by Jack Murray
Manfred trotted back towards his tank. All around him the crews were quickly clearing up and leaping into the tanks for protection from the fire. Although sporadic, no one wanted to risk being hit by shrapnel or being obliterated by a chance shell landing nearby. He saw Basler glaring at him in the turret of the tank. He could be like a mother hen sometimes yet, in an odd way, Manfred cared about him. Sometimes the chinks would appear in the walls he’d built around himself. Everyone did this, of course. They dressed their fears in bravado, their insecurity in composure, their lack of knowledge in knowing silence. Basler was unusual insofar as his demeanour was one of permanent irritation. Even when he was pleased with how the crew had acted, it was expressed through dissatisfaction. It took a moment before Manfred realised this could have been his father.
‘Where have you been? The warning came minutes ago,’ snarled Basler as Manfred entered the tank.
Manfred contented himself with an apology as both knew Basler was not interested in the answer to the question.
Basler looked at Jentz. He asked, ‘All checks have been made?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘The steering linkage? You said it was rattling.’
Jentz nodded wearily. He’d spent the afternoon fixing it. He flinched as an explosion rocked the tanks. Most of the tanks were falling apart. The operational strength was gradually being whittled away.
Somewhere in the night a machine gun was firing. The only damage it was likely to inflict on the tank leaguer was to deprive the crews of sleep. But even then, it was doomed to failure. Everyone was exhausted. Sleep was no longer an issue. They sat silently in the tank listening to the sound of the gunfire.
‘Do they take turns?’ asked Kiel.
Basler smiled mirthlessly.
‘That’s the strategy. The Allies are taking it in turns to push forward at us. Then they retire and someone new comes along. They’re still fighting the Great War again only this time there’s no one new going to come and replace us. They’ll keep chipping away until we either fall back or there’s nothing left to hit.’
‘Will Rommel withdraw?’ asked Manfred. Saying ‘retreat’ was verboten.
Basler studied Manfred for a moment. Perhaps he’d said too much. His face betrayed little anxiety. Then he frowned and replied, ‘We nearly had them a day or two ago. The Field Marshall is a gambler. He’ll roll the dice one more time. Back them up against our minefield and blast them into the next world.’
42
El Alamein, Egypt: 1st November 1942
Evening brought its usual bite in the air. Danny wrapped his coat more tightly around him not that it made much use. The cold air could creep through the layers with ease. He felt for the poor infantry buggers at the front who did not have the luxury of a campfire or overcoats.
‘How long has Benson been away?’ asked PG returning with his spade from a walk in the night.
‘Not long. He thinks we’ll be moving back up to the front tomorrow,’ replied Danny, not looking up from his tea. He missed PG rolling his eyes.
‘Can’t wait,’ said the Yorkshireman collapsing to the ground.
Danny finally turned to him.
‘Have you sorted out the engine?’
PG nodded and said, ‘Yes, it was the plugs. Just a little condensation.’
‘You didn’t need to change them?’ asked Danny. The answer had been a little too easy. PG shot Danny a look but did not answer. The tank had refused to start on a couple of occasions in the last few days, both times during the night march. PG had simply dried the plugs and they’d started again. The unspoken question was what would happen if it should occur during the day, mid-battle. Any further conversation on the subject ended with the return of Benson. Archie Andrews set down his book and joined the others.
‘Gather round,’ ordered the captain.
The crew turned to face the captain. Benson drew out the tension a little longer as he fumbled with his pipe. Finally, he looked up and began to speak.
‘We move out around dawn tomorrow. There’s going to be a major push towards the enemy base at Tel el Aqqaqir. Their base is roughly 3 miles north-west of Kidney. Freyburg and the New Zealanders will go in first. This will be a night attack. Their infantry will look to break through followed by the second, eighth and ninth Armoured Brigades. The attack will be concentrated across a two-mile strip. The artillery and the RAF will start to hit them tonight, then the Kiwis move in. Our turn will come around dawn. We’ll be accompanied, once more, by the Notts on the left, Staffs in the centre with us on the right. Any questions?’
