Crusader (A Novel of WWII Tank Warfare)

by Jack Murray

  ‘We can go along for a drink. I’m not sure I want to survive the might of the Afrika Korps only to pop my clogs because of the clap.’

  ‘It won’t kill you,’ laughed Arthur.

  They walked on through the streets and arrived at a crowded street. Danny read the sign in a comedy French accent.

  ‘Rue des Soeurs. Shall we?’

  ‘Just keep the girls off me, Danny-boy. They can’t resist a man with obvious experience.’

  Danny made a great show of studying his friend, head to foot.

  ‘I’ll do my best but there may be too many of them.’

  They started off at a café. There was coffee and cakes. There were also some young women who came over and joined them unbidden at the table.

  ‘Hello, ladies,’ said Arthur with a wide grin. ‘Now what might your names be?’

  The first woman was a striking mixture of Moorish and French. Very pretty with dark brown hair, she sat down and put an arm lazily around Danny.

  ‘I’m Lulu, this is Celine,’ said the woman in heavily French-accented English. The other woman was older and did not seem to speak English. The only gentlemanly thing to do was to buy them a drink. Soon a bottle of wine was brought over to the table. Danny and Arthur were happy just to hear the sound of a woman’s voice and they let Lulu talk.

  ‘I came over before the War. I’m from Marseilles. I was with my fiancé. He wanted to get away from the Germans. So we came here. The war followed us.’

  ‘Where is he now? asked Danny. He saw Arthur’s eyebrows shoot up and a faint smile appear on his lips. He found out why a moment later.

  ‘He’s behind the bar.’

  Danny glanced up at a large man serving a coffee to another soldier. He ignored Arthur who was chuckling away to himself. The ladies had acquired a taste for the wine and were content to drink away at the expense of their company. When the bottle was finished, Arthur, by dint of a slight movement of his head, indicated it was time to move on.

  It was early evening now. The street was alive with men weeks away from death.

  ‘Bloody hell, there’s more soldiers here than at the front,’ commented Arthur.

  Danny nodded but did not seem happy.

  ‘I wonder how many of them have been out there.’

  ‘What is it Colonel Lister calls ‘em?’

  ‘Chairborne base-wallahs.’

  ‘Sounds about right.’

  All around them they heard the piercing shrieks of Sodom behind the walls of bars and bedrooms along the street. From one bar they heard a radio playing. Danny recognised the voice of Al Bowlly.

  ‘Let’s try here.’

  The two men walked towards the bar. As they did so a large Chrysler motorcar pulled up outside. Out stepped a lieutenant from their regiment. The lieutenant stopped as he saw the two men from his regiment approaching.

  ‘I hope you’re not the military police,’ said the lieutenant with a grin. He was joined, moments later, by another lieutenant.

  ‘Colonel Lister asked us to keep an eye on you both, sir,’ returned Danny.

  ‘Quite right, too. I can’t be trusted. Nor can Delson here,’ said Lieutenant Crickmay. ‘What if we buy you both a drink in return for your silence?’

  ‘It may require a couple of drinks,’ responded Arthur quick as a flash.

  ‘Cheap at half the price, or is it double? I can never remember.’

  Lieutenant Crickmay led them into the bar. He and Delson were slightly older than Danny but not much so. Crickmay was a popular member of the regiment. Slightly shorter than Danny, he was obviously smart and not just intellectually. His dapper appearance would have made him a figure of fun, mockery even, had he not been so highly regarded by the officers as well as the men. His moustache was as clipped as his accent and his clothes were well cut and made Danny feel as if he were wearing a sack. Danny decided there and then that when all this was over, he would, never again wear anything that was not well cut and stylish. He drew the line at cravats, though.

  ‘Where are you bound for?’ asked Crickmay, one eyebrow arched.

  Arthur laughed, ‘I’m a happily married man sir, but there’s nothing to stop young Shaw, here, giving the ladies of Cairo a treat.’

  ‘Be careful what you get in return, old boy.’

  Danny smiled and said, ‘I think I’ll take care of my dad here; see that he gets back in one piece. Where are you gentlemen heading?’

