Crusader (A Novel of WWII Tank Warfare)

by Jack Murray

  Danny started the fire while Felton put the brew can on top. It took nearly ten minutes before the tea was ready. Biscuits were shared out. The break was no more than twenty minutes. In this time they had to make and consume the tea, take care of any natural functions and then kick over all traces of their stop before returning to the tank and setting off.

  ‘Feel better?’ asked Felton as the tank started up and they moved of slowly.

  ‘Wonderful,’ laughed Danny but his senses were alert for menace that lay waiting ahead. The tank bumped and rolled along and soon everyone was miserable again.

  -

  Captain Aston looked at the procession with a wearied eye. He spoke into his microphone.

  ‘I’m surprised we didn’t take out a billboard in Piccadilly Circus to advertise our movements.’

  The men below laughed. They enjoyed Aston’s laconic, semi-rebellious humour.

  ‘Want me to fire a few shells to announce to Jerry that we’re on our way?’

  ‘That’s the spirit, Stone. Let the world know.’

  Aston glanced to his left and saw that Lieutenant Turner was now running parallel with him. He gave a mock wave salute which Turner ignored. This amused Aston for some reason and put him in finer fettle than he might otherwise have been. Winding up the pious little pup always had that effect on him. It took his mind off his quaking innards.

  Aston glanced along the line, left and right. Thirty odd tanks looked impressive, but he doubted how daunting the enemy would find it. They had hundreds of better made, more deadly tanks waiting for them. It was enough to make a man sob. He listened to the Crusader labouring through the rain-softened ground and swore with feeling.

  As he did so, he heard Lister’s voice come over on the radio. For a moment panic swept through him as he wondered if his profanities had been broadcast to everyone.

  ‘Hello, Lister calling. Just heard confirmation that the 22nd encountering enemy force of guns at el Gubi. Heavy losses. The South Africans are in cars just ahead of you. They’ve had no contact with the enemy.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Aston off microphone, ‘That’s the Italians, isn’t it? How can they not beat them?’

  ‘C Squadron will lead the advance,’ continued Lister.

  Major Laing confirmed reception of the order. Then Major Miller spoke to his B Squadron.

  ‘Aston, Turner. You’ll follow Squadron C, leading the advance of B Squadron on the left.’

  ‘You heard,’ said Aston, ‘The bugger wants us out on front. Meanwhile he surrounds himself with a nice screen of armour. Next life I want to be a General. At least Turner is with us up front. I’ll let him lead.’

  ‘Quite right sir,’ shouted the gunner, Wilson, from just below.

  ‘This is it, chaps. You’ll be in action soon,’ said Aston, trying to control the quaver in his voice. He cursed Lieutenant Turner again. Had it not been for this petal he’d be behind a desk or, better still, with some lucky young wife in Cairo. He banged the turret, but not too hard.

  -

  Lieutenant Turner listened to the orders from Miller. Satisfaction glinted in the young lieutenant’s eyes. He glanced over at Aston and grinned. He suspected that the captain would be none too pleased about leading the formation. This was comforting. He looked down at his gunner, Bill Wheeler.

  ‘You heard that, boys.’

  The two men nodded.

  ‘They’re out there. This time it’s not a drill. We’ll be engaging the enemy for real.’

  ‘You’d have thought we’d have encountered someone by now,’ shouted Wheeler. ‘What’s at Sidi Rezegh?’

  ‘Sidi Rezegh is one the enemy’s airfields. If we can capture it then it gives us a great platform to relieve the boys at Tobruk. Expect contact at the airfield,’ replied Turner before adding, ‘soon.’ He looked at his watch. It was just before four in the afternoon. Very soon, thought Turner. He looked down at his finger. It was tapping impatiently on the metal. Or perhaps it was nerves. A quick glance down at his men revealed they, too, were fidgeting in different ways: stretching, scratching, yawning in Wheeler’s case.

  ‘Keeping you up, Wheeler?’

  ‘Sorry sir, it’s the fumes.’

  -

  Danny’s stomach felt as if a flutter of butterflies were mid-riot. There was a low rumble in the air now. Fighting was taking place somewhere in the distance. Each crew member in the tank shared that extraordinary feeling that only men in war can understand that sense of fear and expectation as you wait for the enemy fire to strike.

