by Jack Murray
‘So it seems. I doubt General Cunningham anticipated that our arrival would go quite so unnoticed. Alternatively, Jerry knows we are here and simply doesn’t want to be drawn into a pitched battle. Brings to mind Von Moltke’s dictum that no plan survives contact with the enemy. It seems this can apply equally to lack of contact also.’
This raised a few grim smiles around the table. However, no one felt like laughing.
‘All because he stayed put,’ drawled Aston. ‘Hasn’t the bugger played cricket?’
This did raise some laughs although Lister was far from amused. Perhaps if it had been Laing or Miller he might have been. Not Aston, though. Instead, Lister glared at his captain. Was he being unfair? He could hardly blame him for displaying explicit disdain for a plan that had been questioned by more senior people.
‘We have to draw him out, if only to get near enough to hurt his blasted tanks and then head straight for Tobruk,’ continued Lister. ‘Scobie is due to start his breakout on the 21st from Tobruk.’
At that moment there did not seem to be an alternative plan. They would have to make the best of it. Lister turned to his second in command, Major Warren, and his adjutant Captain Cuttwell.
‘Warren and Cuttwell will provide you with the tactical details.’ There was a sorrowful tone in his voice. He could offer them nothing better.
The other officers glanced at the two men and nodded. A silence followed. A concerned silence in which only the beating of hearts could be heard by each member of the group. There was little Lister could think of to defend the original plan. If what he heard was true, even General Cunningham’s generals had had their doubts about the original idea. The new plan was the old plan, one day later.
Major Warren reiterated their objective. Using his stick he tapped the map.
‘We need to capture the Sidi Rezegh airfield. It’s an important Axis supply route. Capturing it will force the Luftwaffe further away from the frontier.’
‘We’ll be blown to hell,’ said Aston grimly.
Lister and Warren both glared at Aston. Wherever the truth lay, Aston, as ever, strayed beyond the line. The right of the officers to challenge and improve on an existing plan was fine so long as it did not descend into bellyaching. Lister could not abide the latter. Aston’s input was invariably negative or worse a sneer which did not offer a better alternative in its place.
‘I disagree,’ said Laing. He waved his hand over the map. ‘Don’t forget, Jerry may not know we’re here. This could be an opportunity. We have surprise on our side.’
‘Exactly, Laing,’ agreed Lister. It was a good point although it was now questionable whether they were in a good position to take advantage. Regretfully, he added a note of caution.
‘The divisions are rather dispersed now. The 22nd is down at el Gubi, and Norrie, Gatehouse and Godwin-Austin are all to the south east. Not quite the concentration of armour General Cunningham originally anticipated would confront the enemy.’
Warren pointed to the map and explained the terrain in more detail.
‘There are three escarpments running east-west. The northerly one is the Ed-Duda ridge. It overlooks the Axis bypass road and Panzer group HQ. Scobie and the 70th Division will break out from Tobruk and attack this point. The middle escarpment is situated just south of the Trigh Capuzzo. It goes as high as six hundred feet in places. There are certain key heights we need to claim, here at Point 163, overlooking the airfield on its southern side and five miles east at Point 175. These are naturally defended by defiles on either side.’
‘Sir,’ said Turner, stepping forward and pointing to the map. ‘When we take the airfield and then succeed in linking with the Tobruk sortie, will we risk Rommel driving a wedge between us at the south of the airfield? This will split the 7th Armoured Brigade and the 4th Armoured Brigade. He can then attack us in detail.’
Lister nodded grimly. Turner had hit on the key implication of the dispersal of their armour. If the original plan was questionable because it relied on the enemy playing ball and showing up for the fight it, at least, had the merit of being a concentrated Allied force. Now, the enemy could pick the three divisions in one by one, as Turner suggested. However, this assumed they knew what was happening. Lister had experienced enough of the fog of war to know that this was not necessarily certain.