  ‘We’ll head on to the Sporting Club and console Mr Turner. He lost a big match on the polo field earlier. Doesn’t like losing, especially if it’s to Edmund.’

  Danny and Arthur looked quizzically at Crickmay.

  ‘Sorry. Captain Aston,’ explained Crickmay while attracting the attention of a rather large barman to ask for their glasses to be refilled. This required no explanation, and none was offered.

  Much to the surprise of both Danny and Arthur, Crickmay and Delson stayed with them for a chat. The bar was playing wonderful music and the beer was a vast improvement on the other places that Danny had visited. They avoided chat about the war and Danny found out more about their drinking companions. Both displayed a genuine interest in how Danny and Arthur had made it to Egypt.

  Around an hour later, Crickmay and Delson took off in the Chrysler leaving Danny and Arthur to consider their options.

  ‘Nice chaps,’ said Arthur. He nodded to the barman for more beers. ‘I suppose we’re all in the same boat.’

  Danny smiled but was not sure if he agreed. It was different for men like Crickmay and Delson. While neither were from the upper classes, their background afforded them different opportunities. It would have been inconceivable for Danny and Arthur to sally on up to the Sporting Club and join the polo set, much as Danny would have loved to. He’d been riding horses since he was a boy. He’d even stolen rides on the horses of Cavendish Hall when they’d been left out in the fields. Old man Edmunds had nearly caught him on a couple of occasion. In fact, he’d even given him a clip round the ear a few months later at the Christmas carol concert. Danny smiled at the memory.

  He thought of Bill Edmunds for a moment. He was the groundsman for Cavendish Hall. The father of Jane Cavendish. The grandfather of Sarah Cavendish. Another world, yet Jane Edmunds had made the transition from groundsman’s daughter to lady of the manor. It was different for women, though. She was a beauty. Any man in his right mind would have given up everything to be with such a person. Would the opposite apply? Could he ever hope to be with someone like Sarah?

  He thought again of Crickmay. He’d been an architecture student. Now he was lieutenant, dressed like a lord and driving around Cairo night spots in a Chrysler car. Out in the desert he was a highly regarded tank man. He’d become one of them through his own merit. Anything was possible, realised Danny.

  Only death was certain.

  -

  They took a train journey back to El Alamein the next day. The mid-afternoon made the carriage hot, crowded and stuffy. Sitting opposite them was Lieutenant Turner. He recognised Danny and Arthur.

  ‘Do you both have the same squadron leader?’ asked Turner.

  ‘No, sir. Major Miller is my squadron leader, sir.’ replied Danny, ‘Captain Aston is my platoon leader.’

  ‘Captain Longworth for me, sir,’ replied Arthur.

  ‘Miller is a good man.’

  Danny noted the shadow that had passed over Turner’s features at the mention of Captain Aston. There was also the notable absence of anything good to say about the captain.

  ‘Have you spoken much with Captain Aston, Shaw?’

  ‘No, sir, keeps himself to himself. Funnily enough I’ve met his brother. Older brother that is. He married the cousin of Lord Cavendish. He’s the lord of the manor, so to speak of where I come from.’

  It was clear Turner had little time for Aston, so they moved on to other subjects. It was not appropriate to talk about any upcoming operations, so they confined themselves to more technical chat about the tanks.

 
The three hour journey passed quickly, perhaps too quickly. This would be the last leave they would receive for many months, assuming they made it through. They arrived at the station in El Alamein. The cries of porters, beggars and sergeant-majors were the welcoming chorus for those returning from leave.

  They marched from the station to the camp. Bathed in sweat and fighting the ever-present flies they joined their unsympathetic comrades at the leaguer.

  ‘Just time in time for a brew,’ cackled Craig to Danny.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Danny.

  ‘No,’ said Craig, ‘Just in time to make me and the rest of us a brew. Go on, holiday’s over. One other thing.’

  ‘What’s that? asked Danny.

  I don’t want any sand in my tea, the last time…’

  The sentence went unfinished as the cackling Ulsterman was enveloped in a stranglehold by Danny and wrestled to the ground. Both were laughing.