  The air seemed to evacuate Danny’s tank now. He felt his skin prickle in the heat. He glanced down at Felton. His knee was moving like a jackhammer. They exchanged glances. His eyes were bulging with fear as the sound grew louder over the whine of the tank.

  At least it wasn’t just him.

  -

  Soon the tanks had visibility of the Sidi Rezegh airfield. It lay in the valley just beyond the southern escarpment. Danny could see a few dozen aircraft. Incredibly they were all still on the ground. What were they doing? Just ahead he saw armoured cars racing towards the airfield. Whatever they were doing or whatever they wanted to do it was going to be too late.

  ‘Reed here, we’re over the escarpment and moving down the hill towards the south of the Sidi Rezegh airfield. We’ve encountered no tanks or anti-tank fire. I can see aircraft on the ground ahead.

  A few other tanks called in and it was clear the squadron was now in the home straight. Ahead lay the prize. Surprise had been complete. There had been no reaction from the Axis troops stationed at the airfield.

  -

  Captain Arthur Crickmay watched the scene, three miles away, from the top of the escarpment. He was acting as crewman for Brigadier George Davy, the brigade commander. The sight of the tanks rushing down towards the airfield was breath taking. Davy held binoculars up to his eyes and tracked from the tanks across the valley to the airfield.

  ‘Looks like the Italians have woken up at last,’ said Davy.

  Crickmay swung around to check. In the distance he could see a few men running to the aircraft. Shifting his binoculars to the right, he saw the armoured cars screaming down the hill towards the airfield at close to fifty miles per hour.

  ‘I see what you mean, sir. Bit late in the day, methinks.’

  Davy put the microphone to his lips. The cavalry commander uttered one word.

  ‘Gallop.’

  -

  Danny’s heart was churning in his chest. Their tank was zipping along full pelt towards the airfield. He gazed through the periscope at the ground ahead. There was no response from the enemy. It seemed too good to be true.

  ‘Ground better, making good progress over it,’ said Reed over the microphone, then he saw them. ‘Bloody hell.’

  ‘Reed, what’s happening? Do you see planes taking off?’ It was Lister. An air attack might spell trouble for the armoured cars.

  ‘Three aircraft, sir, taking off,’ replied Reed.

  ‘Confirmed, three Italian G.50s, sir.’ said Turner.

  ‘Only three?’ said Lister, unable to hide the astonishment in his voice. ‘What on earth are they playing at? Is this a trap?’

  Then the guns started. Within a seconds the tanks could hear explosions around them. Danny winced as one shell exploded nearby. He quickly glanced around him, but no one seemed to have noticed his reaction.

  Reed spoke on the microphone.

  ‘Looks like the Italians have woken up. Traverse right and get ready to fire. We need to destroy those enemy aircraft on the ground and any guns.’

  Danny heard the buzz of the planes as they approached. Fear and excitement gripped him. His muscles tensed. Then Holmes gave him a nod. Danny loaded a shell. He saw Holmes adjusting the aim.

  ‘Gunner, open fire and keep firing until I tell you to stop,’ ordered Reed urgently.

  The howl of the G.50s grew louder. Then he heard machine gun fire. The G50s opened up on the tanks. Bullets pinged off the armour like
flies off a rhino.

  Danny loaded another shell and then another and then another. The gun was belching shells as fast as Danny could load them. Outside he could hear the howl of the G50s and the rattle of machine gun fire.

  Reed ducked into the turret and pointed to Danny.

  ‘There’s enough of us shooting at the airfield. Doesn’t look like there any other planes coming. Shaw, do you fancy taking a pot shot at Italians? It’s time you were blooded.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Danny. All fear was gone. He accepted whatever fate had decided for him. He moved up through the cupola into the open air. The planes had done their first dive, Danny eyed them to see if they were coming back for more.

  Danny grabbed hold of the Crusader’s machine gun and made ready to fire. The distant buzz grew louder until the whine of the G.50s sent tremors along the ground, through the tank and up into Danny’s arms. Or perhaps it was terror.