‘All the more reason why we need to hold the airfield at Sidi Rezegh and the escarpment. This will be pivotal in relieving the siege on Tobruk. I think you could say that this is going to be bloody, protracted and, I suspect, messy.’
Major Warren and Captain Cuttwell briefed the officers on the tactical details. Lister, meanwhile, motioned for Captain Aston to join him. Aston strolled over. He could see anger in the eyes of his commanding officer. It reminded him of school. All those visits to old Palmer, the headmaster. Like Palmer, Lister was stuck with him just as he was stuck with being here. He glanced back and saw Turner eyeing him. If it hadn’t been for that upstart, Turner, he could have been living the life in Cairo.
Lister glared at Aston. His tone was not loud but there was no mistaking his anger.
‘Take that damn cigar out of your mouth. Your comments were as unwelcome as they were unhelpful. See that it does not occur again.’
Aston responded with the half-smirk that a dozen school masters would have endured before, and an equally half-hearted. ‘Yes, sir.’
Lister dismissed Aston and sat in his bivouac with his pipe. He was a worried man. How much he had been able to disguise his feelings was open to question. General Cunningham’s plan was dependent on the Germans attacking the British position. This should have happened by now. Instead their guns were silent. If the enemy knew they were here, they certainly appeared to be disinclined to do anything about it.
Lister was aware that the commander of the 7th Armoured Division, General Norrie had concerns about the original plan. Never had the British army put together such a concentration of armour. Yet the 7th, the 22nd and the 4th Armoured Brigades had all pitched up to a fight with no one intent on fighting them. The new plan was, in effect, the complete opposite of the original Crusader intention: defeat the enemy armour and relieve Tobruk. Now, all of the 7th Armoured Division was dispersed. The brigades were heading off in different directions in search of a fight.
A brooding sense of apprehension overcame Lister that something had changed in the twenty four hours since they had left camp in Egypt. Weariness and worry weighed heavily on his heart: a feeling that they were no longer the hunter.
14
Gambut, 50 kilometres east of Tobruk, Libya, November 18th, 1941
Gerhardt dragged on a cigarette before handing it over to Manfred. They were both gazing out into the blackness. Only in the desert could either of them understand the noise that silence made. The moon provided some light: a chance to peer into the distance and wonder. The two boys sat on the crest of a hill and gazed at the valley below them. It stretched miles into the distance like a blue sea broken only by bits of scrub.
‘They’re out there somewhere,’ said Gerhardt. As he said this, he hugged himself. The mid November nights had a real bite to them. Each was wrapped up in an overcoat with a scarf and balaclava. The additional cruel joke played by this war was that it was fought during the day when the sun was burning-hot before things suddenly turned ice cold like a house with broken central heating.
‘Yes,’ replied Manfred.
They looked at one another. Both hoped that no sign of fear could be detected on their faces. As yet neither felt confident enough to admit to the fear they were feeling. Only the excitement. The anticipation. That would change. The fear would become their constant companion and the anticipation would diminish with the pain, the fatigue and the overwhelming desire to be somewhere else.
A gentle breeze carried faint murmurs of a sea far off. They turned and strolled back to the laughter, the coughing, the cursing and the melancholic chat of men warming their hands on small campfires.
Of late Kohler
had become closer to Manfred. They were the two most junior members of the tank. The least experienced, the most likely to be picked on. Manfred as the loader held the lowest position in the tank hierarchy. He had no problem with this. His time would come. He was as sure of this as he was unprepared to consider any thoughts of death. The fear was always there but it never developed into full blown anxiety about his impending demise. Instead, its recurring motif was how well he would carry out his duty. Being killed was the least of his worries.
Incompetence and cowardice were his twin enemies. Both would have to be overcome. But he could only confront them in the midst of battle. Would he be found wanting? His innocence would protect him at first. The lack of experience would shield him for a while. But after that? Who knew?