It wasn’t a question, but Danny voiced the thought on everyone’s mind.
‘The New Zealanders will be hit hard. So will the armoured boys when the eighty-eights get a sight of them at first light.
Benson’s face was grim, but he made no reply. The words of Pyman, quoting Freyburg, echoed in his mind.
‘For armour to attack a wall of guns sounds like another Balaclava.’
They would be shelled, gunned and bombed from all sides. The casualties were likely to be shocking. And the 3 RTR was expected to follow them into the hellhole and no doubt others would follow them. The body count would rise and rise until the Afrika Korps had run out of men or ammo.
‘Try and rest if you can. It’ll be a long day tomorrow,’ warned Benson.
Danny glanced towards PG. He wondered what the Yorkshireman was thinking. The solemn face had a different character than usual. Resignation rather than cynicism lurked behind his eyes. This was likely to be a cauldron in every sense.
They climbed into the tank to try and grab some sleep, but Danny found it impossible. There was too much nervous energy in his body, too many thoughts racing through his mind. In the end he re-read letters from home for the hundredth time. None of the others were sleeping either. It was as if they sensed that tomorrow would be momentous.
Oddly, Danny was in no doubt that they would break though. The slugging match of the previous few days was surely beginning to tell on the enemy. They were crumbling, as the plan had suggested they would. The calculations of high command were essentially correct. Less comforting was the thought that they were built on such high attrition. It was difficult to avoid the bitter conclusion that Montgomery was prepared to win at all costs. What was the loss of a brigade or two when set against the overall objective of defeating the enemy? The answer of course depended on which end of the gun sight you were standing at.
McLeish’s leg started juddering again. He reddened a little when he realised Danny had noticed it.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Danny. ‘We’re all bricking it.’
McLeish’s grin widened when PG said from the driver’s seat, ‘Speak for yourself, soft lad. Some of us real men can’t wait to get back at the Hun.’
Danny arched his eyebrows and leaned forward.
‘Do you know, there’s an idea in there somewhere, sir. I think we should send PG in first,’ said Danny. ‘Perhaps he could talk cricket at them. If we can’t bomb them into submission, we could try boring them instead.’
Even Benson was chuckling at the exchange while puffing on his pipe.
‘You’ve no culture, country boy. Pair of wellies and a friendly sheep, and you’re happy.’
‘You forgot sweeping up horse droppings,’ pointed out Danny, grinning.
‘That’s bath time for your lot,’ replied PG. Some of his spirit seemed to have returned.
Planes flew overhead but no one batted an eyelid. They recognised the low growl of the bombers heading in the direction of the Axis lines. The aerial bombardment would continue for hours. By now, no one expected it to do any more damage to the enemy than interrupt their sleep. Days of bombing by the planes and big guns had done little, seemingly, to dent either the enemy spirit or the intensity of the fighting.
If anything, the unending assault threatened to hurt the morale of the Allies more if only because it raised hopes during the night that were dashed the next morning. Nothing seemed
to stop the Afrika Korps. They were having everything thrown at them, yet they kept coming back for more: undeterred, unbroken and undefeated.
43
Tel el Aqqaqir, thirty kilometres east of El Alamein: 1 / 2 November 1942
Less than twenty kilometres away from Danny, Manfred sat with his head propped against the wall of the tank, thinking not dissimilar thoughts. Night after night they had been pounded by Allied artillery and bombers. The surprise wasn’t so much that there was anything left alive in the desert as that there were any shells left to launch. It was relentless.
He was beyond fear now. They all were. Unspoken but shared was the belief that sooner or later they would die. It was there in the gallows humour, the enervation, the hollow-eyed grins that masked their hunger, their fatigue and their resignation. The joke amongst the crews was that if Montgomery had been using the Afrika Korps rather than his own army, the job would have been completed by now.