  The low-wing single engine G.50 was like a squat version of the RAF’s more elegantly designed Spitfire. Danny watched them as they banked and shaped to make another pass.

  Danny kept his eyes fixed on them while trying to shut the waling sound of their engine. He waited until they were fifty yards away. By now bullets were flying all around him. The three planes were not directly overhead, but they were flying exceptionally low. Had there been time, he might have admired the bravery of the Italian pilots. But it’s difficult to admire something you desperately need to kill.

  Danny pressed the trigger on the machine gun. A short sharp burst at the lead plane. He stopped quickly lest he run through all the bullets. He was sure he had hit the plane, but they reacted like they’d been stung by a wasp. Danny swung around ready for the next dive from the Italians. In the distance he could see them banking.

  They came back. The first plane strafed the tanks and the armoured cars below. Danny fired off another short burst but as quickly as they’d come, they were gone. This time they were heading away from the airfield. The Italian pilots had, not unreasonably, weighed their odds of success against the desire to avoid capture and the destruction of valuable aircraft.

  ‘They’re gone, sir,’ called Danny.

  Reed immediately replaced Danny on top and radioed the colonel.

  ‘Hello, Reed here. G.50s have gone. None destroyed. No tanks or armoured cars destroyed.’

  Lister ordered the tanks to press forward towards the airfield. Was it really possible they’d caught the enemy by surprise? It seemed too good to be true.

  ‘You heard,’ shouted Reed into his microphone, ‘let’s keep going.’

  The squadrons moved forward towards the airfield in what seemed like an air of unreality. At any moment they expected to see the enemy appear to bar their way. Yet every yard advanced brought no sign of any response. Danny glanced towards Holmes.

  ‘Shouldn’t we be getting bombed now.’

  Holmes shrugged and replied, ‘Don’t complain, sonny boy. It’ll come trust me.’

  Soon the squadron arrived at the airfield and saw around twenty planes, sitting on the ground. Reed looked around unable to believe his eyes. It had all been so easy. He heard Captain Aston radio in that they had taken the airfield which seemed to him premature. Reed smiled grimly. Typical of Aston to impart this news. He was clearly aiming to be associated with the success.

  ‘Well done, Aston. Await instruction. Over,’ replied Lister.

  With each passing minute it appeared that they had taken the airfield. A number of Italians appeared to be surrendering. Danny remained in the tank for the next few minutes wondering what the hell was going on. Finally he heard Aston’s voice on the wireless.

  ‘Eighty prisoners, that is eight zero prisoners, nineteen aircraft, one nine, confirmed captured. Various transport. Over.’

  ‘Hello all stations,’ replied Lister. ‘Any undamaged aircraft are to be demolished. Don’t waste ammo on them, though. Stay put at the airfield until further notice. Campbell.’

  Danny looked up at Reed.

  ‘How do we destroy the aircraft, sarge?’

  Craig let out a loud whoop of joy. Danny glanced down, a smile on his face.

  ‘Do your worst, Craig,’ said Reed with a grin.

  The tank jolted forward, heading straight for the tail of one of the planes. Danny’s smile widened as he saw what the Ulsterman intended.

  ‘You’re a vandal, Craig,’ shouted Danny.

  ‘I know,’ shouted Craig exultantly. The whole tank laughed as the wheels crunched over the tail wings, helped by an infantry man balancing on the plane, pushing the back down.

  Soon the other tanks were joining in the destructive mayhem. The wireless full of cheering as, one by one, the G.50s were destroyed. Danny caught sight of the pilots looking on in dismay.

  It felt good.

  -

  A few hours later, Danny sat with his tank mates huddled around a fire eating a bully beef stew. It was night and they were all in a good mood. They’d accomplished the task they had set out to do and captured the airfield. Danny noted that Reed did not share the exultant mood of the group. This suggested he did not consider the task finished. Rather than join in with the good-natured ribbing that was taking place, Danny withdrew, taking his cue from Reed. He went in search of Arthur and Phil.

  Arthur saw Danny first.

  ‘So you’ve won the war, then, I see,’ shouted Danny, when he spotted his friends.

  Danny allowed himself a smile. Arthur continued, ‘Had to happen. First sign of Daniel Shaw, esquire, the whole of the Afrika Korps collapses.’