A tall figure came into view, walking along the middle of the two rows of Panzers. As he passed each group, he saw fires extinguished. He arrived at Manfred’s tank. It was Lieutenant Basler. He glared down at the Manfred and Kohler. He didn’t have to say anything. Kohler was already kicking sand over the embers. He moved along without saying anything,
Manfred crawled over to the side of the tank and threw himself under a blanket, still clad in his overcoat. By now he had hardened himself to hunger. He was no longer distracted by the need for food. This detachment made him feel as if he was winning the battle against his body. Other battles lay ahead. If he’d ever had it, he no longer felt a wide-eyed commitment to the cause they were fighting for. Survival and courage were his goals. Perhaps in battle he would regain the moral purpose he was losing in the ennui of waiting day after day and night after night. His feeling of discontent would only be resolved when the day came that would give him a chance to prove his courage, not just to others but to himself.
-
Sleep usually came quickly. It was rarely deep. The cold made sure of that. Discomfort made it a fitful night. Manfred often woke at strange hours. He fell asleep again to the sound of snoring all around him. The next morning, he would still be tired. The eyes of his comrades always told a similar story.
As it turned out, the early morning alarm was the sound of an aeroplane overhead. Manfred sat bolt upright, too much sleep in his eyes to make out the shape in the sky.
‘Ours?’ he asked hopefully.
Kastner looked at him and said slowly, ‘You need to learn the different sounds that planes make. It might save your life. Yes, one of ours.’
Manfred nodded and listened for the next few minutes as the plane flew directly overheard and then off into the distance. He focused on the hum of the engine, committing it to memory. He ignored the amused looks of Fischer and Kohler. They could laugh all they wanted. They’d probably had to do the same.
The sky was clear and blue. It was warm but nothing like the temperatures he’d endured upon arrival four months previously. This was bearable. It would have been uncivilised to have to fight in the midst of summer.
-
It was just after three in the afternoon. It was hotter inside the tank than outside. The atmosphere in the tank had the stale reek of engine fumes and the sweat of five men; the hot sweat of heat and the cold sweat of fear. It was something Manfred doubted he would ever grow accustomed to. He tried not to inhale to deeply of the stench. They’d been travelling for over an hour and a half when a halt was called. Overath ordered Manfred and Kohler to check the fuel and the guns. Manfred sensed Overath was on edge. His sombre expression revealed so much more than words. There was only one thing that this could mean.
Manfred risked a glance towards the horizon. The haze was less intense but, still, he could see nothing threatening. Even Kastner seemed tight lipped. Manfred noticed the occasional exchanged glances. The shared understanding between the two men. The significance all too clear. Kohler came up alongside Manfred.
‘I think this is it,’ whispered Kohler.
‘What do you mean?’ replied Manfred.
‘I’ve been listening to the communications. The Tommies are making a bigger push than we expected along the front. They’re coming for Tobruk. We’ve to hold them off. There are too many tanks for us to do it with the eighty-eights. We may have to go in, too, especially if they have infantry.’
Manfred nodded; he felt his stomach turn somersaults and fought hard to control the rising wave of nausea. It was interesting how much he’d wanted the chance to prove himself up until the moment arrived. Now he felt like running. Running as far away as he could. He wondered how the others felt. They knew what to expect. Hell, they even knew what to do. He was untried. Untested. But this would change now.
Back inside the tank, they started moving forward again. The set features of Fischer below and Kastner beside him required no explanation. Kohler had called this correctly. They were heading into battle.
Over the last few months everything he’d heard told him that they were in a superior vehicle. The fifty millimetre gun was bigger, and their front armour was thicker. The Crusader tanks of the enemy had to get close to hurt them. Manfred felt sure it would be all right.
The tank trundled on. Despite his fear, Manfred found himself caught between exhilaration and anxiety. Oddly, the course of his fear was changing. His thoughts lay with things like the engine which sounded like it was straining, a fear that the torsion-bar suspension would break on the rough ground over which they were travelling. Every sound in the tank was a sign of something that could go wrong. He’d never thought of this before.
