by Jack Murray
The silence that followed Danny’s comment was its own question so he continued, ‘Sitting under a tree eating an apple. A stolen apple tastes like no apple you’ve ever had. Me and my pals used to mitch off from school and raid the farms in the area for anything we could lay our hands on.’
‘I’m surprised they didn’t shoot you,’ said Benson. ‘You were a smithy, weren’t you?’
‘Yes sir,’ said Danny. He felt a lump in his throat as he thought of his father by the forge.
‘Won’t be much call for them soon,’ pointed out PG. ‘Do they have factories where you are?’
Danny smiled but what PG had said hit home. He worked with metals, with iron. They had spent the last year in a metal tank, firing metal shells and being hit by bullets and bombs. This ammunition had been produced on a mammoth scale. The plain fact was PG was right. His world was finished. He thought of the other boys; Bert Gissing waving a fist at him.
‘A few of the lads we stole from came here.’
PG and Benson waited for Danny to continue. He said nothing. HIs mind lost to an image of Bert Gissing waving his fist at him all those years ago. He thought of poor Hugh. Killed during the Crusader operation. Bob was in prison. The others were in prison, too, now. Prisoners of war.
Tobruk. Greece. There was no escaping this enemy. He was the only one from the village still actively engaged on a front line. A half a dozen or so of them from Little Gloston. He stopped for a second and thought of the other side. People just like him probably. Only they weren’t. They’d allowed the Nazis to lead them to war. What sort of people would want to be here doing this?
‘You lost your friends?’ asked Benson
Danny turned to the captain and shrugged.
‘Some. Well, you know my brother and one of the other blokes got captured at Tobruk. They’re in Italy now.’
‘At least that’s something,’ said Benson.
Danny nodded but said nothing more. They sat in silence for a few minutes until they were disturbed by the arrival of McLeish carrying some tea. He handed it round to the others.
‘How much longer?’ asked McLeish. He received a slap round the head with PG’s beret.
‘Another hour,’ replied Benson. The captain stared into the black. Somewhere out in the darkness were men just like them, sitting nervously waiting for battle.
The night air felt almost tangible. The wet, cold air bathed Danny’s face like a damp rag. His hands cupped the warmth of the metal mug and he sipped the tea. It tasted bitter but he was used to it by now. A far cry from crunching through a fresh apple, underneath a tree on a bright, spring day. His grip tightened on the mug.
Nearby someone was listening to the Forces radio. Al Bowlly’s voice cut through the silence and Danny felt the warmth of the voice envelop and comfort him.
-
‘I love his voice,’ said the girl in the bed next to Sarah Cavendish. The dormitory housed eight girls. They were all listening to Forces Radio from the B.B.C. The station was playing a recording of the late Al Bowlly. He was singing, appropriately, ‘Goodnight Sweetheart’. The girls in the dorm grinned conspiratorially. It wasn’t quite bedtime yet, but this was their free time and they often listened to the radio for a little while, imagining a boy somewhere, many miles away, who would be listening to this and thinking of them.
Sarah listened to the song and glanced occasionally at a battered photograph of a bunch of men posing in army uniform. Danny and his brother were at the front. Both were smiling as if someone had just told a joke.
Still my love will guide you…
She wondered when she would see him again. It was never if. The idea that he would die seemed inconceivable. Not him. Not Danny.
Dreams enfold you, in each one I’ll hold you…
The girls had begun chatting about something or other, but Sarah wished they would keep quiet. She wanted to hear the rest of the song. They could talk over the announcer if the wanted to. Never mind.
Good night sweetheart, good night
The door to the dorm opened. Sarah looked up, grimaced as she saw the angry face of the head of form.
-
Keller walked into the office with an unmistakably triumphant look on his face. Brehme was impassive although he felt like laughing. Keller had asked him to return to the station around seven but without giving a reason. Brehme had, of course, pressed him as hard as he could on why although he already knew. He also knew that the satisfaction on Keller’s face would not last the hour.