  Chapter 2: Prelude (Sept – Nov 1941)

  8

  Ladenburg (nr. Heidelberg), Germany, September 1941

  Peter Brehme sat trance-like in his office listening to the clock. It was the only sound in the house. Leni, the house maid, had gone home. He was alone. A sheet of paper lay on the desk. On top of the sheet sat a fountain pen. He stared down at the paper and thought of what to write. A tear fell onto the paper. Slowly the paper absorbed the droplet into itself, spreading into a small halo.

  A wave of anger rose in him and he smashed his fist on the table. He despised weakness and its evil co-conspirators: sentiment and pity. Yet here he sat, alone, feeling these emotions. His mind was thick with thoughts of Manfred and what he wanted to tell him. As if his boy hadn’t enough to deal with.

  Brehme felt the walls close in around him. He could hardly breathe with the pain he felt, and it surprised him. Was he not free? Free from what? In the next room was a coffin. Renata Brehme lay there. His wife of thirty years was dead. The tears fell freely now. The disease that had claimed her mind over the last couple of years had finally claimed the rest of her now.

  Freedom felt like a cage, though, from which escape was impossible. Moments later he was on his feet and heading towards the front door. He forgot to put a coat on yet barely noticed the chill of the night air. His mind spun around so much he hardly knew where he was walking. Passers-by acknowledged him but he marched on, oblivious to their salutations.

  The Platz was mostly empty. A few soldiers on leave, perhaps, and some older couples walking their dog. Around him he saw shops boarded up. The names on the shops, Jewish names, told a story that Brehme did not want to think about. Instead, he shut his mind to the obscene truth occurring all over the country. He could do nothing to stop it. Gone were people he had once considered friends. He hoped they’d made it to Britain, but he knew, deep down, many had not. The walls of the cage closed in on him again.

  -

  Leaves fell like tears over the grave of Renata Brehme. Aside from Peter Brehme and the minister, only Manfred’s friend, Erich and his family, were in attendance along with the town mayor, Stefan Lerner, his wife , Marita, and the ever-faithful, Leni. Renata had lost all ties with the people of the town in the last few years.

  Brehme nodded in gratitude to them as they stood graveside and watched the coffin lowered into the ground. Rain drizzled gently onto Brehme’s hat and dripped slowly down. He was dressed in civilian clothing rather than his uniform. There were enough damn uniforms about the place, he thought bitterly.

  Lerner stepped forward after the minister had finished the brief service of interment. He looked sympathetically at his old friend and shook hands. There was nothing that could be said, but he said it anyway.

  ‘I’m sorry, my friend. It was too soon, yet not soon enough. It’s a terrible illness.’

  Brehme nodded mutely. He attempted a smile, but it died on his lips.

  ‘If you need anything, Peter, you know that Marita and I are here.’

  ‘I know, Stefan. Thank you for coming.’

  Gerd Sammer stepped forward as the Lerners departed. By no means would Brehme have thought of the Sammer family as friends. However, the boy was a friend of Manfred. He shook hands with Gerd Sammer. Then Sammer’s wife, Angela, kissed him on both cheeks. The usual sentiments were exchanged and forgotten seconds later. Erich Sammer stepped forward. Like Manfred, he was a young man, serving his country, serving the Reich. A young man to be proud of, thought Brehme bitterly. He looked at Erich and hoped the dislike on his face was not obvious. He was here; that was something. Brehme accepted that he should show some gratitude. In truth, he was appalled. The black uniform the boy had worn specially to the funeral, the false sentiment, the hypocrisy of sympathy.

  ‘Thank you for coming, Erich. Manfred will appreciate that you thought of us.’

  ‘Of course, sir. Please accept my condolences for your loss.’

  Brehme nodded. Erich was still shaking his hand. It occurred to Brehme that the hateful child was probably expecting him to say something else.

  ‘You are well?’ asked Brehme after a few moments.

  ‘Very well, sir, I’m going to be married this time next year.’

  This time next year? You may not be alive then son, thought Brehme. Then he realised that this was both unkind and unlikely. The boy had managed to avoid getting his hands dirty so far. Brehme didn’t doubt he’d find a way of shirking the rest of the war. Oddly, Brehme admired him for this. As unspeakable as he and the rest of the family were, at least he’d had the sense to figure out a way to avoid the fighting. Had he, Brehme, not done the same twenty five years earlier?

