  PG replied, ‘Why don’t you go lose your virginity with your sister, country boy,’ before trooping off to relieve himself before the march.

  A couple of days later the crew spent several hours on the firing range, firstly with rifles and then with the tank. Understanding the effective range of their gun would be critical in the upcoming battles. It could launch shells to distances up to five thousand yards but against armour the range reduced to a little over one thousand yards or less when confronted by the Panzer Mark IV’s .

  ‘Good shooting,’ commented Benson at the end of the day. ‘You seem to have your eye in there.’

  ‘It’ll be more than cricket balls coming our direction soon, though,’ replied Danny, acknowledging the cricket reference from Benson. The raised a smile.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll still hit them for six, Shaw. You’ll need to.’

  Life at the camp allowed them to catch up on the latest Hollywood films. This gave a sense of normality that felt unreal such was the change to their lives over the last year. The films and their stars were a frequent source of conversation amongst the men, particularly the female leads.

  ‘Betty Grable, she’ll do,’ announced PG.

  ‘She says the same about you,’ replied Danny.

  ‘She would’n’all. They want something they can get hold off.’

  Danny spent a few seconds appraising the ample form of PG who helped him by turning sideways and then towards him.

  ‘You could be right there,’ said Danny. ‘What about you, Sid?’

  ‘Gary Cooper,’ interjected PG before guffawing at his own joke.

  ‘Garbo.’

  ‘Makes sense,’ said PG. ‘You vont to be alone.’

  ‘Away from you anyway, dreamboat,’ laughed Gregson. ‘What about you, Danny.’

  ‘Well tonight, Sidney, I shall be accompanying Maureen O’Sullivan in my dreams.’

  ‘Lucky girl,’ said PG. ‘If she needs a real man you know where to find me.’

  ‘I’ll bear it in mind,’ nodded Danny in a serious manner. ‘What’s on tonight?’

  ‘They Died with Their Boots On,’ said McLeish.

  ‘There’s a cheery thought,’ said PG sourly. ‘Didn’t well end for them, did it?’

  ‘Maybe you could be Sitting Bull, PG. You certainly look like one from here, big boy,’ said Danny, rising quickly to avoid items from PG’s tool kit that were being hurled in his direction.

  -

  The rumours became fact when the commanding officer of the regiment, Lieutenant-Colonel Pyman arrived to speak to them flanked by his squadron leaders and other senior officers. Beside him were Major Robert Crisp, who commanded Danny’s ‘A’ Squadron; Major Upcott-Gill, the commanding officer of ‘B’ Squadron and Major Colin Franklin who led ‘C’ Squadron. Other senior officers were also present as Pyman briefed the men about the forthcoming operation. He was a slight figure. Behind him was a board with a large map.

  ‘Well, I’m sure you’ll have gathered that I’m not here to talk about the weather.’

  This was greeted by laughter among the ranks of the men just in front of him.

  ‘It is bloody hot, though,’ continued Pyman glancing up at the late afternoon sun. ‘Behind me you’ll see a board showing the layout of the Alamein halt and the surrounding areas. The coloured sections represent our best guess at the minefields Jerry has laid. We’re constantly monitoring this through aerial photography but, as you can see, it’s pretty extensive.’

  Pyman used a stick to indicate the areas he was talking about. He turned back to the men.

  ‘Over the next few weeks, we’re going to train as we’ve never trained before. Nothing will be left to chance. This time we’re going to chase Rommel and the Afrika Korps all the way back to Tripoli and then Germany. We’re kicking them out for good. We have the men. We have the guns and, as you’ll have seen with these new Shermans, we have the tanks. This time there can be no excuses. We have to win.’

  ‘The detailed plan is still being worked out so, you’ll understand, I’m can only speak in general terms. It’s going to be a night attack.’