Manfred shivered in the metal fridge that was protecting them. Klef’s body was shaking and it may have been fear, but Manfred suspected it was just the cold. Kiel was reading the Bible. Basler slept. How the lieutenant was able to, Manfred did not know. He was too tired to sleep. He thought about leaving the tank and going in search of Fischer but realised that he might wake up Basler. He’d see him tomorrow. Perhaps.
Overhead, the never-ending sound of the Allied bombers caused the tank to vibrate. Manfred glanced up, although what he expected to see given that he was inside the tank was debatable. He grinned at his stupidity and glanced round to see if anyone had noticed. No one had. Each lost in their own world. Jentz was snoring like a bull with a cold. Manfred stared at him. The driver’s head was tilted back, and he seemed to be sucking in every last particle of the rank air in the hull before expelling it noisily through his open mouth.
The bombing had begun somewhere in the distance. Kiel and Manfred exchanged glances then Kiel returned to read his Bible. For three hours Manfred listened, hypnotised by the rumble of explosions. Then, towards midnight, just as he was finally drifting off to sleep, there was an almighty bang followed by more explosions. It was loud enough to wake both Basler and Jentz.
‘What was that?’ asked Basler groggily.
Manfred shrugged. Then a thought occurred to him.
‘My guess would be they hit either our fuel or the ammo.’
‘Great,’ growled Basler. ‘So tomorrow we’ll be fighting with rocks then walking back to camp.’
More minor explosions followed but Manfred had already drifted off to sleep. It didn’t last long. The Allied artillery barrage began. Manfred’s eyes opened slowly. His head was heavy, and it took a moment for his focus to adjust sufficiently to see his watch. It was just after one in the morning. He shut his eyes again, but it was too late. He knew the bombardment would last the night. Another hour went by before sleep finally overcame him.
Around four in the morning he was shaken awake by Kleff. His head was swimming in lethargy. Basler was telling him something, but he couldn’t hear him. The barrage continued unabated. He was aware that the tank was itself shaking. They were on the move. Then he finally heard what Basler was saying.
‘They’ve overrun our forward positions.’
Manfred nodded and then listened closely to the explosions in the distance. They seemed different. He looked at Basler, a frown on his face.
‘The bombers started with the forward area earlier. They’re bombing the rear now.’
‘And we’re stuck in the middle,’ said Manfred sourly.
It took a moment for him to realise that this would soon no longer be true. They’d avoided the heavy bombing by luck. Soon they’d meet the Allied attack head on. This was confirmed moments later when Kiel turned to Manfred.
‘Captain Stiefelmayer is ordering us forward. Otto Piste has been taken and they’re threatening the HQ. The 21st is moving up now. They think this is the big push. It’s all going to go through the north. The counterattack begins at dawn.’
Manfred glanced through his telescope. The first signs of light were visible with the fringe of purple developing on the horizon. Soon the sun would begin to bleach the sky. The shapes of their attacker would become visible.
As the dawn broke the heat inside the tank grew and the atmosphere became more oppressive. Sweat dripped from the Manfred’s face. Then he heard Basler make a sound that sounded liked, ‘ahh.’
They finally were able to see the enemy in the distance. Dozens of dark shapes stood out like molehills on the eastern horizon. Lots of molehills. The rising sun silhouetted them. It was an open invitation to start shelling them. As if a switch had been thrown, the deafening crump of dozens of eighty-eights sprang to life.
‘How many?’ asked Manfred.
Basler was silent for a moment as he peered through the hatch of the cupola with his binoculars. He was silently totting up the number while the eighty-eights greeted the new arrivals in deadly fashion.
‘At least sixty,’ said Basler.
The tank had slowed to a halt to allow first the anti-tank guns to engage and then the Italian Littorio tank battalion. Manfred gazed through his sight in silence. What had been, just moments earlier, a clear horizon was now full of smoke and shell.
‘My God, they are taking a beating,’ said Basler in a hushed whisper. Yet still they came, headlong into the hail of fire from the well-sighted positions. Even without the benefit of Basler’s powerful binoculars, Manfred could see that the Allies were on the receiving end of a fearful hammering. But some of the tanks were breaking through. The Allied tactics weren’t clever, but they would work as long as they had overwhelming numbers of men and tanks.