They reached a ridge and slowed down. Manfred noticed another exchange of looks between Kastner and Overath. Kastner glanced down at Manfred.
‘Are you ready?’
Manfred nodded. His muscles tensed. For the last five months he’d trained himself and his muscles to load, load and load again quickly, efficiently and tirelessly. He was stronger and fitter as well thanks to a training regime that was initially laughed at by the rest of the crew, but they had eventually adopted also: press-ups, sit ups. Every morning and every evening.
He was ready.
Chapter 3: Sidi Rezegh (Nov 19th- 24th 1941)
15
Gabr Fatma, forty miles south of Tobruk, Libya, November 19th, 1941
It was just before eight in the morning. The night chill clung on a little, but daylight slowly warmed the bones of the 6th RTR. All around Danny, engines coughed, metal clashed on metal, officers shouted orders, men cursed under their breath, arguments started, and laughter erupted like lava from a volcano. Reed called Danny over.
‘Ammunition?’
‘Checked.’
‘Food?’
‘Two days.’
‘Water?’
The checks continued until Reed was satisfied. Felton gave Reed the thumbs up that he had contact with the other tanks on the wireless. They were ready to go. Craig joined Felton down in the body of the tank. The engine spluttered bronchially to life. At the signal from Colonel Lister, the tanks set off in formation. The tanks took a wide crescent with four hundred yards between each troop comprising three tanks. Lister’s squadron headquarters moved in the centre about five hundred yards behind the centre troop. Overall, the tank formation covered nearly three miles which ensured good visibility of the front and the flanks.
In all, there were three squadrons of nine tanks and the four tanks of Lister’s headquarters. Reed sat with his head and torso outside the cupola. Danny’s view of the world was a good deal more limited. He confined himself to a view of the desert using the periscope.
Around midday the tanks set off from Gabr Fatma at a stately twelve miles per hour with C squadron leading and Danny’s B Squadron on the left followed by armoured cars and lorries. A little sand flew up in the air as the tracks crunched over the thick crust of the rough-cast desert.
The journey to the Sidi Rezegh airfield progressed without any contact with the enemy. They approached the southern escarpment through a valley. Progress was hampered by the soft ground caused by overnight rain.
‘I thought this was supposed to be the desert,�
� complained Craig, ‘not a bloody swamp.’
By early afternoon the sun was beginning to make itself apparent, and the tank felt oven-hot. They had been on the road for nearly two hours, conversation had long since dried up. Whether through nerves, bravado or boredom Danny decided enough was enough. He called up to Reed.
‘Water?’
‘No thanks,’ said Reed.
‘I meant for me, sarge,’ replied Danny. He received a gentle kick from the sergeant whose shoulders he could see shaking.
‘Cheeky git. Keep your eyes peeled.
’I am, sir. I’ve spotted a bit of sand ahead. Have you seen it too?’
Danny received another kick for his trouble, but he didn’t mind. It relieved a little of the tension that had been building inside the tank since they’d left. A whisper of excitement clung to the gasoline-filled air. Fear and adrenaline were building inside Danny.
‘When do you think we’ll finally meet Jerry, sarge?’ shouted Danny up to Reed.
‘Why are you so keen?’
‘The bullets will be a lot less painful than these kicks. Sir.’ Danny successfully dodged the next kick from Reed, but Holmes punched him on the arm.
‘Got him, sarge,’ shouted up Holmes.
Reed guffawed before shouting, ‘Carry on.’
-
Despite the distance between the vehicles, the soft sand being thrown up by the tank ahead meant that everyone was caked with dust inside the tank. It made for an uncomfortable companion to the heat and the smell of fuel. Two hours after setting off they took a break. All of the men clambered weary-limbed from the tanks.
‘Brew up and be quick about it,’ ordered Reed.
Danny hopped down from the tank and brewed up some tea for the rest of the men. All around him, he saw men from the other tanks doing the same. Their movements were like a dance troupe. The operation was highly choreographed to ensure that tea was made as quickly and efficiently as possible.