  Pyman paused while the ranks of men took this in. With each passing day it had become clear that a big push was in the offing. The news that it was to commence at night was a shock. Although many of the tank crews had been involved in some night-time firefights this was the first time an attack on such a scale had been considered. There was a moment of silence and then a low mumble from some of the men. Pyman held his hand up to quieten the talking.

  ‘Yes, I know. If it’s a surprise for you, can you imagine how Jerry will feel?’

  This was greeted with a ripple of laughter.

  ‘Yes, it’s going to be a night attack and we’re going to train for this. Now, doubtless a few of you will have considered one slight problem with this idea. Anyone care to guess what that might be?’

  Danny raised his hand.

  Pyman pointed to Danny and smiled.

  ‘Brave man. What’s your name?’

  ‘Shaw, sir.’

  ‘Go on,’ replied Pyman.

  ‘Well, sir, you pointed to the problem a minute ago. How are we supposed to get through a minefield at night?’

  Pyman smiled. He’d been hoping this would be the question that was asked. He turned to his adjutant Captain Barker.

  ‘Would you care to show them, Barker?’

  Captain Barker held up a strange metal device. It had a long arm similar to a broom handle with a disc at its head that looked like a film can.

  ‘This,’ explained Pyman, ‘is a mine detector. Basically, our boffins have come up with a way of finding mines without giving the game away to Jerry. Now I had to study this bit, but it works through these metal coils.’ Pyman indicated the coils on the underside of the disc-like shape. ‘They oscillate when they encounter a metal object underground. The Sapper will have earphones and hear a “ping”. Invented by two Polish officers, apparently. It’s going to save thousands of lives because we can work at night, avoid prodding the earth with a bayonet and hopefully catch the enemy unawares. I was going to say asleep, but I gather they’ll be wide awake, trust me. From what I hear we’ll be shelling them all night. I shall let Major Crisp explain in more detail about the attack.’

  Crisp stepped forward and smiled. His teeth seemed to gleam against the deep tan of his skin. Danny was used to hearing his squadron leader’s South African accent, but he was amused to see a few straining to understand what was being said.

  ‘There will be two gaps. One north and one south.’

  Crisp indicated on the board where these would be.

  “We will be located at the Miteiriya Ridge and will proceed through the northern gap. Now these lanes will be created by the Sapper chaps using this metal detector. There will be about forty Sappers per gap led by a couple of officers. They’ll have infantry support, of course. When they reach the minefield, they will put a blue pinpoint light to indicate where it starts. A second blue light will indicate when we believe we’re through the mine belt. The lanes themselves will be at least two tank widths or more. Around twenty-four feet wide. There will be three teams of Sappers. The first will find the mines and place a white cone cut out of a petrol can over them; the third group will pick them up. The middle group will run white tape along the sides of the lane with green and orange lights telling you which
side you should be on. Do I need to tell you to stay on the green side?’

  This was greeted with laughter.

  ‘Thought not. You’ll need these lights. Visibility won’t be great with all the sand the tanks kick up.’ Crisp then took some white tape and unrolled a foot, holding it aloft. ‘This will be reeled out in eight-foot strips with lights showing you the way. There will also be T-lights in the middle of the lane. It’ll be like driving up Regent Street at Christmas. Anyway, I hope that’s clear. Any questions?’

  ‘When are we going?’ shouted a voice from the back.

  ‘No idea,’ replied Crisp with a grin. ‘Any others?’

  ‘Can I go home?’ shouted another. Crisp joined in the laughter and suggested fairly succinctly that this was unlikely any time soon.

  The tank crews and the support personnel filed away from the meeting. Benson walked alongside Danny and PG.

  ‘So what do you think, chaps?’

  Before Danny could answer, PG replied glumly, ‘I’m with the lad that wanted to go home.’

  ‘Good to see you’re as positive as ever, PG,’ smiled Benson. ‘What about you, Shaw?’

  Danny was silent for a moment and then replied, ‘It feels more considered this time. No more cavalry charges.’

  Benson stopped and looked at Danny then he nodded.