  They were joined a few moments later by Phil Lawrence.

  ‘So it’s over then. We can go home?’ asked Arthur.

  ‘That’s about the size of it, mate,’ replied Lawrence. ‘Blighty here we come.’

  ‘Did you bag any planes earlier?’ asked Lawrence.

  ‘Bag any? Exclaimed Danny, ‘We started the rout.’

  This was met with good-natured albeit expletive-filled scepticism by his two friends. Danny gave up trying to convince them it was his idea and they turned to a more important topic. What would happen now.

  ‘Any idea what’s going to happen tomorrow?’ asked Danny motioning towards the bivouac where Colonel Lister and the other officers were in together.

  ‘Planning the celebration,’ said Arthur laughing.

  Lawrence smiled but he was thinking along similar lines. They’d succeeded in taking an airfield. There was the small matter of relieving Tobruk and removing the Afrika Korps from Cyrenaica and the rest of Libya. Arthur fell silent as he saw his two friends looking more thoughtful.

  ‘Well, I thought it was funny, anyway.’

  In the distance they could hear the rumble of heavy machinery. A number of patrols following the capture of the airfield had revealed German positions on the other side of the northern escarpment.

  -

  Colonel Lister looked around at his officers. They had achieved their objective and he could see in their eyes a note of triumph. And why not? They’d taken the airfield with the maximum amount of surprise and the minimum of inconvenience. Yet Lister felt perturbed. When a task was so easy it felt as if something had been missed. It felt incomplete.

  ‘I’ve just been speaking with Brigadier Davy. Campbell, from the 7th Support Group, will join us tomorrow. We’re to hold onto the airfield tomorrow and then breakout and try to reach point one seven five to the north east of the airfield. The airfield’s importance to Jerry goes beyond the ability to launch air attacks. It means he can’t use the Trigh Capuzzo ridge which effectively severs his lines of communication with his troops at Sollum and Capuzzo. He’ll want it back, you can be certain of that. We need Campbell’s Support Group to dislodge those outposts, then we’re on the perimeter of Tobruk. I’m sure Jerry will not sit idly by and wait for us to do our worst. I think we can all hear them now.’

  No one spoke for a few seconds as they listened to the distant sounds of enemy armour moving. As if to confirm what they wer
e thinking, some small arms fire broke out from both sides.

  ‘It sounds as if we’ve found the fight we were looking for, sir,’ said Major Miller.

  ‘Yes, it does,’ agreed Lister. He felt it important to be sincere, though.

  ‘Unfortunately when Cunningham first envisaged it, I suspect he didn’t think we’d be quite so dispersed. In summary, gentlemen, this could be become a something of a melee.’

  16

  Gambut, 50 miles east of Tobruk, Libya, November 19th, 1941

  The sun rose. And then it rose a bit more. Manfred looked at it, as he did every day, with some wonder and fear. There were two armies facing one another but they had a common enemy, too. The continent of Africa seemed to be conspiring to rid itself of the combatants. Rather like Aesop’s fable of the north wind and the sun, it was using its weapons in a daily blitz. The heat of the day, the freezing cold of the night as well as the occasional sandstorms, and, of course, the flies. The omnipresent flies that tortured you every day: finding their way into the food as you were eating; gorging themselves on the dead.

  The sun-beaten landscape seemed to stretch forever. Silent, remote and forbidding, it promised only pain. Not for the last time did Manfred wonder what he was doing here. What was anyone doing here? No one wanted to be here. He doubted the Tommies felt anymore disposed towards this alien location than he did. He stared out into the nothingness with unblinking concentration.

  Still holding his coffee cup he drained it for what seemed like the fifth time. It was barely 0730. A whole day stretched in front as welcoming as the parched landscape before him. The men around him didn’t seem to care. They insisted that this was preferable to gut-wrenching fear of combat. He believed them but a part of him longed for something to happen. Three months and he’d seen nothing of the enemy. It seemed both sides had tacitly agreed it was simply too hot to fight. It seemed but a short step, to Manfred, to extend the idea.

  ‘Brehme,’ shouted Sergeant Overath, ‘Get ready. We’re pulling out.’