‘British tanks have reached the Rahman track,’ said Kiel breathlessly. He was listening to the busy radio traffic. The Rahman track, lined with telegraph poles, was a pivotal point for both sides. It ran diagonally in front of Aqqaqir Ridge. The German and Italian defences were deployed in a wide crescent along the track. A couple of dozen eighty-eights acted as a screen. If the Allies overran them then the game was as good as over for the Afrika Korps.
The idea that the Allies were now within killing range of such a heavily defended area came as a shock to Manfred. This was not because he believed they would overcome the Axis position. Rather he was dismayed that men could be thrown forward so callously and forfeited on such a suicidal mission. Yet, their sacrifice would act as a bridgehead for those that followed. Eventually they would either overrun the position or the Afrika Korps and the Italians would have to withdraw.
Manfred’s thoughts were interrupted by the first sounds of explosions nearing them. The Allied tanks were getting closer.
‘Forward, Jentz. We are to engage,’ said Basler simply.
The tank jerked forward. Manfred listened closely to the engine. It coughed in protest before firing to life. They set off slowly. Manfred looked through his sight but could see very little laterally. Frustrated at the limited view, he edged over towards Kleff and took a look through his periscope.
On the left was ‘Willi’ Teege, the head of the Panzer Regiment 8. To their right he saw the 1st Battalion leader, Captain Stiefelmayer’s tank. He had to acknowledge that both men led from the front. The captain seemed to be taking a risk by having so much of his torso outside the tank. Just below him would be Fischer waiting, like Manfred, for the order to start firing. At the clip they were moving, that would not be long in coming. Manfred hoped that the enemy tanks were not the big Grants or Shermans with the seventy-five-millimetre guns.
The clank of the tank tracks filled the air, initially blocking out the distant blasts. But within minutes the sound of battle grew louder.
‘How far?’ asked Manfred.
‘Two thousand metres,’ replied Basler calmly. But this was rapidly shrinking. Within seconds it would be eighteen hundred and then fifteen hundred. Jentz was already zig-zagging to make it difficult for any enemy gunners who’d lock on to them.
A nod to Kleff and the first s
hell was loaded into the breech. It was AP Armour Piercing. Manfred’s eyes were glued to the sight making calculations on his aim. Basler, meanwhile, was counting down the distance to the first of the wave of enemy ahead. There had to be more than sixty tanks thought Manfred. They were getting hit though. Many were already in flames. But still they came.
Basler told Jentz to straighten up. There was little point in trying to zig-zag if they were also trying to shoot. This was when they were most at risk. A direct target. Manfred held his breath waiting for the order to fire. However, he realised that they were not yet getting hit by the enemy. This meant they were not facing the big guns. At least not yet.
‘Twelve hundred metres,’ said Basler. ‘One thousand. Nine hundred…fire.’
Manfred pressed the button. Seconds later Kleff rammed another shell into the breech. Manfred’s first shot had missed, short and right. The next hit the target full on the turret just as it returned fire. A shell bounced harmlessly off the front of the Panzer Mark III. The British tank was not so fortunate. It erupted into flame. One man escaped from a hatch, then another. Basler left them.
The next target was less than six hundred metres away. They were now within the deadly range of the enemy tanks. Manfred pressed the trigger again. Another hit. The tracks of the enemy tank crumpled inwards, stopping it dead. Seconds later the tank men sent a shell that screaming over the head Manfred’s tank.
Manfred’s next shot took out the tank. He didn’t see anyone emerge before turning his attention to the next tank. They were now like medieval jousters. The tanks ahead of them were closing in but the smoke and the dust obscured just how close they were. Manfred was firing blind.
And then they were among the enemy tanks.
It was difficult to detect friend from foe.
‘Traverse left,’ said Basler, ‘Fire immediately.’
Manfred responded instantaneously and let off a round. Seconds later a loud explosion split the air inside the tank causing it and the crew to vibrate. The heat of the blast could be felt even inside the hot tank.