  ‘I’d forgotten you were at Sidi Rezegh.’

  Danny fought to control his emotions as the faces of his former tank mates swam into his mind. It had been a mess. A regiment virtually wiped out over a single day. Yet he’d hardly been alone in experiencing this. Every regiment, every battalion, every man had faced or would face unimaginable terror over the course of this war. They walked towards their tank in silence. Each wondering when the call to action would come.

  From that day, the tank crews began practicing movement through minefields. The initial training took place during daylight hours, but this was soon to switch to night. The crews and the soldiers were all to practice night marches over and over again. Nothing was to be left to chance.

  The tanks were also called upon to tow guns and, on occasion, one another, to replicate both initial attack and actual combat situations when tanks were knocked out but reparable. The success of the Germans in recovering their tanks had forced the Allies to raise their game in this field.

  Day and night began to merge. There was no slackening in the preparations for the next battle. For it was always the next battle. Danny had long since given up hoping the next one would be the decisive one. However, there was an air of purposefulness that he’d not seen before. This was partly due to the insistence by Montgomery that the men be kept aware of the plans.

  Everyone had a sense of what their job was and how it fitted into the overall scheme. Just the knowing made the plan feel more solid. This sense of purpose cascaded through the ranks. It was not hubristic. They’d lost too many friends and comrades for that. But it was there. A tacit hope, an unspoken commitment to those around you and those who had fallen that this time they would prevail.

  33

  Sidi abd el Rhaman, 28 kilometres from el Alamein, Egypt: 28th September 1942

  ‘Any mail today?’ asked Manfred, looking up at the sky. There were a few planes buzzing overhead either returning or heading out on a sortie. Otherwise, the sky was clear and blue.

  Fischer shrugged and said he hadn’t received any mail. Such an admission was invariably a cue for abuse from Manfred on the unpopularity of the Bavarian. They went for a stroll away from the leaguer. The late afternoon sun was tolerable but still hot enough to burn. They found a shaded spot on the other side of a rocky ridge which descended into a flat-bottomed wadi with soft sand. They were far enough away from the leaguer now to talk with complete freedom or just enjoy the motionless silence of the desert.

  ‘How do you find Stiefelmayer?’ asked Manfred. Fischer had recently been assigned to a new tank. He was finally a gunner but, true to form, disappointed that he’d not yet been given his own tank.

  ‘He’s good. Up there with Kummel.’

  ‘And Basler.’

  ‘And Basler,’ agreed Fischer. Manfred glanced at his friend’s newly earned stripes. Fischer saw this and added, sourly, ‘I’ve been here a year and a half and all I have to show for it is being a lousy corporal and the proud owner of a sore shoulder.’

  Manfred grinned sympathetically and pointed out the obvious, ‘Could have been worse.’

  Had it really been ten months since Manfred rescued the wounded Fischer on that terrible Sunday, Totensonntag? Fischer dismissed the point with a wave of his hand, and they stared out at the flat, rocky landscape.

  ‘How is your family?’ asked Manfred.

  ‘They barely notice the war. Aside from me being here and the SS wandering around Munich like they own the city, then life is pretty normal for them. My sister is training to be a teacher now.’

  Manfred’s ears pricked up at this. The memory of a very attractive girl in a photograph held by Fischer sprang into his mind. Fischer glanced at Manfred and read his mind in an instant.

  ‘Don’t you dare even think about my sister. I’ll stick your head inside one of those eighty-eights.’

  ‘Tell me about your shoulder again?’ asked Manfred.

  He earned a punch in the arm for this less-than-subtle reminder that Fischer owed him his life. It’s an odd comment on the psyche of the male that such a reaction to bravery displayed was not only considered acceptable but was actually embraced. Anything else would have been as embarrassing for the speaker as it would have been for the listener. War was nothing more the natural extension of man’s inability to communicate meaningfully.