Outside the office he heard a lot of noise. It was like a football crowd. This did surprise him, and he noted Keller’s evident enjoyment at his confusion. At the end of the corridor there were a lot of black-shirted soldiers. Brehme turned to Keller and raised his eyebrows for an explanation that he didn’t need.
‘You’ll see,’ said Keller opaquely.
So will you, thought Brehme. At this point he wasn’t sure how far to push taking offence.
‘Very well, play your games, Ernst.’
The two men headed down the corridor. The reception area of the station was full of SS men. There were a few of the Gestapo officers who’d become regular visitors to the station. Graf stood alone like a child without friends among while big boys milled around him laughing. It was like a party or worse; they were going on a hunt. Brehme looked at them and felt anger rise inside him. They were like an invading force in his police station, his town, his country.
Outside, night had fallen although it was still only early evening. Rain was falling steadily now. He could see people trooping home on the rain-washed streets. A tug on his arm forced him to turn around. He found himself staring into the face of Erich Sammer.
‘Hello, Peter,’ said Erich. Brehme wondered at what point he’d ceased to be Herr Brehme. Probably when the damn black shirt had been taken out of its packaging.
Brehme nodded and replied carefully, ‘Hello, Erich, it’s been a while. Where have you been?’ He wanted to add ‘avoiding the war.’ He decided against it. Their humiliation would come anyway. He hoped. Nothing in life was guaranteed. The risk remained great. One mistake, just one slip up and the whole shaky construct would collapse. Something small, something no realised had been left behind. That would be enough. The owners would be taken away, questioned, tortured probably. All would be revealed.
All.
A voice interrupted Erich before he could speak. It was Keller calling everyone to attention.
‘Gentlemen,’ said Keller, much to Brehme’s amusement. ‘We are about to embark on a mission of utmost importance. Our country has many enemies. These enemies are not just across sea and ocean. They exist within our own borders.’
Brehme thought of the little girl clutching her teddy bear. He shook his head and then stopped himself lest he be seen.
‘To the vehicles, men. Let us cleanse this town of our enemies. Let us make Ladenburg safe for the German people. Heil Hitler.’
There were close to forty men inside the reception area and more outside. Their heels clicked like a round of thunder and they chorused Heil Hitler in unison.
Brehme and Erich walked out into the cold night air. Rain was falling gently, and the sky was black as death. The air tingled with electricity. It felt like a storm was coming.
Erich smiled a little embarrassedly at Brehme. It wasn’t hard to guess why. Perhaps, somewhere inside lurked a sense of shame or, at least, an acknowledgement of his cowardice. You might be able to fool the world into believing your patriotism and your desire to fight for the Fatherland, thought Brehme, but deep down you know what you are. So do I. I was like you, once. He stared unflinchingly at Erich.
Go on. Ask me.
‘How is Manfred?’ said Erich. His voice sounded brittle.
‘The last I heard from him, he is well,’ replied Brehme carefully. ‘He’s still in Egypt. They’re near where the British are holding out. A place called El Alamein.’
-
The waiting was not the worst. It was pref
erable to fighting and dying, that much was clear. However, it brought home the unreality of it all for Manfred. Being stuck in an alien environment, fighting for a cause he no longer believed in. Any certainty he’d had about ultimate victory was gone now.
The brutal truth was evident to every soldier that had come up against the storm of violence that the Allies were capable of meting out. The enemy had finally discovered a truth that had been the lynchpin of the Afrika Korps success: integrating and unifying the strengths of the individual services towards specific objectives. No longer did the enemy operate so inefficiently and disparately. Manfred could see that the recent defeats, or strategic withdrawals to give them their proper due, were a portent of the future. A bigger, stronger enemy had finally worked out how to play the game. The result was inevitable. It might take years. Many would die. The outcome would be the same.