  ‘Congratulations, Erich. Who is the lucky girl?’

  ‘Anja Mayer, sir.’

  The name meant little to Brehme beyond the suspicion that she was the daughter of the Nazi oaf who’d probably talked Manfred into volunteering. You’ll make a perfect pair thought Brehme. He heard Erich say something about telling Manfred the good news, but he’d stopped listening.

  The Sammer family departed leaving only Brehme, Leni and the minister. Then, citing the coldness of the morning, the minister left followed, soon, by the tearful Leni. Brehme stood and watched the grave digger fill in the hole. A wooden cross sat at the head of the grave. Renata Brehme, born July 23rd, 1893. Died September 7th, 1941.

  He wasn’t sure how long he stayed. Half an hour, an hour, it mattered not. Slowly Brehme trooped back to the house. Leni was there and had prepared a feast of food for anyone who might have returned from the burial. Brehme looked down at the banquet on the table. His stomach was empty, yet he felt no hunger. There was so much food. They both stood and looked at the table to the sound of a ticking clock. Leni’s face reddened as she caught Brehme’s eye.

  ‘I’m not sure I shall be able to eat all of this, Leni. Why don’t you take some of it back for your family?’

  Leni nodded and watched Brehme leave the dining room. She heard the sound of his office door closing echo around the empty stillness of the house. Brehme made no attempt to hide his sobbing. Leni stood transfixed by the sound. It was like an animal in pain. She felt tears begin to sting her eyes but not from any sense of sympathy for Brehme. It was fear; an overwhelming sense of foreboding.

  -

  Brehme sat at his desk. He stared down at the blank sheet of paper. It had to be done. He dipped the pen into the inkwell and began to write in slow deliberate strokes. The letter would not be long this time. When it came to these matters, he believed in being direct. His upbringing, his profession, his approach to fatherhood had been built on simple, compelling ideas of right and wrong, good and bad. The space between his emotions and his capacity to articulate them was too great, even on paper.

  He scratched out a letter, blotted it then held it up to read. With a sigh he realised it communicated little to his son of what he was feeling. The facts were there, unvarnished by sentiment, shorn of emotion. Perhaps this was for the best. Manfred was a bright boy. He knew his mother was ill. He would see it for what it was: a sad, perh
aps tragically early end to a life that it had already served a purpose.

  The words began to blur. He could no longer see them clearly. Meaning was lost except in the tears that fell. He wiped his eyes and realised that death was all around. It was happening now in Germany: the bombing, the disappearance of the Jews. It was happening in North Africa, England.

  Renata Brehme’s death was but one more sad event in a world where loss was inevitable, hope extinguished and sorrow unrelenting. Brehme didn’t expect people to care. Even Manfred, separated as he was by distance, would not feel the same sense of grief. The regret, the pain, the sense of guilt would be Brehme’s alone.

  He folded the letter and slipped it into an envelope. A few minutes later he was outside the house and walking into town to make the post. He felt the wind turn the rain in towards his face. Silently, he made his way along the street ignoring the people ignoring him.

  9

  Bir Thiba, Egypt, 18th September 1941

  At 0730, the squadron broke leaguer. Thirty eight tanks set off west in the direction of Thalatia. Danny’s asked where exactly Thalatia was. It met with an amused response from Reed. The sergeant pointed to the tanks in front and on their left.

  ‘Who do you see out front?’

  ‘That’s Captain Longworth’s A Squadron, sarge,’ replied Danny, his heart sinking as he suspected everyone in the tank was listening to the exchange.

  ‘Very good, Shaw,’ replied Reed. Even the strained rumble of the tank engine, the sound of sand and rock crumbling under the tracks seemed to quieten for a moment as they waited for Reed to respond.

  ‘Well go and ask him where Thalatia is because I don’t bloody know.’ Reed handed the microphone to Danny.

  The tank erupted into laughter, none louder than Danny. A quick glance round the tank confirmed no one had heard of their destination. It was just another name. Many of these names would develop an entirely new and deeper significance in the future. But for now the geography of Danny’s new home was still an ongoing discovery.