  ‘How is your father?’ asked Fischer. This was an area where the two boys had shared an almost identical upbringing. A patriarchal household ruled by fear and discipline. It bred the society that had arisen in the Fatherland. Obedience was demanded and brutally achieved.

  ‘My father cannot say too much because he has the Gestapo in the office. They probably read his letters.’

  Manfred stopped for a moment to ponder this thought. The Gestapo read my father’s letters. He shook his head and the two boys exchanged looks.

  ‘This is what we’re fighting for,’ said Fischer bitterly, giving voice to the thought in both their minds.

  Manfred laughed but without any real humour, ‘So it seems. I don’t think I care who wins. As long as I survive that’s all that matters.’

  ‘I wonder what will be left if we lose,’ said Fischer, reflectively.

  ‘Your sister,’ laughed Manfred, rolling over to avoid the blows that were certain to rain down on him.

  -

  A few days later Manfred and Basler were out on morning patrol. They sat atop of the Panzer looking at the pioniers working on the minefield. There were dozens of soldiers stretched out as far as the eye could see. They were all stooping like old men planting mines and booby traps for the expected assault by the Allies.

  ‘They’re calling it the Devil’s Gardens,’ said Basler. He said it quietly and, for a moment, Manfred wondered if there was a lurking sympathy for the poor men that would be caught in this mesh and obliterated without trace. ‘Five kilometres long, maybe six kilometres deep. I don’t envy anyone going through that.’

  Manfred looked at the horseshoe shape the pioniers had adopted. It looked as if they were creating entry points past the wire for the Allied soldiers; lulling them into a false sense of security on the location of the mines before they sprang the booby traps and touched the mines. Some of the booby traps looked horrifically treacherous. Some as big as the 250-pound bombs used by bombers. They were being laid out in a chessboard fashion with trip wires set carefully nearby.

  The sight of the operation left Manfred spellbound. This was broken only by the sound of a lone plane overhead. The two men looked up at it.

  ‘Maybe we have some mail,’ said Basler simply. Manfred wondered who would be writing to the lieutenant. He’d never mentioned any family
aside from the wife who’d left him. They watched the plane descend and land near to the leaguer before returning their attention to the desert and the sky. It occurred to Manfred that the Allies could have done significant damage to them if they’d launched an attack on the belts that were being mined. Perhaps the Allies were doing likewise.

  ‘Captain Kummel is returning to Germany,’ said Basler after a few minutes had passed. He smiled at the surprised look on Manfred’s face.

  ‘Why?’ said Manfred. This seemed extraordinary to him. ‘The Lion of Capuzzo’ leaving just before the anticipated Allied offensive.

  ‘He deserves to, Brehme. It makes sense,’ was Basler’s reply. ‘Think about it. We have thousands of men out here battling forwards, then backwards then forwards again. It seems like it will never end unless you are killed, maimed or captured. The men will see that there is a way back home. It suits our leaders to have real life heroes coming home and inspiring, teaching the next wave of men who come out. I wonder how long it will be before our friend up there returns home.’

  They both looked up and saw a plane rising into the sky. There was no question in Manfred’s mind that Basler was referring to Marseille. One hundred and fifty confirmed kills, they said.

  The two men followed the aircraft as it rose into the clear blue sky. He had been joined by a number of other Messerschmitt fighters. There were now half a dozen of them heading towards enemy lines. They watched silently as they flew out of sight.

  Around half an hour later they saw five planes return and land. Such was war. There was a momentary sadness, then they returned to scanning to the endless nothingness.

  Manfred felt a touch on his arm from Basler a few minutes later. The sixth plane was returning. It was trailing black smoke. There was not the usual buzz of the engine. It was coughing and spluttering like a bronchial old man. At a certain point the engine stopped. The pilot was gliding back towards the German lines. All around them, activity stopped. The pioniers looked up at the sky along with the men on the other tanks. The plane was around four hundred metres from the ground. It seemed impossible that it could land in such a condition. Red flames were pouring from the plane.