Not everyone shared Manfred’s view. This astonished him. The man who had taken over from Kummel, Lieutenant-Colonel Teege for one. He and Fischer called him ‘Willi’ when they chatted each evening. Fischer still believed victory was possible, but he was more qualified in his view than previously. The wounding had certainly disabused him of his aura of invincibility, but the arrogance remained untouched. Manfred was glad of this. It was entertaining to listen to on the cold nights.
The day of the 23rd of October was like so many of the others in the last few weeks. Sporadic shelling was ignored. It seemed the Allies were going through the motions as much as they were. This was unfathomable to Manfred. If they’d any idea how exhausted the Afrika Korps were they’d have attacked and thrown them out of Africa long ago. Now, gradually, they’d seen their strength recover. Not just personal physical and spiritual reserves but also additions in the form of reinforcements, tanks refitted and repaired. They were still outnumbered but that had never stopped them in the past. Perhaps Fischer was right to feel some confidence.
They were on patrol several kilometres from the leaguer. Every so often they would spot the armoured cars of the enemy but there was little they could do about it. By the time they had a fix on where they were, they were gone. More often than not they passed the deathly, blackened hulks of their comrades and, sometimes, their enemy.
The three wrecked tanks they passed now were all Panzers. The holes in the front told a story of a horrifying death. Shrapnel mincing the men inside. Someone had dug graves. Each was only two feet long and probably quite shallow. Not much more was needed for the parts of the men that had been found. Manfred felt a momentary nausea as he imagined the brutalising experience not just for those who had died but the poor men whose job it had been to bury what was left of them. Basler was silent, too, as they passed the graves. But there was no prayer for the dead.
They drove back to the leaguer.
Fischer was reading a book when Manfred arrived at his tank. Books were highly prized items in the leaguer.
‘What are you reading?’ asked Manfred.
Fischer held it up.
‘The Interpretation of Dreams’ by Sigmund Freud.
Not all books were prized equally, though.
Manfred laughed when he saw it and asked, ‘Who did it? The butler or the husband?’
Fischer grinned, ‘You’ll have to work it out for yourself. But the candle is an important clue.’
‘Symbolic, I would have thought.’
‘Very. Tell me, Manfred, do you think of candles much?’
‘No. Caves, mostly,’ replied Manfred before continuing slowly in a deep, awed voice, ‘Caves in the middle of deep, dark forests.’
‘I think I know what your problem is, Manfred,’ concluded Fischer holding his index finger up as if he was teaching in class.
‘All our problems, my friend. I don’t think you’ve earned your Nobel Prize quite yet.’
Having mined this particular seam of all its innuendo potential they were quiet for a few moments. The desert remained an implacable, mute presence: the ultimate enemy. They both stared out at it.
‘You’re looking in the wrong direction,’ said Fischer at last.
‘How do you mean?’
‘The enemy is that way,’ replied Fischer pointing east.
‘Why don’t you stick to Freud and manipulating your genitals.’
Fischer erupted into laughter at this, joined by Manfred seconds later. It felt like they were the only ones making noise in the leaguer. The wave of hilarity passed soon, and they were silent once more.
‘What time is it?’ asked Fischer, setting the book down and sitting up.
Manfred glanced at his watch and said, ‘2140 almost.’ He shivered as he said this. The nights were definitely getting colder now. He pulled his coat around him.
There was a dull sound of a crump in the distance. Manfred frowned.
‘What was that?’
38
The cold night air was charged with anticipation. He shivered in the chill. There were so many other things a civilised man could be doing at this time. He looked around him. The ranks of guns and men were bathed in the light of the full moon overhead. He shivered again, this time at the thought of what these guns would do. Soon they would make quite a noise. He looked at his watch. Very soon, in fact.
He stared out into the darkness. Just ahead were the infantry and their sappers making ready to enter the minefields. Further ahead of them were the Germans sitting snuggly confident in the impassability of their minefields. And here he was, Lieutenant James Carruthers, former manager of a shoe factory, seconds away from unleashing the greatest artillery barrage experienced on the planet in nearly twenty-five years. Several miles of guns were to operate like one battery.
A curtain of shells would descend upon the enemy. Then it would move progressively forward by one hundred yards as the infantry advanced. While it had been light, they had used slide rules to derive where their shells would land on the map. Adjustments had been made to take account of the wind, the temperature, the barometric pressure and, of course, the shells themselves. A former shoe factory manager he may have been, but now James Carruthers was a professional and highly experienced artillery man. There was a swell of pride in his chest as he breathed in the cold air.
He looked again at his guns. All were in small pits, underneath camouflage nets. Not that anyone would be looking at this hour. The next day would be a different matter but the RAF would deal with anyone nosey or stupid enough wanting to check their position.
As Command Post Officer he was in charge of the two troops of four guns. He nodded towards the two Gun Position Officers to make ready. He heard one of them say ‘Take Post.’
A few seconds later their No.1 ordered, ‘HE, 117, charge 3, load.’
It was just like running a factory. Order, process. Leadership. It came so naturally to him. He watched as the twenty-five-pound explosive with 117 fuse was slipped into the breech and rammed home. The metallic clang indicated the breech block was shut. This process would repeat itself at every gun, all along the line. It reoccur six hundred times that night for almost every gun on the line. Over eight hundred guns were pointed at the enemy. Yes, Carruthers didn’t envy Jerry one bit.
He glanced at his watch.
The GPO, a sergeant, nearby said, ‘Zero one five degrees.’
The gunner made a final adjustment of his sight and then nodded to the GPO. Carruthers glanced at his watch and wished he’d lit his pipe.
‘Troop rest,’ ordered the GPO.
The men either side of the gun relaxed. But this would only be for a few moments. The work would begin soon. The silence that followed prickled like a fire just beginning to burn.
The watch said forty seconds to go. He nodded to the two GPO’s. The nearest one ordered his troop to take post. Carruthers stared at the watch ticking down when all of a sudden, he heard the crump of one of his guns.
He glared angrily at his sergeant.
‘Was that you, McMillan,’ hissed Carruthers angrily. What he said next was thankfully drowned out by the so
und of a storm bursting over the Axis lines.
The Battle of El Alamein was underway.
-
Danny watched the sky light up. As far as the eye could see there were brilliant, blinding flashes followed split seconds later by thunderous explosions. His body vibrated as the terrible onslaught shook the earth. It felt like the world was tearing itself apart which, in a sense, it was.
The guns crashed incessantly while the tank crew watched the proceedings as if they were at a firework display. The horizon flickered and the earth shuddered in fear. It was relentless.
‘That’s the starter’s pistol,’ said Benson.
‘Poor sods,’ said PG. He was talking about the sappers and infantry men who would soon be marching forward into the minefields but, just for a moment, Danny wondered if there was thought there, too, for the men on the other side of the minefield.
It seemed strange to even consider sympathy. It was their fault that they were all here. Yet, what little direct contact he’d had with the Afrika Korps, and what he’d heard, suggested that, in the harsh context they found themselves in, humanity was still able to win some battles. The story of how Rommel, upon overrunning an Allied military hospital treating both sides at Mersa Metruh during the summer, had refused to take the doctors as prisoners of war. Instead, they were asked to stay on to treat the wounded before being allowed safe passage to Switzerland once German doctors could replace them. Danny suspected that many were back in North Africa now.
The response from the enemy seemed perfunctory. The odd shell slicing the air and screaming impotently in the night. PG said as much. McLeish said nothing very much at all and Benson smoked his pipe thoughtfully.
‘They must be lying doggo,’ concluded PG.
‘I suspect they are. Why would anyone be out on a night like this,’ replied Benson like he was talking about a rainy evening in Piccadilly.
Danny tried not to think of that. All he could do was wait for the signal to advance. Sooner would be better. Not just to get it over with, either. The darkness made him feel safe. It seemed odd that something he would have feared as a child was now his protection. Daylight would change things for everyone. If the sappers and the infantry were unable to forge a sufficient path through the minefields, then they would be sitting ducks for the Germans.
